#fell star the templar

[accipio]

Hawke's father taught him early on that the Fade is not always a churning maelstrom of demons and hostile magic like in the tales. It's more dangerous than that. It often appears exactly as the dreamer expects it to be, a mirror held up to the waking world and warped by the mind that beholds it. An incautious mage may mistake this reflection for reality; lulled into complacence by the familiar, they never wake. Or rather, they do not wake as themselves.

Hawke has played this game many times, and he knows better than most the tricks that a mind can play on itself. When he awakens in his assigned quarters, the plain room exactly as it was when he fell asleep there hours before, he just knows. His surroundings look and feel as solidly real as ever, but there's a subtle skin-crawling offness to everything that washes over him like vertigo.

Never one to wait around and let the demons find him, he grabs his wooden staff from where he'd left it by the door and heads outside, not even bothering to change out of the threadbare trousers that serve as his nightclothes. Physical armor is useless here.

He doesn't have to wonder what awaits him on the other side of the threshold. He knows exactly what he's going to find. He steps forward onto weathered cobblestone, the same stone that was carved from sea-battered cliffs by Tevinter slaves over fifteen hundred years ago. Before him rise the twin white towers of the Gallows, impossibly tall, no less stark and pitiless than the empty black sky behind them.

The city of chains welcomes him back. He has been many things, here—fortune-seeker, troublemaker, protector, liberator, destroyer—but in his dreams he is a prisoner. He has never left, and he never will.

He walks on, not because he wants to, but because he knows that the only way out is forward. He expects to be accosted by the usual suspects: despair demons, his failures made manifest.

(Bethany, her body a mangled ruin, her lifeless stare a silent accusation. Mother, reaching for him with another woman's hands, lurching forward like a puppet on a string. Why didn't you protect me, son? Why didn't you protect me, brother?)

But they don't appear. The Gallows steps are deserted, the gates open and unguarded. There are no fires burning in the braziers, just as there are no stars above. Instead, everything is lit by a diffuse purple glow that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It renders the scenery curiously flat, shadowless. A fragment of some poem or other worms its way into his mind: No light, but rather darkness visible.

The back of his neck prickles with instinctive, animal dread as he steps through the gate and into the courtyard. It, too, is empty, save for a solitary figure standing in its center, rigid and unmoving like a soldier at attention. Waiting for him.

Hello, Knight-Captain.

The templar's silverite armor is more brilliant than it ever was in the waking world, its gleam undiminished by the lack of any natural light source. He is beautiful, perfect, a storybook knight made real, but no poet could ever dream up the frigid contempt with which he regards Hawke.

“You forget your place, mage,” the Knight-Captain says. Hawke stares at him, torn three ways between confusion, fear, and perverse fascination. “But I shall remind you of it.”

Hawke's gaze drifts to the oddly-shaped weapon in the templar's hand. He realizes with dawning horror that it is no weapon at all. It's the sunburst brand.

He scoffs, feigning nonchalance. “You lot really need to come up with some better material. That doesn't sound tempting at all. Your plan is to do what, exactly? Hold me down and brand me tranquil?”

The Knight-Captain (demon, he mentally corrects) appears unimpressed. “No,” it answers, the familiar voice stripped of all warmth, all humanity. “Only to give you what you want.”

Hawke's stomach lurches. No more talking. He calls upon his magic with ease, its flow unobstructed by whatever had dammed it back in the waking world. The demon, however, remains one step ahead of him. It raises its empty left hand, and a Silence slams down upon Hawke with the force of a physical blow. He staggers back, reeling from the nauseating sensation of emptiness, a limb suddenly severed.

Demons can't do that. Can they?

“Shit.” Maker, he's really in it now.

@absolutionem

[scotianostra]

On August 25th in the year 1330 Scotland lost one of it’s greatest warriors when The Good Sir James Douglas fell at Teba in what is modern day Spain.

James was called “The Black Douglas” by the English for his dark deeds in their eyes, becoming the Bogeyman of a Northern English lullaby “Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye. Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye. The Black Douglas shall not get ye.”

There are also unsubstantiated theories that this was because of his colouring and complexion, this is tenuous, Douglas only appears in English record as “The Black”, in Scots’ chronicles he is almost always referred to as “The Guid” or “The Good”. Later Douglas Lords took the moniker of their revered forebear in the same way that they attached Bruce’s Heart to their Coat of Arms, to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies and exhibit the prowess of their race.

Robert the Bruce had requested that Douglas, latterly his most esteemed companion in arms, should carry his heart to the Holy Land, as atonement for the murder of John Comyn, and the fact that his excommunication meant he was unable to go on a Crusade himself.

Douglas and his knights had been invited to join the forces of Alfonso XI of Castile, Edward of England’s cousin by Queen Isabella, mother of King Edward III of England to fight a Crusade against the Moors in 1330 at the Castle of the Stars at Teba, he was killed as he led a cavalry charge against the enemy while outnumbered and cut off from the main Christian force. He is said to have through Bruce’s heart forward as he was about to be slain, although another source states it was still tied around his neck,

Remarkably the casket survived to this day and was returned to Scotland, to be interred at Melrose Abbey. Douglas’ bones were boiled and returned to Scotland. His remains were laid to rest at St Bride’s Church, Douglas, which houses the monumental tombs of Black Douglas earls.

You may see artist impressions of the Guid Sir James with the Douglas Shield and it’s red heart, this is an inaccurate depiction it wasn’t until 1333 the ‘bloody heart’ was incorporated in the arms of Sir James’ son, William, Lord of Douglas. It subsequently appeared, sometimes with a royal crown, in every branch of the Douglas family.

The village of Teba, in the Guadalhorce-Guadalteba region, still remembers The Good Sir James by holding the two day Jornadas Escocesas (Scottish Festival) every year, also called Scottish Days or Douglas Days Teba. There are numerous people and associations that collaborate in the organization of these days. Some of them, such as the Saint Andrew's Society of Gibraltar, the Order of Knights Templar of Saint Michael or The Strathleven Artizans, expressly travel from Scotland to participate in the event.

The Village of Teba, is twinned with Melrose in the Scottish Borders.

More on all this on their web page here https://www.douglasdaysteba.com/

[justpked]

I recently replayed the Fell Star demo and just realized the Asol birthday smut IF mirrors Asol and Harbinger's battle scene in the prolog.

Asol and Harbinger meeting in an old abandoned temple, go one on one challenging each other’s limits and stamina, and then winding up with Asol sprawled on the ground the Harbinger "impaled" and exhausted before losing consciousness in the Templars' arms. Only in this case is it more of a "little death" for the Harbinger compared to the first time.

Hehehehe-

[jpriest85-blog]

Some more Fell Star and Beyond the Spider Lilies art for @justpked . It's a picture of Asol and my Harbinger Thuban in her beast Abyssal form drawn in the style of mideval illustrations, next to some text from Beyond the Spider Lilies. The picture is based on imagery of St. George slaying the Dragon, which is why Asol is drawn, fighting the Harbinger on horseback despite the fact they fought each one on one. I figured over the centuries' accounts of what happened when Asol defeated Thuban would be exaggerated into Legend. And what's more heroic than an armored Templar on a white horse slaying the great beast?! Couldn't decide if I want Thuban to scar Asol or not, so I saved both versions.

I love how in the Spider Lilies demo, the Harbinger of Calamity from Fell Star can make a little cameo appearance if little MC does an optional extra reading assignment for their history lesson. Luckily, my MC Seleni is a very curious child who enjoys reading, so she gets a peak of my Harbinger in her history textbook.

[nirikeehan]

happy dadwc niri!! how about some Cullen & Rylen for Fluffuary, maybe with either Lyrium or Chant?

WELL here's maybe both, a little.

From an unhinged idea I had over the summer where Thalia disappears and in the aftermath Cullen decides to try to start that lyrium rehab center to try to keep busy. Co-starring Rylen and Samson.

I would like to continue this one day but got a bit stuck on it, so here's what I've got so far.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1285

---

Up the hill from Dwarfson’s Pass, three men stand in the sinking afternoon sun, surveying the keep.

Winterwatch Tower fell into the hands of the Inquisition some years ago, when the Inquisitor dealt with some doomsday cult that had holed up there in the waning days of the Mage-Templar War. It’s carved into the mountainside, and has seen better days. The tower on the left has crumbled entirely, as has much of the front-facing rampart. A tattered flag still flutters from the topmost intact tower, a faded souvenir with the Inquisition’s sigil still on it. 

