#before someone inevitably comes here to “but daemon” me

[lagosbratzdoll]

You guys are always yapping about how Criston Cole is Rhaenyra’s victim. Even though the show contradicts you on this point many times. Even though the producers contradict you on this point repeatedly. 

However, no one wants to reckon with the fact that those men took a tale about a misogynistic paedophile and the child he groomed and isolated and then turned his child victim into the initiator/aggressor. 

It’s par for the course with the adaptors. We watched it happen with Dany and Jorah, Doreah and Xaro Xhoan Daxos, Loras Tyrell and the homophobic way they adapted his story. The racist, heavily sexualised way they adapted the sand snakes and Ellaria Sand. I had hoped the fandom would know better by now but alas!

[thebadboyfanclub]

Are You Mad? (Daemon x Reader)

You guys never fail at pumping ideas for this man, although I do ask you guys if you could also send anything for Aegon or Aemond if not you are more that welcome to send Daemon requests. Enjoy

(Y/n) had grown up in the kitchen of the red keep, her mother and father had been cooks for the royal family and with no one to watch her while they worked the only thing they could do was to take her with them.

(Y/n) was a rampageous child, always running and wanting to explore. She had managed to slip out of her mothers grasp and had ran to the gardens, it wasn’t unusual for her to be there however her mother told her countless times that she should be careful, it was a beautiful day and (y/n) decided to plop down on the grass to pick flowers, she was planning to make a flower crown for her mother.

“Who are you?”

(Y/n) turned to see who it was. A little silver hair boy that held a wooden sword stared at her with confusion, (y/n) smiled at him like a kid that got caught doing something naughty, she had never seen another child inside the castle so naturally she thought she could make a friend.

“I am (y/n), want to make flower crowns?”

“That is boring, want to see my dragon?”

“Sure”

The little boy took her by the hand and ran with her to the dragon pit, Daemon had just started taking lessons with his dragon Caraxes and was severely proud of the beast. When (y/n)s mother saw the girl return to the kitchen with the prince holding hands and covered in dirt she almost died, (y/n) did not understand at the time why her mother was so anxious over her new friend, how should she know the little boy was royalty?

(Y/n) and Daemon grew up side by side, as the years passed the two of them became inseparable, Daemon would often get scolded by his father for dismissing his duties to go “bother the servants” since (y/n) had started working as a servant and would spend all her free time with him as well

“(Y/n) is not just a servant, she is my friend”

He would often reply to his father. Truth be told (y/n) was more than a friend to him, she was his sunshine at a gloomy day, always smiling at him, his favourite though was that it did not matter what might have occurred prior one thing he would always look forward to is her sneaking a piece of his favourite cake from the kitchen before it is served, technically he could walk in the kitchen and take the whole cake with him, it was her gesture that made it special.

Her heart would still break when she looked back at the day Daemon announced his betrothal to her.

“So, this is it? You will leave me?”

“I would never leave you my love, this is not my decision”

“Then what? I stay here to watch you marry another woman? How could I have been so foolish, I should have known this would happen”

(Y/n) could not hold her sobs, it felt like Daemon had reached in and pulled her heart out with his bare hands, he was all she knew and now the world crumbled as duty came knocking at their door, the inevitable wedlock that every royal person must obey, a prince at that was even worst and more drastic.

Daemon tried to hug her but she denied him by moving away from his touch, to see her lean away from him was the most brutal thing, he had fought the strongest men and had suffered many injuries still her retreat was the most vile act he had suffered through, he had done everything in his power to keep her happy and now like a domino board it only took one sentence for everything to crumble down.

“I love you (y/n)”

“Love is not enough for us Daemon, someone like you is not supposed to be with someone like… me”

She whimpered with shame. She had noticed the stares they earned when Daemon had spoken to her, she had heard the whispers of shame of how (y/n) had turn to a common whore the prince was toying until he got bored, she had brushed it off with the idea that Daemon was different and he was but their circumstance wasn’t, now it was coming to fruition, it was time to face the music and (y/n) was to be cast aside for a honourable lady wife, she was no princess or had anything in her name, she was not worthy of a prince.

“I must be mad”

Daemon mumbled as he grabbed her by the wrist and made her walk with him, due to her fussing he was forced to grab her and throw her over the shoulder as she hit his back and demanded to be put down. Daemon only let her go when they had reached the dragon pit, (y/n) was confused to say the least as Caraxes approached them, (y/n) had ridden the dragon before with Daemon so she was a very familiar face.

“What are we doing here?”

“I will take you to Dragonstone, you will be safe there. I will wed and then I will come back to you”

“Are you mad?”

“Yes, now stop acting like a stubborn kid and trust me for once”

-

Daemon had kept his promise, it took him three days to come back to Dragonstone to her, (y/n) had ran outside as soon as she saw Caraxes approaching, she collapsed in his arm thanking the Gods that he was back to her. It was not the most ideal of situations but none of them cared, they were safe and together here, at dusk they had wed under the Old Valyrian tradition, it was the happiest day in their life.

(Y/n) and Daemon had something bigger than love, they respected one another, they had recognised their differences and allowed one another to be their true authentic self, they complimented one another and worked together for the sake of their union.

Daemon adored her authenticity, her delicate and sensitive nature was a rare thing to find, her beauty radiated from her bright smile, how could someone not treat a woman like that with the utmost love?

Their coupling was sweet, soft, passionate, they spoke the language of the bodies well as both of them strived to please and show their devotion through it, he admired her naked form as she came undone and (y/n) took care of him as she held him close to her.

It was not long until she was occupying the birth bed with Daemon by her side and the wet nurses working to help her, she had a difficult child birth that had almost costed her life.

“Praise the mother, a girl”

“Is she alright?”

“Healthy as a horse”

(Y/n) bursted in tears from the relief, immediately forgetting the torturous pain she had endured, all it mattered was that her child was healthy. Daemon kissed her forehead repeatedly as (y/n) held their first born daughter, it was only a minute but (y/n) fell in love with the child immediately.

“How about Aurora?”

“I believe it suits her, welcome little Aurora”

(Y/n) had been unfortunate with all her pregnancies, she had managed to birth 3 and had lost two, all three were extremely difficult and the last she was instructed on bed rest for two long months. Daemon had stayed by her side through everything, encouraging her and reminding her how much he loves her, Daemon would have been content with only one but (y/n) had insisted that she wanted to have more children, his children.

It was Aurora, Alyssa and Raemond, Aurora had been a difficult labour making her mother lay on the bed in excruciating pain for two morrows, Alyssa had come earlier than expected and had managed to wrap her umbilical cord around her neck, poor thing came out blue and Raemond was rather easy labour yet his mother had been abed with fever for a week.

(Y/n) did not mind, she took pride in surviving under pressure and slipped past the strangers, the only thing that mattered was their three bundles of joy that filled their lives with laughter and bliss as their little footsteps paddled against the stoned floor, causing chaos and messing with anything they could get their hands on.

Unfortunately life has not always been without difficulty, Viserys had exiled Daemon due to the rebellion and daemon refusing to go to runestone and they had to pack their family and leave as quickly as possible, (y/n) had taken the news with the stiff lip, she did not fret over anything except her children’s safety, she would often wake up at the hour of the owl to make sure her children are sleeping peacefully, she worried something or someone would harm them.

“(Y/n) you will worry yourself sick”

“Daemon you and I both know that your family is not above anything, in their minds we are the only thing that keep you away from your duties”

(Y/n) was right, of course he could not admit that, feeding to her suspicions would cause her to stay awake the whole night or sit outside their children’s room.

Pentos had been a blessing for the little children, to young to be worried over such things and Daemon with (y/n) had done their best to keep their lives as light and carefree as possible, the warm weather and acres of land including the vineyard meant they had space for them to ran along all day.

Unfortunately Daemon often had to leave her side to fight at the Stepstones, (y/n) and the children would pray every night for Daemons safe return, the idea of losing him made her chest ache like a sword had pierced through it, alas she put a smile on her face every morrow and acted like their father was invisible and nothing would ever go wrong.

“I have an idea”

“Oh Gods you and your ideas”

“We cannot keep living like we are criminals my love, I am your lord husband and their father, I must protect my family, I must do right by you”

“You have”

“What? living in exile? Putting your lives at risk? No, tomorrow we flight for Kings landing”

-

(Y/n) had remained a few steps back when they walked in the throne room, with Raemond in her arms and her two daughters tugging at her dress as their father walked towards his brother, a sword was pointed at him to prevent him from approaching further, silence fell within the room and the only thing (y/n) could hear was her heart pounding.

Daemon pointed another word to the king before throwing it to the ground making a massive thud, startling (y/n) from the sudden noise.

“Add it to the chair”

“You wear a crown, do you also call yourself king?”

“Once we smashed the triarchy they named me king of the narrow sea but I know there is one true king, your grace”

Daemon spoke as he went on one knee and took of the crown that was gifted to him, the entire room was filled with whispers from bystanders as (y/n) watched the scene play out. Her husband has always been a mad man still she could not believe she had agreed to this plan.

Viserys approached his brother before pulling him in for a hug and everyone clapped, foolish of them to think that the worst part is over, (y/n) felt like she might suffocate from the anxiety when Viserys fixated his gaze on the children.

“Yours?”

“Aurora, Alyssa and Raemond. I come to you with a request my dear brother. I won this battle for you, I risked my life and toyed with the possibility of leaving my children illegitimate and my true love match exposed to enemies. Annul my wedlock, if not for me then for them so they can be safe if anything were to happen to me”

Daemon knew his brother well, he called on his sensitivity and sense of family to hit where it hurts, to tug on his heart strings and weakened his pride just enough all while stroking his ego as he begged for help in front of everyone. Viserys took another look at the three children, all three had gotten their father silver looks but all three had also earned their mothers eyes, Daemon always joked that it was because they were the purest and kindest and since eyes are the windows of the soul it was only natural that the children inherited their mothers, he loved to look into his children’s eyes and get a glimpse of (y/n).

“Step forward Lady (y/n)”

(Y/n) felt all the eyes on her, although she kept her head high and held her children close only the Gods knew she wished to dig a hole and burry herself in it. As she stood next to Daemon Viserys took in the children, all of them Targaryen featured looking, Viserys heart soften when Alyssa clung to the leg of her father while Raemond buried his head in his mothers neck, Daemon was the only one to pick up the faint curve of his brothers lips, Viserys was always a sucker for family

“I king Viserys Targaryen, with the power invested in me I hereby declare Princess Aurora, princess Alyssa and prince Raemond Targaryen the true born children of prince Daemon Targaryen as he has wed the lady (y/n) with customs of old Valyria the wedlock of lady Rhea Royce is annulled, making her his true lawful wife and should be treated as such”

Requests are open!

@watercolorskyy

[genz420]

The Fire That Burns With Us - Chapter 53: It Is Not Safe For You Here.

Previous Part - Next Part 

138 - Red Keep

Visenya and Ben quickly stand as the door opens, both relaxing once Aemond makes his way into the room.  Ben sits back on the couch with the twins, Aenar asleep in his crib by the fire.  Visenya moves away from the couch and to Aemond, pulling each other into a hug.  Aemond buries his face into Visenya's neck, gripping her dress with force and pulling her closer to him.  

“Aemond,” Visenya greets, happy to see her husband in one piece.   

“The king-”

“I know,” Visenya cuts him off, pulling away from Aemond.  “Your mother came by earlier,” 

“I would have been here for you, but Aegon needed to be found,” Aemond tells Visenya, pushing away the smallest bit of grief he feels for his father.  

In truth, Aemond had stopped caring for his father after the incident, losing his eye. It had become clear to him that his father had favourites and that Rhaenyra would be able to get away with anything.  Even though Aemond had grown distant from his father, there was still grieving.  Grief not for his father but for the fact that there would be a messy fight between the family about who is the heir to the Iron throne.  

“We should leave for Dragonstone.  I know how to get out of the castle-”

“I am staying here,” It was Aemond's turn to cut her off, stopping her from telling him the plan to leave.  Visenya scrunches her eyebrows at his words; why would Aemond stay here? 

“What?” Visenya asks him before shaking her head like she is trying to get the idea out of her head.  “You're supporting him?”

“He is my brother, and even if I do not, he is fit to rule; I can’t-,”

“This is treason!  Aegon is not the heir the king chose,” Visenya tells Aemond in a hushed voice, not wanting the twins to notice the conversation slowly turning into an argument.  

“He is the firstborn son Visenya,” Aemond states, and Visenya scoffs at that; she doesn’t understand why a cock makes someone a better ruler.   

“My mother is his named heir.  This isn’t right, Aemond,” Visenya tells Aemond, poking his chest.  Aemond looks at the twins and Ben, silently asking the knight to ensure the twins don’t witness this.   “I will not support him,”

“I never expected that you would,” Aemond whispers to her as he watches Ben take the twins to look outside on the balcony.   He tries to touch Visenya to calm her down, but she pushes his hands away.  “It is not safe for you to be here. I am needed here to keep Aegon in check and ensure everyone is safe,”

“Your family needs you. Laenor, Daenys, and Aenar need you,” Visenya tells him, taking a step closer to him with pleading eyes. “I need you,”

“The children should stay here.  My mother and I will be able to protect them, and your mother will not attack the capital,” Aemond reasons with her, and Visenya clenches her jaw as he makes his points.  “I know that you will lead men into battle, and the children should not be near a battlefield,”

“Then come with me.  Together there will be no need for war,” Visenya pleads with him.  She knows that the Green's only advantage is Aemond and his dragon.  “The greens will not stand a chance if we are together.  Their only advantage is you and Vhagar,”

“War is inevitable,” Aemond tells his wife, and Visenya shakes her head.   “Those who believe in Aegon being the true heir will support him,” 

“You honestly think that Aegon will be a good king?” Visenya asks him, they are both aware of Aegon's habits, and there could be no way that Aemond could think Aegon would be a good king.  

“No, I don’t,” Aemond answers. Aegon's words still ring in his head about him and Visenya's ruling. Visenya would have the support of the people, no doubt.  “I should have let him run away when I had the chance, should have taken the throne for myself and have you as my queen,” 

“I have no intention of bending the knee to him, Aemond.  Ever,” 

“It will not be safe for you here.  No doubt Daemon and your mother will spin a tale of us keeping you hostage to manipulate them,”

“Are you saying that they will not be doing that?” Visenya asks; she knows that the greens will try and manipulate her through her love for Aemond and their children.   

“I will not allow them to because you will leave for Dragonstone in the morning.  While they crown Aegon,” Aemond answers. He has thought about this and knows that the castle will be the least manned during the coronation.  

“I can’t leave them here,” Visenya starts to spiral, not wanting to do what Aemond is saying.  Why should she be the one to leave the kids? “I do not want to abandon them.  Aenar is a newborn, and he needs me.  Laenor and Daenys need me.  They need both of us together,”

“Visenya, they would be safer here than with you on the battlefield,” Aemond tells her, his tone gentle in hopes of keeping her from spiralling further. 

He wouldn’t want to do this, but he would know that his words are the truth. He and Visenya had both agreed that the children would never see a battlefield till their teen years if they wanted to.  

Visenya shakes her head and thinks of other places they could send the children, where both Aemond and her trusted the people to watch them.  Aemond doesn’t know Ben's family, nor does he fully trust Rob, and there were the Starks who would protect the children and treat them as their own if need be.  

“We can send them to Raventree Hall, Riverrun, even Winterfell-”

“I will not allow anything to happen to them,” Aemond assures her, grabbing onto her arms to pull her closer to him.   “Nor will I allow anything to happen to you.  They will be safe here, but you will not,” 

“You want me to leave?” Visenya asks. The heartbreak in her voice makes Aemond’s stomach turn.  

The hurt on his face makes him consider that this isn’t the right choice, but he can’t let Visenya face punishment because of her mother's actions.  Aemond rests his forehead against hers. He doesn’t want to think about how he will survive without her touch but having her leave for a while would be better than losing her forever.   

“I don’t.  I want you to stay with me, fly away from Westeros and to the free cities with them, but we can’t do that,” Aemond tells Visenya, letting his mind wonder about the life they could have.  “You are the love of my life, and I can’t let you stay here,” 

“Leaving them here-”

“They would not be safe on Dragonstone or wherever you go,” Aemond stops her, and Visenya looks to Ben and the twins.   “The capital is the safest place for them.  We both know that” 

“Aenar is just a babe.  He should have both his parents be there for them, as should Daenys and Laenor,” Visenya tells Aemond as she looks away from Ben and the twins. 

Part of her wants to argue with Aemond about bringing the children with her, but she knows he is right.  When war comes, she will be in the thick of it, and it would not be the safest place for them, nor would Dragonstone since Aemond had chosen to side with his brother. As much as she hates the greens, they wouldn’t stoop so low as to hurt or kill her children as a punishment for her leaving.    

