#i have witnessed a master of the craft and i am Suffering

[kinthulou]

So I just finished reading Gideon the Ninth.

And lads. Oh, lads. I'm in it now.

[sword-brainrot]

Hello, I am in love of your touken ranbu child headcanon. really give me the warmth in my heart HAHAHA. May ask what happened if the child saniwa has a twin? like they’re both living together with the toudans after their grandparents of parents passed away. And the government had no choice but make them both saniwa or the grandparents/ parents requested them to be the next saniwa.

Very sorry that it took so long for me to do your request (‘～`；). I'm not sure what swords you wanted for this request so I chose some at random but feel free to request this again with different swords! ( ･_･)♡ I always love doing these requests for child saniwa!

Child!Saniwa with Twin Living With Nikkou Ichimonji, Jizou Yukihira, and Akita Toushirou!

♡ A child? With a twin no less? Oh boy...

♡ It would be a lie to say that Nikkou wasn't a bit hesitant about this ordeal. He was suppose to serve his master's every order... And yet his young masters didn't even reach up to his knee-

♡ The day the two was brought in before him while he was the attendant of the citadel, only to be told this is the new master of the honmaru... Nikkou doesn't show much facial expressions but you could visible see his eye brow twitch at the notion.

♡ This was no longer a master he had to serve.... This was two masters that he would have to raise. How the hell was the Left Wing of the Ichimonjis suppose to take care of children?

♡ The first day was hell for everyone involved. Him trying to show his new masters the honmaru... only for them to run around and him always losing one of them, somehow-

♡ You know those child leashes? Yeah, he invests in them so he never loses them.

♡ You think that would solve all his problems... until they tangle him up and he falls to the ground. Goodbye to the leashes after that because that was so embarrassing.

♡ He actively tries to be a teacher to the saniwas but doesn't truly understand how to give the information at their level and makes them all confused.

♡ Nikkou truly doesn't understand how they don't get the lessons he presents them. He explained it clearly and gave them plenty of details to understand???

♡ Luckily he doesn't have to raise these kiddos alone for too long before the next sword manifests and starts to help out.

♡ Jizou manifests only to be met with the sparkling eyes of the twin saniwas and an exhausted Nikkou.

♡ How fitting that the first sword they manifest is the sword shoulders the divine protection of Jizou Bodhisattva, the guardian of children, travellers, and those suffering in hell.

♡ Unlike Nikkou, who is all about order and getting the saniwas prepared for their life as the wise sage and protecting history, Jizou takes the time to sit down with them and learn about the twins.

♡ He is always smiling ear to ear as he listens to the twins go on and on about the animals they saw outside and what they colored in their notebooks.

♡ Jizou is 100% the one that actively goes with them and plays with them. They see a frog? Jizou is kneeling down to point it out to the twins and teach them interesting facts that they would be able to remember.

♡ Jizou asking the twins what certain animals sound like and crafting cute songs about animals for the twins to repeat.

♡ Meanwhile, Nikkou is in the kitchen making food and wondering how this is going to help protect history.

♡ The day he sits in on a Nikkou lesson... oh boy, does Nikkou get an earful about how bad it was after. "By the heavens, have you no wit to understand how to teach children, Nikkou Ichimonji?"

♡ It gets a bit tense in the citadel since Nikkou truly doesn't understand what he is doing wrong. Sure human children are smaller and younger than his past masters, but they have to be able to comprehend the lessons all the same, right?

♡ While Nikkou is worried about protecting history and raising the twins so they are prepared for any difficult decision that may come their way - He lacks the understanding of how to raise a child and comes off very strict. Sometimes, even unfriendly.

♡ Meanwhile, Jizou is all about raising the children so they can enjoy their youth and go at their pace. He wants to protect them from all the bad karma in the world. If it was up to Jizou, he would resign them from being saniwas so they never have to face the harsh realities of history.

♡ Jizou and Nikkou never quite see eye to eye. A tense atmosphere lingers between them.

♡ Even so, Jizou always pushes it aside when the twins are around to have a smile on his face and listen fully to what they want to talk about.

♡ Jizou is a very spiritual being and will teach phrases to the children. Such as: "Om! Ha ha ha! O wondrous one, svā‎hā‎!"

♡ Even if they don't understand or have any interest, he makes sure that he will live up to his name and always protect his adorable saniwas.

