#a court of song and desolation

[achaotichuman]

Someone find me that one lady on tiktok who made the theory that Morrigan is Tamlin's half sister, I need to thank her because without her, A Court of Song and Desolation would have never been a thing

[astaldis]

Why is House of the Dragon allegedly so much better than The Witcher?

Just watched House of the Dragon S2 and I must say - I found it pretty boring in many parts?

Sorry, but the whole thing mostly and disappointingly feels like a very long and repetitive prologue to what might come in S3. And they do many things that are loudly criticised in The Witcher, some even a lot worse, but with HotD people seem to not mind? Honestly, this really puzzles me. Yes, the costumes and make-up might be better, but:

It's all over the place on the whole continent of Westeros and even outside of Westeros with people traveling from place to place in no time at all. OK, on dragon back, you can do that, but they also do it on foot and by boat. I remember some of the geography of the continent because I was very much into Game of Thrones some years back when it aired and also read all the Song of Ice and Fire books that were available (not the ones HotD is based on though), but the constant jumps from one place to the next are really confusing imo and you'd need to have a map by your side all the time to remember where is what. When the Witcher does that, it is criticised heavily.

Same with people, there are so many main and minor characters, some even with similar or the same names, how the fuck are you supposed to remember who's who and who is related to who and how, who belongs to which house, and who's allied to who and who's feuding who without looking it up again all the time somewhere on the internet? With all the incest and extramarital activities resulting in a host of illegitimate progeny, I found this extremely confusing, a lot more so than in The Witcher.

And does anybody have a shimmer of an idea of how much time has passed since the old king's death? Must be at least months but you hardly ever get any hints about it. And this poor girl, how long is she wandering around the desolate highlands alone trying to find the wild dragon? Must have been weeks judging by the other things that happened in the meantime ...

Maybe it's just me, but I did not find any of the characters really compelling. Not that they are not well acted, the acting is good enough, but emotionally they did not really leave any impression on me. Maybe the only character I find a bit interesting is Queen Helaena and this very young Lord Tully who shows unexpected spine and stands up to Daemon in front of the Riverlords. There are so many seemingly random new side characters popping up all over the place, too, miraculously gaining importance that one is supposed to keep track of, but also none of them that was in any way inspiring it me. And the poor cute Bracken knight only drew his sword and was already dead in the mud on a battlefield with hundreds of men hardly a second later ...

Rhaenyra suddenly and out of the blue kisses this lowborn woman (was her name even mentioned? I cannot for the life of me remember it). I don't have anything against women kissing, not at all, but why? There is no mention of anything going on between those two at all afterwards. Are they in a secret relationship now or not? I haven't read the book and don't know if it's in there, but how is that kiss, as it seems to have no relevance to the plot at all, not 'woke' catering to the LGBTQ community? But everything the Witcher does is?

Then there are the dragons you have to keep track of in addition to the many people and places. How many dragons are there? And who rides which one? And why the heck would a dragon in its right mind choose this dubious Ulf character who accidentally stumbles into its cave as a rider???

And the plot? Honestly, was there, beside the one fight between the three dragons, anything that was really exciting? I remember nothing, no battles, no good sword fights, nothing but TALK. At lest 90% of the plot is repetitive talking about politics and plotting and scheming. I have nothing against a nice political intrigue and of course that's what happens at courts and it can be interesting too. It was in Game of Thrones where you had really interesting characters, too. But here I found it mostly boring and uninspired. And The Witcher is criticised for having too much politics and too many side characters although it has a LOT less so than this season of HotD.

They also seem to have conveniently forgotten that in GoT they established that Targaryans would not burn from fire. In the books this happens only once because some kind of blood magic was performed, but in the show it happened several times, so it seemed to be the rule, not the exception. HotD thus kind of refutes their own made-up lore, which I found confusing and had to look it up online. (They could easily have made Aegon suffer from bad injuries due to the fall instead.)

The music was rather uninspiring, too, imo, except for the intro which is the well-known one taken from GoT and the music at the end of E8 which was partly based on the Rains of Castamere, otherwise there was not a single piece of the soundtack that would make me want to buy and listen to it. The Witcher has quite a few that I listen to again and again (including, of course, Jaskier's songs, but many more).

What I also like a lot better about The Witcher: It does not take itself that seriously and there is quite a bit of humour in it. In HofD S2, the imo funniest piece of dialogue was: "I want you to fuck my wives." - "How many wives do you have?" (that was between this pirate commander, don't remember his/her? name, and Lord Tyland, was that his name?) . And maybe the truest sentence in the show by this random braggart in the tavern who miraculously turns into a dragon rider Ulf: "A sense of humour would do you all good."

All in all, the only thing that I have found to be really good and outstanding about HotD S2 are the dragons. Without them, it would be less than mediocre. I don't think I would want to rewatch it and feel no desire to look up any of the characters and their relationships etc to find out more about them. I cannot say in how far it is or isn't faithful to the source material as I have not read the book(s?) HotD is based on, but even if it's more faithful to the source material, this has failed to make it a great watch like GoT (minus the ending, that was worse than the poorest fanfic could have thought it up). With the dragons it is alright to watch once, hoping for a more exciting S3, but there is absolutely no way it deserves higher critic/audience scores/ratings than The Witcher S3, the contrary.

Update: To clarify, I don't really mind many things that I mentioned about HotD, I can totally live with an unclear timeline and many characters, even if it's not easy to remember every name, relationship etc. If I really like a show or character, I simply look it up, no problem. But these are all things I have seen people criticise The Witcher for on social media, and then they say HotD is so much better. That's what really puzzles me. What I definitely liked about HotD is the diverse cast and that there are many female characters with a lot of screen time and importance. It's not a bad show, only I like The Witcher much better despite its flaws. This is not meant as an anti HotD post but a pro Witcher post.

[acourtofkindness]

Thank you for sending in all the stories, here you can find the collection! Some of these are one-shots, some are longer stories, just click your way through them and also check out their other fics!

A Ballad of Thorns & Roses: How the High Lord of Spring told his Tale (Feylin/Tamcien)

by @positivelyruined When Tamlin, the High Lord of the Spring Court of Prythian, finds the clock counting down to his final battle with Amarantha — two things push him into action: the sudden death and bloody sacrifice of his friend Andras and the fierce vexation of his close friend Lucien. With no more time to waste, he offers shelter to the one person that he should despise the most — the girl who murdered Andras. His heart has been bleeding for a decade. Will their connection be enough to break the bond that holds the Spring Court captive, or will this burning love only spurn Tamlin’s heart? In this tale as old as time, only time will tell.

Spirit Meets the Bones (Eris x OC)

by @lucienarcheron Eris and Iris. Son of a high lord. Daughter of a fiend. An arranged marriage brought them together and beneath all the hate, the two are more alike than they’d like to be.

To Dust Or To Gold (Neris)

by @queercontrarian Eris calls in his bargain with Rhysand: he wants Nesta to join him in the Autumn Court to help him in his scheme to bring down his father.

Flame of Autumn (Eris x OC)

by @climbthemountain2020 "He quashed his hope like a bug beneath his heel. They would meet, marry, and produce a child. How hard could it possibly be to copulate and wash his hands of it? It’s not like he hadn’t regularly found release in the hundreds of years of living. This one would just be attached to him a bit more legally." Eris Vanserra is forced into a marriage with a magic-less daughter of Autumn from a strong bloodline. Despite his best efforts to remain apathetic, the universe has other plans.

A Court of Threads & Daises (Lucien x Tamlin)

by @shi-daisy Tragedy almost struck the Spring Court when Tamlin Evergreen tried to take his own life. Lucien Vanserra manages to save his former Lord, but not his power. Now that the Spring Court has a new High Lord and the horrors of war are behind them, both Tamlin and Lucien agree to help the new heir navigate court life and attempt to rebuild the broken Spring Court, along with healing themselves. They weren't expecting to fall back in love in the process.

A Court of Song and Desolation (Tamlin x Lucien)

by @achaotichuman With his Court in ruins and everyone gone, Tamlin lives amongst the broken pieces of his Court and has no intentions of changing that. Lucien, however, will not stand to leave his oldest friend alone. When Lucien takes Tamlin back to the human lands, they discover a darkness coming for Prythian. If something does not stop it, it will completely rewrite the way Faeries and humans alike live as they know it.

Of Hearts and Swords (Feysand, Nessian, Manorian, Quinlar, etc.)

by @QueenofNightmares (on ao3) 5 years have passed since Bryce Quinlan fought the Asteri—and lost. 5 years since the Horn in her back was then used to permanently open the gates between worlds. Midgard, Erilea, and Prythian are now in open war--the reunited Fae of each world working together to fight the Asteri. But much has changed in the war-ravaged years that have passed. The Crochan Witchclan fights alongside the Valkyries. Hunt Athalar has sought day and night for a way to bring Bryce back from the dead and end this war. And the beloved High Lady of the Night Court--Feyre Archeron-- left Prythian for Erilea, just after their Inner Circle was cleaved apart forever by a newcomer. As war rages on, the Asteri have found an unlikely ally in Prythian--one that might turn the fortunes of battle against the Fae. This is an alternate ending to CC3 (HOFAS) where the Asteri win. Bryce was killed in the conflict that followed and the Horn in her back was then used to permanently open the gates. It will follow each of the main character ships (Feysand, Nessian, Rowaelin, Lysaedion, Manorian, Quinlar, etc.) as well as introduce some new ones for some other beloved characters (Azriel, Fenrys). Lots of relationship angst with a happy ending.

Flame of Autumn (Eris x OC)

by @climbthemountain2020 Eris Vanserra is forced into a marriage with a magic-less daughter of Autumn from a strong bloodline. Despite his best efforts to remain apathetic, the universe has other plans.

Beyond (Helion x LoA)

by @areyoudreaminof The Lady of Autumn has agreed to come live at the Day Court, though she seems hesitant. Can Helion convince her that she belongs at his side?