“They should, but they can’t,” Aemond says. He can’t let anything happen to Visenya.  The few times she had been close to death had been the scariest moments of his life, and he knows that if she stays, she would be in constant danger.   “I will keep them safe,”

“I don’t doubt that, but I still worry,” Visenya tells him.  She knows Aemond would never let anything happen to their children, and even if she doesn’t trust Alicent, she will protect them.  Visenya pats Aemonds chest.  “For them and you,” 

– – 

Visenya and Aemond lay together on the bed, Aemond holding her close against his chest.  The only sounds in the room were the soft crackling of the dying fire and the soft snores coming from Ben, who had fallen asleep on the couch.  Aemond would have put up an argument about the knight spending the night in their room, but he knows that if anything were to happen, then Ben would be a helpful hand in the fighting.   

Aenar is fast asleep on his mother's chest, and Visenya is gentle as she rubs his back, the twins both sleep cuddled together next to Visenya and Aemond.  Aemond leans down and kisses Visenya's head, taking in the smell of her while he still can.  

Visenya's mind can’t help but go over every little thing that could go wrong, how she doesn’t want to leave her children or Aemond.  

Aemond runs his fingers against Visenya's arm and pulls her closer to him.  Visenya lets her head rest against him, and she closes her eyes.  She knows that she will not sleep tonight, being jealous of Ben's ability to sleep anywhere, that her mind will keep her awake.   

Aemond watches Visenya’s chest rise and fall, a clear indication that she is okay.  He knows there is probably a better way to handle this, but having Visenya leave is the best option.  He knows that his mother wouldn’t let anything happen to the children, but the council will no doubt influence Aegon to do something to send a message to Rhaenyra using Visenya.  

Aemond doesn’t want to be away from Visenya, but the need to keep her safe is greater than that.  He would burn the world down for her.  Would go dragonless again if she wanted.  Would give his only eye for her.  

Aemond can only pray that staying and trying to influence his brother is the right choice.  By some miracle, everything will work out, and he and Visenya can spend their days together, watching their children grow up.  

Both know that a miracle will not happen.  As the last ember dyes in the fire, both Targaryens can feel the fire within them get snuffed out.  

– –

Visenya is silent as she finishes putting a braid into Aemonds hair, using a black piece of cloth as one of the strands.   

The morning had been tense.  Visenya's anger and dislike of this idea are clear.  Ben is happy that they are leaving but not so happy about the fact they are leaving the children and even Aemond behind.  Aemond knows that might not work out, and he will be punished for helping them leave.  The twins also seemed to be able to understand that something was happening. Their mother's lack of smile and laughter tells both twins that this morning would not be the same as others. 

Ben sits with the twins, making Daenys' dragon toy fly in the air as Laenor bites his wolf.  Ben keeps a side eye on Visenya and Aemond.  For a split second, Visenya looked like the same girl he had met all those years ago, her hair down and wild with braids littered amongst the mess.  He had braided her hair this morning, reminding them of the simple times.  Ben had also made sure to put her old charms into her hair.  Ben can’t help but smile as the arrowhead necklace hangs on Visenya's neck.  

Unlike Aemond, Visenya was dressed simply.  The blood-red shirt is plain with no design of dragons or ravens, and no doubt, if the circumstances were different, Aemond would be ogling his wife in the pants she is wearing. 

“Tell me what you are going to do again,” Aemond tells Visenya as he turns around to face her.  He needs the peace of mind that she will be okay.  

Visenya shakes her head and sighs, she knows that Aemond means well and is doing this for his peace of mind, but she doesn’t want to leave her children or Aemond.  They should be coming with her to Dragonstone, yet they are not.   

“Aemond, I am not stupid,” Visenya tells him, she takes a deep breath, and Aemond grabs her face to make her look at him.   “Once you leave, I will tell the Kingsguard that something is wrong with Aenar, that the maester is needed.  Once he is here, I will threaten his life in exchange for me to leave. If that doesn’t work, I will kill the kingsguards and leave the maester with the children to watch.  Ben and I will leave the castle and meet Morghon on the tourney grounds. Then we leave for Dragonstone,”  

“Try not to kill so many Kingsguard,” Aemond tells her, trying to get her to smile.  He wants to see her smile before she leaves.  Visenya shakes her head again as she removes Aemonds hand from her face. 

“This isn’t fair,” Visenya tells him again. She doesn’t understand why she has to be the one to leave.  She knows that the Red Keep will become a dangerous place for her once Aegon is crowned king, but she can’t help but feel like leaving the children is a bad idea.  “I don’t want to leave them and you,” 

“We will be back together once everything has been settled,” Aemond tries to tell Visenya, trying to keep a positive mind and not think about what will probably happen.  

“No, we won’t,” Visenya tells Aemond.   “Aegon and my mother will go to war with each other, and whoever wins will think anyone who supported the other is a traitor.  Once this is over, one will most likely be put to death for treason.  I might be able to convince my mother otherwise, but Aegon, he will take joy in watching me die or worse,” 

“We can’t entertain those ideas,” Aemond says as he grabs hold of Visenyas hand, looking at the sapphire gem ring she has worn since their wedding.  Just like her, Aemond hasn’t taken off the red gem ring that Visenya had given him.  

“It's the truth,” Visenya tells him, taking a step closer to Aemond and taking his focus off the ring and onto her face.   “Come with me. We can prevent a war if we side together,” 

“I can’t.  You know I can’t,” Aemond tells her, resting his forehead against hers.   “I have duties-”

“Fuck duties Aemond,” Visenya spits out. She doesn’t understand why Aemond will not come with her.  Visenya pulls her hand out of his and grabs his face.  “I am your wife—the mother of your children.  I would also like to think that I am the love of your life, seeing how you are mine.  Come to Dragonstone with me, fight with me,”  

“Our life will go back to normal once everything is done,” Aemond tells Visenya, holding onto her wrists to keep her touch on his face.  Aemond moves his head to kiss the scar on her palm. Visenya shakes her head.   

“I love you, but you are so stupid sometimes,” Visenya jokes with him, giving him a small smile that warms his heart.   

Visenya looks away from Aemond and towards Ben and the children, the knight rocking the baby in his arms.  Visenya swallows the lump in her throat and blinks her eyes repeatedly to stop her tears.  She will miss being away from them so much, and she fears they will forget who she is.  

“I will be a stranger to him if we ever meet again,”  Visenya whispers out, fearing the words will become true since she has spoken them.  

“This will be stored out before we know it,” Aemond assures her, wiping away the tear that escapes her eye.  “We will be together again soon enough.  Riding our dragons across the lands and teaching them how to speak in High Valyrian,” 

“I love you,”  Visenya whispers to Aemond, kissing his cheek.  Aemond leans down and towards Visenya's ear.

“I love you,” Aemond whispers back, leaning his cheek against hers.  “Udra kostagon daor rhaenagon naejot urnēptre skorkydoso olvie Avy jorrāelan.  Emā tepagon nyke tolī biarves isse se vys mirremēre, iksā se jorrāelagon hen ñuha ābrar.  Ñuha perzys.  Ñuha drīve naejot glaesagon,”  

Words can not begin to show how much I love you.  You have given me more happiness in the world than anyone else, you are the love of my life.  My fire.  My reason to live.  

“Nyke vēdros ao syt verdagon bisa qopsa,” Visenya tells him with a small laugh and Aemond smiles but stops when he hears Visenya sniffling.  

I hate you for making this harder.  

“Issi ao limagon?” Aemond asks as he clears the tears away from Visenya's face.  No doubt he will follow suit if she continues, and then the twins will copy their parents, and who knows what Aenar or Ben would do.   “Ȳdra daor limagon,” 

“Nyke sepār ēdas iā rūs hen rhinka iksan limagon,” Visenya answers him as she takes a deep breath.   “Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie.  Lēda mirre ñuha prūmia, avy jorrāelan,”

I just had a baby. Of course, I am crying.   I love you so much - with my whole heart, I love you. 

Aemond holds Visenya's face in his hands, eyes darting between her eyes and the scars on her lips.  The faded one she had gotten on a dreadful night and the one down her bottom lip from their wedding. Visenya gently grabs his wrists, giving him a small smile.   Aemond leans down and is gentle as their lips graze each other.  Visenya is impatient as she pulls Aemond closer, deepening the kiss.  

Both don’t want to admit it, but this would most likely be the last time they would kiss each other for a long time, if not the last.  

[howyouloveyourdragon]

Hello. I hope I'm not disturbing you. If you don't mind, what do you pay attention to when writing yandere or normal canon? How do you become an inspiration for Yandere? What advice do you have for a new writer? Is it possible for you to tell me your tips for using while writing?

hi don't worry you're not disturbing me :) i hope this helps, here are some of my tips and don't be a stranger if you need any other help my dms are always open!

personally when it comes to writing i find it helpful to do a bit of research especially when it's something like asoiaf but fanfiction also means you can bend the rules a bit so long as the personality is the same

with saying that you can definitely take inspiration from other writers so long as you either credit them, we all want to help each other here <3

i would advise you to use your instincts especially

investigate their good and bad aspects but also the pov of your character

if a certain scenario doesn't make sense but you really enjoy it, think about the lead up to it, how did this happen? how do you want it to end?

also note on their treatment of other characters whether it's good or bad they usually have some reasoning behind it so that can help you learn more about the character

when writing yandere or dark stories i do prefer to have specific attributes to my characters, i spend time looking at darker parts of their personalities already and then exaggerate them, for example are there more scenes of them being violent or manipulative than others? are they more protective or possessive?

don't turn a relatively unviolent character all guns blazing, it loses the immersion

please don't try and knock everything out in one take it will only demotivate you and leave you frustrated i know from experience!

my advice there is to start with your favourite concepts and then if you start to lose interest or get a block, take a break before returning to it for as ever long as you need

prompts and concepts are very useful!

if you write majority x reader like i do then vagueness isn't always your enemy, it can be helpful for your readers to imagine that reader looks like them, i personally avoid stating hair colour or other features unless explicitly requested

make your writing your own and be patient! not everyone will find your content at first but as you develop and learn more about your own style, people will remember and return to your page

only write what makes you comfortable and what you enjoy writing

only use tags that apply to your work, if someone is looking for a rhaenyra x reader and keep finding daemon x reader instead then they won't want to read it and it won't affect your page any better

when i started writing i opened my requests pretty quickly which resulted in some of my favourite works but also drained me when i started losing inspiration so only open your requests up when you're sure, your readers can be so helpful and give you that inspiration but if you feel overloaded it's only going to slow your process

i promise your readers will wait for you!

and don't feel bad about the speed you deliver on your fics! take your time and enjoy it whether they're short or long you'll find the audience best suited for you

if you do start writing requests, write your own ideas on the side because while your readers ideas can be helpful, it will inevitably hurt your personal stuff

don't try to be another writer - it's wonderful to be inspired by other writers but don't depend on certain lengths or writing styles because then it's not your own

it can be very stressful when trying to accurately portray a character so make sure you know who you're writing :)

you can include personal headcanons into your work, it will make your content more enjoyable as it means we see the parts we don't in that show/book/or other media

even if it's just simple things like what their favourite colour is or what they enjoy reading

also try and be patient with interaction and don't forget to interact yourself, if you reblog someone's post or comment they are much more likely to return the favour than not and you can even make friends from it

warnings are very important, if something could affect your audience it's better that they are aware of it

i think it's better to write when you want to write, i keep track of posts i plan on releasing throughout the week but don't confine yourself to a set time, if you see it as a deadline you are less likely to enjoy it or come out with a great product

proofread!

i hope this helped in anyway and i hope to see your writing soon!

[queenharumiura]

Holds and refuses to let go. (G to Fiore)

[Source] @whiskeysmulti

Readmore mostly for length

The truth isn’t a two-sided coin but a multi-faceted die that topples over each time the table is nudged. In one situation, strength and might was justice, but in another situation, calm and peaceful negotiations was justice. There were also situations in which no matter what option you choose to partake, loss is inevitable.

In this climate, the Vongola was at odds within itself as Giotto didn’t see the Vongola as merchants of war, nor were they dictators. There wasn’t a need to build their power, but Daemon saw things differently.

As the one who saw himself as the one who oversaw the darkness of the underworld, Daemon could see how their influence was dwindling. Their peaceful ways was making them look like a dog who lost its teeth.

Butting heads on the matter, it was only a matter of time before what Daemon feared the most came to pass. The Vongola were set up and their enemies chose to target the feared Daemon Spade of the Devil’s eye and in the process taking out his eye in the process.

Eyewitnesses recount that Elena’s final words to Daemon were: ‘Protect the weak… together with the Vongola.’

In that moment, Daemon made a vow in his heart to change the Vongola from within to prevent this from happening again. Targeting the Vongola guardians was one thing, but to also kill a daughter of a Duke?

“Elena, my dear, my beloved, stay with me. Please stay with me, you’ll be okay.” He begs her to stay with him, but they both knew the truth. She said it herself, she was dying, and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it.

“Elena, don’t leave me, I promise I’ll protect the weak with the Vongola… so please.”

Clutching his beloved to his chest, he felt the way her heart came to a full stop. The color of her face drained from her face like a knife etching away at the thread of his morals and loyalties.

What he lost in his arms at this very moment wasn’t something that would’ve happened if the Vongola built its power. Elena’s death was for naught.

Was this not enough for Giotto and them to realize that the time for peace was over? Who else must be sacrificed before they come to terms with the need to build their power?

Who else indeed?

From a distance, he could hear someone else digging through the rubble. The Vongola Mist wasn’t the only target for the evening. Normally, she wouldn’t be here, but she had been invited by Elena—something like a double date.

Elena and Daemon with Fiore and G.

From the sounds of it, G had found Fiore and he was desperate because she wasn’t responding to his calls. The aristocrat looks down at his recently deceased lover, gently caressing her cheek, trying to get rid of the dust and rubble that lay on the once peerless, porcelain skin.

Perhaps he too will lose the one he loves most. Deep in his chest, he laments the loss for his friend as well, but somehow was consoled in the fact that he wouldn’t be alone in this.

Cough

Ears prick at the sound. Daemon casts his eyes away from Elena for just a moment to witness G hugging Fiore tightly in his arms. The confused woman was awkwardly patting G's back, comforting him as though she wasn't the one presumed dead moments prior.

She was alive?

There was a millisecond of relief at the news before a small seedling of resentment takes root in his chest. From the same incident, one man tearfully holds onto his deceased beloved while the other holds onto his flower. She may be hurt, but she was alive. The contrast was night and day.

Despair and relief, and a start of a betrayal versus a steadfast and loyal friend.

Eyes turn to his Elena. Why did such a thing have to happen so such a beautiful person? All she wanted was for everyone to live happy lives. Though she was born into affluence and power, she donated her time and influence to help the lesser fortunate.

The world didn’t deserve such a woman, but it cruelly stole her away in such a disgusting way. If the populace feared him for his Devil’s eye before, they hadn’t seen anything yet. This, he promised.

Fiore’s mind was hazy, trying to recall what had happened before her blacked out. It smelled of gunpowder and smoke. The rubble of what once was a magnificent building lay all around them. She deduces that they were set up and attacked. “What of Sir Daemon and Lady Elena?” It was just like her to focus on others rather than herself.

Not far from them, she notices the slumped figure of a man clutching onto the woman he loved more than life itself. The way she lay limp in his arms, and Fiore knew then that they’d lost Elena. That very well could have been her if she were any unluckier. “G, you should go. There must be others who are in need of your help.” Surely, they weren’t the only ones who had gotten buried under the rubble?

Does he relax his hold around her? Perish the thought. If she dare say so, she’d even say that he held onto her tighter as if afraid that he’d lose her too if he were to let go of her.

Her eyes float over to Daemon and Elena again. What was the appropriate course of action here? To give him space? To offer him support? Perhaps he wouldn’t want to be seen crying, so maybe it was best to offer him some semblance of privacy.

Fiore makes the assumption that G feared he lost her too, like Daemon lost Elena until Fiore opened her eyes again. “G… I’m alive. You have something more important to do. Let me go.” He had to see to it to save as many people in trouble as possible, and she didn’t want to be the reason he couldn’t save just one more person.

"I promise, I'm fine." Admittedly, the tightness of his hold that she could feel in her bones was starting to hurt. Maybe it was the case of adrenaline starting to wear off? Who was to say. All she knew was that G had a duty to perform and she was holding him back. "The longer you delay, the more time whoever set this up has to run away and get rid of evidence." She reminds him. Was the Vongola Storm going to allow this act of violence to go unchecked?

As much as she felt safe being in his arms, it was important to catch the perpetrators so they couldn't repeat this act ever again. There was no guarantee she'd live the second time. She feels him slowly relrease her from his tight hold.

With a gentle smile, she places a kiss on his lips. "I'll be waiting for you." She says as she can hear the sound of people starting to congregate. Likely people curious about what had happened, coming to sus out the situation, or people who were volunteering themselves to offer aid.

Whichever the case, it was over and all that was left was to assess the damage and rebuild.