♡ While Jizou is always active in the twins life, Nikkou is much more distant and closed off. He sees himself as purely a mentor until he can be a warrior for the young masters.

♡ The next sword to manifest is Akita Toushirou, a tantou who is only a fit taller than his new twin saniwas.

♡ Unlike Jizou and Nikkou, who are very much trying to raise the twins correctly. Akita is also learning about life and shares their curiosity of the world.

♡ He is more so a friend for them to play with. They are always outside playing. From going to the beach, to bird watching, to playing in the dirt, or planting flowers together - They are best of friends.

♡ You know Akita is going in their room for sleepovers. It's a bonus because that means Jizou will also read them a bedtime story, normally some type of poetry that they don't completely understand the deeper meaning... But the thought is what counts!

♡ With a new sword in the citadel; Nikkou takes it upon himself to start teaching Akita swordsmanship.

♡ The twins will quickly realize that their new best friend has suddenly not been around as much to play and find themselves also signing up for Nikkou's lessons.

♡ Jizou is also there to give a watchful eye and make sure Nikkou doesn't overdo it.

♡ As terrible as Nikkou is at giving them lessons on history, or math, or really anything - He is actually an amazing teacher at swordsmanship.

♡ They all get wooden swords and he teaches them how to stand, where to place their feet, adjusting their grip on the sword, etc.

♡ The twins do a great job at preforming the move that Nikkou just showed them? They are getting head pats because he is proud of them but can't express it accurately with words.

♡ Nikkou always coughs nervously into the back of his hand when he catches the gaze of Jizou, who is wearing a proud smile upon his face.

♡ The aura of the citadel becomes more easy going and more like a family. Jizou and Nikkou still don't completely see eye to eye but they are more understanding of one another.

♡ One day, Akita suggested that they draw a picture of the citadel to the twins.

♡ It was not a masterpiece, but it was an adorable stick drawing filled with character and heart. And very very colorful.

♡ In it, the twins were holding Nikkou's hands while Akita and Jizou took hold of their free hands.

♡ At dinner, they presented their drawing to Nikkou and Jizou as they sat down.

♡ Jizou was full of compliments, of course.

♡ But it was Nikkou's expression that told it all. He didn't say a word but his mouth hung open and his eyes wide.

♡ A normally tense face now looked at this colorful drawing like it was the most stunning thing imaginable.

♡ A mischievous smile on Jizou's face as he asked, "Do you like it, Ichimonji-san?"

♡ Clearing his throat, he puts it aside and tells everyone to eat.

♡ The next day, it is hung up for everyone in the citadel to see.

♡ Nikkou actively goes to Jizou to discuss his teaching plans for the twins and how to make it more kid friendly for them to understand.

♡ From investing in child leashes to investing in gold star stickers, Nikkou goes out of his way to change and become someone that the twins would look up to and want to grow to be.

♡ Any activities that Jizou, Akita, and the twins would go together together (like firework shows or the beach), Nikkou is now tagging along and offering to carry the little ones whenever they get tired.

♡ He is still rather dense with raising kids and not understanding their jokes ("Why did the pony get sent to his room?" "Aruji, horses don't have rooms. I don't believe it's wise for them to be in any household room because-" "He wouldn’t stop horsing around!" "...What?")

♡ Nikkou learns how to treasure life in the moment instead of worrying about the future. He is normally the one that takes care of internal affairs and missions but that doesn't mean he doesn't ask for them for their input.

♡ Especially with who is on farm duty, kitchen duty, etc. He allows them to pick whoever they want.

♡ Nikkou never sees himself as the leader of the citadel. He may give the orders for now, but he will forever be the wing to make his masters fly.

[shannybasar]

Euro 2024 stories - first semifinal

Was a bit worried that the first semi-final would be a bit flat, but it turned out to be a fantastic spectacle with a fantastic goal from Yamine Lamal:

Spain’s arrival in the final - despite the arguable injustice Germany suffered at their hands in the quarters – will be seen by many as a moral success. While teams like England, Portugal, and indeed France have turned enviably talented squads into uniformly languid performances, Spain alone have played fast-flowing, attractive football.