[tamlinweek]

Tamlin Creator Appreciation: achaotichuman

Today's creator appreciation shoutout goes to @achaotichuman, for their amazing Tamlin fics! We especially want to point out A Court of Song and Desolation, a Tamlin/Lucien epic that takes place after the events of the books.

Summary for A Court of Song and Desolation:

In hindsight maybe it could only have ever ended like this. Making a man who was never made to rule, High lord. This was all inevitable. With his Court in ruins and everyone gone, Tamlin lives amongst the broken pieces of his Court and has no intentions of changing that. Lucien, however, will not stand to leave his oldest friend alone. When Lucien takes Tamlin back to the human lands, they discover a darkness coming for Prythian. If something does not stop it, it will completely rewrite the way Faeries and humans alike live as they know it

"Everything they write haunts me for weeks on end after I’m done reading it! Truly a gem to the Tamlin community, anytime I feel like I miss Tamlin I go straight to their fic masterlist and it feels like visiting an old friend."

Feel free to check out more of achaotichuman's work on tumblr and AO3! To submit more Tamlin creators, fill out the form here! For info on Tamlin Week, check out our pinned post.

[justahuman1757]

@squishyowl

I did say I would tag you :). I am the anon who gave you the ask and I now provide the reward. As I said, this fic is based on different elements of Romanian, Slavic culture and my own batshittery. I had a lot fun writing this! And, as I said in the ask, thank you very much for the information!

A history lesson first !

The main character, whom I won't spoil (hehe), is losely based on Barbu Lăutarul and one of his most famous songs.

Barbu Lăutarul (1780-1855) was a Romanian singer and cobzar, of Roma ethnicity.

One of his most well-known and celebrated songs (at least in Romania) it's the following:

(This is my favourite interpretation and version of Barbu's song :3)

The lyrics in Romanian:

Eu sunt Barbu Lăutarul,

Starostele și cobzarul!

Și-am cântat pe la domnii,

Și la mândre cununii.

Of, of, of mi-a aduc aminte,

Of, of, of ca mai'nainte!

Nici un chef nu se făcea,

Fără astă cobză a mea.

Cobza mea a fost vestită,

Veac întreg a fost cinstită

De boierii de pe-aici,

Ba chiar și de venetici.

Dar acum, acum vai mie!

De când lumea-i pe nemție

Nu mai am în lume glas,

Și pe uliți am rămas.

Dragi boieri de lume nouă,

Ziua bună vă zic vouă!

Eu mă duc, mă prăpădesc

Ca un cântec bătrânesc.

Ridicați câte-un pahar

Pentru Barbu Lăutar!

The lyrics in English:

I am Barbu the Fiddler,

The starosta and the cobzar!

I sang at the royal courts,

And at pompous weddings.

Of, of, of I remember,

Of, of, of as before!

There was no contentment,

Without this cobza of mine.

My cobza was heralded,

She was celebrated for a whole century

By the boyars here,

Even the Venetians.

But now, now woe to me!

Since the world is with German

I no longer have a voice in the world,

And I stayed on the streets.

Dear new boyars,

Good day I say to you!

I go, I die

Like an old song.

Raise a glass

For Barbu the Fiddler!

Lăutar = denotes a class of musicians. The term was adopted by members of a professional clan of Romani musicians in the late 18th century. The term is derived from lăută, the Romanian word for lute. Lăutari usually perform in bands, called taraf.

Starosta = the word was used until the early 19th century to denote the elected leader of the merchants or craftsmen guilds (in case for Romania, it's different all across Eastern Europe)

Cobza = stringed musical instrument, similar to the lute, having a very convex sounding box, used mainly for accompaniment by plucking the strings.

Cobzar = the wielder of the cobza

The context is finished, let's go to the story itself 🗣️

A Dirge for Nostramo

Word count: 3.5k (I yapp a lot 🙏)

Lil' note: The MC is 🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨 A MASSIVE HYPOCRITE. He is the type of boy to say "Back in my day.." while back in his day he did the same exact thing

Nostramo was a world of shadows and despair, a place where light itself seemed an stranger, barely penetrating the thick, toxic haze that enveloped the planet. The atmosphere, choked with pollution from the thousands of foundries and chemical plants, bathed the landscape in an eternal twilight. Even at midday, the sky was a bleak canvas of dull greys, while at night, the darkness was absolute, a suffocating void that swallowed everything in its path.

The planet's cities, towering hives of metal and stone, were monolithic fortresses against the desolation outside, yet inside they offered no comfort. The rich, hidden away in the spires, lived in cold luxury, their homes lit by the faint blue glow of illumination-strips that only deepened the shadows. Below, the vast majority of Nostramans toiled in poverty, their lives consumed by the relentless grind of the foundries. Crime was the only law most knew, with gangs ruling the streets and the corrupt aristocracy enforcing their will with merciless brutality. Life on Nostramo was a relentless cycle of fear, suffering, and death, with suicide often seen as the only escape from the grim reality.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and decay as Dmitri stood by the freshly covered grave, his eyes fixed on the uneven mound of dirt. The low hum of the priest's final prayers had long since faded, leaving only the murmurs of the small crowd dispersing in the distance. But Dmitri remained rooted to the spot, his thoughts as heavy as the overcast sky that loomed above.

The man buried today, Pavel, had been a fellow musician in Dmitri's old band-a brother in sound more than in blood. Theirs had been a bond forged in the heat of countless performances, under the golden light of grand chandeliers and in the smoky haze of taverns. Pavel's violin had once danced in perfect harmony with Dmitri's cobza. They weren't close in the way families are, but their connection was deeper, more visceral-a shared understanding that didn't need words.

Dmitri stood as a ghostly figure against the somber backdrop of his world, his presence both a testament to and a product of its decay. His tall, gaunt frame was draped in a thick, weathered coat, the fabric hanging loose and heavy as if weighed down by the years of hardship it had witnessed. The coat, once black, was now faded and frayed at the edges, its droopy silhouette barely concealing the old, ill-fitting pants beneath. These trousers, worn thin at the knees and hemmed with patches of darker fabric, clung to his legs with a tired resignation, as though they too were struggling to hold on.

Yet now, as Dmitri stared at the grave, he felt an emptiness that surprised him. He had never really known Pavel beyond their shared stage, never exchanged more than the usual banter between songs. Pavel had been a man of few words, his emotions communicated through the soulful notes of his instrument. As the man was blind. He always did wander how a man like him could have played the violin so greatly? The man was beyond talented. But now, with his fellow musician gone, Dmitri felt the loss keenly-a void not just of a person but of an era, of a life they had lived together, notes and chords that had woven their spirits into a single, ephemeral melody.

That melody was silenced now. The band had long since dissolved, their music forgotten by a world too busy to remember, and Dmitri felt like he was the last man standing on a stage where the lights had gone out. Pavel's death was just another reminder of how much had been lost -not just a friend, but the music, the culture, the life they had once breathed into their instruments. And as Dmitri turned away from the grave, he felt the weight of his own mortality pressing down on him.

His black dress shirt, buttoned to the neck but creased and untidy, peeked out from under the coat, a relic of a time when Dmitri might have cared for appearances. The shirt's fabric was worn and threadbare, the dark color almost blending into the deep shadows of his coat. On his feet, he wore scuffed, heavy boots that had seen better days, their once-sturdy leather now cracked and dull, the soles worn thin by countless steps on the harsh, unyielding streets.

An ivy cap, perched haphazardly on his head, partially covered his long, unkempt black hair, which cascaded down in tangled waves to his shoulders. His beard, even longer, framed his face in a wild, unruly mess, streaked with the dirt and grime of the world he inhabited. His appearance was that of a man who had long ceased to care about the trappings of the living, his disheveled state a mirror to the decay of his surroundings, the weight of his existence pressing down on him like the ever-present darkness of Nostramo.

The architecture of the Nostraman cities was distinct and oppressive. In the lower Hive, the houses were tightly packed, with no space between them for even the smallest yard. The buildings featured flat roofs where residents would gather. Inside, a typical home consisted of just two or three cramped rooms—a kitchen, a bedroom, and occasionally an attic. But this minimal comfort was a luxury only afforded to those who could scrape together the means to pay for it.

Dmitri wandered through the crowded streets, leaving the cemetery behind as he made his way to Pavel's home, where the funeral gathering was held on the rooftop. He entered the house, like he would always do whenever to practice in the days of the old band, and he went up the stairs, outside. His widow, Sonia, dressed entirely in black, moved silently around the table, trying to help out if anybody at the table needs so, her thin frame more fragile than Dmitri remembered. The grief had taken a visible toll on her; she seemed even more gaunt, as if her sorrow had drained the life from her. In her small, pale hand, she clutched a handkerchief stained with specks of blood. The blood coming fro that she had cried so much that her nose began to bleed.

Sonia and Pavel had a son, Avram, who sat quietly at the table. His black clothes blended seamlessly with his dark hair and somber eyes, making him almost a shadow in the dim light. Pavel had never cared for the boy, dismissing his life as insignificant, a mere existence without purpose. Avram, however, always managed to bring money home, in ways that everyone silently understood but never spoke of.

As Dmitri’s gaze drifted across the faces of those gathered—Pavel’s grieving family, his own family, and the few others who had come—he was struck by a grim realization. He was the oldest among them, yet he was only 51. There were no elderly, no children. The thought settled heavily on him—he must be next. The cold inevitability of it gnawed at him, pulling him deeper into his dark thoughts.

But then, a gentle squeeze of his hand brought him back. Anica, his wife, was beside him, her presence as steady as ever. She leaned in close, her warm breath brushing against his ear as she whispered softly, "Athrillay... How are you holding up?"

Dmitri forced a bitter smile, his voice low and strained. "I think I’m fine..."

She kissed his cheek tenderly, her lips a brief warmth against his worn skin. "We're going to be fine." she reassured him, her tone gentle but firm.