[writer59january13]

Inevitable death defines afterlife - deux

Flinty stones figuratively rolling inside whooping out that primal

binaural beat of your drum

ma mind haphazardly

ricocheting axon to neuron

inducing inxs of chaos wreaking entropy beheld

by beauty and the beast enveloping means to enjoy

sacred moments treasured

savoring, seizing, and signaling salad days

because you’re young

within reliquary of fragile cerebral dome croaking before proving betty wrong

frost bitten cyber surfing

butter fingers glove lee hutted, inciting ire of uncle sam i.e. big brother

flitting to n fro-hither n yon

microscopic wingspan

encompassing the greensward

from black country rock

in search of poem I can offer, fancying this nonestablishmentarian

wearing a black tie white noise

thus herewith meanders

this binary, a lobbed

bot tommy bit wan burning cheeks when power

restored from blackout

being bitta bing bitta bang

resonating with nonsense syllables

blah blah blah

non supernova star

provided location to scan oozing life source when mum

did bleed like a crazed dad

from other end of earth lan

ding soft as a well-

worn pair of blue jeans

(weighed with ire -

that rocks me precariously dodging fisticuffs from

beastie boys keep swinging

upon precipice of kat man do) I ran creating the rush of breaking glass

here comes chaste,

cher full sunny (bono fide) indulging the audience

with a brilliant adventure

super duper man to provide aid,

where panting damsel in distress clamoring for someone

to bring me the disco king

no matter out of breath

sagging pants like whirring fan whining intonations iterated

from buddha of suburbia

self propelled from...flatulence

from consuming whey to much bran.

Well, I (with forrest gump by my side) attest stinging cactus

life haint no box of heart shaped chalk a lits hoping thee can you hear me

for snapping jaws of zee bill collectors

to tittle late each breast pounding pulsations indicative

perchance can’t help thinking about me

this bloke shipwreck tubby

one of hue man species best

vying with a slew

of many presidential candidate

buys to hire, a modest fellow meowing as purr ring cat people

who does not thump his genetic chest indicating positive changes

like an alpinist

scale lean bosom o mount everest yodeling millennial chant

of the ever circling skeletal family

enjoying breathtaking view as visual fest

with a mild manner demeanor

as like some guest kindling warmth against the chilly down

a lighthearted genteel friendly dude,

one who doth like to jest flirting delightfully with a lovely china girl

lest shattering porcelain damsel

clatters with a ching a ling

age inappropriate actions

get this opportunity messed decrying the rampant killing at columbine since initial writing of these lines other school shootings

up in order to support dependents in this nest espying a sale asia come and buy my toys

with me hen pecking spouse

i.e. argh quite thee pest repeating ad infinitum

the death of david bowie

as conversation piece

though now back on track

sans per philanthropist quest annihilating with urban blight

a megalopolis crack city

in order to put msn

(miss in) mailer daemons

the mind of this live earth-linked cool

ostracizing once famous,

but now cracked actor

hotmail yahoo at rest praying not to become firearm fodder

from this criminal world

according to sir isaac newton

when object least stressed maintaining molecular composition

wrought like crystal japan.

HEAVENLY STANZA INTERRUPTION TWO

[maxwell-grant]

Having asked your thoughts on designing Frankenstein's daemon, might I now ask your thoughts on bringing Count Dracula from the written word into illustration? (I'm definitely in favour of the 'Hairy Old Mountain Man of Horror pretending he's people' look from the original novel; one of the small tests too many Draculas fail to pass is an absolutely tragic lack of the Evil Beard and/or Wicked Moustache explicitly described by Mr Stoker).

Unlike with Frankenstein, where I think the design needs to be painstakingly thought out in order to achieve the best balance of the creature's traits for horror and tragedy alike, I think with Dracula you can actually just take an approach of "whatever works". Because as I mentioned before, I think much of the appeal and longevity of Dracula is how the character's both a layered villain as well as a shapeshifting narrative force that can be tailored to whatever you want to do with. Granted, there are bad or dissappointing Dracula designs, of course there are, but in regards to the leeway you get for reinterpretation, you get a lot more of it with Dracula than with other literary icons.

Like with Frankenstein, I'm gonna bring up how I'd tackle a less grim, more comedy-centric Dracula first, one that's less a force of horror and more of a charismatic villain, and I think to that end I definitely agree that people are sleeping a lot on the hairy old man barely-passing-off-as-humanoid of the original story. Despite very much loving these performers, I'm actually not a fan of takes that mold Dracula too closely to people who've portrayed him, like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, partially because I think it's a waste of an opportunity to create your own Dracula design. Since I can't draw (yet), I'll do what I usually do and make a board of images to try and convey some of my thoughts on one way I'd design Dracula.

(Pictured: Kiwi's design for Dracula, Hotel Transylvania concept art, Nandor, Castlevania Dracula, Charles Dance in Dracula Untold, Vladislav, a Transylvanian rug)

I used the images in my other Dracula post and I’ll post it here again because I absolutely adore @kiwibyrd's designs for Dracula and it's main heroes, in particular I love the way it strikes a good balance at making sure Dracula looks distinctly separate from the humans, but not too much that he couldn't conceivably operate in society as just a harmless old man. I also adore the mustache and bushy eyebrows and pointy ears and I think these three are wonderful features to keep on any Dracula design. I'm also very partial to the Hotel Transylvania concept art, even if it makes me incredibly depressed to look at all the great designs they had for Dracula that they threw in the trash because they somehow decided making him look like Adam Sandler was the idea to go with.

I deeply adore What We Do In The Shadows, both the movie and the show, and Jemaine Clement's Vladislav is one of my favorite (maybe even my actual favorite) on-screen Draculas. But I also enjoy Nandor just as much, and I think it's really great that as a character he's completely different from Vlad while also being ostensibly a take on Dracula, and in particular I bring up his Jersey look because "Dracula in common clothing" is a criminally underrated concept for a joke.

As a character, I'm very partial to comedy takes on Dracula that play him up as a decadent aristocratic supervillain, the kind that can get away with talking in third person. I also have this idea for a version of Dracula who dresses ostentatiously in finely-broidered Romanian or Transylvanian patterns, maybe even wearing a rug as a cape, claiming that he's carrying the legacy of his people on his back. And of course he's lying, he's not Vlad Tepes and he's not even Romanian, he is just a parasite pretending to have a history to be proud of, but good luck getting him to admit that. And finally, I'd like this version to be played by Charles Dance, and I consider it a tremendous crime against humanity that he has yet to play Dracula proper even despite being in a film with the character's name on the title.

So that's kinda how I would design a take on Dracula for something more comedic or more based around him as this guest character and personality on-set. Now, if we're talking a more serious version, I think the possibilities increase, and I won't be getting into all of them because I may prefer to keep them to myself, but I'll elaborate a few ideas.

For example, the edition of Dracula I personally own comes with these really scratchy, really creepy B&W illustrations related to the story, that I can't find scanned online so I'm uploading them here so you can look at. They don't necessarily depict the scenes but rather some of the story's moments, like Van Helsing staking Lucy, Renfield in a straightjacket, Dracula as a coachman, and they are more focused on conveying the horror of the concepts at play.

Dracula never looks the same way in any of the illustrations, in fact you kinda have to piece him out of them by trying to find teeth or capes or eyes or bat-features to see where he's hiding this time. In the first, it's the half-man half-bat, in the 2nd, he's the shrieking bat silhouette next to Renfield, and in the latter, he's the gaping jaws and eerily humanoid eyes in the wolf. The effect to me almost feels like if you were to look at a bunch of tv static and then see a humanoid shape form for a split second before everything went back to normal, something like you'd get from Slender Man or other modern creepypastas, and I’ve argued before that Dracula’s form of horror is a very modern one. 

In terms of illustrations of Dracula that keep up the original traits while still pulling off horror, I definitely have to hand it to the one at the left of the image above, drawn by regourso on Deviantart (account deleted at present). Going back to Castlevania’s many takes on Dracula, two in particular that stick out to me would be Castlevania: Judgment’s armored dress Dracula, who’s got this great twisted heart/rose motif going on in his outfit, and Dracula’s final form in SOTN where he just sits in his throne and his cape twists into all these monsters, particularly how it’s depicted by witnesstheabsurd’s depiction. 

I’m not particularly a fan of how Dracula’s “final form” in these games is usually just some big demon, and part of what I like about his final form in SOTN instead is that, while it’s not a particularly challenging final boss, I do find it interesting the idea of us never actually getting to see what Dracula’s true final form looks like, only an ever-shifting pitch-black torrent of teeth and claws and bloody veins pouring out because that’s ultimately what Dracula is and brings to the world.

On the flip-side of the rotten old monster, we have the charming seductor Dracula, and while I’m really not a fan of how various adaptations have convinced people that “the point” of Dracula is that he’s a seductive force and an allegory for Victorian xenophobia and I’m reeeally even less of a fan of adaptations that make Dracula some misunderstood tragic hero (and I think I’ve made rather violently clear my feelings on interpretations that play up a romance between him and Mina), that the seductive force part exists is impossible to deny, so conversely, while on one hand we can have Dracula as the gargantuan whirlwind of predatory violence, we can also go for Dracula as the tantalizing lover.

I’ve seen a lot of opinions proclaiming Frank Langella as the best Dracula because he was the best at actually being seductive while still playing Dracula, although I haven’t yet seen his performances. If I had to point at one picture I look at and do buy for a second the idea of Dracula as a romantic character, it would be that particular still of Raul Julia in the left of the above image. And it’s strange for me to think of Raul Julia as attractive because I mainly associate him with his brilliant comedy performance of M.Bison (I know it’s far from the highlight of his career but, look, I grew up with Street Fighter, I can’t help it) but those eyes are definitely looking pretty convincing to me, if nothing else. 

And I’ve included this still of Sebastian Stan in the right because, during a conversation between me, @krinsbez and @jcogginsa about who could be a good fit for Dracula, jcog suggested Sebastian Stan, partially because he’s Romanian, and I’ve learned recently that Stan was actually interested in playing the character in Blumhouse’s upcoming remake. And you’d think I’d hate this idea  considering how much I don’t care for tragic anti-hero Draculas, but who says that’s what he’d have to play? 

Do you have any idea how much actors, who are traditionally known for heroic or supporting roles, usually LOVE it when you give them a chance to cut loose as the main villain?

I’d want Sebastian Stan to put all of his charm, all of his talent, all of his good looks and etc, into playing the absolute most vicious, bloodthirsty and irredeemable Dracula put on screen. Someone who is exceedingly, eerily good at being a lovable protagonist, who’s all smiles and charming eyes and politeness mannerisms and maybe even a funny accent, and then it isn't as funny when he's flying through your window intent on kidnapping babies to feed to his brides, except he may take a moment or two to do so because he's feeling pretty hungry himself right now.

Now, admittedly this is kind of a lot to juggle in regards to a single character, which is why my answer for questions like these inevitably has to be “depends on what I’m going for”. That being said, if I was going to try and cast someone who I think could both look the part of Dracula, as well as respectively, play “cartoon aristocrat” Dracula, “mercurial embodiment of evil” Dracula, as well as realistically be an attractive, even seductive performer who can charm viewers even as the character descends into horrible villainy, and juggle these performances even?

I think I’d have to go with Mads Mikkelsen. Not specifically because of Hannibal (I actually haven’t watched it yet), although it’s definitely a factor, the thing that actually made me pick him specifically is, other than his looks, his voice, his reputation for playing sinister characters, the fact that he loves the role and wants to play it, or how many people are deeply in love with this man, or that people already joke that he looks like a vampire, was watching him in Another Round, and specifically that glorious final scene where he’s just dancing to his heart’s content and just, moving with such spring in his step and such joyful vitality even though he’s past his mid-fifties, and that was the moment where, in regards to how much you all love this man, I went

And now I am going to add “casting Mads Mikkelsen as a dancing Dracula” to The List of Reasons Why I Became a Filmmaker.

[i-donot-forget]

Eldarya Ep 7 (opinion)

Episode 7!!!! They gave us a nice ball, a nice dress and a nice moment with our LI (Discounting some details in the illustrations that I already mentioned before) the episode was very good, it is a clear transition, that little respite before everything goes wrong again.

Eldarya has always been a different otome, because the story does not revolve around the protagonist and her love story, it is about the protagonist saving the fucking world, the moments with our route have always been scarce and interrupted, remember that in TO until episode 17 we have the first date, from then on things go too fast and finally it cannot be said that we really got to know any of our romantic interests, an exception for Valkyon but I think it's obvious why. New Era has a great advantage, we already know these guys (except Mathieu but we have that connection of "hey we are both from earth"), we already know who they are, we already know this world, now falling in love will be "faster" than in a way it's good because we already saw that when Erika realizes that she feels something for someone, she goes after him (I love her for that, I couldn't ahahaha) and so we come to this episode, after the beautiful moment on the boat where we realize that we feel something for that special boy.

But this is Eldarya so...

the damn world is going to end again and Nevra is ready for war, I know it sounds ugly but I find it absolutely correct, if the earth is going to absorb Eldarya... They are lost, I cannot imagine any scenario in which the humans of the earth welcome all of Eldarya with open arms, that is, let's face it, how many countries are there where immigrants are a plague for a certain portion of the population? I'm not saying it's right or wrong, I'm just saying it's like that and with the Eldaryans it will be worse. People like Huang Hua, Huang Chu, might go unnoticed, but Koori??? Lance???? What will humans think when Chrome is in trouble and can't control himself with Earth's Moon, how are Nevra and Karenn going to live with Earth's Sun that is lethal to them??? I can only think it's going to be a disaster, besides, how does this "absorption" work? Will the portals get bigger and bigger until eldarya disappears? Will everything fall from the sky? because clearly earth will not be the most affected... Humans are dangerous, our history of clash between cultures is always to exterminate the unknown and in this case it will be fatal for both factions but if you ask me, humans are not going to become extinct...

With all of that in mind, I'm not surprised that Lance had his head elsewhere and forgot about his clothes... but hey, it was a funny moment that made me think that we still don't know the real Lance and that attitude is just the same one that Valkyon adopted after Lance's "death"...

The moment of meditation with Leiftan was painful… now I understand many things, and I believe that all his sufferings and the loss of his powers is something mental. All the confidence that Leiftan had in himself resided in his powers, in TO he was at the top, he was the most powerful being in Eldarya and he handled everyone like simple puppets, he was confident, capable of everything, the first time we saw him desperate was after losing half his life (for us), now in NE ufff he tells us, he feels vulnerable, helpless, incomplete, without identity, If everything you were was based on your strength and power, who are you without it? Despite everything, I think it started very well, Leiftan tells us the truth, for the first time he trusts something of the utmost importance in us, the fact that he is now defenseless implies many things, Lance remains on the guard because of his power and abilities which is very useful, the same could apply to Leiftan but without his powers he could believe that the HQ would not want him (although in TO nobody knew he was a daemon). He confides in us a secret that is vital to him, reveals his vulnerability and I must say that I love him too much, when he tells us that he feels exactly the same as we do when we talk to him about our powers, he finally opens up to us and then the hug melted my heart. Now that he no longer has (and cannot) protect us, our relationship will be different.

The ball, I am not surprised that Princess Koori organized a ball, Huang Hua's speech was extremely touching, my heart clenched when she mentioned those who had left, I couldn't help but think of Valkyon... Now is the time to dance and I am fascinated by how Erika takes the reins and invites her LI, here we part.

Mathieu: adorable nothing to say, I love them, his route is pure laughter and games and fun, I really like Mathieu, I did not trust him but their moments together are sooo sweet, we see him as the center of attention, something very about him but naturally, it does not attract attention forcibly, they really are standing out for what they are, everything is very nice, a great dance, I think that at the point where they left the scene, I would believe in a kiss, not passionate or anything but a first kiss all cute, nervous and natural.

Nevra: I love that he's waiting for us, I think they already act like boyfriend and girlfriend without wanting to say it hahahaha and I love him, Nevra want us and loves us, he doesn't say it but he shows it only with his actions, I still feel like he's going to scare at the key moment, I feel that he keeps many things that explode in that uncompromising anger, I wait for a very intimate moment between them that makes me cry I want to see him cry, I know he needs it, I know he needs Erika to hug him and tell him that everything it will be fine, he needs someone to be the strong one.

Lance: the moment is very nice I cannot deny it, it is beautiful, Lance's reaction to Erika's invitation is great and again I love her determination, it struck me that Lance does know how to dance, but an old-fashioned dance, that just means that In his previous time in the guard of eel he did dance, I always imagined him as the popular cool boy that everyone follows, I'm still waiting to see that, I already want to break that shell and get the real Lance out.

Leiftan: Ahhhh my beautiful baby I leave him at the end because it is my route and I love him and I can't help but fangirl very hard for him. Erika dragging him to the dance floor imitating Karenn, I loved it, Erika helping Leiftan with his confidence and security, I super loved it, the inevitable attraction between them that is so strong that the moment screams that they will kiss, I cannot express my emotion, I love him I can't stop loving him and I just want they to be alone to see the damn connection in all its glory 7u7

So I wait for the catastrophe in the next episode, I still don't know if it will be a portal opening in the middle of the crystal room or if it will be the crystal itself that does something idk, surprise me beemoov

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Agents of the Golden Throne

It took me longer than I wanted to write this, but here’s the follow up to the current story thread.  We see more of the Inquisition and their methods, we have what I sincerely hope to be a heartwarming moment, we touch on the subject of xenophilia, and, of course, we get to see the Grey Knights bust heads.  I hope you enjoy the story, and, as always, no one except Drake and his crew belong to me. 