Lovely writing from Jonathan Liew:

Maybe this is how new empires rise. Out of the ruins of the old, with fresh visions and fresh blood, a supremacy that creates its own logic as it goes, until it begins to feel inevitable. Spain have taken the hardest possible road to Berlin, conquered Italy and Croatia and Germany and now France: their longest winning streak since 2010, a first final since 2012, and perhaps the strongest indication yet that this is a team worth remembering. Indeed to anoint Spain as worthy finalists is to damn them with crushingly faint praise. In a way they have made this tournament, perhaps even saved it: shown that amid a fatberg of low blocks and tired, malfunctioning attacks it is possible for football to express as well as extinguish. Their women are already world champions and on Sunday the men have a chance to emulate their model: a little craft, a little graft and just a sprinkling of magic.

I wanted Spain to win but am gutted for N'Golo Kante:

And kudos to the French players for taking on the far right:

It is not because Kylian Mbappé spoke out, twice, about the necessity to take a stand against “the extremes” and, more to the point, the National Rally, that he skied a shot that would have brought France level with Spain in their semi-final. But it is because he and others, such as Marcus Thuram and Jules Koundé, did speak out that it will be possible to look back to France’s frustrating Euro 2024 with something like pride. “Never at such a moment, never such a player, never in such a trenchant, brilliant, mastered fashion, never in the history of the French national team, had we witnessed the conjunction of a major moment in French political life, the words of a captain and a great sporting event,” enthused L’Équipe.

Good luck to England tonight against the Netherlands, although we are going to have play a lot better:

And I hope Saka scores another cracker:

[scribbleheaded]

Loneliness; to be silent or to be unheard

I've been reading a book on loneliness, an expression of it like a city, and an experience seen through the lens of visual art.

Loneliness, it seems, is a wispy feeling, incommunicable yet felt. Seemingly both universal and wholely, inescapably, within one's self. Something that can't properly be spoken or shared, but cannot be sat with alone. A juxtaposition of the soul, which cannot ease its own pain, yet knows that no one else will bare witness. Something when faced, will always be run from, starving off any hope to ease this feeling through shared suffering. By nature the suffering only recognizes one singularity of itself, isolating the isolation.

This juxtaposition seems inherent to something which craves recogniztion but runs from sight. It aim is understanding and yet it holds firm in its inability to be shared in monadic truth by any form of expression. Cutting off the one fundemental constant of human existence;community. Community forming from the communicability which it's existence is dependent upon.

Communicability, thus, implies language by nature; an expression of experience which relies on sociality, yet the precursor to any solitary thought. I think therefore I am, but am I able to think if I was never taught how to talk? Will I still BE without such thought?

There is something inherently very transient about this sort of existence, self-proclaimed yet naturally dependent. And it is this which makes me think of my own expression.

I've spent so much of my life bubbling around with excess exuberance in the sharing of my experiences, yet always was this feeling of misunderstanding. I tried to master speech and profess myself perfectly, but this of course only brought me farther from being understood. The more I gave the more material there was to misinterpret. As I strove more and more to serve up the intended interpretation, the more it seemed ungraspable to those who received it.

I think of this, of course, because of all the words I've left you. Explainations, biographies and portraits, as if somehow my words themselves will cross this newfound and ancient gulf between us and finally make you see me. Instead the speech crumbles like ashes long burnt and meaning evaporates into more unintellible mist. The addendums and clarification I add adds only more to the blanketing fog disguising my existence, until even I cannot recognize my own sight. The unheard only proliferates the disquietude. Those words, unknown and unresponsive, I must wonder if their meaning ever had any tangible reality in the first place, or if all their power was formed out of reception. Like letters never delivered, the hold only emptiness in the absence of response.

Without recognition they bubble up and form vast streams, treading new paths brought on by only one small snag away from the norm. But it all flows and flows into the sea of unknowable and inseparable, and I can do nothing but join them or rot inside myself.

And this I think, is what loneliness exhibits as. It will either force me to choose to hide and destroy myself, create a statue unchanging to control interpretation of me, in which I lead the charge of misunderstanding. Or I can hold on to the uninteligble self-hood in my grasp and it will eviscerate every conviction I have of any true understandable meaning to be found. I must choose to never be seen or to craft myself into a sight which would never be me. And in the end, it is the same; even the choice is a falsehood.

Loneliness is, through these eyes, a recognition of the breeching chasm which will always lie between oneself and the other, and in loneliness is the pitiful acceptance that any attempts to cross this gap will only create a further distance.

And it is this which finally frees me from you.

[featherymalignancy]

So, idk why I’ve had this thought about IVV. Bear with me!