Anica and Dmitri had been married for 27 years. But their marriage was marked by one deep, unfulfilled longing—Anica’s desperate desire to become a mother. She had always dreamed of cradling a child in her arms, of nurturing a new life, but Dmitri's fear of change stood in the way. The thought of children terrified him; he saw them as a burden, potential sources of chaos and disruption to the quiet life he cherished. This fear was started because most of the poverty stricken people on the streets were children, “feral twigs” (as Dmitri would call them). He never liked change and resisted it with all his might. To him, the idea of bringing children into their world was a commitment too great, a risk too unpredictable. What if they also become criminals? He would argue back to wife.He wanted nothing more than to live out his days in their small, tidy home with Anica, untouched by the upheavals of parenthood.

In his fear, Dmitri selfishly dismissed Anica’s deepest desires, labeling them as "useless" and even "dangerous." He couldn't see beyond his own anxieties, and in his refusal, he denied her the one thing she yearned for most. When he lost his prestigious position as a musician for the noble houses, Dmitri refused to take up another job. Instead, he chose to wallow in his misery, clinging to the remnants of his old life, terrified of what the future might hold. The prospect of change—any change—left him paralyzed with fear.

Anica, seeing the decline in her husband’s mental health, silently bore the weight of his decisions. She put aside her own disappointment and took on more hours at the factory, working tirelessly to support them both. Her once vibrant spirit dimmed under the strain, yet she continued to care for Dmitri with unwavering devotion. She couldn’t comprehend how the man she had loved—the strong, resilient husband she had once known—had been reduced to this fearful, stagnant shadow of himself. But her boundless compassion and patience kept her by his side, always encouraging him to better himself, though he never did. Despite everything, Anica remained, sacrificing her own dreams for the sake of a love that had long ago ceased to grow.

Dmitri was a hypocrite. He constantly reprimanded the younger generation, lamenting how "back in my day," everything was better—people were joyous and well-mannered, traditions were respected, and life had a sense of order. Now, everything was different, ruined by the recklessness of the youth, he thought. He blamed them for the planet’s decline, for the changes he despised so deeply. Nostalgia had taken root in his mind, warping his memories until the past seemed like a golden era, untouched by the decay he now saw all around him.

Yet, beneath this veneer of nostalgia, Dmitri harbored a dark secret. He was no stranger to the harsh realities of life on Nostramo. He had once been a part of that very world he now claimed to despise—a world of crime and violence, where survival often meant crossing lines that could never be uncrossed. Dmitri had killed a man. The memory was murky, the reason lost to the fog of time and guilt, but the fact remained. He had taken a life, and though he had buried that memory deep within himself, it haunted him, a shadow lurking in the corners of his mind.

He never spoke of it, never allowed the thought to fully surface, but it was there, gnawing at him from the inside. The hypocrisy of his condemnation of the younger generation, his nostalgic idealization of the past, was all part of a fragile defense against the truth of what he had done. Dmitri knew that he would carry this secret to his grave, a burden he could never share, a sin he could never atone for. It was the weight of this unspoken guilt that fed his fear of change, his desperate clinging to the past, and his refusal to face the future.

Dmitri woke up in his home, bottle in hand. A strong smell stirred him up. His house was not unkempt enough to be filthy, but it carried an air of neglect, the energy to maintain it had long since faded. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, his brows frowned. He figured it out that he and Anica had left the funeral, and he immediately began drinking, as he always did. He looked around for his wife but there wasn't any glimpse of her. He felt dizzy, anxious; he wanted his wife close.

Anica and Dmitri’s home was a modest stone structure, a small and weathered testament to tradition amidst the creeping influence of modernity. The walls, thick and uneven, were a dull grey, their age evident in the cracks that ran like veins through the stone. The roof, accessible by a narrow staircase, was a simple affair, its shingles worn and chipped from years of exposure to the harsh elements of Nostramo.

Inside, the kitchen was the heart of the home, though it bore the marks of time and neglect. A heavy wooden table, scarred by countless meals and the passage of years, stood in the center. The chairs around it were mismatched, some sturdier than others, their legs slightly uneven on the cold stone floor. The walls were adorned with faded embroidered linens, remnants of a time when Anica took pride in keeping the house immaculate. Now, they hung askew, gathering dust in the dim light that filtered through a small, smudged window. The floors were covered with thick, woven rugs, their colors muted from years of wear.

A large ceramicoccupied one corner, the fire inside struggling to warm the room. Pots and pans hang from hooks above the stove, their metal surfaces worn smooth by years of use. A few modern appliances had found their way into the kitchen—a chipped electric kettle and an old radio that sputtered out static more often than music—adding a jarring contrast to the otherwise traditional space.

The bedroom, just beyond the kitchen, was small and somber. A large, ornately carved wooden bed dominated the room, its once-vibrant quilt now faded and threadbare. The wardrobe, tall and imposing, was slightly opened, revealing a bunch of clothes hastily stuffed inside. A small nightstand, cluttered with odds and ends—an old pocket watch, a half-burnt candle, and a photograph of their younger selves—stood beside the bed, its drawer hanging open.

Dmitri stepped on glass, his boots clicking against the thrown bottles of liquor. He wanted to make his way towards the bedroom when, suddenly, the creak of a floorboard drew his attention.

Anica appeared in the doorway, her presence as gentle as a whisper. She wore a traditional dress, the fabric rich with deep reds and blues, embroidered with intricate patterns that spiraled around her figure. The blouse was a crisp white, its sleeves puffed slightly, and cinched at the wrists with delicate lace. The vest she wore over it was black, adorned with bright floral designs, the colors vibrant against the dark fabric. A long, flowing skirt swirled around her ankles, and on her feet, she wore simple leather shoes that had seen years of careful use. Her black hair was pulled back into a loose braid, a few grey stray strands framing her round face, which was pale as paper, accentuating the deep black of her eyes. Anica’s body softened by age and the burdens she had carried, but her features remained gentle, marked by a softness that spoke of kindness and patience.

In her hands, she held Dmitri's cobza. The instrument, once the source of his pride, now seemed like a ghost of a former life. She approached him quietly, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and determination.

"Dmitri," she said softly, her voice steady, though she could not hide the tremor of emotion beneath it. "Why won't you play a little? It has been too long."

He looked up at her, his expression torn between reluctance and longing. The cobza in her hands was a reminder of everything he had been, and everything he had lost. But there was something in Anica’s eyes, a gentle pleading, that reached through the layers of his despair.

With a sigh, Dmitri took the instrument from her hands. His fingers, rough and calloused, traced the strings as if reacquainting themselves with an old friend. Anica leaned down and kissed his forehead, her lips warm against his cool skin. It was that kiss, more than anything, that convinced him to try.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Dmitri’s lips as he positioned the cobza and began to play. The melody that filled the room was soft and tentative at first, but soon it grew, weaving through the air with a haunting beauty that had been missing from their lives for so long. For a solid minute, the music transported them both back to a time when joy and hope were as real as the notes that flowed from the instrument.

But then, something inside Dmitri snapped. The weight of his own self-doubt came crashing down, and with a sudden clumsy movement, he dropped the cobza. The instrument hit the floor with a dull thud, and the music stopped abruptly.

"Damn it all!" Dmitri cursed, his voice filled with self-loathing. "What a fool I am. I can’t even do this right anymore!"

Anica quickly moved to comfort him, reaching out to touch his arm. "Dmitri, it’s good. You—"

"Don’t," he interrupted, shunning her away with a harshness that made her flinch. "Just... don’t."

Hurt flashed in Anica’s eyes, but she swallowed it down, just as she had so many times before. She sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, and quietly turned away. Without another word, she walked into the kitchen, her heart aching but determined to keep going. Dmitri watched her leave, his heart sinking as he realized the pain he had caused.

Alone again, Dmitri sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the cobza lying on the floor. The familiar sting of regret pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he fought to hold back the tears. But it was a losing battle. As the first tear slipped down his cheek, he got up and followed Anica into the kitchen.

She was at the stove, stirring a pot, her movements slow and methodical. Dmitri approached her from behind and gently wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his head against her shoulder. He pressed a kiss against her neck, wrapped his fingers in hers, and turned her around. He kissed her lips softly. She is so beautiful, Dmitri shyly thought.

"I’m sorry, Anica," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m so sorry."

Anica paused. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, the sorrow that mirrored her own, and her heart softened. She reached up to wipe away his tears, her touch tender and forgiving.

"I understand." she said softly. "You haven't done anything wrong." She yet again accepted his behavior, for the better of him.

Late that night, after Anica had fallen asleep, Dmitri lay awake, his mind restless. The silence of the house pressed in on him, amplifying the thoughts he had tried to push away. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he slipped out of bed and padded quietly to the living room.

The cobza was still where he had left it, lying forlorn on the floor. Dmitri picked it up carefully, his hands trembling slightly as he cradled the instrument in his lap. Sitting down, he began to play, the notes quiet and tentative, barely more than a whisper in the darkened room.

[minarixx]

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐧 ✯ 𝐑.𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐚

"'𝘾𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣' 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣"

PAIRING. Suna Rintarou x f!Reader

CONTENT. angst

Suna Rintarou finds himself at a crossroads, torn between the passionate love he shares with his high school sweetheart and the promising career and future that lies ahead.

WC. 1.4K

A/N. idk

Masterlink - Songs Unwritten

𝓣he bitter winter wind howled through the barren streets, sending icy tendrils of cold through every crack and crevice. Snowflakes danced in the air, their fragile beauty contrasting with the desolate landscape. It was a time when nature itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the warmth and life of spring to return.

In the small prefecture of Hyogo, nestled deep in the heart of a snow-covered valley, the townsfolk huddled inside their homes, seeking solace from the relentless winter storm. The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional muffled sound of a door slamming shut or the crunch of boots trudging through the snow.