“I carry with me an Inquisitorial Seal.  It is a small, unassuming object contained in a neat box of Pluvian obsidian.  It is a modest thing.   Relatively plain, adorned with a single motif and a simple motto.  Yet with this little object I can sign the death warrant of an entire world and consign a billion souls to oblivion.”  -Inquisitor Flast of the Ordo Malleus

“It is Mankind’s holy destiny to rule the stars, and rule them alone.”  -Lord Inquisitor Knael of the Ordo Xenos

“Do not worry: your memories will return with time.”  The deep bass voice of Lord Hector Rex cut through Vir’s headache.  He was aboard the Fury of Deimos, the heavy starship that served as the headquarters of Rex and the Grey Knights.  He looked around him, taking note of the gloomy gothic architecture and the massive cathedral windows of the hangar bay.  A cadre of humans stood around him; individuals that he was sure he knew but couldn’t really remember.  His memories were in the back of his mind, flitting things that he tried in vain to claw back to the forefront of his brain.  He remembered being on some strange planet… something that had to do with the color red.  There was some sort of white orb, too.  Nothing else besides that.  He couldn’t recall the interior of the Fury of Deimos, something Rex unabashedly told him they permanently deleted.  No one save the most powerful and dedicated servants of the Ordo Malleus could come aboard a starship of the Grey Knights and still leave with their memories.  It was explained to him as a simple security measure, but it still irked him.  He could, though, remember the probing, the strange devices… the pain.  It was the singular most painful experience he had ever gone through, and that was saying a lot.  Ripping through someone’s mind to make sure their soul was untainted did a number on the pain receptors of nerves, not to mention the utter wrongness of such an act.  

But, apart from the pain and the memories of the elderly Inquisitor guiding him through his recovery, he could remember nothing except brief hints; shadows of what he once was.  Then there were his companions, people who he was certain he should know but didn’t.  There was a brown haired, easy-going man dressed in a black and yellow jumpsuit.  It was something he would have found ridiculous except for the sense of respect he felt for the individual; that particular memory ran deep.  

Looking rather confused was a man with close cut hair, wearing what Vir vaguely remembered as a combat armor bodysuit.  Faint memories of competence, fighting side by side, something in common…  This man was some sort of friend.  Trustworthy.  

The third perplexed individual was wearing high boots and a leather jacket vest, similar to his own.  This one Vir held slightly in awe, somewhat like the first man.  He remembered hearing stories about this one, but, frustratingly, couldn’t remember.  

The last had a black coat and boots matching his equally black hair.  Blue eyes roved suspiciously around the hangar, looking with untrust at the Inquisitor and the other Imperials.  A series of conflicting feelings rose from the sight of this man: good advice, utter hilarity, slight insanity, and a disturbing amount of large explosions.  What the hell…?

“How soon will our memories recover?” asked the black coated man.  Rex scratched his head.  Vir could tell he was frowning behind his mask.  

“This is not an exact science.  I would estimate a day, perhaps two, for all of your memories to fully come back to you.  It could be as little as an hour, or, in the most extreme, as much as a week.”  Rex noticed the alarmed looks being cast his way.  “Though that is unlikely.  I can give you my utmost assurance that all of your memories, except for the ones of the halls of this ship, will return.”  Another man entered the room, this one dressed in a distinctly Imperial style, with an elaborate, overly-embroidered greatcoat and cap.  Vir remembered him… from somewhere.  He thought this man had been on his ship before.  His ship… what was his ship called?  Something fierce, he hoped.  The man bowed to Rex and spoke in a worried, but polite tone.

“Greetings, Lord Inquisitor.”  

“Greetings, Commissar Cain.”  All four of the non-Imperials in the hangar looked up sharply.  Cain.  They remembered him better with a name to go with a face.  “I trust your stay in the hangar has been satisfactory?” inquired Rex.  

“It has.”  Ah, yes.  Cain stayed here because he didn’t want to get mind wiped.  And he didn’t touch the orb, like we did.  That’s why we’re here!  The orb!  Cain cleared his throat.  “With all due respect, Lord Inquisitor, and I do recognize that this is your area of expertise, but was it necessary to completely mind-wipe them?”  Rex cocked his head curiously.

“We did not mind-wipe them.  Unfortunately, it is a side effect of the process that makes sure they are untainted.  If we could avoid it, we would, but there is simply no other way.”  Cain nodded.  

“Very well.  I thank you for your explanation, Lord Inquisitor.”  He glanced at the still confused four mind-wipe victims.  “May I take them back to their ships?”  

“You may,” replied Rex with a nodd.  He made a curious symbol on his breast, folding his thumbs together and outstretching his palms.  “May the Emperor guide you, Commissar Cain.”  Cain returned the gesture and bowed. 

“And you as well, Lord Inquisitor Rex.”  He gently guided the four to a shuttle.  “Come now.  We need to get you back where you belong.”

Rex watched them board the shuttle and take off.  They were strong of mind and soul, those ones.  That must have been why the Prognosticators of the Grey Knights had told him not to interfere with their business.  He had been annoyed that xenos had seen the Knights, but it was inevitable, he supposed.  After all, the Sons of Titan had teamed up with the enigmatic Aeldari to fight the daemons of Chaos when necessary.  More xenos, especially ones deemed necessary to the future by the seers of the Grey Knights, couldn’t hurt too badly, he supposed.  There were worse enemies out there.  He did, however, chafe that those pesky GA delegates were still around.  He had pulled rank and ordered the Knights not to destroy them.  That would cause too much of a political headache.  Though, he did discreetly mind-wipe them with his powers, and pull the orbital defenses of the Rundi homeworld from the chairwoman’s mind; information he had subsequently turned over to Inquisitor Vail.  They wouldn’t ever remember meeting him.  A good thing, all things considered.  They had neither the training nor stomach for fighting demons.  He spun on his heel and strode into the hall of the Deimos.  There was work to be done.

Aboard the shuttle

The shuttle had roved from ship to ship, dropping off passengers that barely remembered where they were going.  The yellow-shirted man, who had introduced himself as Kirk (some more slight memories came from that realization… something about a TV show?) was left on a ship called the Enterprise (a good name.  Adam hoped his ship was named something just as good.)  The First Mate, a tall thin man with strange pointed ears, had sighed as if this were a regular occurrence and led Kirk deeper into the ship.  

The short haired man was left aboard the Normandy (memories of beaches, and machine guns, and mass death in a war a long time ago.)  A raven haired woman wearing a bodysuit that left little to the imagination greeted them.  

“Ah, Commander.  Welcome back.  I trust everything went satisfactory?” she asked.  The other man stared at her.  

“You have a strange accent,” he said at last.  “Where are you from?”  The woman, who Vir presumed to be the First Officer of this ship, merely cocked an eyebrow.  Cain rolled his eyes and stepped in.  

“Ms. Lawson, the Inquisition performed an intensive interrogation on Commander Shepard, the side effects of which include the temporary, and I stress temporary, loss of memory.”

“He has no idea who I am.  Or anyone else,” stated Lawson bluntly.  Cain nodded and pushed Shepard from the shuttle.  

“Off you go Commander.  Hope the doctors don’t take you apart.”  The shuttle ramp closed, veiling the sight of a very confused Shepard and very exasperated Lawson.  It took off, slipping through the void.  The silver shape of a large, rectangular ship flitted through the viewport.  Vir looked out in wonder.  This ship… this one’s mine.  What is it called…?  Harbinger?  Harbinger sounds right… but… no…

The shuttle touched down in a large, open hangar.  A shorter, brown haired woman stood at attention there, waiting.  The ramp came down with a heavy thunk, and Vir and Cain exited.  

“This is our stop,” said Cain.  “Will you two be alright?” he asked the shuttle’s other two occupants.  The black coated man nodded jerkily, still staring into space.  

“What?  Oh.  Yes.  Don’t worry about us.  Commissar Cain.  Admiral Vir.”  He rattled off their unfamiliar names, the taste of the words strange on his tongue.  As the shuttle took off once more, the woman approached Vir and Cain.  

“Admiral,” she said with a crisp salute.  Vir looked her over, trying desperately to remember who she was.  Obviously some sort of ship’s officer.  

“Ah… yes,” he stalled, trying to buy time for his memories to return.  “Uh…”  The woman stared at him.  

“Are you… alright, Admiral?” she asked, perplexed.  Before he could do anything to embarrass himself, Cain stepped in.  

“Ah, Simone.”  Simone!  Yes!  Now he had a name to go with a face.  Simone was his… assistant?  Maybe?  “As you know,” continued Cain, “Admiral Vir was interrogated by the Inquisition.  The side effects of which include temporary memory loss.”  Simone’s mouth set in a hard line.

“Those utter-” she stopped herself, realizing who she was talking to.  “Ah.  Yes.  Commissar.”  She turned to Vir, clearly trying to ignore that she almost criticized the most deadly and powerful organization of Cain’s home government.  “Admiral… you really don’t remember me?”  Vir shook his head a miserable ‘no’.

“No.  I don’t.  There are bits, and pieces… but not much.”  

“Well, you should probably get settled.  Go to your cabin; someplace familiar.  I’ll make sure Kril doesn’t kill you,” said Cain with a wink.  He strode off, Commissar’s greatcoat swirling.  Simone watched him leave.  

“What did they do to you…?”  muttered Simone.  “I’m your First Lieutenant, Admiral.”

“Ah hah!” came Vir’s triumphant shout.  “Yes.  Simone.  I remember you are my first lieutenant.  It’s coming back.  A bit.”  

“Alright, then.  I’ll take my leave, Admiral,” she said.  Vir shook his head, still confused.  He wandered through the hangar, somehow knowing where the exits were and where they led.  He knew his cabin was somewhere towards the front area of the ship, near the bridge, but found his feet taking him a different way.  He walked through the bowels of the ship, saluting the crew he passed with automa-like precision.  It was mechanical.  He remembered none of them, but for an unknown reason kept walking until he reached a door near the engineering area.  He instinctively stepped inside, though he did not know where it led or why he did so.  

The room was bare, with empty metal walls and a corrugated steel floor.  The walls were covered with elaborate weapons blueprints and armor designs.  In the corner, huddled over a workbench, a large figure welded something.  Flying sparks illuminated a sleek blue carapace and four arms.  Vir had no idea who this was or what sort of creature it was… but he knew it.  He trusted it.  He felt safe here.  Hearing his footsteps, the figure turned around and lifted its welding mask.  

“Adam?  You got back already?” He felt something stir inside him at her (he knew it was a her) voice.  

“I… I can’t remember anything,” he confessed.  “The Imperials interrogated me… one of the side effects was temporary memory loss.”  The blue alien stood to its full height.  

“Those bastards…  You don’t remember me?” she asked.  Vir shrugged.  

“Tell me your name.  It helps with remembering,” he replied.  She stepped forward and took his arms.  

“Sunny,” she said.  Suddenly, everything clicked.  

“Sunny,” he replied.  It was a statement.  A sentence spoken by a weary man who has finally come home.  

“You… you do remember me?” asked Sunny with concern.  

“I remember your name,” said Vir with a smile.  “Clearness.  Blue skies.  Light.  Warmth.  Happiness.  Sunny.”

“Is… is that it?  You don’t remember anything else?”  Vir stepped forward and threw his arms around her.  He felt tears go down his face as he buried it into her chest.  She drew him close, her four arms wrapped around him.  

“Yes.  I remember that I love you.”  

Aboard the Millennium Falcon

The Falcon was full to capacity.  Nearly fifty individuals were crammed inside.  Han Solo and Chewbacca were quietly flying in the cockpit.  Not a single word passed between them, for the First Mate realized his Captain wished to be alone with his thoughts.  In the small recreational spaces of the ship, sitting morosely in the chairs that controlled the dorsal and ventral guns, slouching in the hallways and resting in the cargo holds were dozens of the Apocalypse’s armsmen.  

After Thomas Drake had returned from the Fury of Deimos, he had instinctively gravitated towards Richter and Ordelphine, whom he had told his predicament.  The two had immediately and bluntly set him straight, giving him the beginnings of his memories back.  He had been lucky; most of who he had been and what he was doing returned within the span of hours, no little thanks due to his First Lieutenant.  He had been scrolling through his computer files when a note to himself had popped up… and he had a sudden epiphany.  Which was why the Falcon was currently headed to a small but busy moon in the far reaches of this galaxy known as Noctopolis.  

The note, and the realization it brought, was simple.  The Holy Ordos of His Divine Majesty’s Inquisition and the laws of the Imperium of Man were harsh.  They were known to declare all those who dealt in alien technology Excommunicate Traitoris.  This meant that the individual in question was expelled from the Church and light of the God-Emperor and cast out of the human race to be hunted down and executed.  If such a punishment was fit for those who merely traded technology crafted by aliens, then what of those who romanced, or even copulated with aliens?  The punishment for such an act would be… unbelievable.  Unfortunately, xenophilia was an accepted act in five of the nine galaxies that now made up reality.   Should His Majesty’s Inquisition find out that such people were accepted, it would mean instant and eternal war.  

Drake realized the Inquisition could deal with aliens by themselves, for if the aliens fought alongside humanity against larger threats, then they were an asset.  However, if Holy Humanity debased itself with aliens, and to the Inquisition, if aliens were treacherous and convinced humans to perfore perverse acts with them, then the Inquisition would have no other choice but to step in.  This would result in any alien race that had any sort of xenophiliac history with humanity to be exterminated, and human civilizations that thought xenophilia was acceptable to be brought under Imperial compliance.  

The civilizations and the xenophiles themselves had no idea of the storm that was about to bear down on them.  With Inquisitor Amberly Vail of the Ordo Xenos now in this galaxy and presumably finding out whatever she could about it, Drake had what he believed to be four options.

One, he could do nothing.  The simplest option.  If he stood by, Vail would find or overhear that Admiral Adam Vir had convinced the Galactic Assembly that xenophilia should be legal.  In that case, Drake could claim plausible deniability and the Inquisition might believe him.  Regardless, the xenophiles would be rounded up, the GA destroyed, and this galaxy would become part of the Imperium of Man.

Two, he could turn the xenophiles over to the Inquisition.  For eradicating such a large heresy, the Inquisition would probably give him whatever he wanted: advanced weapons technology, one of those delightful gothic starships, perhaps his own private moon.  However, innocents would die, the Scoundrels would be broken up, and Vir, Quill, Kirk, and Shepard would despise him before being forever silenced.  

Three, he could tell his compatriots or wait for them to do something.  However, Thomas Drake had succeeded and survived in life through one maxim: if you wanted something done right, then you did it yourself.  

Four, he could side with the xenophiles.  He would have to do this carefully, as, otherwise, the full wrath of the Inquisition would come down on his head.  He would have to get them underground, undercover, completely invisible from any prying eyes.  Already, he had sent warning messages to the Milano, Normandy, Omen, and Enterprise.  All were hand written and hand delivered, all written in Drake’s camera-less cabin.  No one could hack into handwriting.

The question was hard.  The answer was simple.  He was siding with the xenophiles.  Why?  At the moment, the xenophiles were sitting there, doing nothing.  The Inquisition, on the other hand, had gone and messed with his brain.  All moral concerns aside, he was siding against the Inquisition ‘cause fuck ‘em, that’s why.  Ah, spite.  That most excellent of motivators.  

The Falcon touched down on the putrid streets of Noctopolis, the polluted air swirling around the landing gear.  Drake and the armsmen disembarked, leaving Solo with Chewbacca to reclaim the last vestiges of his shredded memory.  The armsmen wore garb similar to Drake, all in heavy boots and trench coats.

Good: the trench coats were not armor or uniforms, and thus they would not be easily recognized.

Bad: a group of people wearing black coats and strutting about an overcrowded criminal-ruled moon would be seen and possibly remembered.

Best: trench coats could conceal weapons.  A lot of weapons.  Each of Drake’s armsmen wore clothing that was reinforced to stop bullets, and had enough guns on them to fuel an army.  No one would be messing with them today.  

They walked through the streets, their massive numbers and intimidating bearing making sure no one got in their way.  Making their way down fetid alleys and downwards, ever downwards, they reached a gorge with red smoke, pollution from some nearby factory, billowed.  They made their way through a deserted alley and reached a door.  Drake knew it hid a deceptively large building.  

“Fan out,” he ordered the armsmen.  “Surround the building.  No one in or out without my permission.”  The armsmen nodded.  Weapons were pulled from concealment, the larger ones assembled quickly by their wielders.  First Squad had drawn duty today, and Saul stood by Drake’s side.  Two black coated women stood next to the door, shotguns at the ready.  He wasn’t expecting it, but there could be hostiles inside.  You never knew when you might need a hot breach.  Drake rapped on the door.  There was a long pause.  Drake and Saul stood unmoving.  The armsmen were ready with their weapons, turning the door and the alley into a kill zone.  Eventually, a slit opened and a pair of human eyes peered out.