I always picture a scene where Nesta and Cash go to an event of some sort (a friend’s wedding, Solstice party for Nesta’s firm, etc). Of course Cash is always a wonderful, charming guest and people enjoy talking to him. He makes them comfortable, and they seem at ease around him.

Over time, they broach the subject of wine— something he’s carefully avoided, especially when the wine provided is not something he would have necessarily recommend— and he’s doing the polite thing by sipping the “meh” wine and saying diplomatic things to be polite.

But there’s usually someone who considers themselves quite the expert, and they challenge him on most things he says. And they’re outright wrong. So he keeps gripping the back of Nesta’s dress and sending her pleading looks when they aren’t looking so that maybe she’ll save him. Because he’s capable of a lot of things— of being polite and reserving his own opinions— until someone is not only dead wrong but rude on top of it.

Eventually they develop a system of sorts where on the way to these events, Nesta helps mentally prepare him and his wine snobbery for some of the repeat offenders. He’s receptive, but he always makes her promise to bail him out when they start to approach his breaking point or one of his top 3 pet peeves. Otherwise, she’s allowed to find a little amusement in his light suffering.

Idk if this is something you would agree with my any means, but the scene insists on itself in my brain 😅

OMG I love it SO much, Cassian just tugging urgently on Nesta’s skirt in child-like panic as she casually bats him away because yes, she heard Karl from M&A insist that rosé is made by blending white and red grapes,  but she’s also in the middle of a conversation, and Cassian is just going to have to wait! 😂 

When I first started reading your headcanon, I also imagined it going something like this:

Nesta has—from Cash’s perspective—been seemingly avoiding bringing him to any of her work functions, which he of course internalizes as her thinking he will be bad for her carefully-crafted professional reputation.

Luckily, Nesta and Cash’s relationship is in a really healthy, communicative place, and instead of letting this unsubstantiated fear fester in his mind, Cash casually asks Nesta about it.

Nesta is equal parts amused and vexed by this question.

This isn’t about Cash not being well-recieved, she assures him. In fact, she’s confident he would be almost annoyingly popular, and that she’d never hear the end of it. 

She hasn’t invited Cash because as delighted as most of her colleagues would likely be by Cash’s dazzling smile and quick wit, she doesn’t think he’d find them nearly as charming. Lawyers can be pedantic at the best of times and egomaniacal at worst, which can make for dreadful cocktail conversation if one wasn’t careful. If Cash doesn’t believe her, he’s welcome to come along to the next party and see for himself.

Mostly satisfied with this answer but still eager to prove to Nesta that he belongs in her well-heeled, erudite world, Cash goes HARD in the paint at the first firm event he attends. Chatting to everyone, making all the right jokes and generally just working the shit out of the room. When Nesta tries to stay close—claiming that she just wants to be on hand in case Cash needs rescuing—Cash eventually convinces her that he doesn’t need hand-holding and that she should work the room...

....and that’s when he gets stuck talking to Todd, a hopelessly long-winded Electronic Discovery Consultant that everyone—save poor Cash—knows to avoid at functions like this.

Doubly unfortunate is that Todd has recently taken an interest in wine, and now considers himself something of an “amateur professional” on the subject (who is going to tell this poor sap that one cannot, by definition, be both an ‘amateur’ and a ‘professional’ in the same area??)

However, Cash doesn’t really have a rude bone in his body, and he’s still stubbornly trying to prove his adeptness at navigating this type of socio-political environment, so he’s just sorta—stuck listening to Todd incorrectly mansplain wine. The time for politely interjecting that Cash is a sommelier himself has long since come and gone, so Cash just has to nod along and  pretend everything Todd’s saying isn’t wrong.

Just went he’s starting to panic that he might literally have to fake a stroke to get out of this convo, Cash feels Nesta’s hand at his elbow. Before Todd can attempt to restart his educational monologue for Nesta’s sake, she cuts him off.

“Todd, my boyfriend may be too polite to tell you that he’s a Master Sommelier and knows more about wine than any of the rest of us could hope to learn in a lifetime, but thankfully I’m not.”

Having done the seemingly impossible of stunning Todd into silence, Nesta flashes him a quick smile and just says, “Will you excuse us?” Before steering Cash away.

Cash only has time for a sheepish wave before Nesta drags him to safety behind a pillar, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

Cash can only really roll his eyes.