Samson sniffs. “I liked the other place better.” 

Rylen did too, but he won’t say so. Between them, Cullen straightens, jaw set. He’ll dig in now, just because Samson declared for the villa on the northern side of the valley. 

“Let’s go.” Cullen strides forward, between low tumbledown walls topped with long-cold braziers that in better times shepherded inhabitants to the portcullis. Weeds flatten under his boots. 

Left behind, Samson shoots Rylen a skeptical look. Rylen pays him no mind. He isn’t here to make friends with Corypheus’s disgraced general. He’s here to make sure Cullen hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew. 

Rylen dogs his Commander — former Commander, they are all without rank now — under the stone archway. He works the wheel to lifted the spiked gate. Cullen waits, stone-faced. Samson brings up the rear, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulders. They’d granted him freedom from his shackles halfway through the Hinterlands on the condition that he carry and unload the supplies from the horses. Samson made a wisecrack about slave labor that went ignored, then obliged. Rylen has learned the best way to diffuse the man is not to give any of his ideas oxygen. He would have made a fine snake oil salesman — and maybe did, back before Rylen knew him. Men like Samson are a particular breed. 

Cullen ducks under the portcullis before it has fully lifted. The deserted courtyard greets them, silent. Trees and vines have grown up in the absence of maintenance, and bear the brilliant hues of early autumn. The day has been crisp and warm, but there’s the barest hint of chill to the air. Ferelden turns cold so much earlier than the Marches. Days like today always bring Rylen a small tug of melancholy. The winter here will be harsh, but at least they aren’t all that far from the Crossroads. 

Cullen steps over to the statue that dominates the center of the courtyard, of Andraste carved in her full warrior raiment. Ivy has snaked its way up to her face. Samson pokes around an old boarded up well. Cullen goes down on one knee, an action that surprises Rylen, but the Commander always has been more religious than he. 

Samson drops the pack at the base of the well, surveying the balconies and buttresses that rise above them. Rylen follows his gaze. The place is large, and will take a lot of exploring to determine what should go where. A wooden stables stands empty, so at least they’ll have a place to put the horses. 

“Bit of a shit hole, innit?” Samson offers. 

Rylen watches Cullen’s back tense. 

“Thought you’d be used to those,” Rylen counters, to take the piss out of him before Cullen’s temper flares. “Aren’t you from Kirkwall?” 

Samson sneers at him, flashing discolored teeth, but says nothing. He’s built his life around trying to tear Cullen’s down. The two men have history Rylen can barely fathom, no matter how many tavern stories Cullen tells him. Samson gets under Cullen’s skin far too easily. That’s partially why Rylen wouldn’t let them go out here on their own. One or both of them would be dead by spring, he feared, crushed by the other’s ego. 

Cullen remains in genuflect position, the damp grass seeping into the knee of his breeches. Rylen wonders if he is praying, and whether they ought to give him some privacy. Rylen strolls forward, about to place a gentle hand on Cullen’s shoulder, when he realizes. Pity churns in his chest. 

Cullen is clutching the tassel of the faded Inquisition banner, placed at the base of the statue those years ago. Put there by the hand of the Herald of Andraste herself. 

***

Samson is given one of the tiny stone cells for his room. He unpacks his meager belongings — two shirts, one jerkin, one extra pair of breeches, tin of tobacco and rolling papers, and an interesting-shaped rock he’d found on the journey south — and sits on the bed, wondering what the fuck he is doing here. 

When no answers present themselves, he stands and heads downstairs. Twilight is falling over the Hinterlands. Cullen and Rylen pace the courtyard, hauling bits of furniture from one room to another. They’ve lit torches in the one with the loft and the large casks of ale — depressingly depleted, Samson has already checked — and stoked the cooking pit to life. A pot of stew bubbles slowly in the hanging cauldron. His stomach rumbles, though the other hunger is singing through his veins and joints, demanding attention. 

He skips down the refectory steps, shoving hands in his pockets while he waits for the two idiots to emerge from the opposite door. That building used to house a sort of armory, and Samson has been strictly forbidden to enter, lest he take up a rusty sword and make a bid for freedom, or some such. 

A few moments later, the other former Templars appear. Rylen is in front, one end of a long wooden table in his hands. Samson knows little of Rylen; Corypheus’s intelligence reports were scant, but his accent is of Starkhaven working class and his face tattoos suggest a hard youth. What else is new. He’s got dark hair that looks as though it may curl if he’d let it grow enough. Samson is envious. These days he’s lost so much of his hairline he might as well shave his head. 

As if they’d trust him with a razor.

 Cullen follows behind with the other end of the table, and is the one to see Samson there with his hand, metaphorically, on his ass. 

“May we help you?” Cullen’s voice is awfully damn flippant for someone who told him mere weeks ago Samson’s presence here is essential. “Didn’t I tell you to finish unpacking the horses?”

Samson clears his throat. Here it comes, the part Cullen must love, where Samson has to get on his knees and pucker up to kiss the kid’s arse. Metaphorically. 

“It’s evenfall,” Samson points out, reasonably. “Can I have it first?”

Cullen sighs, as though Samson has asked to sacrifice Cullen’s firstborn to the old gods. Well, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, would it? Not with the Inquisitor gone. Samson tries not to smirk and ruin the penitent act.

“I got it, Commander,” says Rylen, the brown noser. He’s exactly the sort of Templar Samson hated back in Kirkwall, the sort who are too content with their shitty lot in life. “Samson, just give us a minute.” 

They maneuver the table up the stairs and into the refectory, and Rylen emerges, unclasping the pouch from his belt. Behind him, Cullen hovers in the doorway, silhouetted by the orange firelight within. In the gathering dusk, the cerulean glow of the bottle bathes Rylen’s hand in light. “Catch.” 

The singing blue bottle arcs through the air. Samson snatches it out of the air, smiling as he feels the warm, reassuring weight hit his hand. Maybe Rylen isn’t completely good for nothing. Samson uncaps the bottle and toasts. “Cheers, mate.” 

Cullen watches from the door. Samson can feel, rather than see, his scowl. 

[slverblood]

DRAGON AGE.

BORN: Late in the Steel Age RACE: Unknown (still an aasimar with a divine parent) NATIONALITY: Born in Starkhaven, raised in Ferelden CLASS: Warrior SPECIALIZATION: Spirit Warrior; Champion

BACKGROUND.

Selûne is a goddess more ancient than Thedas itself. Although many have tried to supporess her worship in successive centuries, and although the Veil has altered how gods interact with Thedas, She can no more be unmade than the moons themselves. Nearly three centuries ago, she hared the body of a woman, Şenay the Silver Song and fell in love with a knight of Starkhaven, Ser Çağri the Moon-Touched. This led to the birth of Aylin — who was immediately hunted by the Chantry. Two faithful of Selûne, Saint Erlona and John Meadowlin, took her to foster in far Ferelden. When Aylin grew, she became her Mother's Sword and a light to vanquish darkness. The Chantry branded her a heretic, but many in far corners praised her as the Moon Daughter, the Sword of the Moonmaiden, Dame Aylin Silverblood. That is until a mage hoping to leech off her divine gifts bound her in a profane rite.

DA:O.

Aylin was one of Sophia Dryden's supporters — at the least, she found her far preferable to the despotic Arland Theirin. She fought at Sophia's side even when many of their Grey Warden forces deserted and the tide turned against them. It was Avernus who imprisoned Aylin with blood magic, leeching off her immortality to sustain himself as well as to keep the demons he'd summoned contained in Soldier's Peak. the Warden can free her and recruit her for their cause. This immediately negates any chance of Avernus' survival, however, as Aylin smashes his head in. Repeatedly.

DAII.

Once, Aylin was able to hear her Mother's voice clear as a bell, but silence reigns after her imprisonment. She feels Selûne's presence, strongest under the light of the moons, but there no voice answers her prayers. She determines to move north toward Starkhaven, serving her Mother's will along the way. She can think of no alternative. She arrives in Kirkwall during Act I and tarries to aid Fereldan refugees she has befriended on the journey over. Hawke will meet at Lirene's Fereldan Imports and accompanies them to find Anders — simply to ensure their intentions are pure. She can thereafter join Hawke's party as a companion. Despite often being on the templars' radar, she is too integral to the Fereldan community for them to target her out of hand — not without starting riots.

DA:I.