“What do you want?” asked a somewhat surprised voice.

“I’m a friend of Adam,” replied Drake, the grin on his face unable to hide itself.  There was a snapping and rattling of chains and locks being undone, and the door opened.  Drake and Saul stepped through, two other armsmen who had been ready to provide support with compact submachine guns hot on their heels.  A man with electric blue hair stared, frightened, at the quite obviously mercenary soldiers that had just walked through his door.  Before he could say or do anything rash, Drake held out a calming hand.  

“Relax.  In this case, I really am who I say I am.”  He held out a paper, which the man took and carefully scanned.  

I, Admiral Adam Vir, hereby state that Thomas Drake is a close confidant and can be completely trusted.

Drake had papers with similar messages from all the Scoundrels.  He had forged their signatures and had their fingerprints on file.  It was, perhaps, a breach of trust, but he would not be offended if they did the same to him.  It was just good business.  Plus, such documents were very useful.  Very useful indeed.  As the man puzzled over what was happening, Drake held up a finger to his comms device.  

“You know, you really should change your passwords.  And your back door code is 0-0-0-0.  Sloppy,” sighed Drake.  “Very sloppy indeed.”  The blue harried man gapped up at him.  Drake sighed again.  “Can we, perhaps, go somewhere to talk business?  That is, of course, why I came.”  The man nodded, still slack jawed, and led the mercenaries through what seemed to be some sort of club and into the back rooms.  A group of strangely dressed humans and aliens stood there, apparently summoned by the blue haired man.  Drake sat in a vacant seat, the cheap leather scratching through his coat.  Saul and the two other armsmen stood beside him, their coats open, ready to grab hidden guns at a moment’s notice.

“Are you here to kill us?” opened one of the humans abruptly.  The other faces at the table were silent, but held the same worry.  Drake sighed for a third time.  

“I only kill those whose deaths are necessary or deserved.  You are neither, so you have nothing to fear from me.”  There were a few audible sighs of relief.  

“Then why are you here?” asked a small, furry alien. 

“I come with warnings.  There are those who would kill you, and I wish to prevent that,” replied Drake calmly.  There was a splatter of derisive laughter before another human held up a hand. 

“Are you… one of us?  Why would you want to warn us?”  Drake gave a rictus grin.  Some of his table-mates visibly shrunk back.  

“No I am not.  Frankly, I don’t care about you or your opponents here.  Let us just say that it’s better off you weren’t mass murdered by zealots.”  That brought a series of murmerings.  

“What?” asked a Drev.  “I think you’d better start from the beginning.”

“Indeed,” replied Drake.  “It is always wise to start at the beginning.”  He settled into his chair.  “I’m sure many of you are familiar with the fact that there are now nine galaxies in this universe, not just one.”  A chorus of yeses greeted this fact.  “You may also be familiar that in one of these galaxies resides a government known as ‘The Imperium of Man.’”  A chorus of hissed curses greeted that name.

“Xenophobic scum,” muttered someone.

“Hmm.  Yes,” replied Drake neutrally.  He leaned back even further and crossed his legs.  “At the present moment,” he continued, “The Imperium’s secret police, known as the Inquisition, is here, in this galaxy, investigating a completely unrelated matter.”  More mutterings.  “They are bound to investigate everything they can about this galaxy, and when they do, they will find out about your existence.  If this happens, you will all be tortured to death, and the GA, with most likely every alien race here, will be exterminated, with the galaxy coming under Imperial rule.”  Drake smiled over their horrified faces.  “I do not wish to see that happen.  Which is why you must do as I say.”  They all leaned in, desperate to hear if he could save them.  “One, you must disperse.  Groups attract attention.  I found this place easily, because I knew what to look for.  The Inquisition is even more adept than me.  Two, you must leave this place.  If a trail can be found, something I am trying to erase, believe me, but, if a trail can be found, it will lead to this moon.  Three, you must never, ever practice any sort of xenophilia, or have anyone suspect what you are.  Four, if you do as I say, and are still captured by the Inquisition, you must tell them that you are alone; a singular degenerate alone and unloved in this universe.  They will ask you to betray your comrades; don’t.  They will kill you either way.”  There was a stunned silence, before the room went up in shouts.

“No!”  

“Absolutely not!”

“You ask us to give up everything!  Everything we’ve worked so hard for!  To no longer be ourselves!  Adam Vir would never do this!”

“Adam Vir is not here!” thundered Drake.  “You are dealing with me now.”  He stood and rubbed his forehead as he paced.  “Nothing I have told you, or will tell you, is a lie.  My colleagues are, to a man, all better people than I.  However, they are, at times, unbearably naïve.”  He spun around and fixed them with his most intimidating glare, the one that made corporate oligarchs, high generals and planetary governors quake in their boots.  “Be grateful that you are dealing with someone who knows precisely what they are talking about.”  The table sat back down and watched Drake.  He frowned.  “Now, I can get you off this moon; get you to wherever you want to go.  I can give you new identities, multiple identities, just in case, food, tickets, papers: whatever you need to start a new life.”  He paused.  “However, all things come at a price.”

“I knew it!” hissed one of the humans.  A tesraki held up a hand, silencing the other members around the table.

“What do you want?” 

“I want information.  And you are going to give it to me.”

“What do you want to know?”  The voice was resigned to its owner’s fate.  Drake leaned forward. 

“Everything about the LFIL, everything about Admiral Vir, and everything about this galaxy that I don’t already know.  Give it to me and follow my directions, and I can ensure you will survive.”

Aboard the Fury of Deimos

Lord Inquisitor Hector Rex stood on the command bridge of the Grey Knight’s ancient ship, surrounded by the mindless servitors that crewed it.  In front of him were winking holograms of Admiral Vir, Captain Kirk, and Commander Shepard.  Deep into the blackness of space, a space station, so sleek and unlike anything Imperial, orbited an empty planet.  A camera feed from inside the research station flickered through the terminal in front of him.  What it displayed was clear signs of daemonic presence.  

“We got word just recently that this research station went dead,” said Vir.  “They apparently had some sort of artifact they were studying here.  It only came alive in the past few days.”  The cameras showed an infestation.  The artifact had spread throughout the station.  Twisted masses of white bone, flickering with red energy and black ooze, clung to the floors and walls.  Dark energy, lit with crackles of red, pulsed through the ceilings as if the station were some living thing.  As if the red crackling were arteries, filled with blood, flowing to the artifact, the beating heart of corruption.  The station’s crew were all dead.  Their bodies were held up by tendrils of bone, some twitching slightly as the horrible mass grew inside them.  Bone spread through every empty space in their bodies, growing through their eyes and mouths, infesting their noses, even going through their very veins.  To the watching Scoundrels, it was horrifying.  To Lord Hector, it was just a regular day.  

“It was good of you to inform me,” he replied.  “Stay aboard your ships.  We shall take care of this.”  The Scoundrels nodded.  If there were people who knew precisely how to combat this sort of thing, then they would differ to their expertise.  Rex deactivated the holograms and turned, walking off the bridge.  As he strode through the ship, he sent a mental message to Doctor Strange.  Strange was aboard, just in case the Knights or Inquisition needed his help.  He was staying in the hangar bay, though, for he just didn’t want to take the chance of being mind wiped.  

Strange.  We are cleansing the research station here.  Stay aboard.  If you receive word of any other artifacts being activated, you are free to intervene as you see fit.  

Understood, Lord Inquisitor.  I’ll be keeping my eyes open on the areas that celestially connect to Polaris.  

The Scoundrels awoke from their induced slumber with a warning: there were corrupting artifacts, hidden in the locations that Polaris was connected to.  These artifacts needed to be destroyed.  Rex couldn’t agree more.  

Through the halls bearing the symbols of the Grey Knights he walked, until he reached the teleportarium.  The five Knights who had accompanied him on this mission stood there, silently waiting, weapons in hand.  Rex simply nodded at them.  No words were needed.  His sword was always at his side, his armor always on him; no need to go get them.  

The silent party of Ordo Malleus operatives stepped into a large circular chamber, mysterious machinery clanking along the walls.  A servitor trundled forward, and flipped a lever.  

With an almighty crack of displaced air, Lord Hector Rex and the Grey Knights teleported aboard the now derelict research station.  The pulsating mass of bone and energy crackled ominously around them.  They marched inexorably forward, untouched by the corruption.  

“They are coming,” spoke the rumbling baritone of one of the Knights.  “This thing defends itself.”  Without warning, a fallen scientist leapt at them.  It’s eyes were dead and gone, replaced by inky black spots of primordial darkness.  It’s mouth stretched impossibly wide, bone spurs ready to shred flesh.  

It was unnaturally, unimaginably fast.  

The Grey Knights were faster.  

Nemesis force halberds crackled to life with but a thought, pure blue-white energy flowing across their blades.  The Knight nearest to the lifeless abomination spun at speeds the mortal eye could not follow, his psychic powers enhancing his already enhanced body.  The blade of his halberd connected with the thing’s neck, cleaving through bone and thin, lifeless skin like a knife through tissue paper.  The once-human fell, the unnatural life in its eyes gone.  With its death, the station exploded.  

Tentacles of bone whipped forward, seeking to impale the intruders.  More infected bodies darted forth, running at the Knights with speeds that would have astounded a normal human.  The darkness seemed to grow deeper, an unnatural deficit of light swimming forward to fill the halls.  

Lord Hector unsheathed his blade.  The sword was called Arias, an ancient weapon carried by the Ordo Malleus’s greatest heroes, reportedly blessed by the Emperor Himself during the Great Crusade.  It glowed with faint golden light, repelling the darkness around them.  He now brought it forward onto a corrupted scientist; a quick slice, almost as if he were swatting a fly.  The infected form fell, cleaved in two by Hector’s power.  

The Grey Knights spun and swirled through the station as if they were smoke.  Untouchable.  Untaintable.  Their psychic powers churned through the air, leaving blessed purity where there had been corruption a moment before.  They moved in tandem, augmenting each other with their power, exactly in tune with their brothers’ minds.  They were a brotherhood of demigods, slayers of the demonic, a group that brought only death to the damned.  

Lord Rex spun Arias in a defensive pattern, the consecrated blade shredding every attacker that reached him.  He held out a hand, and a dead Vrul scientist that had leapt at him, bone-fangs ready to tear his throat, stopped in mid-air, suspended with his mind.  His fist closed.  The Vrul exploded into bone shards.  

A wall of force, crackling with golden energy, swept away the encroaching darkness, fueled by the combined might of the Knights.  The scientists were all dead now, shredded by the psychic ammunition of the Grey Knights wrist-mounted bolters or cut down by their crackling blades.  The tentacles and walls redoubled their efforts, desperate to make sure the Inquisition didn’t reach the artifact at the center of the station’s corruption.  

With a swipe of his hand, the Grey Knight’s sergeant flicked open the heavy doors that led to the artifact’s chamber.  They saw it, a small mass of bone, swelling with unnatural power.  With a flick of his sword, Rex cut the tendrils that suspended it.  The very station seemed to shriek underneath them, the bone tendrils spasming.  Rex held the thing in mid-air, unwilling to touch it.  

“What shall we do with it?” he asked the sergeant.  

“Put it in a box.  Take it back to Titan.  We must study this,” replied the deep voice.  Another Knight came forward with a purified small metal container, and Rex telepathically lowered the artifact inside and sealed the lid.  With a mental command to the servitor, the Knights and Lord Inquisitor disappeared, teleported back to the Fury of Deimos.  The starships of the Scoundrels and Inquisition erased any trace of the station, its memory gone forever.  In its box, the cursed artifact pulsed, another relic to be taken back to the headquarters of the Grey Knights to be studied.

I hope you liked it.  If you have any requests or want me to write about a specific group or person, please tell me!  Wherever you are, have a great day.  

[the-lone-wolffe]

Salem’s Sacrifice

Note: Death Omens Story. I wrote this one shot in one day, I can’t promise anything quality wise. 

Warnings: Death, Angst, Ask to tag

AO3

Salem hummed softly to herself, gently scrubbing at the plate in her hand, trying to get rid of the leftover breakfast grime. She pushed a strand of dark hair back behind her ear with a soapy hand before placing the dish in the drying rack.

It was quiet, peaceful. All except for the sound of water running, and her children playing a couple rooms over.

It was funny. She never could see herself a mother. She’d mostly known battle in her younger years, fighting in a war meant for the hunters before the witches inevitably got dragged in.

Leading a coven, a strike and recon team really, into the front lines on behalf of the Embers Family. Planning. Strategizing. Fighting. Surviving. Loss. Victory.

Settling down wasn’t in her future, she couldn’t see it.

But she was glad she eventually did. Because she wouldn’t trade the triplets or her husband for the world. The peace- or rather, a new form of chaos- was a nice change of pace from the fighting.

……

She was reaching for a mug, when a shadowed being appeared in the doorway to her left, leaning against the frame. Salem tensed, adrenaline pumping. She whirled around, ready to face the intruder.

…...

She frowned when she saw it was only Diavel. Setting the cup down in the sink, she leaned back on the counter and folded her arms.

“I’ve been telling you this for years now Diavel. You keep popping up like that and I’m going to find a way to kill demons.”

“If that were possible, Salem” Diavel’s voice was monotone, but he was smiling, “There is a list of demons I would’ve had dead by now.”

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Diavel had been asking about the triplets- how they were doing, if they had started showing signs of magical talent- when Salem noticed how quiet it had gotten.

She couldn’t hear the triplets playing. Couldn’t hear Thorne’s shouting, or Ebony’s quiet laughter, or Daemon’s complaints.

Couldn’t hear the sounds of their toys crashing together or falling to the ground.

Her gaze drifted towards the door leading into the living room, unknowingly holding her breath.

Something was wrong. She could feel it in the air.

She snagged a knife from the sink, slipping it into a dress pocket before hurriedly walking towards the door. Dark veins traveled up from her fingers to her wrists, and so on.

Something was wrong.

Diavel watched her strangely, slowly trailing behind her. Did he not sense it to?

“Sale-“

The demon was cut off by a shriek, a pained cry piercing through the air. Ebony’s, followed by Daemon’s crying and Thorne calling for her mother.

“MOM!”

Salem broke into a run, heart pounding wildly. So loud she couldn’t hear her footsteps as she stumbled around a corner, could barely hear her own anxious thoughts.

What was it? Had someone broken in? A shadow maybe? Someone from the war?

Or maybe they’d been playing rough and someone got hurt?

No, no then there would’ve been more noise.

There was a crash. The smell of wood burning.

It felt like hours had passed when she finally turned into the living room, looking around wildly for her children and the source of their screams.

She found them huddled in a corner. Ebony was holding his hands to his eyes, sobbing while Daemon hugged him close, face buried in Ebony’s shoulder. Occasionally he peeked out, before whimpering and hiding his face again.

Thorne stood protectively in front of them both, shaking and terrified, but defiant as ever.

A large, fiery demon loomed over Salem’s children, flames dripping like molten lava.  Fire had already begun to spread around the room.

It raised a hand, Thorne flinched.

“NO!”

Adrenaline, a protective instinct, urged Salem forward. Appearing between the triplets and the demon, she crossed her wrists above her head, forming a shield to block the demon’s blow.

She winced, the heat singing her skin as its fist came crashing down. Her eyes watered from the smoke, staring up at its face, at its snarl.

There was an all too familiar symbol etched into its forehead. The symbol of the Blair family.

……..

Everything seemed to stop.

The symbol of the Blair Family.

She glanced back at her children as the demon raised its fists for another strike.

She knew why it was here now.  

Leaving one hand up to uphold the shield, she lowered the other. Her eyes went black, shadows dripping from her arm.

Right as the demon swung for another hit, a clawed hand reached from the wall and grabbed at the demon. More and more appeared, dragging the entity towards the wall.

Salem kept her hand out, keeping the creature pinned. She stepped away from her children, facing it.

She’d buy them time. As much time as she could.

No matter how long that meant.

“Run. I’ll come find you.”

She was lying.

Thorne looked hesitant, glancing back at Ebony, who was grasping tightly onto Daemon’s shirt with one hand and covering his face with the other.

Salem felt a pit in her stomach, swirling with anger and determination at the sight of the burns her son was hiding. Her hand clenched, tightening her grip on the demon before her.

“But...Ebony-“Thorne started, only to stop when the demon screeched, struggling in its makeshift binds.

“I…I’ll make sure you’re all ok in a minute, ok sweetheart?” Salem gave a smile, teeth grit, “Ebony will be fine, but for now you need to go.”

She wouldn’t let it take them away. Wouldn’t let those people harm her children any further.

“T-take care of your brothers, ok?”

She meant goodbye.

She winced as the demon continued to struggle. The shadowed hands strained; the spell wouldn’t hold much longer.

The triplets needed to leave.

“Thorne-“

The young girl grabbed Daemon’s hand, quickly instructing him to grab Ebony and not let go. Then she ran, leading her brothers out of the room.

Salem finally exhaled the held breath, turning her gaze back to the demon. The binds were sizzling and burning, falling away one by one.