“Go ahead, say it.”

“I told you,” Nesta says, voice a little sing-song. “Now, are you going to be honest with the next arrogant ignoramoose who tries to tell you about your own job, or am I going to have to get you one of those ‘Ask Me About Wine. I’m an Expert!’ Buttons they wear under their nametags at Whole Foods?”

[rosyfingereddawnn]

heart of gold (chapter one)

pairing: robert plant x florence bennett (oc)

warnings: domestic abuse, misogyny, description of (past) injury, just... absolute fuckery

words: 3.3k

summary: trapped in a loveless marriage to a powerful man, florence bennett lives every day in despair. after a chance encounter with a golden-haired actor, florence finds that her life will never be the same again.

author’s note: so. this is a nice little period piece, because what else am i gonna do with the history degree i'm studying for. please note that the views of one mr. bennett (and friends) are not my own. hope you enjoy :) feedback, as always, is appreciated!

masterlist

playlist

------

Nightgown swaying in the soft breeze of a crisp fall morning, Florence stands outside the door of the ornate music room. Notes of beautiful melancholy and bitter hope filter softly through the wooden door, slightly ajar, a broken barrier to the outside world.

Looking through the small crack, Florence gazes upon the face of her friend and confidante, John Paul Jones. Too enthralled in his playing to notice the distraction, he never lets up, heavenly melodies echoing against the marble walls.

John was rather short, thin, with straight tawny hair that framed his strong jaw, softening his face. His stormy gray eyes and high cheekbones give the immediate impression of royalty, of which he was not. A lowly servant of the master of the gorgeous manor, Mr. Allen Bennett, John’s time was divided between his seemingly never-ending list of chores and his music.

An orphan from an early age, John was adopted into the local church and took what little knowledge of the piano that remained from his childhood and put it to good use. Listening to the man playing now, it is apparent that he had kept this skill sharp.

“That is a beautiful song, John,” Florence giggles, a beaming smile on her face at the sight of her friend sitting at the sleek grand piano. “I would appreciate you teaching me to play this well, though I know that my lovely husband would rather die than to see me touch a single key on this beautiful instrument. The bloody bastard.”

“Ah, what lovely words from a lovely woman… Florence, I don’t necessarily disagree with you, but I’m not sure we should be insulting your husband in such an open space.”

“John, my dear friend, I do apologize for my sharp tongue, but I believe it is warranted,” Florence says, taking a seat beside John, smoothing her lace nightgown. John’s fingers still press softly on the piano keys, as he plays a simple tune. “I’ve seen the way he treats you and the servants. As much as I wish to change this for you and the others, I am powerless. This is the only way I may hope to keep my sanity.”

“Very well,” John says, a soft laugh punctuating the end of his sentence. “Though I hope, for your sake, that he doesn’t catch wind of this, or else we are both in trouble!”

“John, pardon me, but I do need to take Florence off your hands for now.”

John’s hands pause, the room falling into silence.

A soft voice belonging to one James Page filters through the open door, interrupting the moment between the two friends. A lean man of average height, with a shock of long midnight curls and eyes a kaleidoscope of colour, James Page is yet another servant indebted to the cruel Mr. Bennett. Whereas John tends to steer clear of the man, and subsequently, punishment, James witnesses Bennett’s anger much too often. Unwilling to submit to Bennett’s furious dictatorship, he often receives the brunt of the man’s mistreatment.

Upon entering the music room, a dark bruise is visible, blossoming on the man’s eye, surely another ‘reward’ for his defiance. James sends the pair a shy smile, and with twin looks of concern, John and Florence take in the state of their friend.

“James! My goodness, your eye looksー”

“It’s nothing, John.”

“Nothing? That certainly looks likeー”

“It is nothing that hasn’t happened before. Please leave it, Florence.”

“A-Alright… What did you need, James?” Florence says, absentmindedly twiddling her fingers, a nervous habit of hers.

“Well, my friend, a certain someone is going to be requesting your presence very soon. I thought it best to warn you ahead of time, so you can prepare.”

With a smile thrown to John over her shoulder, Florence bounds over to her raven-haired friend, hooking an arm through his. James, comfortable with the casual touch of the woman, leads her to her room with a final wave to John.