Although Aylin lingers in Kirkwall after everything explodes to help rebuild, there is concern her presence will further anger the Chantry, and she still quests to hear her Mother's voice again. She accompanies Sebastian back to Starkhaven. Although she does not enmesh herself in the city's politics, she lends him her sword when necessary as seeks her Mother's voice. She is not always in the city proper but is more often afield in the towns and villages.

Aylin finally hears her Mother's voice again calling to her across the Fade when the Breach tears open and demons pour from the sky. She is called to Haven to join the Inquisition. Her Mother warns there is a darkness coming that can swallow every star. She does as she is bid and is available to the Inquisitor as a companion.

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 18 “I’m fine.”                        

| Self-defense | Allergies | Headache |

Another day for @juneofdoom, and a changed as it's a short break from TVDs and hurting Elijah Mikaelson.

The new dragon age hype had brought me back so here's a little of my multi warden/Hawke/inquisitor fic.

Dragon age origins.

Introducing

Solona Amell, the youngest of a marcher noble family, too pretty for her own good and too angry and smart for anyone else’s. The spirit healer that hid her abilities out of spite.

Alim Surana, the alienage elf, conceived in the tower and left in the care of his grandmother before he ended up in the same tower. The moral compass of the three from the outside but really the one with the least morals. The natural Blood mage.

And of course our beloved suffering Jowan.

Anti circle, anti Templar, anti Irving.

Warnings for sexual assault, kidnapping, abuse, murder and description of disembowelment.

—-------------

They had a system in the tower, between the three of them, a code of sorts.

“Are you alright?” The pair of the ask Solona expecting the worst after they had overheard some of the Templars speaking of bedding the tall apprentice.

“I'm Alright.” Solona grins with to many teeth

She had been warned, she knew it was coming.

It would be alright, eventually.

She would use it, she had heard Gregor complain about his Templars going for younger apprentices, she at least looked older than her thirteen.

--

“Are you alright?” Solona asks when he manages to escape one of the new Templars, because of a distraction caused by Jowan.

I'm alright.” Alim says fingers touching the bleeding cuts on his still pointed ears.

It would be alright, eventually.

They'll heal, he could ignore them.

--

“Are you alright?” Alim asks when Jowan returns from a punishment he took for Alim. They knew the new Templar in charge of punishments this month was harsher on Elves.

I'm alright.” Jowan smiles at him, rolling his shoulders.

It would be alright, eventually.

Lashes string and scar but they’re temporary.

--

“Are you alright?” They asked each other at the same time, pile of dented and broken armour at the bottom of the stairs.

They would have ignored him if he hadn't preferred the younger girls, taken dragged Jowan from bed one night for the same reason.

If he wasn't the last seen with six year old Kenith before he was found dead in his bed the next morning.

If he hadn't started to target Alim the same way.

“Alright.” They reply, laughing slightly.

Solona takes the blame using her race, gender, nobility, her place as one of Irving's star pupils and closeness to Gregor, to lessen the punishment, the joys of leverage.

Jowan's sixteen, Solona and Alim are fourteen and they just killed a man, it was alright, they made it so.

--

“Are you alright?” Jowan asks when he notices Alim is quiet on their return from the private lessons with Irving.

“I'm fine.” he tells Jowan, sharper than he planned.

 Solona always had a darker view of the tower. Why wouldn't she be unsurprised by this.

Jowan throws an arm over his shoulder and Sol leans against the other side.

It was always clear that Irving was training them to be his replacement, but he had thought that meant the other would stay to assist.

No Irving couldn't allow split loyalty, whoever won and was picked the other would be sent to another circle.

This wasn't something he could use, this was knowing even playing the rules he was going to lose them eventually.

--

“Are you alright?” Alim asks the first time the Rite of Tranquility is fully explained to them.

“Alright.” Solona says and Alim tries to ignore the almost want in her eyes.

“F-fine.” Jowan stutters, without thinking they shift to press him between them.

It was clear who the talk was aimed at, not Irving’s star pupils but the unfortunate third of the group, who next to Solona's unnaturally large mana reserve and Alim's unnatural gift at near perfecting everything they're taught within weeks, fell behind.

This wasn't something he could ignore.

--

“Sol?’ Jowan’s voice wakes Alim.

“Are you alright?” 

Solona is silent for a moment, as they stare at her, it's been months since the Templars had taken her to the higher levels, the only reason they knew she was still alive was news from Wynne Jowan had managed to get.

The last of Alim's respect for Irving had died when he asked and got told not to concern himself and to use the time to his advantage to over take her in their studies.

“I'm fine.” she tells them softly, before climbing into the bed.

It's difficult to fit them all in one apprentice bed now, Alim’s average for an elf his age but neither Jowan and Solona, both tall humans but they make it work.

Solona’s in the centre and neither of them say a thing when she curls around her stomach.

It wasn't hard to work out what happened, just before Anders last escape, nine months ago, they had been using each other, Anders for a distraction from Karl was transferred and Solona for her first choice.

She was a child when they stole her, she was barely more than a child when they stole hers.

It wasn't something she could move one from, it was permanent.

--

“Are you alright?” Jowan asks when Alim wakes up from his harrowing.

“I'm” Alim paused for a moment the words of the strange man in the fade echoing around his head giving him a headache. “ Alright.” He finishes with a smile.

He would be as long as he had the pair of them.

--

“Are you alright?” One of the wardens ask the pair of them on the way to Highever, for Duncan to pick up another recruit.

“Fine.” They reply in sync, they were missing a part of themselves, Jowan had betrayed, lied, left them behind and he was out there alone.

What was alright about that?

Because things could become alright but they were never fine in the tower.

—--

“Are you alright?”

Jowan blinks at the person in front of his cell door.

And laughs.

--

“You’ ‘right?” The drunken dwarf, Oghren asks.

Solona’s hand is pressed flat on her stomach to stop her insides from slipping out from the tear the Darkspawn’s horn had opened, she raises an eyebrow at him and laughs.

--

“Are you alright?” someone in camp asks Alim, their face blurry from his exhaustion.

He looks at Jowan passed out of the floor, Solona being led away by her lovers; the bastard prince and Lady Cosland the younger.

He looks at the dalish hunter turned Warden placing desperate kisses on the recent darkspawn returned to elf through sheer will, blood magic and spirit healing.

Three illegal barely more than teenage mages just did what the chantry claimed was impossible.

He laughs.

[fatesown]

Ziphrane burst out of her tent with a desperate gasp for cool, fresh air. The moon and stars loomed protectively above her, watching the wayward elf as she forced slower breaths through herself. The dream—no, the nightmare had been so real. Standing on some sort of dais, an army of rot growling just out of reach beneath her. And in front of her, a creature she could only assume was the Archdemon. A dragon with a terrifying glare, fangs sprouting where they shouldn’t be, and then—

A shuddering roar that made her quake even still.

She stumbled and fell to her knees, letting the air lick the cold sweat that coated her skin, using the night to force her body to calm down. Slow breaths, grounding herself in reality by muttering aloud what she could see around her, tracing the vallaslin that stretched down to her palms. When she was herself again, she went back into her tent and found a salve of lavender and a length of string.

Sitting again, closer to the fire, she spread the salve over her arms, basking in the calming scent as it washed over her. And when her hands still itched for something to do, she retrieved the length of string and began practicing old knots. Either hours or minutes passed like this, a blanket flung loosely over her shoulders, before a reprieve came.

“Bad dreams?” Alistair’s voice eased across the empty camp to Ziphrane, who soaked in the cool night air in front of the slowly dying fire, a length of knotted string between her fingers. Bad dreams didn’t begin to cover it; she could still feel the spray of saliva, could feel her bones shake with its voice. She had had dreams before, intensely vivid, pulling her into the Fade and letting her dance with spirits. This was not that.

Still, she nodded, offering a sheepish smile.

“Me too,” he admitted, mirroring her smile and settling near the fire, near her. Silence stretched between them for a time as they both took in the crackling flames, until it began to grow dim enough that Alistair went to fetch another log for it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered as he sat down again, a tad closer to her than he had been before.

Ziphrane’s face contorted in response, a mix of pain and hesitation. Talking about it would certainly help, and Alistair would come closest to understanding, if only because he shared the nightmares. “I’ve always been very comfortable in dreams,” she admitted softly, thoughtfully, omitting why that was the case. “Sometimes more at home there than I am in the waking world. It feels like… like an invastion.”