She whispered a name, eyes going black as the living room burst into flames.

“Diavel.”

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When Salem opened her eyes, she was sitting in a vast and endless space. Silent, deafening.

No going back now.

Before her stood Diavel, crisp and clean as always. He smirked, despite the obvious rage in his eyes.

“Ready to figure out how to kill a demon?”

She shook her head, standing shakily. Tears were starting to build up. Guilt and fear were rampant.

She didn’t know if time had frozen out there, if the demon was still trapped. Diavel never told her.

So time was of the essence.

“I’m sure we can work something out. It’s a lower demon after all, lesser if you will. If those blasted specter hunters can banish them, I’m sure we ca-“

‘Diavel.”  

Salem pushed her sleeve up, revealing her wrist. Taking a shaky breath, she extended her hand towards him.

She didn’t want to do this, per say. If she saw any other option, she’d have chosen to run with her children and get them far away. Find their father and run.

But she knew her family. They were persistent in their pettiness. They wouldn’t stop until she was dead, and then who would protect her children? Who would protect Diavel?

There was only one solution.

Diavel’s eyes traveled down to her wrist, widening in realization. “Salem...”

“Vengeance, I speak your name.”

‘Salem, don’t.”

She inhaled shakily, swallowing before continuing. Moments from when the triplets were babies flashed through her mind.

She saw the day Branwen proposed. The day she met him.

Saw Diavel teaching her ways of magic, secrets and knowledge many witches didn’t know.

“Diavel. Demon of the Blair Family, contracted to me.”

“Sa-“

“I withdraw my one, single demand.”

A symbol began to glow on her wrist; Diavel struggled as his hand moved on its own, moving to grab her’s.

He was crying. She’d never seen him cry.

“Salem, please-“

“I demand that you protect my children. That you be bound to them until their death. Keep them from harm, guide them when you can.”

His hand made contact with her’s. She looked up at him with a smile, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry.”

The last thing she heard was Diavel screaming no, reaching out to her with his other hand, before she faded back to her realm.

The clawed hand of the fire demon stabbed into her chest. She gasped in pain, falling to her knees.

The last thing she saw was fire, and the photo hanging above the mantel. Of her family- Branwen, her husband, holding Thorne and Daemon in his arms while she held Ebony.

And she smiled, knowing now that they would stay together, safe and happy. Far, far away from the grasp of the Blair family.

[bibliocratic]

Only a little late!

Written for the prompts: AU and Touch for AspecMartinWeek

Ace Jon / Ace Martin, AU – Daemons, post 159.

They are lying dozy and lazing on the settee when Jon clears his throat and apologises.

Martin's thoughts have been like the unheeded tumbling of water through a brook. He hasn't spoken, he's sure, for a long while, not confident that he's fully awake. Jon's tucked neatly against Martin's graceless outstretch of limbs, mumbling whatever comes to mind against his throat. His breath is hot, mildly damp, condensing Martin's skin like he's fogging up a window.

There is the curiously new, near-dazed feeling that Martin is basking in like the shallow waters of some island beach. Every tension unhooked from him like an unburdened yoke, of having said everything that he has always wanted to say. Digging out the gristle of small deceits from his stumbling mouth was a stop-judder-start of a conversation, and it's been a painful, physical release to bring them up. Martin's held his hands over his mouth and the words have spilled out anyway, scraping his throat on the way up, and Jon had rubbed his back and listened as every emotion he forced down came back in nauseous waves.

It's been exhausting, feeling so much all at once. Martin's snapped and snarled and sobbed and slept a lot. And now he has the blessed relief to lie, feeling like he's dug up all the weeds of his fears, the soil of him loosened enough to allow something better to bloom.

Jon knows Martin loves him. Vast-welled, bone-down-deep. Jon knows that love will never be physical, and had still cradled him and declared him beloved, confessed that it was a form of expression he'd never sought either. Jon reframed question after question so they barely resembled enquiries at all, and Martin laid down all the cards of himself with a trustfulness he is having to practise again.

“Hm?” Martin questions sluggish. He opens a squinting, disgruntled eye, discomforted by the radiance of the room, and sees Jon gnawing on his bottom lip. He is managing to give off the impression of both staring intensely at Martin and attempting to avoid his gaze entirely.

“I'm sorry,” Jon repeats. His words are steady enough, but Emer is fluttering hither-and-thither over his head like an anxious coronet. Landing on his shoulder, antennae bobbing, crawling flustered over to his other shoulder before returning airborne in an overactive bluster of motion.

Martin has always liked watching Emer. The flash of gossamer-white wings circling Jon's head or sat on his wrist like an overly-extravagant watch while he read statements.

“Stop looking,” he used to hiss at the moving lump under his shirt, poking many orb-like eyes over his collar to stare even when Martin stopped. “It's rude.”

“What're you sorry for?” Martin asks. The question comes out squashed, half-sighed. His arm encircling Jon's shoulder, he strokes the skin of his upper arm in a light reassurance.

Jon's forehead is establishing trenches as he deepens the lines on his brow. Emer lands and whispers harsh, insistent words into his ear, but he shakes his head like shedding water, and she goes back to hovering.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead and Emer wouldn't leave him. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

It takes a few moments for Jon's garbling to reach understanding.

“I'd kind of assumed you must have,” Martin replies slowly. “I'm the – I'm the one who left him behind.”

At the hollow of Martin's throat, he can feel the crouched and scratchy weight, still unfamiliar to him. He brings up his hand, uses a finger to stroke the short, bristling fur down his rounded abdomen. He stops, leaving his hand nearby, close but undemanding. A second later, delayed, two probing legs tap affectionately and tiredly onto the back of Martin's hand, before withdrawing again.

He was never so steady before. He used to crawl, scramble, quiver and jump, always in motion under the cover of Martin's shirts, the camouflage of his bramble-coiled hair. If he got excited, he'd jump from Martin's shoulder to ear to get his attention, chatter and chirp animatedly. Most of Martin's life, he's rarely strayed a foot from his side.

Martin doesn't feel him now. Not like it was before. There's no solid anchoring when he concentrates. Like a weak signal, a light seen through fog, a previously taut string scraped threadbare.

Peter had suggested a knife. Had even held one out to Martin with a chummy, encouraging smile. Telling him how clean it could be to slice through.

“It won't even kill you,” he had said. “Best part of it.”

“It'll hurt though,” Martin had replied dully, jaw set, as the spider quivered against his throat.

“Oh, certainly,” Peter had replied, admiring the sheen of the blade. “But you've already given away so much, Martin, what's a little more in the grand scheme of things, hm?”

Martin had refused, and Peter had sighed, pocketing the knife again, responded:

“Pity. You'll have to leave him anyway. It would be so much easier to make the separation quicker for the both of you.”

Aron hadn't said anything when Martin scooped him off his neck, setting him down on top of the tape recorder. He'd stared, resigned but with still enough expectation in him to feel betrayed.

It hadn't made the rending, punch-breathed stretching of their distance hurt less.

It had stopped hurting after a while, like everything else had.

Jon must have carried him all the way into the Lonely and out, Martin thinks, stroking Aron again. Maybe longer. The days, they've not been as clear as Martin would like. It's been as treading through murky water a lot of the time. He's not even sure when he woke up blearily, cosseted by the tight bundle of blankets Jon had barricaded him with, and felt Aron nestled in his hair like the old days.

“You couldn't have asked anyway,” Martin continues. “It's not like, well, not like I was around to say it was ok, was I?”

Jon makes a grunt of agreement, but it's one of those distracted sounds he makes when he's taken something in but not really listened.

“When you got out though,” he says, seeming, if anything, even more shame-faced. “When we got here, you didn't – you didn't even ask about him. He'd be at the other side of the house and you didn't blink at how far that was, he-he'd climb onto you and try and get your attention and you wouldn't flinch. I don't think you even knew he was there. And then Emer talked to him, wouldn't move from his side, and then – it-it was the second night, guess you don't remember but you were – you were struggling to come back to yourself. And he – he crawled onto me, and I didn't – I didn't push him away.”

“I'm not mad at you, Jon,” Martin says. “'s like you said. I wasn't – I wasn't in the right place. You kept him safe, how could I be mad?”

Jon nods stiffly. Looks at Aron. Martin likes the way Jon looks at him, carefully, like something might have changed while he wasn't looking.

“I just... thought I should apologise,” he says, more lamely than before. “It's not right, to go around touching other people's.... Anyway. I won't – won't do it again.”

Aron's chelicerae twitch against Martin's adam's apple.

“What's your thoughts on all this then?” Martin says, directing it lowly at Aron.

He's not expecting a response. Their conversations have been stilted, working through the gap Martin ripped between them. Those last few months, they'd mostly fought. Peter Lukas' arrival had found Aron sullen and petty, argumentative and frightened, and Martin had ignored him or snapped back in kind. Aron had stopped speaking to him long before Lukas dragged him into the Lonely, and it's a slow cautious revival, to find out how to talk to each other again.

Aron unfolds his legs carefully, creeps unobtrusively up to the side of Martin's face to lurk near his ear. Even as a bigger example of his species, he's still about the length of Martin's thumb. He flexes the stubby pedipalps under his eyes like he's kneading something.

“He's the best decision you've made in a long time,” he says resolutely to Martin. “He loved me even when you thought you couldn't.”

Martin's mouth is raw from saying sorry but he murmurs it again. Aron's front legs tap him like a reassurance.

“Would you like to?” Martin turns to Jon, who is militantly trying not to listen to their conversation. Emer is circling the ceiling as though to further compound the gesture of privacy. “Touch him, mean – intentionally this time?”

When Martin was younger and working everything out, he'd diligently done his research on the ways he thought he was failing. He'd watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Romantic stuff, filled with swelling, stirring scores, or purple-prose dramatic declarations of passion. It's quite a common trope in a lot of these; the couples confessing their tormented adoration, their daemons touching, tail in tail or rough-housing in play. Then one half of the couple will reach out, suddenly tender, tangle their fingers in the fur of the other's daemon or scrape along their scales. The other will gasp like they've been shocked, their body rocking with the aftermath of it, before they follow with shaking hands. Martin would replay those moments of intimate connection, fantasising about how someone might hold his own bristled and secretive soul.

It inevitably leads to sex. And Martin would switch it off, then, feeling nonplussed and uncomfortable and wondering if that part was necessary.

It doesn't matter to Martin if Jon doesn't want to, if he never touches Aron again. Jon's already carried his soul so many miles.

It's important to him that Jon knows he can. That Martin wants him to, that Martin trusts him with Aron more than he trusts himself.

Jon's face goes a dark spasm of oxblood red.

“It's – I mean – I'd – course I'd – that's a lot though, are you sure – ?”

Emer chooses that moment to make some quick fed-up comment to Jon before decisively fluttering down and landing on Martin's nose.

Jon gives a squeaking, mildly scandalised gasp. So does Martin, more at the shock.

It doesn't feel like how he expected it might.

There's no rush, no swelling violins or heightened poetry.

“Hey,” he whispers to the white-winged moth. Emer preens, giving a show-off little flap before closing her wings against her back.

“She's beautiful,” he says to Jon sincerely.

Jon's holding his breath like he's trying not to disturb the moment.

“How – how do you feel?” He asks tentatively, his words slightly strangled.

“Warm,” Martin says. There's a steady coil of heat in his chest that matches the warmth of their close-knit afternoon. He feels beheld in the surest of light, cherished and reverential, the same feeling he gets whenever Jon says he loves him.

“Like you expected?”

Martin told Jon about the films he'd watched, the books he'd read, the expressions and sensations he'd thought would make him happier. Jon had listened in the blanketing dark of the evening, and admitted the same in kind.

“I mean, I still don't feel much of an urge to suddenly rip your clothes off, if that's what you're asking.”

Jon's lips hook up in a smile, releasing some of his nervous tension.

“How disappointing,” he intones, and Martin, going a little cross-eyed staring at the speckling spots of black over the fuzz coating Emer's body, laughs.

He reaches up, his hands gone a little shivery, glances over at Jon.

“Can I...?” he asks.

Jon gives a jerking motion, looking like a rather demented nodding dog in his poorly disguised eagerness.

“Er – y-eah – that would be – I-I'd like that.”

Martin strokes a blunt nail from her thorax down.

“Oh,” Jon says, sounding more than a little awestruck. If possible, he sinks even more limbless against Martin. “That's.... that's lovely.”

Martin strokes Emer for a while, rhythmically rubbing the fur with a precise concentrated effort. Jon hums, looking dazed and pleased.

He wonders if it'll feel the same with Jon touching Aron. If Martin will be able to tell, if the sensation will be muted or altered in some way.

Aron, impatient and with apparently less decorum about the whole thing, gives a restless huff and decides to find out himself by jumping onto Jon.

Jon, jolted from his near-soporific state, rather valiantly does not shriek or flail the way he might if an actual spider flung itself onto him. He jerks but makes a serious effort to hold himself ramrod still.

“Stop it,” Martin warns.

“You are absolutely no fun,” Aron answers back playfully as he skitters down to where Jon's hands are. Jon if anything holds himself even more still.

Aron reaches his wrist and taps the skin there, waiting. Slowly, Jon cups his hands together, and Aron clambers delicately onto his palms. Jon's face is making another one of those wowed expressions. Martin feels another pulse of that settling warmth, not as dulled as before, strengthening as Jon rubs a self-conscious finger down Aron's abdomen.

Martin feels Emer flutter up and settle against his hair as he hums and closes his eyes, his soul held in the safest hands he knows.

[deathordesire]

Sunlight. (2/?)

Pairing: Daenerys Targaryen x Reader 

Warnings: Daenerys’ Death, angst, hurt/comfort, gore, violence, Smut between women in later chapters.

Chapter Summary: You are reunited with Princess Arianne Martell, and the future depends on the meeting between Dragon and Viper. 

Please let me know what you think! 

Part 1| Part 3

Dany had given you orders. You were to sail to Dorne, and there she would have an audience with Princess Arianne—and then make for Kings Landing. 

Dorne was welcoming at your arrival. The heavy spices and smiles brought back memories as you pass through the streets full of bazaars. The Palace Stones shine in the light of the sun, the beauty drawing a gasp from your throat in reminder.

As much as the Palace drew you to it, it was not what made you feel like home. No, it was the people—it was Arianne. 

She stood beside her throne as you enter, dark hair flowing across her shoulders with gold chains entwined in her curls. 

"Y/N," she says, stepping down to you with a smile on her lips. 

Her greeting was full of warmth and you found yourself with an equally large grin on your face. 

"Princess," you mumble. 

The smell of earthy perfume fills your nose as she wraps an arm around your shoulders. Guiding you to the nearby war room, "I am glad to see you are safe. Tell me Y/N, are the rumors true?"

Your brows furrow at her question. You thought about whether it was better to be diplomatic or honest with her. But Arianne was not a foreign Queen, she was your friend and Princess. 

 "Daenerys has lost many things, her lover betrayed her. Killed her." You began, "She mourns, and is taking back what is hers. But not with murder and insanity." 

Arianne is silent for a few moments, her mind clouded in thought. "Men would have us pitted against each other." She presses her lips tight, "Yet Daenerys has succeeded when most have not. Dorne will honor its promises, we will aid in her conquest." 

You raise a brow at the smile that rises on the corner of her lips. That smile was one of many words, and you had known her long enough to understand that Dorne was always her first priority. Arianne was honoring her fathers word, but in the same action—making a move based on this alliance. 

"You will ask for Dornes independence,"

Arianne smirks at you, her hair falling over her shoulder as she leans back. "Yes," she states, "I will demand it." 

➳ ➳ ➳

 You were outside Arianne’s Solar the next full moon, your arms crossed along the open window as you look across Dorne. 

 Dorne was still as you search the night, the palace yard alight with torches along the walls. Your gown brushes against your legs at the movement behind you, a shadow passing through the silhouetted guards. 

You follow the figure to the doorway in which Arianne was in now. She always kept the door open and guarded—curtains placed instead for privacy and the open breeze. But now it was an easy weakness, and you found your heart racing. 

Perhaps if it was some else's life, you would have been spared the need to kill. Maybe spared your suffering at all. But here you were, and you would not let this world take anyone else from you. 

And so you were pushing through the golden curtains, your spear gripped tightly between your hands. The first step was always the hardest, the one that lead to the attack itself. 

Your knees brace against the floor, using the momentum to thrust your spear into their chest. Metal clamors to the marble as they drop their weapon. When you look up Ariannes eyes were wide, hands gripping the pages that were now torn in her book. 

The man chokes silently as he dies, falling to his knees—your spear still in him. 

You stand still for a moment, stepping on his back for leverage to free your spear. Your eyes move to the Princess again, but she was looking past you.  

You turn in confusion, meeting Dany's wide eyes in the doorway. "Dany," you whisper in surprise. 

Her lips were pressed tight as she looks at your bloody state.

 For her to see you like this, killing someone in such cold blood. You were afraid she would hate you for it. 

"Princess," Daenerys greets, jaw clenched as she looks at you. 

Arianne doesn't speak for a moment, but stands and kneels beside the dead man on the marble floor.