Navigating through the maze of grand halls of the manor, the wealth of the owner is more noticeable. Shades of red and gold flirt with rich browns, lit by immense crystal chandeliers. Priceless paintings adorn the walls, trapped, much like the lady of the house, in embellished shining frames, just expensive enough to throw shadows on the pain and suffering that happens under the surface.

Not yet rid of the worry that James’s beaten appearance had brought her, Florence unlinks their arms. Ensuring the door to her bedroom is shut, she pulls James closer to her with a hand on his elbow. Her other hand flies to his face, assessing the damage done to it.

“James, I am aware that you do not wish to submit to my husband. That is your choice to make. I will stand by you, always.”

“I appreciate this, my friend.”

“But you must be careful. You don’t know what he is capable of, and neither do I,” says Florence, a grave look of concern gracing her features. “James, I need you here with John and I, not 6 feet underground in an unmarked grave. I know it is not in your nature, but please do try and be careful?”

“I will try,” James’ hand raises, landing in his long dark hair. Raking his nails across his scalp, his lips lift into a crooked smirk. “Though this is an interesting development.”

“Pardon me?”

“The wife of the madman has a heart. And I thought this trope was only found in the books shelved in that gigantic library of yours.” James’ chuckle echoes across the grand hallway. Usually filled with suffocating silence, the halls of the manor serve as another reminder of the terror that fills its occupants. “Now, I understand that you have afternoon tea with Mr. Bennett and his mother, so I will leave you to prepare.”

And with that, the stubborn servant is gone with a click of the closing door.

Minutes later, Florence, finally dressed in a ruffled scarlet dress, a sunhat perched on her head, reaches out to turn the doorknob.

A second too slow.

The door is opened from the other side, and the woman is met with the face of her husband, mouth contorted into a permanent frown.

Allen Bennett was a short, burly man, with close-cropped hair and dark eyes. What he lacked in height he made up for in power and prestige, swindling people out of their money in back alley deals at night, and running the city as mayor by day. This man is not to be crossed, and he knows it. Everybody does.

Gazing at his wife with disinterest, he scoffs, immediately glimpsing the beautiful dress she is wearing. His eyes almost glow in their anger.

“Hm. I thought I had told you that dress looks atrocious on you before. Take it off right this instant. You are not a whore, my love, so you will not dress like one.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Wonderful. I expect you in the foyer in 20 minutes, not a minute later. We must attend a meeting with my mother. I am sure you have been notified of this.”

“Yes, dear.”

With a quick peck on the lips of his wife, Mr. Bennett is gone, and the unfortunate Ms. Bennett feels as though she can finally breathe again. Changing into a sky blue number, she is struck by the thought that this cannot last forever. This treatment of the servants and of Florence herself. The control this vile man has over everyone. The unhappiness and unease he supplies wherever he goes.

This simply cannot last, can it?

-------------------

“Florence. Are you listening, dearie?” A grating, sickly sweet voice breaks the woman from her reverie, a storm in her sea of dreams. Florence takes a sip of her tea and smiles apologetically at the older woman across from her. The woman, satisfied once more, launches into a tedious story about her shopping excursion the day before. Feigning delight at the tale, Florence’s eyes travel around the sun-lit tearoom, with its gleaming surfaces and tall, gold-lined ceilings. Truly a beautiful creation.

“... And, my son, as I was exiting the shop on St. Thomas’s Street, you know the one…” Florence catches the eyes of her husband, glaringly angry as per usual, and at this, she realizes the older woman had paused in her story once more, shooting her an irate scowl.

“Mrs. Bennett, I must apologize for my inattention. My mind was indeed elsewhere, I am terribly sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, girl. Does my son deal with this offensive daydreaming as well? If he does, we must fix this immediately!” Mrs. Bennett titters, cigarette dangling precariously from her lips.

“Mother, it’s quite alright. You mustn't worry about this,” Allen says, leering at his wife as though she was a prize to be won. “My wife knows her place. At least I do hope she does…” The mother and son erupt into giddy laughter at the horrible joke, Florence following uncomfortably, quivering smile creasing her face.

“My goodness,”  Mrs. Bennett wipes her eyes of phantom tears with a lily white handkerchief. The woman takes a drag of her cigarette, and huffs a plume of smoke in Florence’s face. “How old are you now, dearie?”

“A month ago, I reached my 23rd birthday. Allen bought a beautifully crafted sapphire bracelet for the occasion.”