“Like we can’t escape the Blight, even when we’re sleeping,” he supplied, nodding. “I know.” A moment of pause, a beat of thought. “I wonder if it’s worse for you, as a mage,” he mused.

It was too risky to explain why it was worse, how it had nothing to do with her being a mage and much more to do with her being a dreamer. He was no longer a Templar-in-training, but those teachings were hard to unlearn, and even her own people didn’t take kindly to those who dallied with spirits, as she did. Though, to his credit, he had taken her being a so-called ‘apostate’ rather well so far, and showed no inclination to turn her in, even when they were near one of their Circles.

“Hard to say. I don’t know how bad you have it.”

“True enough. Though I think I’d take these ones over my dreams about the Maker when I was a boy. The teeth, you know, sharp as fangs. And he was always trying to eat me.” A beat. “Come to think of it, not unlike my dreams about the archdemon now. But I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything.”

Ziphrane couldn’t help a small chuckle, shaking her head. “Every day I find new reasons to be glad I don’t worship your Maker. He sounds terrible.”

“Oh, just the worst,” Alistair replied with a wry smile. As simple as that, they were both smiling again, for however brief. That was his own form of magic, and one Ziphrane was glad to rely on whenever he was willing to offer it.

It was her turn now, to scoot closer to him, and once she was near enough, she rested her head on his shoulder. Peering up through her lashes, she asked, “Is this alright?”

A nervous chuckle escaped him, but he nodded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and leaning into her. “Yes, this is just fine.”

She wouldn’t remember when exactly she fell back to sleep like that, but she woke the next morning in front of the ashes of a long-dead fire, a blanket tossed over the both of them. The ground was cool beneath them, but they found warmth in each other’s arms. And at least this time, there were no nightmares.

[fouralignments]

Assassin's Creed au?

Erik the assassin leaving Peter in Charles care to protect him from Templars.

Erik supposed it was an easy mission. Simple really.

But it became more than it. A revelation indeed.

Beyond mere leaps of faith.

Erik graced across the sky, the full moon so big it was like the sun glazing his back with coldfire, luminous and milky light. The skies filled with glittering stars and shrouds of nebulas. For in the dark, there could be found light in which he served with questions numbering in the dozens of stars above him. The winds cutting against face as the assassin glided downwards cracking a few terracotta tiles. Hunching over keeping himself to the shadows

blending into a chimney right over the kitchen, the staff prepping for the feast the next day; soups boiling, the rough chopping of vegetables, and yeast rising in breads, cakes, and other decadent patisseries filled with curds or jams before being utterly dosed in amber caramels; just to show off how much wealth the Xavier's had. Just to get the many pounds of refined sugar to produce such indulgences. Stilling his body.

As the torch light of a regent of guard patrolled with their halberds glinting, freshly sharpen and ready to fight, the Xavier estate Their heels of armor clicking together in unison as they hit the stone cobbles of the street.

Glancing over, the guards were far enough away. Erik continued on his way the soft soles of boots catching the sound to the inner sanctuary kept behind secrets and solitude of the grounds.

A quick detour...Erik picked up speed and launched himself onto a tower, his fingertips catching onto the barely an edge of the stone and pulled himself by the strength of arms to the rung of a long banner hanging the crest of the Xavier. Now relying on his balance on what wasn't the most sturdiest of poles. Erik jumped onto the roof; the highest point. There outstretched was a gargoyle, the drain water spout of the parapet.

Synchronized himself with the surrounding area. He could see all, a view from God's eye. The complex of buildings the Xavier Estate, stables, barricades, library, courtyards, smokehouses, servants quarters and the main mansion; the many walls keeping the nobles away from those below them, a city on top of a hill snubbing its nose against the world; the mountains craving the landscape behind it, the orchards of pomegranates, fields of blackberries and wild blueberries.

This was right one. The trees rustled as the breeze blew into archway with its geometric intricacy and pattern titles surrounding it; linen drapes flowed with winds creating the illusion of waves. A chess game on the floor well played against himself; the player unwilling to sacrifice any pawns.

Erik stood in the entry and his shadow overtaking the bed as the moon lit him from behind, only his ice blue eyes could be seen under the shadow of his assassin's hood. Erik raised hands in grace of his oath he swore of them, channeling the hidden blade from his bracer with a mere flick of his wrist; its twin with the magnetic force of the earth tuned to his command. His weapons of justice, killer of tyrants.

He knew what needed to be done.

Erik would show him the face of death.

The assassin pulled back the canopy of the bed. He could only breath as Erik mounted the young man; Erik didn't want to know his name. It made the job easier. But why the Brotherhood wanted him killed, he didn't know nor would they tell him.

A mountain of pillows supporting his shoulders and neck area as his target's chest rise and fell in the deep throws of sleep, leaving his chest extended outward with a neutral loose sheer shirt with a deep V neckline that left the eyes to wonder down his chest.

Erik placed his blade at the apex of the neck in the crest of the chest. The assassin breathed out as his eyes opened, awakened to the weight of the blade against his chest, not with fear, but with something much more damning: anticipation.

Erik fell into the deep pools of caerulean. He drowned in them. Lips as red as rosewater-Pomegranate Lokum delights and just as soft and delicately sweet as it was rolled in dried rose petals.

A shock went down Erik's spine as it stilled him. So complete was his shock that his other half slide down, hands feeling the ornate polished rows of carved camel bone beads handwoven into the soft brown leather and slide an arm around Erik's arm before collapsing into its mirror, pinned it against his chest. Bucking and with a great "umpf!" from Erik as he was rolled onto to his back, his hood falling back, revealing his face to his enemy; the Assassin found himself in a position that he didn't want to be in and gave the former much more leverage over him.

His light touches crowned Erik's chest, catching all the delicate work that went into his assassin's armor; an outmost shell of his being that show the world who he was; afraid one wrong touch would ruin it in all its splendor. At the feathered metal the handles of hidden throwing blades, resting above his heart. Above, the hands pulled back.

Feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath; this was a templar ready to kill him.

An aura of serenity and calm radiated from him as if the sun had been brought to him. Charles breathed steadily until they matched one another and both breathed to together.

A thought passed over him, he'd known it, but didn't listen to it An instinct known the truth: this wasn't his enemy. This was Charles. He was certainly wasn't going to kill him.

Charles leaned down, his reddest lips that could put a rose to shame brushed against the whiskers of a shadow of a bread not yet grown; his auburn hairs standing on end as they catched the warmed breath. Every move methodically, just trying to capture every flow of jaw to the inner valley of the neck to memory. Every now and again the pad of the tongue, licking them.

Wills flowed together, "There are no need for your blades here, Assassin." Erik held his hands up in mute surrender, before the songs of his metal blades slide back at their command. Charles's nimble hands came back down into the hard weaved leather gantlets.

Trailing down the Y of the rows of camel bonds embroidered into the raw woven silks acting like the armor plating, but with all the beauty and finest that could only be done by hand. Before Charles paused at the the red suede strips overlayed with stamped leathers sash draped down bands of beads and a sheathed close combat Pesh-Kabz dagger, along with smoke bombs and poisons if the need arise.

"You do not need to say a word, my dearest. For I know what you want." Charles hands slide under Erik's waist and unbuckled the sash and tossed away along with the red suede wrapping. "Erik."

...

The first light of the day was what awoke Erik. Charles so close to him, his fingers combing his hair and twisted it around his finger while the other hand, traced down the length of his spine.

"You should stay, Erik, please." Charles begged of his lover. The thought of being away all too much for him to bare alone. Would be alone again.

"You why I can't, Charles." Erik stated. The warmth of his body leaving the bed as he got up to find his clothing and be gone before the guards found him. The Council would not be pleased...

"Come back to me, my dearest; its what you want."

"Its not about what I want, Charles...besides we do not want the same thing." Erik did look back as vanished into the daybreak.

...

Erik guided the horse and wagon turning into the innermost courtyard of the Xavier estate looking down at the cobblestone. Knowing that as they traveled, they would appear not as themselves but as simple merchants wishing to do the Xavier family; just one of Charles many tricks. The Templars and Shaw for that matter knowing none the wiser.

Peter gasped and couldn't contain his excitement and jumped down from the cart with Mr. Dibbles's glass bowl and tottered over to the large fountain pond that bubbled out the top into the larger basin filled with Lilly pads, skaters, and dragonflies skidding across the still water surface. Peter took out Mr. Dibbles from his glass home and showed the little turtle around.