 Daemon rushes into the room, kneeling at her side and pushing the hair from her face silently. She nods to him, one hand gripping his wrist before he presses a kiss to her jaw. 

You knew that they didn't need words to know how she felt. He stands at her reassurance, waiting as she searches the body.  

Arianne nods—and Daemon began dragging the body out. 

Daenerys meets your eyes, and you see anger in them. And pain. You step toward her, but she shakes her head--hands clenching. 

Arianne moves to the window, "Your Grace, please forgive the mess." 

Her hands clasp behind her back, bloody coin between her fingers. "Many would rather see me dead, than rule. It is a sympathy we both share, is it not?" 

Daenerys steps forward, and you move to the wall to allow them to speak. 

"It is." She states, voice hoarse. Her hands at her side and limp—as if she didnt even know how to respond. 

Daemon returns a few minutes later, hands on his belt as he watches her. 

"Y/N," arianne says, her voice low. 

"Princess," you whisper, "Your Grace," leaving the room to clean up.

Greyworm stood along the wall, his dark eyes softening only for a second. But he sends you a gentle nod, he knew the burden of killing. He understood what had to be done. 

➳ ➳ ➳

Princess Arianne joins you the next morning, she had watched silently at your restlessness through the weeks.

She walks with you through the hall, the jewels coiled across her stomach glinting in the sun. "It is said that grief is natural, death inevitable. But your Dragon Queen did not stay dead, did she?"

You teeth grit together at her words, you had forgotten how easily she could read your emotions. 

"You remind me of when things were much simpler, when Daemon and I were young and in love." Arianne lifts your chin, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Your grief is understandable Y/N, do not hide yourself from me."

You nod and look down at the stone floor, your body relaxing at her acceptance. 

She smiles at your relief, both of you turning as Daemon calls her name down the hall. "Princess," 

He mumbles into her ear before ruffling the top of your hair with a smile. You did not speak to Dany much over the next few days, your sentences light and kind. But you were alone in your grief, she had too much to mourn for already. 

You wait on the docks beside Arianne the day Daenerys decides to head for Kings Landing. 

Ships filled the harbor, so far into the distance you couldn't make them out anymore. A smile grew on your face with the thought of revenge. 

People said it was the Dornish temper that ran through you. And yet you would describe it as a burning for Justice.

 "Yara, prepare to set sail." Dany begins, ordering the ships to prepare to leave.

"My queen," Yara responds, a smirk on her lips as she begins shouting orders. 

You turn to Arianne, her dark eyes staring out to sea. Her silence was telling. She only moves to lift her hands to her hair. Pulling out her circlet—her curls falling down her shoulders as she holds it out to you. 

You swallow heavily, looking into her eyes as she opens her mouth. But no words come out. She struggles to say goodbye, hand grasping the gold jewelry. You pull her hand to your chest, your other arm pressing her to you in a hug. 

She is stiff in your arms, her chest heaving before she wraps her free arm around your neck.

When you pull away Dany was looking at you with soft eyes. She steps onto the ramp, both you and Greyworm following behind her. 

Danys dead face returned that night. And you found yourself pacing the deck, unable to sleep. The night was silent, wind brushing softly against your skin as you watch the sea. You turn around at the lanterns being lit along the deck. 

Daenerys steps out of the shadows—curls wild against her shoulders. "You've been quiet," 

You nod to her, turning back to watch the water as she joins you. 

She leans against the wood, a gentleness on her face that you haven't seen in a long time. It made your heart warm, she deserved better than lies and the cold whispers of hate. 

After a few minutes of relaxed silence, Dany speaks. "Everywhere I turn, I have been betrayed."

Daenerys' hair was wild—tousled by the heavy breeze as she lifts her violet eyes to yours, "I trust you." 

You blink in surprise at her honesty. "I mourn you Dany, I mourn for you." 

Danys eyes fall to the ground, her lips pressing together. She takes a deep breath and grasps a lock of her pale hair.  "I thought about cutting it off," her jaw clenches, eyes burning. "I thought I no longer deserved it."

 Her eyes soften as she meets your gaze, "But a man should know better than to betray a Dragon." 

You cup the sides of her face, pressing a gentle kiss along the corner of her lips. "And he will." 

Her lips are parted as you pull away, eyes still wide in surprise as you bid her goodnight. 

You spot Greyworm in the corner of the deck—he nods to you as you pass, a small grin on his lips at your exchange with Daenerys. Sleep came easily after that, even with your embarrassment at his knowing gaze.  

Yara joins aboard your ship a few weeks later. Daenerys had decided on her plans and you both would give her council. You were both sitting in Daenerys' sitting room, the windows open and breeze smelling of salt. 

"I never asked how you met her," Yara questions, her arms crossing as she turns her body toward yours. 

"It was no simpler a time than now, she has always been a Dragon—albeit a growing one." You answer, hushing as Daenerys steps into the room. 

Nodding to you and Yara before standing at the center of the war table. Dothraki move to the corners, silently crossing their arms as you stand and greet her. 

Her dress was blowing in the wind, hair tied in a looser braid than before—but her eyes determined. She was ready for war. 

You were discussing your plans of infiltration and taking back Kings Landing, when the subject of the Council who betrayed her came to mind. 

"The Prince of Dorne has been deposed for his betrayal, what of the rest of the Council?" You ask.

Yara nods, agreeing with your concern. 

Dany looks to the table, her hands splaying across Kings Landing. "I will give them a choice as I always have."

"And your allies? We kept our promises even after you were.." Dead. You choke on the word, refusing to say it. Instead hugging your arms to your chest. 

Her brows furrow, head turning to Winterfell. She takes your hand with such gentleness that you almost forget you were in a room with others. 

Danys hand was gentle as her thumb brushes over your skin. After a few seconds she places your palm back against your chest, eyes on the map with a clenched jaw. 

Your question no doubt reminded her of Jon. The one that caused so much of her pain.

 "In my failure, I have seen my weakness. Yet I still hope the people may come to understand that what I do is not to punish. But I will not reward treason, the North will remain under my rule." 

A smile lights your face at her answer, you were proud of her. Daenerys meets your eyes, a grin gracing the corner of her lips at your response. 

 "I will let Princess Arianne know of your decision, if you will allow it." You ask, trying to avoid Yara’s curious gaze about Dany’s gentle touches. 

She nods to you, eyes not moving from the table. Both you and Yara leaving her to her thoughts. 

[onewhoturns]

i have a few passing thoughts about today’s hdm episode! spoilers for episode 4 below the cut

OKAY first off, the standout of the episode; Lin. You beautiful bastard. I’ll admit, this isn’t exactly book!Lee to me, but I FUCKIN LOVE HIM ANYWAY. He’s less ‘laid back easygoing cowboy type’ and more ‘rough and tumble roguish scamp’ but he also got ALL the funny lines, and I adore him. This is one of those things (basically all of these things are, generally) that I shrug at, because, of course, this is an adaptation of the books. I will always view them separately, and have from the beginning. I can still enjoy both of them.

Now we get into some other bits and pieces, most notices differences that made me go =/ and then ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Again, I want to reiterate; I still love this show. I’m still super psyched to see the rest of it. These are just those things that emphasize the difference of universes between book and show.

1. They gave Iorek’s speech to Lee. =[

2. They made Iorek... hm, not sure how to word this. Angrier? Or maybe just more emotional. In the books he’s maybe a little cold, perhaps resigned, but in a kind of hardened way? Here he was more visibly frustrated, which is very... human. I just remember in the books him being more inscrutable. It’s one of those things that has me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  for the show, cause I’m happy to accept it for this universe and see where it goes, but it definitely changed the character a bit. He’s less of the strong silent protector type I guess?

3. In that same vein; the moment where Lyra is like ‘it’s set! loophole!’ and Iorek is like ‘hm... clever’ wasn’t in this. Which feels like a bit of a loss because it really foreshadows the ‘silvertongue’ bit to me.

4. What’s the deal with Fra Pavel? What’s the implication here? Is this implying some kind of pedo stuff? If so... =/ I dunno. It’s not in the books (at least as far as I remember?) so it’s manufactured for the show, and it feels... I dunno. Why make that the choice, y’know? Is it just to draw comparisons to the Catholic church? Alternatively, if it’s something else, I’ll be curious to see what it is. 

5. Lyra got to bluff/be tricky with words more in this episode. I liked that. But also... Look, I like Dafne Keen, I do. And I’m not gonna say they should have cast someone else. I just feel like she’s not quite believable at times. Some things feel kinda stilted or overacted, and I could definitely be putting unrealistic expectations on a kid, that could totally be a thing. There were just a couple times where I was like =/

6. Why did they make the consul “greedy”? Why do that? The character was overwhelmingly neutral in the book to me, maybe even more of an ally. Why make him seem like a threat? Why make him vaguely creepy? Please don’t, I like the neutrality of the consul. Similarly: Why give Coram the lines about a prophecy, why give him the line translating Bolvangar, why give Lyra the line about ‘what should we be asking’ and her challenging Iorek? It felt like trying to make her extra-spicy-rebellious when I found her humility toward Iorek to be a pretty important thing in the books. Like, she’s smart enough to respect him.

7. Why make John Faa so mad? Why give some of his lines to Coram? I dunno man. =/ I feel like it undermined his levelheaded leadership. And I hate hate hate that it whispered of unintentional racism in the back of my head, even though I’m betting the scripts were written before casting him. It just felt like he’s been made less warm than the books. I mean, again, it’s a character change. It’s not something I’m going to continue to pick at, it’s something I’m going to accept as just ‘this is a different character’ and move on, because the show universe isn’t the book universe and that’s fine.

8. Lyra. Wtf. You should know better - and if not you, Coram should know better - than to whip out the alethiometer in public.

9. Wow, a lot more of a blatant presence of the Magisterium in this universe. Less covert control behind the scenes, more visible police forces. Again; a different universe.

10. Mrs. Coulter. Hm. I had some opinions here. There were several things that made me go =/ and then ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  Mostly her power in the Magisterium. It��s not as strong as it is in the books. I get that that gives her more of a struggle, makes her path interesting to follow, and at times you’re rooting for her to succeed even though you know she’s awful. But I don’t know, man. The way that the Asriel reveal was handled super undermined her power. She’s a powerful character, and it feels like there could have been other ways to show her struggle besides that?

11. Why the Cardinal with such a profound hunch. Why do that. It’s so incredibly noticeable and just comes across like an old timey ‘creepy cripple’ thing that just feels =/ to me. It’s not even like it’s just the actor. That was a choice that was made. It’s distracting, but not in the way I think it’s supposed to be. I feel uncomfortable, but I feel uncomfortable because it feels like it’s making evil out of-- I don’t even know what to call it. Is it called a hunchback? Is there a more appropriate term? It feels like taking someone with a-- is it a disability? I honestly don’t know-- and making them a villain who’s supposed to be offputting because of that.

12. Iofur. Interesting choice, not sure how I feel about it, but I’m along for the ride.

13. So that cave was her meeting with Iofur. Will we still get a reveal of the grand palace of Svalbard? Or is it all going to be moved into caves?

14. Okay, the number one thing that irritated me and cannot be accepted as just a difference between show and book canon: Previously, I’ve seen people mentioning the lack of daemons in the show. So in that last shot, I actively was looking for daemons among the Gyptians. And I was like ‘oh, cool, there’s some birds and stuff. oh, and a dog-’ BUT THE DOG WAS ON A ROPE. WHO WOULD HAVE THEIR DAEMON ON A LEASH? I could understand having a dog on a leash for filming. But they put a frickin’ BEAR in the shot, shouldn’t it be easy to take out a ROPE in post? I dunno man, that irritated the hell out of me. Then again, maybe it wasn’t a daemon, maybe it was a sledge dog. -- OKAY ON REWATCH, IT’S A SLEDGE DOG. So okay. Fine. BUT, the fact that I was confused enough to think that shows that they look like they are supposed to be daemons. So maybe give the people walking the sledge dogs visible daemons that aren’t the sledge dogs? I guess this mostly just brings to mind the Today show appearance of Lin where the interviewer was like animals talk! which felt like it was infantilizing both daemons and armored bears to just ‘all animals can talk, how cute!’ But that’s not the fault of the show, that’s just interviewers being uninformed, which is probably inevitable. It just made me salty xD

I think that’s all I wanted to say? Probably more than I wanted to say?

[ayemsehtvehk]

Okay here’s how Thistle Flower became Everyone but also specifically All My Characters and All The Trees.

I mean how she became a tree is easy, because all Argonians are tree-adjacent, the Hist needed some helpers with eyes and hands and the like and they grew in the swamp and what do swamps have a ton of that are easy to catch if you’re a tree? Lizards, apparently. Take the lizards, they drink the sap, their genetic code is rewritten and now they’re Argonians and they have everything that you need in a helper when you’re a sentient godlike tree who exists out of time. There’s an alternate Tamriel where Argonians are insects and I wish I were there because then I’d look less like a scaley and more like the freak I am.

(This is also why in the DS9 TES AU, the Bajorans are Argonian, the Prophets are Hist, the Dunmer are the Cardassians, Sisko is an Imperial Commander who discovered some big magic thing in Black Marsh and now runs a settlement around it, and everything else is off topic because I didn’t set out to talk about DS9 so much as everything I talk about eventually ends up either in TES or DS9 and it was inevitable that the streams would cross.)

ANYWAY

So yeah all Argonians are so intimately related to their Hist that they could be called part-tree. In fact, they do call themselves People of the Root and they mean that literally. Thistle Flower was even studying to be a treeminder before a roving pack of Daedra that some Dunmer sorcerer sicced on her tribe to take vengeance for their especially brutal resistance to the Dunmer during the Arnesian War. After that she swore that she would take vengeance against whoever did it and whoever enabled whoever was responsible and she went out and killed just a ton of people who might have done it before she was arrested and sent to the Imperial Prison as an extremely dangerous criminal who should be kept in maximum security lest she kill again.

Caius Cosades lost his shit when the Emperor sent him this Argonian who was known for killing a ton of Dunmer and Imperials to Morrowind to fulfil the Nerevarine prophecies because that sounded to him like a recipe for disaster. If people found out that the Blades were responsible for unleashing her onto Morrowind, assuming she didn’t do anything stupid and get herself killed, then that’s it for the last shred of legitimacy that the Empire has in Morrowind.

Anyway to literally everyone’s surprise it actually went pretty well and she came to sort of like the Dunmer. (Well, to care deeply about the Ashlanders and the Morag Tong and be able to mostly deal with everyone else.) She fulfilled the prophecies, saved the world, had a weird crush on Almalexia that may have been Nerevar and may have just been her being real gay and then it all ended with the Tribunal mostly dead.

But she knew that something terrible was coming and that for all of the Tribunal’s flaws, they were keeping some horrible things at bay and with them dead and dying, someone needed to take their place. That person was going to have to be her because she had the tools, she had the knowledge and she didn’t trust anyone else not to set themselves up as godkings the way ALMSIVI had and she told herself she wasn’t going to. The one missing ingredient was the Heart of Lorkhan, which she had to destroy or else Dagoth Ur would destroy Tamriel. It was fine. She only needed a little power. So she went off across the world to search. In this search she Zero Summed.

Now, you might have heard of CHIM, that state of enlightened lucid dreaming where you transcend the false world around you and in it, you can impose your will upon it. But if those who achieve CHIM look at the spokes of the wheel of the world and see themselves, those who Zero Sum look at the wheel and see that the whole world was them and lose their individuality to become part of it. Thistle Flower looked at the boundaries of reality and gazed through the other side of the monitor and saw me.

I first played Morrowind when I was about 12 years old. I made Thistle Flower when I was 13, since the save file I was using got corrupted and I had heard of “roleplaying” from forums that I was frankly too young to be on. She was almost the archetypical Mary Sue, at least for a young, isolated autistic kid who didn’t care for boys the way the other girls did and who found escape through this badass assassin who everyone loved and was afraid of who loved reading books about ancient civilizations and who traveled around looking at neat new critters. And as I grew up, I never let her go, she just grew with me. “Daemon Huntress”, the cool edgy sounding custom class I gave her became “Daedra Hunter” as I came up with a background for that that made any sense at all in the lore. She was never super gender conforming but she became less so as I became less so. I kept her close to my heart as I made other characters to play Morrowind the way she wouldn’t, like become a vampire or join a Great House or anything and those characters joined her in an increasingly elaborate little shared universe that only got bigger and more elaborate over the 17-some years I’ve been playing these dumb games.

And in that way, we recognized each other. That we were never really apart. That she’s a part of me, and as such, she’s a part of everything else I make. She had set out to stop the gates of Oblivion from opening and spilling into Nirn and when a Nord Battlemage with pretty boy good looks and memories that he didn’t realize were manifesting and changing over time was born in a prison cell, he went on to save the world, just the way she had hoped to do.

And so on and so forth. She fought Dragons as the Dragonborn, stood against Molag Bal eleven times and stood by him once, has been the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood twice, once as a top young Dunmer girl who hated her for killing her family, another time as an Altmer deserter who just wanted to use the weapon they had made him into for himself instead of the people who used him, had fought on both sides of the Skyrim Civil War, has been everyone you have ever imagined and is now distributed in the very soul of the world.