Winter bathed the small town in a melancholic embrace, mirroring the emotions swirling within Y/N's heart. She walked along the quiet streets, her steps light but burdened with the weight of an impending departure. Thoughts of Suna, the boy who had ignited a spark within her, consumed her every waking moment.

It all began one fateful fall. The crisp autumn air carried a bittersweet when Y/N stumbled upon a volleyball game. The sound of laughter and thuds of balls hitting the floor filled the air, drawing her attention like a siren's call, her gaze swept across the bustling volleyball court, her heart skipped a beat when she caught sight of Suna. Her eyes were instantly captivated by the grace and athleticism of him. His lustrous dark brown hair, styled with utmost care, gracefully cascaded down, framing his face in a way that made her breath catch. The grayish-yellow eyes, so enigmatic and piercing, held a captivating allure, drawing her into their depths with every glance. In that moment, amidst the fervor of the court, Suna became the epitome of captivating elegance, and her infatuation for him blossomed like the most beautiful of flowers.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N found herself immersed in the world of volleyball, drawn closer to Suna with each shared practice session. As their friendship grew effortlessly, so did their relationship romantically. It was filled with a tapestry of shared dreams and whispered secrets. And as the sun set on one balmy evening, Suna held Y/N's hand and made a promise that would echo through the corridors of her heart.

"I won't leave you," he whispered, his voice laced with sincerity. Y/N's heart swelled with joy, for in his eyes, she saw a future brimming with love and togetherness.

But dreams have a way of morphing and shifting, altering the course of destiny. A scout from a prestigious volleyball academy had spotted Suna's talent and extended an offer that shimmered with promise-a chance to pursue his dreams at a level he had never imagined. The weight of the decision bore down upon him, threatening to unravel the fragile tapestry they had woven.

Y/N stared at Suna, her eyes welling up with tears. "I can't believe you're actually considering leaving. You promised me you wouldn't do this!"

Suna shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I know, Y/N, and I'm sorry. But this is my dream. I've always wanted to pursue volleyball at a higher level, and I can't do that here."

Tears streamed down Y/N's cheeks as frustration filled her voice. "But what about our plans? We talked about building a life together, supporting each other's goals. How can you just throw it all away?"

Suna sighed, his expression torn between determination and regret. "It's not about throwing anything away, Y/N. It's about following my passion and doing what makes me truly happy. I thought you would understand."

Her voice trembled with a mix of sadness and anger. "Of course, I want you to be happy, but what about our future? What about the life we would've built together? Are you just going to leave it all behind?"

Suna's eyes met hers, filled with a mix of longing and desperation. "I never wanted to hurt you, Y/N. But I can't ignore this burning desire inside me. I've been given an opportunity to play volleyball at a higher level, to challenge myself, and I can't let it slip away."

Y/N's voice cracked as she struggled to hold back her emotions. "But what about me? What about the sacrifices I've made for us? I've put my dreams on hold to support you, and now you're telling me it was all in vain?"

Suna's voice softened as he reached out to hold her trembling hands. "No, Y/N, it's not in vain. You know how much I appreciate everything you've done for me. But we can find a way to make it work. We can have a long-distance relationship, and I promise to make time for you."

Y/N pulled her hands away, a mix of pain and uncertainty clouding her eyes. "It's not just about the physical distance, Suna. It's about the emotional distance. Pursuing your dream somewhere else means we won't be able to build a life together, to share our everyday moments."

Suna's eyes filled with a mixture of determination and pleading. "I understand your concerns, but if we truly love each other, we can make it through anything. We can support each other from a distance and find ways to be a part of each other's lives."

A tear slipped down Y/N's cheek as she shook her head, her voice filled with a heartbreaking vulnerability. "It's not that simple, Suna. Love requires presence, commitment, and compromise. I don't want to be left behind while you pursue your dreams. I want us to build a future together, not live separate lives."

Suna's voice cracked as he struggled to find the right words. "I never wanted it to come to this, Y/N. I never wanted to be in a position where I had to choose between you and my passion. But I can't ignore this opportunity. I hope you can understand."

The grip of winter began to loosen its hold on the land, as the days grew longer and the air grew milder. Slowly, the frozen landscape transformed into a tableau of awakening life. Spring, the season of rebirth and renewal, began to weave its magic across the once-barren fields of Frostwood.

Y/N watched in awe as the snow gradually receded, revealing patches of emerald-green grass and delicate sprouts peeking through the thawed soil. The once dormant trees burst forth with vibrant blossoms, painting the countryside in a kaleidoscope of colors. Cherry blossoms blushed in delicate pinks, while daffodils and tulips emerged from their slumber, unfurling their petals to greet the sun.

The crisp morning air carried the melodies of birdsong, as feathered creatures returned from their winter migration, filling the trees with their jubilant chorus. The gentle hum of bees resonated through the orchards, busy pollinating the apple and pear blossoms that promised a bountiful harvest to come.

The day of departure arrived. Y/N stood on the platform, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The train whistle pierced the air, and Suna emerged, his bags packed and his eyes searching for hers. 

Silent tears traced a path down Y/N's cheeks as they embraced one last time. In that bittersweet moment, they held onto each other as if they could freeze time itself. But as the train doors closed, Suna's fingers gently slipped away from Y/N's grasp, and the locomotive carried him into the distance, leaving her behind.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. The echoes of Suna's promises lingered in the corners of Y/N's mind, but reality seeped in like a bitter wind, chipping away at the foundation of their love. Doubt and uncertainty settled within her, like threads unraveling from a once beautiful tapestry.

Y/N sought solace in her creativity, pouring her emotions onto canvases and filling pages with verses that mirrored her heartache. The cardigan Suna had given her became a source of comfort, wrapping her in its embrace and conjuring memories of stolen kisses and whispered secrets.

Time passed, and as summer descended upon the town, then autumn then winter. Y/N found herself at a crossroads, she had clung to the hope of rekindling their love, but the truth lingered like an icy wind. The threads that had once bound them had frayed beyond repair.

With a weary heart, Y/N chose a different path-one that led away from the ghost of a love that had unraveled. As the seasons changed, so did the world around her. The cardigan, a reminder of the love that had slipped through her fingers, remained tucked away in a box, a relic of a past she had learned to let go of.

Y/N's heart yearned as she gazed upon the blooming landscape, a bittersweet ache filling her soul. With a wistful sigh, she whispered into the wind, "Spring is coming, another spring without you."

©Minarixx 2023 - please don't copy, repost or translate without my knowledge credit or permission.

[fateandloveentwined]

long darkness — cháng yīn 长喑 translation

cháng yīn 长喑 // long darkness

a fan-made song on Xiao Jingyan. I have always been a Mei Changsu over XJY person, but this song from his pov really worked for me and let me see the weightedness of XJY's crown, so I wanted to share it with more.

song link in comment below. (bilibili . com / video / av10441457/)

长剑出鞘冷锋芒 十三载意难忘

缓歌曼舞九重宫 朔风黄沙麾旗扬

手足血脉埋青冢 挚友良弓唯锈藏

岂能折腰屈膝没忠良

the long sword unsheathes from the scabbard, its cool blade revealed. thirteen years, and hard it is to forget.

leisured, soothing melodies with graceful dances at the ninefold palace; north wind and yellow sand with the billowing ensign in the desert. *[1]

brothers-in-arms and brothers in blood in tombs buried, graves long covered in grass; dear friends and cherished bow stored away, now left only to rust —

how is one to bend and kneel, and bury the names of the honourable and the good?

挑灯不眠千军帐 逐千里护家邦

玉壶冰心铁骨铮 扬眉冷看覆风浪

当时少年且横枪 凝尽碧血守四方

守国土河山定国安邦

light a lamp through the unrested nights at the commander’s tent; repel foes a thousand miles, and shield the kingdom.

nobility and aspirations stayed true to, bones of steel resounding. head high, brows lifted, he coolly looks to the tempestuous, overturning storms. *[2]

the youth of the past still danced their spears: blood of the honourable, thoroughly consecrated, defends the four corners of their homeland,

guarding rivers and hills to secure peace of the kingdom’s earth.

(念白：我不要求你能理解，什么是军人铁血，什么是战场狼烟，但有些人，不能伤害，有些事，不能利用。如果连那些血战沙场的将士都不懂得尊重，我萧景琰绝不与你为伍，清楚了吗？)

V/O — I do not expect you to understand a soldier’s honour or the smoke signals on the battlefield. But there are some people you cannot hurt, some things you cannot manipulate. If you cannot even respect the soldiers dying at the battlefront, I, Xiao Jingyan, will never work with you. Do you understand?

铁马金戈谈笑并辔封疆 几回魂梦

凤阙深深夜雨潇潇数闻铃

鸿儒谈笑对面不知相逢 唯知君臣纲

音容早已远谁知苍凉

armoured horses and metal spears, riding in parallel in friendly chatters at the borderlands — how many times has the soul dreamt thus?

depths of the palace, whistling of the nightly rain, a few stray rings of the bells. *[3]

an erudite scholar, now sat opposite in small smiles converse, yet know not to reunite. what leaves is the etiquette of lords and lieges. *[4]

voice and countenance long since distanced — who is to know the desolation and vicissitudes concealed?

谈笑自若朝堂对气轩昂 霁月风光

风云激荡历艰辛终执牙璋

漫漫更鼓朱笔落夜未央 提笔写兴亡

四顾怅惘余音且绕梁

composed in dialogue and pleasantries, assured and imposing at court. he is noble and virtuous as the bright moon and warm breeze.

wading through the unpredictable winds and turmoils, zhang sceptre of jade at last in hand.

drums signifying the night hours sound, red comments from the emperor’s brush move through the boundless night yet to end. a lift of the brush, and prosperities and declines are writ. *[5]

pensive and lost he looks to four sides. remnants of past sounds remain, resonating through the beams of the palace.