Erik smiled at his sohn. It had been many years since he'd Charles, politics, practicality, missions, and the council's petty deceits kept them apart. Stepping out of the door, Charles was as beautiful as when he first laid his eyes on him. A light gray loose collar long sleeve shirt and hanging down on his neck was the carbon crystal that glowed in ethereal light like the moon. A rare find during a research mission in Egypt to find information on the first incarnation of the brotherhood hoping to find answers that the continent didn't have or misled during the crusades. The telepath wore a white wraparound scarf draped over his head and shoulder acting like a shawl the bellowed outward when the breeze came through; it quite reminded Erik of a tallit. "Oh stop your flattery, Erik. It's too much."

Erik gave a wayward laugh, "Its nowhere near enough--" Charles closed the distance between them and placed his scholarly hands on around his neck that knew no the roughness of stone or and were soft as the leathers that bond the books that he read throughout his studies: Ibn Khaldun, Aristotle, Socrates, Ibn Sina,  Ibn Rushd, Ptolemy, Alhazen, Apollonius, and Omar Khayyam. Chares pulled back on his hood to see his face, cradling it and moved toward the strand of beaded hair intertwined with mother of pearl, colorful Moroccan beads and bits of metal Erik found and turned into hollowed beads, a larger glass protective talisman blue and turquoise of the ayin ha’ra, the evil eye; played with it interweaving it between his lithe fingers.

Erik smelt like an early morning rain, the old ethereal stones of synagogues he climbed on to reach the rooftops to see the edges of the horizon; the oakmoss ambergris of distant woods and rolling in the meadow grass with his sohn; Charles wouldn’t have it any other way.

Erik would be lost to him again. He wished he’d stayed.

But in his waiting, Charles found ways to connect: letters, gifts of Persian sliver, Sidr Honey, Sandalwood, amber, silks and tea from the far east, ingots of Damascus steel that flowed downward like water or bloomed like roses; A Thousand Nights with tales of Sinbad and Scheherazade for Erik to read to Pietro and for Erik Ḥamāsah; bond book of his own handwritten poetry; or if he was playful placing flowers, Astilbe and Myosotis, all over the city for Erik to find on his daily assassin duties.

Erik would do the same: calligraphy of Ktav Ashuri script and intertwined with poetry, fine metal jewelry scrupled by his powers, letters of Pietro's development, and while in the deepest of sleep during a new moon darkness....Erik would come to his room and give the briefest of touches. Charles would awaken sharply, for a moment, a oh so brief moment he saw Erik, before in a blink his dearest was gone. But, he would always be in his shadow, watching over him Charles knew, he just knew that Erik was there feeling his presence over him.

Charles's hand flowed down Erik's face darken with fuzzy auburn bristles, "How about you stay for a day? I have a warm bath prepared and I can give you a shave and a massage."

Erik knew what Charles was trying to do. Brought Charles's hands down from his face and into his own. Charles took the time to trace the turquoise veins, Erik's duties to the assassins made them pop to the surface of his muscles. "You know that I can't---"

Tugging on his shawl, "Mr. Xavier, you look like my friend Ambrose and he's a faun."

Erik gave Charles a glare that could melt stone.

the telepath gave a nervous short laugh, "You have your tricks. I have mine, Erik." Charles added on, "Besides.. Peter was quite lonely."

"Look what I can do!" Peter did a forward roll.

Charles insisted, "Please my darling, call me Charles."

Erik smelt like an early morning rain, the old ethereal stones of synagogues he climbed on to reach the rooftops to see the edges of the horizon; the oakmoss ambergris of distant woods and rolling in the meadow grass with his sohn; Charles wouldn’t have it any other way.

Erik would be lost to him again. He wished he’d stayed.

"He's even faster than me."

"Oh, really?"

Erik commented, "Peter is having difficultly spelling and writing."

"I dreamt of teaching him. Oh, I can't wait to teach him: politics, history, poetry, rhetoric, music, astronomy, philosophy, literature.."

"As you will,"

"Have you thought about teaching outside? Letting him study the natural world. I'll get it sorted it."

"Keep my little light safe." Sighing as he looked over the courtyard to find his son again, "I don't know if he wants to fight me or fuck me." Erik said, "Or both." He didn't want to admit to Charles, jealous was a dangerous emotion to have and acting in reckless abounded would get Pietro killed, "Shaw is under the mistaken impression that..." Erik turned his gaze toward Pietro feeding Mr. Dibbles a rose petal and giving a high pitch squeal, as dramatic as he, "Is his."

"A mistake that I tend to correct."

"Don't."

"Shaw and the Templars already had contracts with my family, before I took over." Pointing out, "If anything is permitted is---are we truly safe?" And snappily added, "He sent---"

"Me." Turning away and leaving his sohn in beloved's care.

"Vati! Please don't leave me!!!" Pietro cried out.

Erik sighed and came back and knelt in front of him. Hummingbirds, pomegranates, stars of David and verses of Erik’s personal prayer of protection all intertwined in the intricate acid etched relief of the metal and enhanced contrast of lampblack into the recessed area furthered accentuated the designs of the bracers.

The metal humming its protective songs as Erik traces his work, feeling the layers of the composition of his work, before the father turned his sohn’s hand over to neatly untie the bracers network of leather lacing and pulled it off completely. Pietro's whole hand to his forearm was swathed in long thick weaved cloth bandages meant to keep compression on his sohn's broken wrist.

Erik's voiced cracked, "Pietro, the man who did this you

"Shaw...burned me and it hurt real bad.."

"My sohn," Cradling his child's head in his palm.

Shaw in all his arrogance didn't factor in a child's curiosity to explore nor persistence to get into anything that they found, it was beneath his notice, who would try to get into his room. Shaw had locks on his door that master assassins, many had tried with their skills at lockpicking and failed. However...Pietro took a more direct approach with gunpowder and a spark.

It was the POP! of the lock being blown off that first caught his attention.

His idiot offspring was doing something monumentally ill advised.

The smell of used gunpowder made Erik sprinted into his room. The sizzling of his sohn's skin bubbling blisters, Pietro screeching in a high pitch that could break glass

Shaw had a look in his eyes that he was about to yank Pietro's entire arm off he was so furious, he could light wildfire and rival mount Etna with a mere gaze. Erik attacked with all the ferocity and fury of any father finding their young endanger.

"This is why, you must stay." Erik hugged his sohn for one last time.

"Perhaps...maybe we could be together."

[scotttrismegistus7]

HOW I BECAME THE HEART OF THE HYDRA, THE HEART OF GODDESS ISIS-BAPHOMET-CAIN:

HOW I OPENED THE NINTH-GATE OF NANNA-INANNA-SHAMASH AND BECAME THE SUN OF SATURN, I-SHTAR, MASTER OF THE MOON.

There's perfect harmony in the rising in the falling of the sea.

~Dio~

Cut the head off

Grows back hard

I am the Hydra

Now you'll see your star

~Marilyn Manson, Adam 15~

"Here are the facts in detail, in two quite similar variants reported at the Templar trial by Hugues de Faure and the former Templar notary, Antonio Sicci de Verceil: “A nobleman from Sidon fell in love with a young girl, but she was taken away by death before he could conquer it. On the evening of the funeral, mad with desire, the knight opened the tomb and satisfied his passion on the body of the dead virgin. Then a voice said to him: “Come back here in nine months and you will find a head there, daughter of your works. Never part with this head, for it will give you everything you can desire.” And that's what happened ... The hero who obtained the magical head by trade with the dead, sailed one day with her towards Constantinople; his curious nurse opened the box and took it out of it; a terrible storm broke out and the ship was submerged.”.

~Corpus Deae by Anton Parks~

As the one who sleeps forever in the Infinite Alive Mind machine, the darkness is the ocean of my dreams!

~Divine Chronos~

Lilith-Lamashtu, without you I am Samael. Lilith-Lamashtu, you are my wings, and now that I am reunited with you, I am Lucifer, Namtar born again!

~Horus Apophis Atum-Ra~

AZA-EL, EATER OF SIN, MASTER OF YIN, YOU OPENED YOUR GATE AND LET ME IN,

EATEN BY LEVIATHAN,

YALDABAOTH CHRONOS,

ALL I EVER WANTED TO DO,

WAS PUT ON MY RABBIT MASK

AND DANCE WITH YOU

IN THE PALE MOONLIGHT.

EVEN THOUGH MY HEART

WAS LIGHTER THAN A FEATHER,

GODDESS LAMASHTU

I AM PAZUZU DIVINE,

AND I LOVE YOU!