The Hist remembers her and the Hist honors her. The People know that she is the root, for better or for worse. They’ve taken on some of her peculiarities: when the Argonians invaded Morrowind they made peace with the Ashlanders, they scoured Dwemer ruins in a meticulous way that a trained archaeologist would, they left key infrastructure intact and even rebuilt a number of cities before retreating back into the swamps, all because the Hist was subconsciously driving their Argonians towards that, and the Hist in turn were driven by Thistle Flower, who only wanted justice both for her people and her adopted homeland. It’s unclear to anyone whether or not the Hist know this has happened, since they’ve never been clear in ways that bipeds understand. But she shows up in the sap, and has always shown up in the sap, from the Dawn Era to the inevitable end of all things

[monstersdownthepath]

Spiritual Spotlight: The Pale Horse

True Neutral Psychopomp Usher of Duty, Revenge, and Beasts of Burden

Domains: Death, Repose, Travel, Water Subdomains*: Psychopomp, Souls, Exploration, Rivers

Concordance of Rivals, pg. 15

Obedience: Perform hard labor for 1 hour while focusing on your shortcomings and how to overcome them. Benefit: Get a +4 insight bonus on saves against death effects and effects which cause fatigue.

(*IMPORTANT NOTE: The Subdomains are my best guess; Subdomains are not listed in Concordance of Rivals. Anywhere!!!)

Our very first Monitor Demigod reviewed! Many Monitors jumped out at me, but the Pale Horse landed four hooves first with his gorgeous illustration and interesting backstory, so I had to. Not all of the Obediences are as simple as this one, nor are all of the benefits, but I appreciate a bit of simplicity now and then. And it’s fitting! The Lash and the Plough exemplifies the pain and the bounty that comes from servitude and difficult work being completed, and to prove your obedience to him you have to break your back for one hour while considering where you’re weakest. Sweat out your faults and failures!

I appreciate that the Pale Horse doesn’t specify what kind of labor, so long as it’s difficult and gives you enough mental space for self-reflection. Break rocks, dig ditches, haul wood, haul your team’s stuff, all that good stuff! You can even technically do something repetitive and non-productive, such as filling a bucket with water before walking around the source and dumping it back in, but that goes against the spirit of the Obedience and may get you in hot water with the Lash and the Plough. There is some difficulty in that this Obedience is annoying to do in areas where manual labor isn’t really available, but your work doesn’t HAVE to be for anyone but yourself. You don’t even technically have to finish your task, just hack at it for an hour. Pull out a shovel and work at digging a hole, or move around piles of junk you see, or work at picking up trash, things like that.

The unspoken side-benefit of this is that your consistent labor regime may earn you a healthier physique. You may not get one mechanically, but think of the roleplaying potential!

The more important portion of the benefit won’t see much use in the early levels, but as you level up and death effects cement themselves further in enemy repertoires? You’ll be glad you take the extra hour out of your day to beat yourself into shape.

Boons are gained slowly, gained at levels 12, 16, and 20. Servants of the Monitors, though, can enter the Proctor Prestige Class as early as level 8. If entered as early as possible, you can earn your Boons at levels 10, 14, and 16. You MUST take the Monitor Obedience feat, NOT Deific Obedience. Monitors grant only a single set of Boons.

Boon 1: Stalwart Rider. Gain Lock Gaze 3/day, Align Weapon 2/day, or Phantom Steed 1/day.

Lock Gaze is a rare spell, one I’d rarely consider actually preparing but certainly welcome the possibility of having. It forces the target to look at you and ONLY you, granting every other creature concealment against the target, meaning their attacks will miss 20% of the time. It’s a decent spell to throw on someone you’re 40 or so feet away from, forcing them to turn and look at you and potentially throwing them off of whatever they were fighting before.

Align Weapon is a bit too narrow in use, UNLESS you know what you’re going up against. Demons? Angels? Inevitables? Protean? If you know you’re facing that day, then Align Weapon will absolutely save you entire rounds of effort trying to hack through their Damage Reduction. Hell, you don’t even have to really know you’re facing specific Outsider breeds, just knowing you’re going to be up against aligned foes in general is enough to keep this spell tucked away.

Phantom Steed, as discussed last week with Desna, is a very nice spell for traveling about, but the fact it only carries one person at a time makes it kind of difficult to justify using if you’re still moving with a team, but it’s insanely useful if you find yourself on your own.

Boon 2: The Will Endures. Upon completing your Obedience, you gain temporary hitpoints equal to your Hit Dice plus your Wisdom modifier. These hitpoints last 24 hours.

Hope you didn’t dump Wisdom! This ability is probably the SINGLE most boring Boon I’ve ever seen, but it’s an extra 14(+Wis) HP for you that grows as you level up. It’s really, really not a whole lot, but it’s free hitpoints and 14~20 is enough to help you resist one extra attack from a powerful enemy, or a lot of attacks from lesser mooks, and it saves resources for your allies. There IS a bit of a ‘cheat’ built in here in that if you perform your Obedience multiple times a day you can refresh these hitpoints, but that requires you taking an hour out of your day to recover. What do you think this is, 5e???  

Boon 3: Peerless Defender. You can cast Transformation 3/day.

Transformation turns you into a mean machine, a hulking monster with +4 to Str, Dex, and Con (meaning +2 to attack and damage rolls, and +2 HP per hit dice), +4 AC (actually +6 due to the Dex increase), +5 to Fortitude saves, competence with all simple and martial weapons, and BAB equal to your Hit Dice. Even a wimpy Wizard can suddenly hulk out and start beating people’s faces in with this power, but its strength truly shines if you’re already a martial class. If you decided to class into Proctor, then starting your career as a Bloodrager or Magus (or Inquisitor or Investigator or...) makes this ability a beautiful addition to your kit, though the classes who reap the most benefit are actually the ones that don’t cheat with the Proctor’s accelerated Boon advancement; i.e. full martial classes.

Transformation rarely sees use because it’s restricted to Alchemist, Magus, Sorcerer/Wizard, and Witch, and while the Magus and some Alchemist builds can get great mileage out of it, the others are kind of screwed because Transformation also removes your ability to cast spells for its duration and, I’m not sure if you’re aware, spells are a pretty important class feature for the Wizard and Witch. That being said, while maximum BAB may be redundant if you’re already a Fighter or a Barbarian, a Rogue or even just a buffed Cleric can enjoy the benefits just fine.

It’s a good ability! And it can be used three times a day! And since spell-likes need no components, you don’t need to invest a Potion of Bull’s Strength each time!

So, while we wait for the Archives of Nethys to catch up (EDIT: Link now at the end of this post!), how about a bit on the Pale Horse’s personality? He started life as a daemon, actually, and it’s debated if he was a Harbinger, a powerful daemon, a Horseman, or even one of the Horsemen’s steeds (with Charon being the most likely), as his name and deeds have been struck from all of Abaddon’s records. He gorged on mortal souls until the memories and emotions that came with it induced a painful melancholy in him, and he soon found himself becoming paralyzed by his own decisions and crushed under the weight of the leadership that his position afforded.

In a spectacular show of Outsider Mind Weirdness he realized he hated having to make decisions for himself and wished to be free of the Burden Of Choice, and threw himself at Pharasma’s feet in supplication, hoping for mercy. Taking advantage of this moment of weakness, she turned the Pale Horse into her own watchmen of the River of Souls, a figure that now trots up and down the shores of the River, slaying creatures who would prey on the vulnerable souls within while guiding those who’ve lost their way back onto the trail. He personally trains other guardsmen of the River and even leads charges into daemonic territory to reclaim stolen souls!

Yes, there IS a bit of irony--or perhaps hypocrisy--in his actions and attitude versus what he expects of his followers (the Burden Of Choice was a weight he could not bear, but he expects everyone else to shoulder their own hardships), but I enjoy such looks into the minds of spectacularly weird Outsiders like the Pale Horse.

You can read more about him here.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

I keep seeing something about writing three lines for a WIP? Posting three lines from three fics? Anyway I’ve seen it so many times at this point it’s become one big GO WRITE SOMETHING YOU ABSOLUTE NINNY for me, so here I am with three short-ish (~600 words each) segments from three tragically neglected WIPs that have nothing to do with each other. Very rough and rusty, but I hope you still enjoy these glimpses.

1. Bispearl week “swords” prompt ficlet I didn’t manage to finish back then, or: Bismuth and Pearl invent rubber ducking.

The first few swords were a disaster.

The Forge was rudimentary still - early days - didn’t look like much, but it was a start. Bismuth did her best: all of her hard-won knowledge, scrounged up information not meant for her or her kind, going towards building what she thought they would need to get weapon production up and running. Materials gathered at a great risk - Snowflake had chipped her gem during the last of the supply runs! Tools for Bismuth to try to replicate and experiment with, and a raided armoury with a wide variety of weapons for Bismuth to learn from, to suit every possible rebellious inclination. All arranged to enable what she judged might be a sensible workflow.

She decided to go with a simple, plain, straight-edged sword to start with - mid-length to her, meaning a dagger to some and a hefty two-hander to others. The sheer variety already present in the rebellion was half of its charm and point, wasn’t it just? And Bismuth wanted so very badly to fan the flames of it, to do everything she possibly could to see it, to see all of them, flourish and persevere and come out on top for once.

Bismuth tried, and tried, and tried again. Considered her mistakes, weaknesses, what she knew (or, doubt never failed to creep in, thought she knew) she was supposed to be doing and achieving here.

And failed.

The first blade that at least looked right shattered in her hands when she tried to force its tang through a guard and into a handle to put the whole thing together. The rest of its batch became hopelessly crooked when she quenched them.

She crushed the latest useless ingot she’d clearly gotten ore ratios wrong for in her fist and tossed it against the wall with a frustrated cry.

And of course, of course, that was the moment Pearl chose to walk in.

“Bismuth?”

Her voice was filled with concern as she inched closer from the entrance, but there was a glint in her eyes that made it clear Pearl would not be deterred.

So, figuring she had nothing to lose, Bismuth allowed her shoulders to sag and let her misery show.

“I’m not cut out for this. Literally.”

Pearl snorted, hopping up onto the anvil with a deliberate and highly unconvincing casual air. “Tell me about it.”

Bismuth sighed, rubbing the back of her neck with a tiredness she wasn’t sure she was supposed to be capable of, and leaned next to her.

“I ever tell you of my first actual visit to a forge?”

Pearl shook her head.

“Wasn’t that long ago. I took the chance and snuck into a weapon production plant when the hematites weren’t around. Me and the other bismuths had been working on some training grounds right next to it and I’d wanted to see one for so long, so one day I just went for it. And it was... Well. The last time that place had seen a bismuth was when it was being built. I didn’t even fit in there, Pearl. I was too big for the bellows and too small for the anvils, and I could barely walk around the quenching baths they had set up. It was all just… wrong. The whole place was screaming at me, telling me I didn’t belong there and couldn’t if I tried.”

“You’re still trying, though, despite that,” Pearl pointed out, and swept an arm out to seemingly encompass the entire Forge. “And look at all of this! You’ve been working so hard to make it your own.”

2. That HDM/Daemon AU that desperately needs updating - I AM SO SORRY - but here’s some actual (distressing) plot from the underground resistance meeting.

Pearl led Rose to a chair at an empty table near the wall, but didn’t sit down herself. Instead, she went over to the centre of the room where someone had brought out a projecting lantern and several small reels. Aristobulus stood tall at her side, stretching his long neck, and Pearl squared her narrow shoulders and cleared her throat.

The room’s attention was fully on her within moments. Pearl wasn’t what one would ever call a commanding presence, but there was an odd air of almost-imperiousness to her now that made both Rose and Neshu want to stop and listen - not their usual inclination at all.

“As you’ve no doubt heard, 37 people have been arrested by the Consistorial Court of Discipline in the last two months, including two of our own,” Pearl began. “After a cursory sentencing for heresy, all trace of them had vanished. We have now found records of the fates of some of them. I will warn you that these recordings are…” Pearl’s hands folded on each other nervously, “extremely distressing.”

At her nod, someone dimmed the lights and the projection started with the flick of a tiny switch, and all the murmuring that Pearl’s grim warning had prompted died down.

The silent scene hanging in the dusty air seemed to be the inside of a highly advanced laboratory, mostly taken up by strange devices Rose couldn’t fathom a purpose for. The only occupants of the room were a woman a little older than Rose herself, and two dour-looking men in long white overcoats, suggesting some sort of doctor or scholar.

Both the woman and her kestrel daemon were strapped into a particularly large and ominous-looking contraption, with odd metallic coils surrounding the bird. As one of the men approached and expertly plugged in the connectors on a series of cables, the coils started to vibrate and rapidly heat up - enough to emit a glow visible even in the grainy monotone of the recording.

Before their eyes, the kestrel seemed to take on a glow, too, thrashing about as much as the restraints allowed. But then its body started to elongate, its shape twisting and stretching in ways that should have been impossible, losing wings but gaining countless insect-like feet, the beak looking more like mandibles by the second.

Then- sparks, and sudden darkness, and the horrifying experiment cut short by what appeared to be a power outage, with the recording cutting out soon after.

The room was deathly quiet as the projection lit up again. The scene changed, but the same woman was the focus of the projection, now struggling against half a dozen uniformed guards.

The kestrel - back in its original form, it seemed - fought valiantly, leaving deep gouges for many of the guards to remember him by. His human kicked and bit and struggled. But ultimately it was in vain, and they were outmatched and outnumbered, and soon enough thoroughly overpowered and shoved into separate chambers of yet another machine.

Silver grates closed and locked behind both of them, while a similarly silvery guillotine shone above and between them menacingly, and seemed to hum in anticipation.

Pearl looked down at the floor - she had to have seen the recording before, and looking at her and the way Aristobulus was subtly nudging his head against her hand, Rose felt a dawning fear she, too, knew what was coming.

The blade came down.

The woman didn’t die, and the daemon didn’t disperse into so much dust. But they both looked like they wished they had as they were dragged away in opposite directions, without even a whisper of strained bond between them.

Rose struggled to force her fingers, clenched tightly in Neshu’s mane, to relax their grip even a bit.

The scene changed again, and no matter how much she wished she could, Rose didn’t look away.

3. The huge, huge Pearl/Rose fixit-ish fic that I started as an attempt to deal with the gag order mess when ASPR was still fresh. In this excerpt: some Rose/Pink sky arena angst that probably makes a lot more sense in context.

She still looks the part of the fierce rebel leader as her solid, quartz-heavy fists smash into the perfectly hewn pink stone over and over and over again (just the pink, only ever the pink). But her diamond-hard knuckles don’t bruise, don’t bear a trace even as the first floating insignia cracks and shatters into haphazardly hovering fragments.

And why would there ever be any mark left on her? She is, after all, just a spoiled, untouchable princess in disguise, playing a losing game that’s costing lives, making others dance a deadly dance to her self-indulgent little tune. And she could declare herself bored of it, give it all up and abandon them to horrible fates and go home whenever she wanted to in order to be relieved of this burden she clearly wasn’t ready for after all, such a shame... and they wouldn’t even know…!

The weight of the thoughts sends her spiralling back down to the pockmarked floor of the Arena, her landing nothing approaching elegant. A voice she knows she can’t possibly be hearing because its owner is in a (pink, always pink) bubble, hidden away, calls her a coward and a traitor.

She kneels in the ruins of her own making and wonders if Bismuth had a hand in carefully carving out what she has just smashed to pieces. If Bismuth would have cheered her on in this highly symbolic bit of destruction, in what is obviously a very defiant, political act with no practical or tactical purpose but with such a clear and pointed message. Everyone will readily believe that - why would they not?

Everyone except Pearl.

Pearl, who she has now so unthinkingly cruelly reminded of her station, reduced her (reduced them both!) to what they have supposedly been working on growing past and leaving behind. And for what? Because she was terrified, in that moment, that Pearl would find out the truth? That, inevitably, no matter how many Homeworld bases she snuck into and how many of the Moonbase’s systems she scoured, she’d find no trace of Bismuth anywhere, and she’d turn to Rose with those eyes large and shining with betrayal…

Just like they were earlier today, after I forbid it and I order you to stop.

The illusion and the beautiful make-believe are as broken as the symbol - the symbol of her - and how can she even think of considering herself any different from White now, demanding and taking and having her way, draining colour and will and personality to make way for the obedience due a Diamond? Pearl had gone so still, in the wake of the Order, all of her gestures, from nervous to exuberant, gone without a trace, posture stiff and perfect. It all seems a negligible step away from an empty smile on a newly bleached-white face and perfectly poised, outstretched arms; from being faced with an eerie automaton in the place of someone she dared to consider a friend.

She- oh, she wants to call herself Rose but she can’t, she’s not, she’s failed at that every step of the way so far. Pink curls her pristine hands into her fanciful dress nobody sensible would think to fight a war in, and cries, useless miraculous healing tears that couldn’t ever hope to begin fixing what she has so carelessly broken.