(verse 2)

潜龙在渊敛锋芒 风雷动引龙翔

风云际会参参商 瞰天下世道无常

掌中龙渊凛如霜 立丹陛守盛世长

祭酒未凉叹谁人共觞

like a submerged dragon in the abyss, he enshrouds his splendour. wind and thunder call his wings to flight. *[6]

in the winds and clouds, he engages in the tumult of the Shen and Shang constellations. from above he looks down at the fickleness of the world.

in his hands, the abyss of the dragon is cold as frost; he stands at the red stairway before the imperial palace, and overlooks an everlasting prosperity.

the wine offering to the dead is yet to cool — I sigh, who is to drink with me?

袖手天下为帝王 垂衣且驭八荒

气宇舒金殿垂拱 揽尽山河只手倾

长歌挽弓射天狼 潜龙一朝御风翔

乾坤日月昭天下清朗

hands folded in sleeves, he gazes at the kingdom before him. as emperor he rules from his attire and directs even the most distant lands. *[7]

with poised air he commands the court, hands held together; the entirety of the kingdom shifts with a tilt of his hand. *[7]

sing high and long; draw your bow to the invading Sirius. the submerged dragon one morn rises to ride the winds. *[8]

heaven and earth, and sun and moon clears, and the world before brightens.

铁马金戈谈笑并辔封疆 几回魂梦

凤阙深深夜雨潇潇数闻铃

鸿儒谈笑对面不知相逢 唯知君臣纲

音容已故徒一身沧桑

armoured horses and metal spears, riding in parallel in friendly chatters at the borderlands — how many times has the soul dreamt thus?

depths of the palace, whistling of the nightly rain, a few stray rings of the bells. *[3]

an erudite scholar, now sat opposite in small smiles converse, yet know not to reunite. what leaves is the etiquette of lords and lieges. *[4]

voice and countenance already bygone, all but a body of desolation remains.

谈笑自若朝堂对气轩昂 霁月风光

风云激荡历艰辛终执牙璋

漫漫更鼓朱笔落夜未央 提笔写兴亡

从此立龙城孤守八方

composed in dialogue and pleasantries, assured and imposing at court. he is noble and virtuous as the bright moon and warm breeze.

having waded through the unpredictable winds and turmoils, zhang sceptre of jade at last in hand.

drums signifying the night hours sound, red comments from the emperor’s brush move through the boundless night yet to end. a lift of the brush, and prosperities and declines are writ. *[5]

from forth he establishes himself in the imperial city of dragons. alone, he awatches the eight corners of his realm. *[9]

Extra notes

for those keen on classical chinese and literature allusions

I’ve cited some allusions and references I was reminded of as I listened to the song. These are subjective, my knowledge of classical texts is very limited, take everything with a grain of salt and please do comment if you’d like to supplement any information.

[1] 缓歌曼舞九重宫 朔风黄沙麾旗扬 — 《长恨歌》 白居易 The Song of Everlasting Regret, by Bai Juyi

缓歌曼舞: from “缓歌慢舞凝丝竹”. This is at the start of the romance tale, where the palace is in carefree bliss and prosperity.

slow and graceful songs / slow dances / slowly the music of the strings and the bamboo reverberate in step with the dances.

朔风黄沙麾旗扬: might be a stretch; I was reminded of “黄埃散漫风萧索”. This is from the same poem as above, we are one fourth in here, and it talks of a war.

yellow dust, scattered, drifts through the air. the bleak wind howls.

[2] 玉壶冰心铁骨铮 — 《芙蓉楼送辛渐》 王昌龄 Bidding Xin Jian farewell at Furong Tower by Wang Changling

玉壶冰心: from “洛阳亲友如相问，一片冰心在玉壶”

if the relatives and friends from Luoyang ask, tell them that my noble intentions are unchanged; a heart of ice in the vase of jade.

[3] 凤阙深深夜雨潇潇数闻铃 — 《长恨歌》 白居易 The Song of Everlasting Regret, by Bai Juyi

夜雨潇潇数闻铃: again could be a stretch; I was reminded of “夜雨闻铃肠断声” from the same poem as [1]. (don’t ask me why, this entire song is infused with this piece it feels). This talks of the same romance tale, in which the emperor mourns the death of his beloved.

in the nightly rain, the sound of the bells could be heard. it sounds as sorrowful and agonising as the breaking of intestines.

[4] 鸿儒谈笑对面不知相逢 唯知君臣纲 — 《陋室铭》 刘禹锡 An Inscription of the Humble Abode by Liu Yuxi; 《江城子》 苏轼 Jiang Cheng Zi, by Su Shi

鸿儒谈笑: from "谈笑有鸿儒，往来无白丁" credits to @fwoopersongs because my brain happily omitted it!

well-learnt scholars congregate in joyous talk, traversing there is no uncouth and unread.

不知相逢: there are many poems on this topic, one of the most notable ones would be “纵使相逢应不识，尘满面，鬓如霜。”

even if we met (Su Shi and his deceased wife), you should not be able to recognise me. dust covers my face, and the hair of my temples is white as frost.

[5] 漫漫更鼓朱笔落夜未央 — 《长恨歌》 白居易 The Song of Everlasting Regret, by Bai Juyi (added in edit)

漫漫更鼓: Okay, "迟迟钟鼓初长夜" immediately came to mind when I saw this phrase, but I went like here's too many footnotes already and thought it was too much of a stretch to put in (there's only one word in common!). Then I looked into the original poem, in which the timely bi-hour rings of the drum felt lengthened because of the emperor's agony over losing his loved one -- and so I went like, okay, this is relevant, I actually need to add this in.

the drums reporting the hour of the night come late, and it is early in the long night.

漫漫 meaning endless, without an end in sight. This echoes the sentiments of the emperor in Bai Juyi's poem in feeling that the night is everlasting and without end.

[6] 潜龙在渊敛锋芒 — 《易经》 Yi Jing, the Book of Changes

潜龙: There’s an awful lot of “submerged dragon” metaphors in this stanza. Technically it's a figurative "talents hidden dragon" rather than literally, under the waters. This is from Yi Jing essentially, a super old book on divination that does have some wisdom of old sayings in it. The submerged dragon talks of how the dragon, currently veiled, is a powerful being simply not revealed to worldly eyes yet, and is waiting for opportunity to strike (more like, soar, in this context). These lyrics parallel Xiao Jingyan with the allusion to talk about how he stayed silent for thirteen years before his time of brilliance.

[7] 袖手天下为帝王 垂衣且驭八荒 / 气宇舒金殿垂拱 揽尽山河只手倾 — Taoism concept

Okie this is super complicated and involves a Taoism context, some history from the beginning emperors of the Han dynasty, and a very enthusiastic Emperor Taizong of Tang; I don’t really know how to go about this.

袖手, 垂衣驭八荒, 垂拱, these all lead to the same concept, and the middle chunk in particular is from a poem written by Emperor Taizong of Tang. Theory suggested by Laozi and Zhuangzi of Taoism, overall it talks of inaction, which is action the emperors at the start of the Han dynasty employed. They demanded less of their citizens and let the economy recover naturally (agriculture and such), and since these policies worked, the starting few Han emperors were regarded highly with this kind of purposeful and benevolent “inaction”.

In short, this song here uses these descriptions to talk of Jingyan as a competent and masterful leader.

[8] 长歌挽弓射天狼 — 《江城子·密州出猎》 苏轼 Hunting outside Mizhou (yet another Jiang Cheng Zi), by Su Shi

挽弓射天狼: from “会挽雕弓如满月，西北望，射天狼。”

I shall draw my carved bow like the full-moon, point towards the northwest, and shoot in the direction of the intruders.

天狼 means Sirius star. In chinese astronomy/astrology it was somewhat related to evilness, hence the use of Sirius to denote intruders.

[9] 从此立龙城孤守八方

I just added this this is not a reference it just really reminds me of this fanfiction oneshot 此生一诺 (this life, a pledge)! It talks about XJY at the end of everything, he draws a circle about the ground and entraps himself with the promise he made to see the world a better place under his reign (from the chinese idiom 画地为牢). I recced the oneshot here if you wish to check it out.

arghhh the entire course of me writing the tl was me going oh goodness why is there yet another footnote but I’m glad to be done for now.

Like, goodness. There is not one “he” or “him” reference in the lyrics. I would love to do the same, but you can see me getting more and more resigned towards the end of the translation.

I am sooo inclined to passive voice and invert subjects for every sentence when it comes to translations, I realise, and I apologise for the almost-signature abundance of semicolons and em dashes in the translation (I blame it on the difference in punctuation nuances. — I subconsciously use semicolons for semi-parallel sentence structures, so you can spot out imperfect couplets that way.) Massive respect to all those who translate, because easy is it to hatch out a crude translation in five minutes, it is not treading about the delicate balance between literal and metaphorical, and in all honesty I feel that it is just way easier for me to write literal once, then go off the rails and do super-figurative for the other.

There are far more annotations and word definitions I’d like to add (I could literally do a classical text/poetry meta for every word lmao), but evidently, time constraints, and truthfully it would take forever to complete, so on a “ask me and I’ll try to elaborate” basis again.

The V/O — I’d love to make it more archaic, but the dialogue from the drama in this part was so modern apologies I’m sort of disappointed with the translation over here.

Re: song title. Yes, it sounds a little weird, excuse that.

I considered other translations for the song title, but none of them really gave the impression I really wanted. Words like “eternal” and “everlasting” were too permanent, I wanted to express the idea of the darkness being lengthened, yet with Jingyan’s reign it would come to an end, hence my hesitance. “Continual” is one I fiddled with: it did not give the same curt, direct feeling as “long” however, so in the end I just ended up with the simplest title.

Update: click here for notes on the amendment of the title.

[wingwaver]

Favorites meme

thanks for the tag @fighter-spirits

Favorite color: Pinks and blues

Currently reading: I Favor The Villainess

Last Song: Rasputin by Boney M.