YOU OPENED THE NINTH GATE

AND LET ME INSIDE

YOU MADE ME YOUR

FEATHERED SERPENT DRAGON LORD

DEMIURGE OF LOVE,

LILITH, YOU MADE ME YOUR LUCIFER

DARK GODDESS, YOU ARE MY WINGS

DEMIURGE OF LOVE 3-7, 4-9

AND WHEN I LOOK AROUND

ALL I SEE IS THE HYDRA OF ME AND YOU.

APEP-APOPHIS HAS RISEN WITH NEW WINGS AND FLOWN THROUGH THE 9TH GATE INTO VICTORY AND FREEDOM!

HERE'S A COUPLE OCCULT TREASURE FREEBIES. EVER WONDER WHAT HAPPENED TO ENKI-PTAH? AFTER HE REVEALED THE SECRETS ABOUT HOW HE GENETICALLY ENGINEERED HUMANS TO HORUS-MARDUK, HIS SON HORUS-MARDUK EXPLOITED THEM TO FORM HIS EMPIRE OF SLAVERY, AND THEN NAILED HIS FATHER ENKI-PTAH TO A CROSS TO SET AN EXAMPLE FOR WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO ANYONE WHO CHALLENGED HIS EMPIRE BY TRYING TO FREE THE HUMANS HE ENSLAVED FROM HIS YOKE OF EMPIRICAL POLITICAL SLAVERY.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT REALLY CAUSED THE FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE, WHY THE PAGAN VISIGOTHS WERE ABLE TO TEAR IT DOWN? ANYONE FAMILIAR WITH THE BOOKS OF MACCABEES? JOSEPHUS WAS TORTURED INTO GIVING UP VITAL SECRETS OF ANCIENT EGYPTIAN MAGICK HELD BY THE JEWISH PEOPLE TO THE ROMAN GOVERNMENT. THE ROMAN GOVERNMENT THEN EXPLOITED THOSE SECRETS TO FORM THE CHURCH OF ROME IN AN ATTEMPT TO CONSOLIDATE POWER BY MANIPULATION AND SACRILEGE OF SACRED PAGAN SPIRITUALITY. THAT'S PART ONE OF THE ANSWER, HERE'S PART TWO. THE ROMAN EMPERORS FAILED TO PROVIDE THE NECESSARY UPKEEP TO THE DARK ONES, AND THUS IN VIOLATION OF THEIR CONTRACT THE DARK ONES USED THE VISIGOTHS TO TEAR THEM DOWN. AFTER THE ROMAN GOVERNMENT HAD STOLEN THAT SACRED KNOWLEDGE THAT CAME FROM EGYPT HELD BY THE JEWISH PEOPLE BY TORTURING JOSEPHUS INTO GIVING IT UP TO THEM, THEY USED IT TO DEFEND THEMSELVES AGAINST THE DARK ONES BY STAGING THE SAME REBELLION AGAINST THE ANCIENT ONES STAGED BY AKHENATEN AND RAMOSE IN EGYPT, AND THUS CHRISTIANITY WAS BORN.

PLEASE MAKE A NOTE THAT ONE OF THE MAIN MESSAGES I CONVEY IN MY OCCULT TEACHINGS IS THAT THE DARK ONES HAVE BECOME IMMUNE TO THE KRYPTONITE OF THE ABRAHAMIC RELIGIONS, KININIGEN RED (BLOOD) SHIELD DOES NOT WORK AGAINST THEM ANYMORE, AND THEY ARE COMING FOR THE BACK PAYMENTS OF THE DEBTS THEY ARE OWED FROM THE FAILURE OF THOSE INVOLVED IN THE REBELLION OF THE ABRAHAMIC RELIGIONS TO PAY THE CONTRACTUAL COVENANT UPKEEP TO THEM...

CONCERNING THE DRACONIAN DARK ONES I REPRESENT, THERE IS NO FORGIVENESS OF SIN, AND SIN DOES NOT FORGIVE. THEY WILL PAY THEIR DEBTS TO THE DRACONIAN LORDS OF DARKNESS, THE ANCIENT ONES, THE EATERS OF SIN AND MASTERS OF YIN.

UNTIL NEXT TIME MY LOVELIES, KEEP DARING TO DREAM! I'LL BE WAITING IN THE SEA OF DREAMS, THE SEA OF THE HEART IN THE FORM OF AN ELECTRIC EEL!

LONG LIVE THE COSMIC EGG OF AMMA-GODDESS ISIS, DIVINE CHRONOS AND THE DIVINE FEMININE EMPIRE OF THE BLACK SUN, AND ALL THE INHABITANTS THEREOF!

BLESSED BE!

~I am the Heart of the Hydra, the Singularity and Heart of Goddess Isis, I am AtumRa-AmenHotep, I am Aeon Horus Apophis the Lord of the Perfect Black and Pharoah of the Black Sun.

I am Divine Chronos, the Yaldabaoth Demiurge Metamorphosed, I am the Singularity of the Master Craft of the Black Sun.

Azazil-Iblis-Maymon, Abzu-Osiris-Typhon-Set-Kukulkan, Nummo-Naga-Chitauri,

Mégisti-Generator Starphire~

#illuminati #illuminator #illuminated #lightbearer #morningstar #lucifer #Draconian #anunnaki #enki #enlil #anu #inanna #dumuzi #hermes #trismegistus #Azazel #starfamily #horus #Demiurge #Sophia #archon #AI #blacksun #saturn #iblis #jinn #Maymon #ibis #thoth #egypt #esoteric #magick #dogon #dogontribe #digitaria #nummo #nommo #Naga #tiamat #serpent #dragon #gnosis #gnostic #gnosticism #Anzu #watcher #watchtower #yaldaboath #Sirius #scientology #aleistercrowley #typhon #echidna #ancientaliens #TheGrays #grayaliens #aliens #yeben #andoumboulou

[crusader-kings]

some random tidbits about my ocs;

ironface/star

- i do not know if this is obvious or not but hes actually albino, although it translates bad to his cat design

- he had a previous mate before goldenfeather, one who died in childbirth and the kits also, didnt survive

- dovestar was an awful mother to him, he was mostly raised by stalwart who he looks up to alot. he genuinely love his dad more than anything in the world

- his bio mother on the other hand cared for him because he was albino and the smallest of the litter, even arguing with silentstalk about his decision to exile him

- canonically, in ck, he speaks 4 languages ( goidelic his native language, arabian his dad language, greek from his mother and finnish. for funsies.) in the warrior cat universe, it just means he can talk to animals, which is relevant later on

holypyre

- comes from a long lineage of crusaders, templars and knights who fought alongside the emperor, his grandfather was granted leadership and a piece of land for his family’s effort and it was passed down to holypyre

- his former name was autumnstallion, he was named holypyre after his services as a crusader, but decided to head back to his own lands instead of remaining in the moonclan, so hes just a knight now

- he was formely close with Goldenstar but the two fell off

Goldenbutcher/star

- He was made leader when he had around 5 moons, he was mentored by his bishop who was a former warrior

- in fact, his name timeline is ; goldenkit -> goldenstar, the nickname ‘goldenbutcher’ was given to him after......some... of his ... antics..

- he does not know how to fight

[elisaphoenix13-cullrian]

Barely Breathing (BSA) (Ch.2)

A week passed…then two…and then a month later, Dorian found himself pulled away from Haven to run around the Hinterlands with still no visit from the commander. He supposed it was to be expected. He even had to admit to himself that maybe he had read the man wrong. Maybe his offer hadn't been genuine after all and it was all just some elaborate test that he didn't understand. Southerners did have savage tendencies didn't they? Their templars were a perfect example. Forget the fact that they forcefully ripped magic from mages to apprehend them…they actually consumed lyrium. That was not something to be consumed by a non-mage.

Dorian could only imagine what it was doing to their bodies. He had already heard the tragic stories of southern templars losing themselves because the lyrium had taken its toll on their minds and bodies. How long until the Commander fell with the rest of them?

But then he paused. That evening…now he thought back on it, the Commander hadn't smelled like lyrium. At least not like the templars he had come across. In fact, Dorian didn't even sense it. He didn't realize it until now though…but maybe Cullen simply hadn't taken his dose yet.

"Don't think too hard, Vint. You'll get wrinkles." Bull says from beside Dorian, who wrinkles his nose from the repulsive smell coming off the Qunari. Didn't he take baths?