“So thoughtful, my son. You are of age, of course. May I ask when you two are planning to conceive?”

“Well, as of this moment, we were notー”

“You may still be… young, but the only use you are to us, my dear, is to create a wonderful child,” Mrs. Bennett, eyes scrunched up in mock kindness, takes the young woman’s hands from across the table and strokes her thumb across the elegant wrist. “I know you would be a very capable mother. As a result of this, I am expecting a lovely grandson or daughter to call my own.”

“O-of course… Thank you for your counsel, Mrs. Bennett.”

“My pleasure, dear. Now, my son, where was I…?” The woman says, launching into her story once more. “Ah, yes…”

Florence, try as she had, could not take her mind off of the words of the matriarch. As a young girl, she had wished to be a writer, a musician, maybe. What she had not planned for was a truly unhappy marriage to an evil man, doomed to the static life of a housewife. She had loved Allen once. In the beginning. He had supported her and her dreams, and she had loved him in return. She had loved his humour, and his chivalry. His treatment of others. This was but a ruse, of course.

A year after their courting had transformed into a union, Allen Bennett had changed. Florence had finally met the man behind the mask of charisma and kindness. She had gotten too close, and now she is stuck, like a bird with a shattered wing, unable to escape.

“Thank you for a lovely time, Mother, as always,” says Allen, placing twin kisses on her heavily rouged cheeks. “Come now, Florence, we must return home immediately.”

“Thank you Ms. Bennett, for your advice and hospitality. We must do this again sometime.”

“Lovely idea, dearie. Hopefully, the next time I will be able to finish my story without you nodding off!” Ms. Bennett drawls, smirk hanging off her lips like the fancy cigarettes she so often smokes.

Formalities over and done with, the couple step out into the fresh afternoon air and into the waiting carriage that had brought them. Once inside, Mr. Bennett shoots out a strong hand, clutching his wife’s arm in a bruising grip. She lets out a surprised gasp, caught off guard by the sudden pain dealt to her by the man.

“Florence, Florence, Florence… What on God’s green earth will we do with you?” says the man, squeezing harder with each repetition of his wife’s name. “You are incapable of paying attention. You can only dream of meeting my mother’s expectations, the way you have acted today.”

“Allen, I am tryingー”

“You are not trying hard enough! You never have! Why I married a whore like you, I have no idea.”

The vice grip on Florence’s arm grows ever stronger, and she feels wretched anger in her heart, climbing up her throat. With a gaze of fire, she retaliates. “Allen, let go of me! I have done nothing wrong, and as a reward I receive your anger and a bruise to boot!”

Gazing into Allen’s eyes, Florence is confused, frightened even, at the horrible amusement dancing in them. Quick as lighting, before she could even register the action, the woman feels a sharp pain grace her cheek, and, with growing horror, she witnesses Allen’s raised hand begin to lower.

“My dear, you must know your place in this house,” whispers Allen in a venomous tone, bringing his wife ever-closer to him. “You will stay quiet and obedient. There is no other option for you, I’m afraid. Alright?”

“Y-yes.”

“Lovely. Tonight, we must attend a play at the theatre you love so much. This is an important appearance, very good for business. Please do try not to ruin it.”

Florence nods minutely, pressing her palm to her burning cheek. A crimson streak spoils the otherwise pristine white of her glove. She had forgotten that Allen wore rings.

“You will not speak to anyone. You will appear happy and in love, the image of a perfect wife. You will dress in your best garments,” Allen rattles off, smugness dripping from his features. He’s proud of this; proud of the power he holds over her. The power he holds over everyone. “That is all I ask of you. A list of tasks that someone as useless as you could complete with ease. Is that clear?”

“Yes, dear.”

-------------------

“Flo—”

“John, I—”

“My Goodness, your cheek! What happened?” The dulcet voice of one John Paul Jones rang through the quiet of the hall. Florence, caught in her attempt to make it to her room unnoticed, deflates and faces her friend.

“John… I’m sorry, but I do not have time to talk right now,” Florence rushes out, face pinched as she checks the time on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the foyer. Must have costed a million, though it meant nothing to Allen, of course. “I am attending a performance at the theatre with Mr. Bennett, and time is… of the essence, I’m afraid.”

“I understand, I truly do, but Florence… was this Mr. Bennett’s doing? You must tell me what happened.” John gestures to the woman’s cheek, which is tinted red from the force used against her.