Last Series: Beast Wars Neo

Last Movie: The Night Eats the World

Currently working on: A Lot. Trying to find the motivation to finish up Far From Home and pick What Do You Gain? back up but I'm also working on an unnamed Digimon fic rn plus brainstorming more ideas for Transformers Desolation and I have a pokemon WIP that idk if I'm gonna make a series or what. Oh! Also still working on a fic for Court of Darkness about my OC for it and trying to figure out how to start one for another OC for Soul of Yokai

Tagging: @thecosmiccherrycoke, @xobitouya, @mamayaga, @boordfles, @cuppajj, and anyone else who wants to do this!

[stardusted-bookworm]

It ain't the being alone.

She'd been alone all her life. Had grown comfortable with it. Had known loneliness like an old friend. Had known. For never had loneliness wounded her the way it did now. She now knows that loneliness had left her long ago and had not been her companion since he walked into her life.

It ain't the empty home, baby.

She looks around at the house they'd called home. She is haunted by a memory. A memory of the rafters being filled with laughter and joy as he waltzed her around their dining room. A memory of the smell of spiced meats and mouth-watering dishes. Memories of endless hours of talking, of enjoying each others' companies as the fire crackled and the rain poured down outside.

These memories fade, leaving her in the cold, desolate house she had built for them. Portraits smile at her from the walls, cruel remembrances of a time no longer present. The fire no longer crackles. The stove no longer houses their cooking. And the floors remain un-danced.

You know I'm good on my own.

As she stares at a dent in the wall, she also remembers the endless fights. Him complaining that she was always gone. Shouting that she was never around. Her yelling back that she was around. All the time. That she should be allowed her own time and space. That she shouldn't need to be so firmly attached to him at all times that they fuse into one person. They had been born separate for a reason.

She remembers the silence after that. Should've predicted what came next.

You know it's more the being unknown.

He did not speak to her again, except for short words, curt answers. He was never in the house unless it was to sleep, and somedays, he did not even return for that. He no longer remembered the secrets they had shared with smiles. He no longer cared to remember her favorites, her laugh, her song. It was as if he was methodically un-remembering her.

And oh, how her heart broke at that.

And there are some people, love, who are better unknown.

She presses a hand to her chest, surprised to see it come away clean. The pain of her heart is so acute she believes she should be bleeding.

For it was not just the un-remembering. She had found out later, after he had left for the last time, that he had found someone new. Had wooed and courted this other with as much fervor as he had her. Had made them laugh, had danced with them, had enjoyed their company as ardently as he had with her.

It was then her heart cleaved. Was rent in two. Never to be mended. To be removed completely from his memory... to be treated as if she had never existed... No, there was no coming back from that.

It would've been better if she had never met him, she thinks to herself. For the good did not outweigh the bad.

She thinks back to how often he would dismiss her. Would not share in her excitement the closer they got to the end. Was it her fault? Should she have tried harder?

No. Her resolve hardens. The blame is not hers to carry. Not when he left the way he did. Not when he abandoned her before she even knew it was over.

She stands and looks at the match burning in her hand. She lets it fall to the ground and walks out of the burning house, burning the memories of him with it.

Nothing would grow on that patch of land again. She had ensured it. Had coaxed her magic back to her after years of suppressing it to make him happy. Never again would she debase herself the way she had allowed him to debase her.

She is the most powerful witch of her age. And the world would remember her power once more.

Starting with him and his pretty new bride.

[thricedead]

youve been asked what each cc character's favorite animal is but which animals do you think represent them most in any way? if the answers are the same then is there something you associate with them that's not something that immediately pops into ones mind with character associations (colors/animals/songs/etc) and moreso something more abstract like a specific complex feeling or brief scenery? for example what I associate with one of my ocs is an evening sunset during a long car ride home from a trip...something like that!

HI HI HI omg! I dont think so much about animal meanings so ill do the second one it is such a good ask thank you :) let me try!!

AKITO: a desolate super market by the highway in the middle of nowhere; an uninhabitable spot where you can only stop and then move on having done your shopping, a transitory usefulness. Small-town cafés and their suffocating atmosphere of everybody knowing everybody other than the vague shapes of tourists who come and go. A stranger, a visitor, an outsider with no defining traits other than their status as a passer-by. The economy hinges on tourists' coming and going, but they are unwanted as individuals, and chasing one or two away isn't harming anyone...

JUNPEI: dusty soccer courts at the playground, only a rusty frame of a goal with no net. When the ball hits the goal, it will pass through and force the goalman to chase after it no matter whether the opposing team scored or not. The suffocating and sacral stuffiness of ballet studios, no sounds other than the squeaking of rubber soles against that worn-our parquet and occasional harshness from the dance instructor... coming home hungry. Always hungering at home.

HIKARU: A maddening funerary orchestra giving it their all, sweating and panting to perform a satisfactory requiem. Instruments gradually going off-pitch, their strings snapping with strain. Within the hearse lies a living man dressed as a pierrot. Circus horses trained to run in circles round the tent, never arriving at any goal or end point. They are going nowhere, and have nowhere to return to, running until they fall from exhaustion with all their beautiful, ornate feather plumes and tassles

ARISU: death in cold water; a drowned Ophelia and a desolate-hearted Fisher King guarding a Holy Grail that nobody wants anymore. This is a Wasteland that cannot be populated anymore; plants can't grow and it's been a long time since anything has bitten the bait. Houses without a façade, bare-walled, and old-timey maidens with their hair undone. The Gordian knot cut rather than untangled, and thus everything is left behind and re-imagined...

ODILE: a skinny dog leashed to a post at the parking lot, snarling and spitting because it can only perceive being told "wait" as "wait forever." The humiliated angels of Sodom. A doubtful disciple insisting to push his fingers into Jesus' wound. Easter bunny chocolates forgotten until summer and eaten half-melty.

THE LEADER: golden teeth lying in bone dust after cremation and a waft of perfume residing in the air after a woman has passed by and gone. Nothing of value - certainly nothing that can be grasped - is here anymore.

[achaotichuman]

A Court of Song and Desolation Rewritten

Almost a year and three months ago, I published the first chapter of A Court of Song and Desolation (then named Get Out While You Still Can (Please Don't Leave Me)

But since then, my life has done a complete 180, my writing has changed and I lost track of ACOSAD, in the end I put it on the back burner and have neglected it.

However, I am extremely attached to this fic, the characters, the plot, the story, and I wanted to try and do it justice. So, this is the rewritten version. The old version is still up to be read but it will not longer be updated. I hope you guys enjoy this version of it! (link for AO3 at bottom of the post)

(Main) POVs

Tamlin

Lucien Vanserra

Elain Archeron

Koschei

Azriel

(Main) Relationships

Tamlin x Lucien Vanserra

Azriel x Eris Vanserra

Elain Archeron x Gwyneth Bedara

Koschei x Male Character

Summary

In the low lamplight, I was free Heaven and hell were words to me When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth Work Song: Hozier

It's been a year since the final battle of Hybern, and Spring remains in ruin. Darkness fabrics the land as its High Lord rots forgotten. Lucien, being unable to stand the distance growing between him and the male he once called his closest friend, decides to bring him to the Human Lands. But soon, a new threat tied to Koschei begins to unearth itself, promising to uproot Prythian entirely, and it has set its eyes on Tamlin.

Elain Archeron is lost to her dreams and visions, reality blurring, time and space intertwining and unravelling. Memories of who she once was are twisted now, and a woman from her past has been haunting her. After meeting Mintheal and Emerald, two escapees from the Hewn City, she decides it's beyond time to step beyond the Night Court and take fate into her own hands.

The Death God Koschei is the last threat left to eliminate, no one has yet seen the strings that move him, and the puppet master has decided its their time to come out from behind the curtain.

Dm or reply in notes if you want to be tagged for updates (:

[arthurian-owls]

And the part two of the TMA crossover, because the first ask got so massive:

Kreeth is on her way to get avatarised, but The Eye, The Flesh and The Stranger can't decide who gets to keep her (the Eye eventually wins). Also marked by The End because of all the dead things and people she handles and will gladly feed anyone to the fears(even the ones she isn't aligned with). She also would write it down in details, she's a scientist, after all.

Lutta is Stranger-aligned, but she's very reluctant when it comes to feeding people to the fears. She would've been pretty content living off Strix Strumajen's confusion if she wasn't so eager to prove herself to Kreeth.

Speaking of Strix Strumajen: she's pretty bloodthirsty. Marked by The Slaughter and probably unknowingly fed a few people to it. Also touched by The Web, like everyone else in Hoole's court (because of exposure to the Ember)

Ygryk worked her way into marked by The Hunt. Pleek isn't, but he is along for the ride. Both are marked by The Slaughter.

Siv is marked by the Hunt and touched by the Desolation, but otherwise fairly fear-resistant (remember Joshua Gillespie from the second episode? Yeah, she's like that).

I was tempted to say that H'rath was similar to Siv in that regard, but then I remembered that Grank described him as "obsessed with ice weapons from the moment he hatched"; not sure how accurate this was, but I'll mark this down as H'rath being touched and later marked by The Slaughter. (And his scimitar became a manifestation, that's why it stayed intact for all 3 books and hadn't melted in Beyond the Beyond)

Theo is marked by The Slaughter and The Stranger, but in a very complicated way: apart from him actually fighting people, he set the things up to erase the hagsfiend culture. Not sure if what happened by his design counts as feeding people to The Stranger, but I think it comes pretty damn close.

Coryn is marked by The End and The Extinction(the very late-game fear in TMA; basically "the humanity(and possibly everything else on the planet) is done for, and it is our fault"): his Hamlet-esque melancholic attitude lends itself well to both, and since he was raised by the pure ones, Extinction fits a little better(imagine running from your small hometown knowing that all people there are out to get you and also want everyone who isn't them dead. Really makes one think about people dooming themselves). Also touched by The Hunt, The Slaughter and The Lonely.