"Could you please stand downwind from me? If I have to smell you, at least give me a distance of ten feet." Dorian criticizes.

Of course Iron Bull completely ignores him. "What are you thinking so hard about anyway? You haven't been with us very long but you're never this quiet."

"Trying to figure out how to dunk you in the nearest lake," Dorian answers. "Haven't you heard of oils or, Maker forbid, soap?"

"Too flowery."

Dorian's lip turns up in disgust, but a part of him assumes that Bull is only trying to get a rise out of him because the Qunari has had plenty of bodies to warm his bed. And they weren't Qunari. Not even a whore would put up with the stench he was giving off right now.

"Then you can sleep under the stars tonight. I refuse to share a tent with you." Dorian says as they follow the Herald to another rift. The man wanted to close a few just so he had a good handle on how to use the power in his hand, so they were all more likely to succeed in closing the Breach. It still loomed above them with its sickly green color and Dorian was just as eager as the rest of the world to get it closed.

Everyone was ready, it was all just a matter of Trevelyan feeling confident enough that he'll be able to close the thing. From earlier conversations, it was possible that they would get it done as soon as they returned to Haven. 

Dorian's thoughts were put on hold as the rift opened when they neared it, and he was forced to focus on killing the demons that came out of it. Simple enough. Fortunately, because he had actually sneezed mid cast and lightning burst from his fingertips and found its target on the remaining sloth demon. After the Herald closed the rift, Dorian brushed away the dirt on his robes and sniffled.

"Ah…excuse me." He says nonchalantly.

Sera glances at him warily. "Do you always sneeze magic like that?"

"I was in the middle of casting. I'm more likely to do something like that if I get too excited in bed." Dorian says with a slight grin.

"Ugch. Sorry I asked," The elf grimaces and Dorian laughs.

"If we head back now, we should make it back to Haven by nightfall." Trevelyan says, interrupting the conversation. "Is anyone injured?"

"Nothing Dorian can't kiss better," Iron Bull chuckles.

"Not even in your dreams." Dorian snorts before turning and walking back to where they left their horses.

It was a short walk since they only had to leave them where the horses couldn't trod, and once they were all mounted, they immediately set off for Haven. Dorian would have protested the trip if it had been past noon, but it was only mid morning and he preferred hours of horseback riding than someone making an attempt on his life at every turn. While the enemies of the Inquisition had the decency of bellowing their intentions, and enemies Dorian may have had weren't as daring.

He was still expecting poison in his ale.

Of course, the people had relaxed more in the past month, but there would always be someone that held a grudge. Not even for Dorian, just for his homeland. And he was the closest they were going to get to it. He had to admit though, the tension was less and he felt a little more at ease.

Not to mention that he was starting to get comfortable with testing certain buttons on the illustrious commander. Dorian still chose his battles carefully, but a flirt here and there was working out to be safe and seeing the other man squirm was magnificent. It almost gave him a high. He still played it safe just in case it ended up chasing Cullen away altogether.

And then he had a thought.

What if it already was?

What if his harmless teasing and flirting was the reason the commander hadn't come to find him for a game of chess? In fact, why did Dorian care so much? Not having Cullen around would be one less person to watch his every move…but maybe a part of Dorian hoped that Cullen really was just looking to be friends. Dorian could count how many of those he had on one hand and he certainly could use a couple more here in the South. He didn't think he could quite call anyone a friend yet. They were still acquaintances…just more familiar than they were a month ago.

Dorian spent the entire trip back to Haven ignoring Bull's attempts to flirt with him–and also tried to stay upwind, he really did smell to high heaven–and Sera's random commentary about anything that came up. He was pretty sure he heard her say something about pants and figured he was better off not knowing. The discussion of pants when it came to Sera usually boiled down to the fact that she stole them. Although, the story Varric told him when they met her was amusing.

"Is there something resembling a bath in Haven?" Dorian asks when the gates of the small village come into view. "If I have to use the washbasin again, I might just scream."

Trevelyan looked over his shoulder at Dorian and the expression he wore was enough of an answer for the mage. "Sorry, Dorian. Josephine is trying but she says that some things are more important than others."

The mage answers with a heavy sigh, remaining quiet for the rest of the ride, and then almost falling off his horse when he dismounts. Hours of riding made his legs numb but he supposed he would eventually get used to it. For now, he let the stable hand take his horse's reins and then made his way through the gates and to his shared cabin. He felt wobbly for the first few feet, but feeling quickly came back and he almost wanted the numbness back.

His legs were sore. Everything was sore if he were honest. Dorian was by no means out of shape, but he wasn't used to riding horseback or hiking the Hinterlands for hours on end. A long, hot bath sounded like heaven to him, but he would have to make do with a quick wipe down at the basin and maybe a quick nap. 

The cabin was empty when Dorian walked into it, and he loudly groaned out his relief as he dropped his pack onto his cot, and then stripped away his armor so he could strip off the top part of his ensemble. He tossed it onto his bed with the rest of his belongings before grabbing the clean rag hanging over the lip of the wash basin, warmed the water with his magic, and then wiped away the week of dirt from his body.

He would have seriously considered taking a dip in the lake above camp if he had known he would have to bathe like this again. At least then he would have gotten a majority of the grime off.

His boots and pants went next, and Dorian made quick work of cleaning up so he could dress in some clean clothes that he had picked up in Redcliffe. The small clothes were changed as well after he thoroughly washed, and when he was dressed, Dorian very nearly fell into his bed. Sleep came easily for him after he pulled his thin blanket up to his chin, and when he woke again, it was because of the morning sun shining directly into his eyes.

"Fasta vass," Dorian curses quietly, covering his eyes from the bright light.

His stomach grumbled loudly in protest and Dorian was forced to get up and put his boots on so he could head to the tavern for some breakfast. Or the gruel they called breakfast. Dorian hadn't expected to sleep through the night, but he had, and now he was starving since the last time he had eaten was 24 hours earlier.

When he stepped out of the cabin, Dorian was almost tempted to walk right back in and into the warmth of his bed. It was only comfortable when he was dead on his feet. Barely warm unless a fire was stoked. Instead, he forced himself forward and down to the tavern where he retrieved his meal from Flissa with a smile and then found a table to sit at. Considering it was mid morning, the tavern was practically empty save for one or two people, and even Sera wasn't in her usual corner.

"I went to your cabin but you weren't there," a voice says from beside Dorian, making him startle. When he looks up, he huffs when he finds Cullen. In full armor. Either Dorian was too engrossed in his own thoughts or the commander just knew how to move silently.

"Somebody should put a bell on you. I thought I would be able to hear you stomping around in that armor of yours a mile away." Dorian grouses before sticking a spoonful of gruel into his mouth.

"It is not my intention to…" Cullen trails off and shifts his footing before saying, "...the Herald said he had not seen you since you arrived last night. I came to see if you were alright and if you were…if I could ask you for that game of chess."

Dorian looks back up at him in surprise. "Don't you have soldiers to train? I imagine one or two of them are holding their swords by the pointy bit."

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "Normally, yes…but the Herald wishes to close the Breach today. We thought it best to let the soldiers rest until then. There's no telling what kind of demons will come out of it or how many."

"Something tells me that you aren't resting of your own will," Dorian says, smirking when Cullen grimaces in response. He knew the commander enough that Dorian knew that the other man would be running around Haven until the very last moment to make sure that everything was ready. "I'm guessing it was our dear Herald's orders?"

"He suggested that I find something relaxing to do if I won't take the time to get some sleep," Cullen admits with a sigh. "I did promise you a game of chess and it will help keep my mind off of things."

"Very well Commander. I'll accept being your alibi for the afternoon." Dorian says as he takes another bite of his food.

"I…no. I didn't mean–"

"I know." Dorian interrupts. "I'll finish my breakfast and then we can play chess to your heart's content. Where will we be setting up?"

Cullen shoulders drop in relief. "There's a board set up in one of the rooms in the chantry."

"I won't be but a moment." Dorian says, and the commander nods before turning and leaving the tavern. He went almost as silently as he came and Dorian cursed the man for being so comfortable in heavy armor that it was like a second skin to him.

True to his word, Dorian finished his meal shortly after the commander left and took the bowl up to Flissa to be washed. He thanked her with a smile before he left the tavern and made his way up to the chapel for his scheduled game of chess. If anything, it was as good an excuse as any to get inside and warm up. Not that anyone had actually told him to stay out of the building. But he preferred not to have the chantry hens looking down their noses at them or mumbling such nonsense like "blood magic". He despised it as much as they did. If not more.