Striga is a mess. I've recently re-read about half of "River of Wind" for the lols, and everyone is just dunking on him, its ridiculous. (Not entirely undeserved dunking, mind you, but mostly for the wrong reasons). Marked by The Slaughter(his dreams/nightmares of his past life), The Flesh(in its body dysmorphia aspect. He's got so many complexes to work through, and he starts plucking his own feathers out in the next book), marked and later avatarised by The Desolation... he's got a lot on his plate.

Twilight is also touched by The Slaughter - both in its straightforward and metaphorical aspect (Slaughter also manifests in music, especially agressive, like rock or war songs), but luckily for everyone, he's disinterested in being a full-on avatar. Twilight actually whipping everyone around into murderous rage with his songs would be terrifying.

Oh my god,,, imagine Twilight pulling a move like that band that made everyone die (my memory SUCKS but ykwim),,, that would be INTENSE.

I dig the idea of Theo accidentally (or purposely, if the ends justified the means) feeding folks to The Stranger. absolutely 10/10, much to ponder upon here indeed!!!

[miitgaanar]

@soartfullydone asked: You/Tamlin: a kiss after one muse has killed for the other

This turned out to be MUCH LONGER and more involved than I intended.  Oops.  So it gets its own post lmao

***

The halls of the Spring Court were still and quiet.  Almost desolate, as they were wont to be as of late.  The quiet chatter of the guards no longer echoed the halls, the brilliant birdsong muffled to distant musical notes on the breeze, the vibrant colors of spring that once sparkled in the sunlight dulled to muted shades of green and pink and blue.

Life itself seemed to have been leached from his home, leaving Tamlin bereft of the usual comforts that helped to quell the racing thoughts overtaking his mind.  He was alone, isolated, even—though he knew this to not truly be the case.

Tamlin stood facing the windows of his study, the ever-present cool breeze of his court drifting gently through the curtains, making the translucent fabric dance to a song he could no longer hear.  A lock of hair fell out of place, displaced by an especially strong gust.  He quickly reached up to tuck it back behind his rounded, mortal ears, unable to bear the sight of the now dull, near caramel shade of his once golden hair.

It had been months since Eris had stripped him of his immortality in exchange for Cassandra’s life, and yet, above all else, it was the quiet that left him the most unsettled.  He felt both blind and deaf to the world around him, vulnerable in a way he never thought possible.  He knew his guards still roamed the grounds, chatting idly as they went about their rounds; he knew the birds still sang, cheerful and careless as ever; and he knew that his court remained vibrant and bright, the magic that sustained it holding fast despite his folly.

He was the one who was different, he was the one who had freely handed over his immortality—relinquished the magic that came with being the High Lord of Spring—and left his court leaderless and defenseless.

Tamlin sighed heavily, his hazel eyes staring out at the manor grounds unseeing.  It was bad enough that his people were left without a High Lord, but those closest to him now had to take on the burden of ensuring the Spring Court did not suffer any more than was necessary.  Lucien had stepped in to share the burden of leadership, hopeful that at least the presence of a High Fae would help to deter Eris from launching his invasion just yet, as well as quell the unease that rippled through his subjects.  Elizabeth was hard at work searching through their oldest texts for a way to reverse Eris’ spell, determined in her entirely human way to unearth the secrets of the old, dark magics Eris had utilized.

And Cassandra…

A sharp pain wound through his chest, tightening like a noose around his newly human heart.  He had sworn that he would protect her, that she would be safe in his lands from any and all who would seek to use her powers.  He had failed her, completely and utterly, and Eris had used her to usurp his father, to draw Tamlin out of the confines of his court and into the land of eternal Fall.

And then Eris had killed her, and in his desperation and rage and grief, Tamlin had paid the ultimate price to bring her back.  Just as the son of Autumn had wanted.

Another sigh escaped him, his hand flexing out of habit as the embers of his rage sought an outlet.  Claws no longer lingered beneath his flesh, ready to rip into the nearest threat and rend skin from bone.  Instead, his nails were now short and fragile, all in various states of broken and chipped.  

He scoffed softly.  Useless.  Even as an immortal and powerful High Lord, he had been unable to protect the woman he loved, what could he possibly do now to protect her from the other High Lords?  Rhysand remained only too quiet, sequestered in the north where Tamlin’s scouts were unable to reach.  And Tamlin could not rely on the other seasonal courts to stand by him, not with Autumn’s open declaration of war.

He had failed his siren, his people.  And they now stood alone against the might of whatever court decided to move against them first.

Tamlin finally moved from the window, the joints in his knees cracking from being locked in place for too long.  He frowned, but tried not to dwell on it.  He didn’t need another reason to despise his newly mortal existence.

The floorboards were quiet beneath his boots as he left his study, though he knew anyone nearby likely heard each step as clearly as if he stomped on the aged wood.  He hated being unaware of his own presence, unable to tell what was truly inaudible and what was as loud as the crash of thunder.  He was a hunter by nature, and yet he now walked through these fae lands as their chosen prey.

The halls were mercifully empty as he wandered aimlessly, his eyes downcast.  He couldn’t stomach how the manor’s staff would pointedly avoid his gaze as they went about their duties, choosing instead to offer him a cursory bow before returning to the task at hand.  It broke something in him each time, and a part of him knew that it was pity that left them unable to meet his eyes as they passed.  He wished that they hated him, wished they cursed his name and his mortal existence.  He deserved it, after all.  He had failed them as surely as he had failed Cassandra.

But pity?  To know they pitied him and his shortened life was a worse fate than death.  Eris knew that, and had likely hoped for it.

Tamlin turned a corner, his eyes catching on the faint flutter of a cloak at the end of the hall before it disappeared around the bend.  He raised a single eyebrow, a frown pulling at his lips.  It could have been a shadow—his eyes played many a trick on him these days, seeing things in darkened corners that simply weren’t there—but the sun was bright today, and the shadows were few.

He followed on silent feet—or at least what he deemed silent—avoiding what floorboards he knew creaked at the faintest application of pressure.  He reached the end of the hall, unsurprised to find no one there.  He paused for a brief moment, listening.

Nothing.

Tamlin straightened, a frustrated scowl pulling at his lips.  He was acting like a fool, prowling through his own manor like a thief in the night, intent on catching prey that did not exist.  That hunter’s instinct he had prided himself on seemed to have left him utterly.  What use would he be in battle if he was reduced to chasing shadows and phantoms through the halls of his home?  

He was about to turn back the way he had come, despondent and dispirited, when there came the soft creak of a door being opened from somewhere behind him.  He spun around, prepared to see one of the maids exiting a guest room with linens to be laundered, only to see a fae he decidedly did not know slip through the doorway and lock eyes with him.

The fae had the appearance of a bat, with a pushed in, flat nose and short snout that revealed rows of sharp, needle-like teeth, but stood tall and hulking, rivaling even that of Tamlin’s build.  

With a flap of his great, black wings, the beast rushed Tamlin.

Instincts that Tamlin had feared left him kicked in, and he dropped into a roll, barely dodging the creature.  The fae shrieked in frustration, pulling a long blade from a sheath at his side.  

“I was sent to find the siren,” the fae hissed, “but the fallen son of Spring will do.”

The creature swung his blade, his movements almost too fast for Tamlin to follow.  He managed to duck the first swing, but the fae fluidly transitioned into the second, and cut upward from the hip.  Tamlin stumbled back, but the tip of the blade pierced the flesh of his stomach, cutting a long line from the center of his abdomen nearly up to his right shoulder.  

A pained yell was ripped from his throat as he fell back onto the plush, forest green carpeting that lined the hall.  The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he struggled to take in air as he attempted to push himself back to his feet.  Searing agony ripped through him at the slightest movement and his arm collapsed beneath his weight, leaving him broken and bleeding upon the floor as he stared up at his attacker.

“Rhysand has yet to make his move,”  the fae spat as he advanced, those bat-like features pulled into what Tamlin could only assume was a derisive sneer.  “But Eris grows impatient, and seeks to hasten the pieces on the board.  The siren behind the Night Court’s borders would do nicely.”

Horror flooded Tamlin, his blood turning to ice in his veins.  No.  Not again.  Not now.  Not after everything he had done to get her back, to bring her back.  

Please, no.

The fae raised his blade, those sharp teeth glinting in the afternoon sunlight, as he made to finish off the disgraced and forgotten High Lord of Spring.

“Tamlin!”

A voice broke the heavy silence, and both Tamlin and his attacker looked to the end of the hall.  Cassandra stood there, a gown of the deepest ocean blue pooling around her feet, her burgundy hair a wild halo around her pale face, her brilliant green eyes widened in horror.

The fae turned from his prey to face Cassandra, and the blood drained from Tamlin’s face.

“Run!” he cried out, his voice cracking as desperation flooded him.

The intruder twirled his blade, fully intent on his new mark, and Tamlin struggled to get to his feet once again.  Pain lanced through him, his blood pooling beneath him at an alarming rate, and he fell back to the floor in a heap.

No.  No, no, no, no…

Tamlin looked towards Cassandra once more.  She had not moved, her eyes rapidly flickering between himself and the monstrous fae that now advanced on her.  Why wouldn’t she run?  Why was she still here?

“Cassandra, go!” he tried once more, but she remained rooted in place.  She did not move an inch, simply holding her ground.

He thought it to be shock, the horror of the scene keeping her locked in place, but then he saw her eyes, and he realized that the horror he had seen in them had fled.  In its place, a fiery anger he had seldom seen in his wild halfling had taken root.

She breathed deep, her features a mask of deceptive calm, like a sea in the moments before a raging storm.

She opened her mouth, and a voice of the most ethereal nature filled the halls of Spring.

Tamlin froze, watching, distantly noting that their attacker had also stopped in his tracks.  It was difficult to focus, to keep a hold of himself, but through the haze of her song, he watched as the fae dropped his blade, seemingly in a daze.

Cassandra continued with her song, keeping the fae under her thrall.  Each note seemed to echo eternally, evoking images of lone ships lost at sea, seeking safe harbor from the crashing waves.  He watched as she walked forward, approaching the bat-like fae, and bent to pick up his discarded weapon.  It seemed so much larger in her hands, so out of place.

And without once pausing in her continuous, haunting melody, she lifted the blade, and slit the fae’s throat.

The intruder fell to the ground with a dull, wet thud, his head only just barely still attached to his body, and the song abruptly ended.

“Tamlin!”  Cassandra was suddenly at his side, her green eyes wide with panic, her skin spattered with fresh blood.  “Tamlin, look at me.  Hey.  You’re okay.  Just hang in there.”  She ripped off a piece of her lovely blue gown, the fabric already bloodstained and ruined, and pressed it to his wound.

His eyes drifted to the now dead fae and the still growing pool of blood that ringed his body, before he once again met her gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed, his hand weakly lifting to brush the blood from her cheek.  He simply succeeded in smearing it, like a macabre imitation of human cosmetics.  “I’m so, so sorry.”

Cassandra’s face twisted into a look of utter befuddlement.  “What?  Why?”

“I should have protected you,” he said softly, each word laced with grief.  “I promised to protect you.”

Her confusion morphed into a grief of her own, and she shook her head.  “I’m only here because of you,” she said.  She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his.  It was a gentle kiss, one born of a quiet promise whispered into the dark.  As she pulled away, she pressed her forehead to his own, looking into his dull, hazel eyes without hesitation.  “It’s my turn to return the favor.”

[lunarscaled]

companion codex. ( DA: I )

I forgot I had filled this out forever ago so I wanted to repost it. feel free to steal it / modify it for other fandoms ( i'll probably do a bg3/d&d version too )

RACE, CLASS, & SPECIALIZATION:

Human / Rogue / Tempest / Mage / None

VARRIC’S NICKNAME FOR THEM:

Snowflake

DEFAULT TAROT CARD:

EIGHT OF SWORDS: Sickness, Calumny, Criticism, Blame

ROMANCE TAROT CARD:

TWO OF CUPS: Trust, Deep Friendship, Romance, Commitment, Bonding

HOW THEY ARE RECRUITED:

Lyric’s recruitment is a side-mission DURING wicked eyes and wicked hearts, automatically unlocked after collecting 15/30 secrets in the great blackmail hunt. The quest title is "Patron of Blood Arts." The Inquisitor’s interest in the scandals of the court uncover a ploy to poison one of the guests of the ball–an esteemed noblewoman by the name of Aceline Durand. Conversing with Empress Celene’s ladies-in-waiting reveals that Lady Durand is a well-known supporter of the arts, withholding an extensive collection from the public. If she were to be removed, her works would be forfeit to her eldest son, a greedy man named Léo, who has long since been trying to persuade his mother to sell the works at high prices. Questioning the nobles in the garden will hint that someone was seen sneaking into the library in a rather crumpled guard uniform and that Lady Durand has disappeared. Lyric is one of three masked cohorts in the library who have cornered the lady patron. Entering this area will trigger a brief cutscene of Lady Durand crying out to the Inquisitor for help, startling the trio and triggering a fight. Defeating all 3 enemies will cut to their attempted escape through the balcony and over the palace roof, with Lyric choosing to help their injured allies over obstacles and leaving last. Unable to move both their allies and themselves, they are captured by the castle guards who deflect to the Inquisitor for judgement. Lyric, revealed to be no more than a young adult, begs for the Inquisitor’s mercy as they were only doing what they were paid to do.

OPTION 1: Conscript Lyric (Lyric will become an available companion and romance option)

OPTION 2: Give Lyric to the guards (Lyric will not be recruited later and hung at the gallows for treason)

CONSCRIPTING Lyric makes them an available agent option following Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts and earns slight approval from mage-sympathetic party members and Varric. It earns slight disapproval from Vivienne, Cassandra and Cole.

WHERE THEY ARE IN SKYHOLD:

Lyric can be found in one of Skyhold’s library alcoves, near to where Dorian is. If the Inquisitor is in a romance with Dorian, they will comment “Not to get the books messy.” Responding to this positively or with sarcasm increases their approval.

THINGS THEY GENERALLY APPROVE OF:

Tempest Specialization, Herb Garden Upgrade, Sarcasm, Diplomacy, Red-Lyrium Studies, Completing Companion Quests, All Codex Entries feat. Mage History, Expressed an Interest in their Studies

THINGS THEY GENERALLY DISAPPROVE OF:

Aggressive Responses, Death Sentences when Judging, Anti-Mage Responses, Cruelty to Animals, Cruelty to Refugees, Refusing to Assist, Templar Specialization, Sexual Advances

MAGES, TEMPLARS, OTHER?:

LOW/NEUTRAL APPROVAL: Neither HIGH APPROVAL: Mages (revealed in conversation at Skyhold)

FRIENDS IN THE INQUISITION:

Cole, Varric, Dorian, The Chargers, Sera

ROMANCEABLE?:

Romanceable by any race or gender; High approval required for Templar Specialization; CANNOT BE ROMANCED IF THE INQUISITOR DEMANDS A SEXUAL ASPECT TO THEIR RELATIONSHIP.

SMALL SIDE MISSION:

Lyric’s Lament

Lyric wants to hear a song their brother favoured when they were children. Go to Val Royeaux to purchase the music and deliver it to Maryden for Lyric to hear.

COMPANION QUEST:

The Note Desolation Plays

Lyric has received a letter from their father claiming their mother is soon to pass and that Lyric must return home to see her before her death. Lyric, troubled by their tempestuous family history, asks that the Inquisitor come accompany them to Lydes to see their family. If the Inquisitor agrees, Lyric will be waiting for them by the gate to Skyhold; dialogue options concerning their past, their brother and his death will unlock. The mission can be continued from the War Table, under the quest name the note desolation plays. In Lydes, Lyric will firstly be greeted by their two younger siblings, Marianne and Claudia, before being confronted by their father. He will immediately recognize the Inquisitor by the Anchor and tell Lyric they are wasting the Herald’s precious time by dragging them into family matters. The Inquisitor can choose to SUPPORT or SCOLD Lyric, gaining approval or disapproval respectively. Regardless of the answer, the Inquisitor will be invited inside to meet Lyric’s mother and bare witness to her final moments. As the scene progresses, it is revealed that Lyric’s brother was actually their twin and was meant to secure the family a higher social standing by marrying the daughter of a recognized merchant, while Lyric was to be sent away to the Circle to tame their harsh magic. Privy to the true plan–to send Lyric away for fear of their volatile magic, whereas Kamille was a gentle mage–Kamille wore Lyric’s clothes and switched places with them, willingly going to the Circle to prevent his twin from being sentenced to sure death. Despairing at the loss of their only son and left with a stubborn, vicious daughter, Lyric’s parents became distant for many years before sailing to Kirkwall to abandon them far, far from home after learning of Kamille’s death. Lost and afraid, Lyric stumbled the long way back to Orlais, barely surviving. They smothered their magic, refusing to ever use it again. They blamed it for both Kamille’s untimely demise and their parent’s spite. Lyric’s mother will repent for every abandoning their child and ask to make amends. Lyric, clearly quarreling with their feelings of the past and wanting to forgive their family, will look to the Inquisitor to decide.

OPTION 1: FORGIVE HER.

Lyric will forgive their mother, despite how it hurts, in order to give her soul some resemblance of peace. Her mother will pass with Lyric at her side. Lyric will ask the Inquisitor for some time alone with their family and meet the Inquisitor back at Skyhold. At Skyhold, they will express their thanks to the Inquisitor, saying they feel as if a weight has been lifted from their chest.

OPTION 2: DENY HER.

Lyric will refuse to accept their mother’s request, causing the sickly woman to begin to cry and beg them to reconsider. Lyric will call their mother a traitor and a heretic, leaving the house without resolving their past or their emotions. The party will return to Skyhold where Lyric will again express their conflicting emotions to the Inquisitor, but vow to never forgive their family or return to Lydes. ( CHOOSING THIS OPTION WILL MAKE LYRIC UNROMANCEABLE. )

TAROT CARD CHANGE

OPTION 1: Two of Swords: Courage, Friendship, Affection, Choices

OPTION 2: Death: Morality, Endings, Loss, Alteration for the Worse

[this-doesnt-endd]

Honestly im very pro crying in public as long as I have like sunglasses to wear. I had a small meltdown after some events post dentist visit and i cried for like three hours and i made my way to the mall. I went to the hallmark to see the post office they coudlnt help me, i walked to tj max and nordstrom cried the entire time. Went to cvs to get my prescriptions walked to dutch bros got my drink cried the entire way to dillards as i walked thru the back parking lot of the mall. I bough a pair of earings at dillards and i felt a bit better but i still decided i wasnt done and cried at forever21, i stopped at clairs cause they were playing songs i liked and i got two really nice scrunchies for like 2 bucks and i sat in the food court for a while. At that point i had stopped and ended up talking to my dad about the dentist. It was very helpfull tho. Especially in the parking lot and dillards. Theres something so desolate about the two places thats somehow comforting.

[xlogonx]

@conquestofuriel

The forest was on fire, but the ocean waves calmed what it could. Logon stood within the broken, desolate shores of what was left of the Summer Court. He'd sent away so many fey creatures, so many children and those who could not fight – only to watch the rest of it burn. The water ran red, another creature falling as Logon's siren song held them back. Creatures fought for him as they stayed under his spell, his strength waning as he parried shadows from a drow as summer flared to life around him. They fell beneath his dual swords, but Logon had to kneel to take a breath. The presence of the seraphim was not lost on him, but there would be little time to talk. Perhaps all he could do was say goodbye.