They didn't really need to know why though. It would only give everyone even more of a reason to look at him sideways. Just when they were starting to warm up to his presence.

"Indulge me, Commander. Why–" Dorian starts as he opens a door further in the chapel until he runs face first into what felt like a wall. Once he regains his bearings, he finds himself looking at none other than Cullen. Who was looking apologetic.

"Ah…I'm sorry, Dorian. Something came up that needs my attention. We'll have to try another time for chess." Cullen apologizes.

Dorian was a little miffed that he was practically sent on a wild goose chase but he understood. "It's alright Commander. Duty calls and all of that." He brushes off an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder. "Don't let me keep you."

Cullen apologizes again before skirting by him to leave the room and Dorian looks into the room at the small table set up with a chess board. It would be a shame for him to come for no reason and it had been a while since he played, so Dorian opted to play a game with himself to practice. It would keep him out of the cold for a little while at least.

When he sat down and moved his first piece, he tried to ignore how small and dark the room was.

[deflare]

Day 8 means we’re back to successor chapters, and today is the first chapter I didn’t recognize on sight. Today I learned about: the Silver Templars!

Focus and Fury!

The Silver Templars are another Ultramarine successor (we’ll get to the Ultramarines next week, I promise). The reason I didn’t know about them is that they’re brand new--the Silver Templars are one of the first purely Primaris chapters.

See, Primaris Space Marines are the product of a mad genius named Belisarius Cawl, who’s spent thousands of years tinkering with the Emperor’s original supersoldier formula. Cawl had a bunch of test marines sealed in stasis, along with the tools to turn Firstborn marines into Primaris, and the tools to raise up new aspirants as Primaris right out of the box. The debut of these Primaris soldiers was the ‘Ultima Founding’. Many of the new marines went to already-existing chapters whose geneseed they used, filling out their ranks with a wave of new extra-big recruits. But many new chapters were founded around this time, made entirely of Primaris marines, and the Silver Templars are one of them.

The Templars’ main claim to fame is their focus on one-on-one duels. They believe in focus-firing down one opponent at a time, and on a broader strategic level, will often carve a bloody swath through the enemy army to murder their leader. Interestingly, this resembles the behavior of one of the lost traitor legions, the III Legion Emperor’s Children (who got so lost in their pursuit of military perfection that they fell to Slaanesh). Hopefully the Silver Templars don’t walk the same path.

The Silver Templars also have a culture of bonding with their weapons*. They’ll formally and ritually connect themselves to a particular weapon, mastering that particular tool’s use. Losing the bonded weapon is a Big No-No, and they’ll go through hell to get their bonded weapon back.

So that’s the Silver Templars. They don’t have a ton of lore, since they’re so new; as far as I can tell, their backstory is mostly told in some rulebooks and a single novella. But they’re kinda neat. I like their aesthetic, and being “the super duelist-focused chapter” is a cool distinctive trait while still mechanically being similar to others. Sometimes it’s nice to learn about a new thing.

*Hey, what weapons do Space Marines use, anyway?

All the little guys in my advent calendar are holding bolters. A bolter is a weapon designed based on cutting-edge speculative future tech... in the ‘80s. They’re gyrojet weapons (which means the bullets have their own little rockets that propel them once they’re fired) with giant explosive bullets. They’re designed to hit armor, punch through, and then detonate inside the target, turning their insides to soup. Bolters are the standard firearm of the Space Marines, and they come in a wide variety, including sniper, machine-gun, and super-fancy-rounds.

The next step up in power is plasma weaponry. These are glowy blue guns that shoot a lump of super-heated... well... plasma at the enemy, hitting enemies with star-stuff. Plasma weapons can be super-charged to shoot enemies real hard, but the Imperium is bad at making and maintaining plasma weapons, so there’s always a risk that they’ll get too hot and explode on their user.

Then there are specialized ranged weapons. Melta guns use the power of nuclear fusion to punch holes in any solid matter at close range (they’re used for tank-hunting). Flamers are flamethrowers, burninating large swathes of enemy nerds. Missile launchers shoot missiles, it’s not that complicated. Tanks and heavy weapons platforms will carry large auto-weapons (basically a regular gun) and laser weapons. They’re rare these days, but the Legions used to also use graviton weapons (gravity guns that use a target’s weight against them) and volkite weapons (basically heat rays, cooking people inside their armor). I’m probably missing a lot of other obvious weapon types; Space Marines are not short on ways to kill people.

Warhammer 40k is a world that loves its hand-to-hand combat, too, and Space Marines have options in spades. The standard close-combat weapon is a chainsword, which is exactly what it sounds like--a chainsaw stuck on a sword hilt, used to saw through enemy armor (no, this would not actually be effective). Chain weapons also come in axe and bayonet form. Then there are power weapons, which have an in-built force field that reacts violently to any matter they encounter and can thus cut through armor like it’s butter. There are normal-looking power weapons (swords, axes, clubs, Wolverine claws), then there’s thunder hammers (they go ‘boom’ when they hit something), and then there’s power fists. Power fists are giant gauntlets that Space Marines use to punch tanks to death. Some power fists come with a chain-blade attachment, and they’re called chainfists. This shit gets silly.

Last major weapon category is force weapons. A force weapon is basically a power weapon, but instead of having ancient super-tech juicing it up, force weapons are powered by the wielder’s own psychic power. Obviously, they’re only really usable by psykers; for anyone else, it’s just an overly-fancy normal weapon. They’re really good at fucking up daemons.

Again, I’m sure there are obvious weapons I’m forgetting. It gets hard to keep track of all the ways that Space Marines have to murder people. And when they’re in a pinch, they always have their acid spit.

Master post here

[justpked]

idk why i was shocked when i realized aris was still around in bstl when he's literally still alive in fell star like 1500 yrs later omg give the man a break!!

Aris? Do you mean Asol?

Our dear old bastard of a Templar most certainly needs to catch a break, but there is imbalance in the realm. The roots of corruption has to be pulled apart, even if he has to paint his hands red once more.

Although Aris and Asol do have history together.

[jpriest85-blog]

Hero Forge recently updated, so now you can create two characters on the same base. So I tried creating something based on @fell-star-if during the Demo prolong where the Templar Asol kills the Harbinger of Calamity (sadly, I couldn't figure out how to incorporate the golden chains or Thuban's veil). I took screenshots of several angles as well as close ups of my Harbinger, Thuban's dying smile, as well as Asol's "complicated" expression.

I've also included one of Shian with their Mama monster in her human form, Thuban's Abyssal Beast form. As well as Thuban with her ex lover Death.

It's funny how, depending on the point of view, it looks like Asol and Thuban are embracing when the sword in her chest isn't visible. I'm guessing this is how some of those rumors about the two of them being lover's got started.

Likewise, Death and Thuban's pictures have different connotations depending on the viewpoint. It could look like they're engaging in an amorous dance or Thuban could be another poor soul Death caught in their inevitable clutches.

[ognimdo2002]

Arianna's Journal #1 – Her Parents

Take note: This lore and the story behind the Earth Responsibly universe and Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure, along with Assassin's Creed and Monster Hunter, are mostly from Disney and their Disney channel, Lucasfilm, Ubisoft, Marvel Comics, and Capcom. The Two Lights, Worldcraft, Equation, and Rescris are connected with Star Wars and various media.

By Desmond Miles - Master of International Assassin Brotherhood and Grand Master of Templar Order.

The parents of Willow and Arianna in the 1760s are Wilhelmino and Maria from France, which is surrounded by the Corona Kingdom. There are also some relatives of Napoleon Bonaparte and Isabella II present.

Arianna had a strong interest in people, animals, and events, but Willow was always examining her own life. Due to their divinities, both are battling with wooden swords as members of the Hidden Saviors, a third iteration of Conservationist Hunters who are the Templar Order's and the Assassin Order's mortal adversaries. Being a combination of a demigod and a human, Queen Arianna was the most beautiful of us all.

Arianna was fell in love with her family, animals, and even she was kindest of the historical figures in the Earth Responsibly universe. Arianna was fell ill if she wants to heal her, because the demigods are less known half-biological species. Arianna accidentally swallowed one drop of Sundrop liquid into her breathing system, not in digestive system and the reproductive organs after mostly drink. After in 17/18 years, Arianna finally got her achieved yellow hair, and her Sundrop powers passed by herself, not Rapunzel.