Sighing, Florence takes John’s hand and leads him into her room, once again the door is shut and promptly locked. She takes a seat on the immaculately-made bed and gestures for her longtime friend to follow suit. John sits, smoothing out his work-wrinkled shirt, and looks down at Florence expectantly.

Taking the man’s hand, she looks into his gemstone eyes, and recounts the story of what had transpired early that day.

“After all that had happened, I was, in my opinion, justifiably angry, so I took a page, pardon the pun, out of James’ book. It seems that my beloved was not a fan of this particular chapter, and he made that quite clear.”

“And the cut? The blood on your glove?”

“I had forgotten that Allen had the propensity to wear rings,” Florence whispers with an acerbic giggle, eyes pained and downcast now. “I doubt that I will be forgetting this anytime soon.”

John meets the woman’s gaze, and notices the beginning of tears brimming her eyes. He takes Florence’s hand in his, a silent offer of comfort that she would never refuse.

“John, as much as I adore your company,” says Florence with a peal of wet laughter. He knows Florence is avoiding the subject, but he lets her. She’ll talk to him, eventually. “I must get dressed for the performance. Hopefully, after we return, I could witness some of your incredible talent on the piano?”

“Of course, of course!” John exclaims, standing now, as, once again, he gently takes hold of Florence’s hands, now rid of the soiled glove. “But Florence, before I leave… Please be careful. James and I, we couldn’t bear to see further pain come to you. Please, for us, be cautious.”

“I will do my best, John. Thank you.”

John presses a quick kiss to Florence’s cheek in passing, and exits the room, and the woman is left alone again. Slipping on a lovely ensemble painted lilac and silver, the woman lets her thoughts wander.

She’s been alone quite often lately, after all. Her only friends in the house are John and James after all, the other servants too frightened by the man she married. Florence certainly does not blame them. She can’t say that she minds the solitude either, if it gets her away from Allen.

The intricately paneled door opens with a sharp click, and Allen waltzes in, leering at his wife, as if the thoughts drifting through her mind were audible to the man.

“Ah, Florence. I am glad that you've finally learned to dress yourself. Thank God himself for that.”

Florence, cheek still stinging from the blow dealt to it earlier, has only the mind to nod and smile as warmly as she can manage. This is taken as permission by Bennett, who caresses his wife’s uninjured cheek with the tips of his fingers, as if he thought her to be precious. Florence bristles at the touch, a string of rather unladylike words at the ready, but she holds her tongue, remembering her promise to John. She would be cautious, act like the perfect wife. She would be safe.

“Come now, my love,” whispers Allen, into his wife’s ear, beckoning her closer with a finger under her chin. “We have a show to attend.”

Palm outstretched towards his wife, Allen helps Florence into the waiting carriage, uncharacteristically gentle, as he always is in public. Public image means everything, and Allen Bennett is picture-perfect in that respect.

“My love, I remember how you love the theatre. I do hope this play captures your attention.”

“As do I, dear,” Florence says, voice wavering ever-so-slightly under the scrutiny of her husband. “Though I do not know if I have knowledge of this particular play.”

“I believe it’s called ‘The Voysey Inheritance’. It details the scandals of a family thought to be perfect, polite and proper. Interesting, is it not?” At that, Allen has pasted on a cheshire grin.

Sounds familiar, Florence thinks, silently cursing her husband and his monstrous greed. If only she had known, walking into this. Known about the sides, dangerous, that he hadn’t shown until it was too late. Until she was trapped.

Finding their seats, the couple take in the gorgeous marble pillars and the ruby, velvetine seats. The shining wood of the stage is visible from the upper flights, where elite folk like Sir Bennett make themselves at home. The massive carmine curtains remain closed, shielding the growing audience from the scenes that are set to come to life. Florence has always loved the beauty of this theatre, and, though it has been years since she has last stepped foot inside of it, she is charmed anew.

The lights of the theatre dim, signalling the start of the show. Florence grins into the still darkness, excitement for the performance growing. Casting her eyes to the stage below, she puts aside her worries. She completely forgets about the vile man sitting next to her, mind filling with the orchestral opening music of the play. She is home.

The curtains open slowly, and Florence loses her breath. There, on stage, is the most beautiful man Florence has ever laid eyes on. She cannot focus on the words flowing from his thin lips, for she is distracted by the halo of golden curls surrounding the man. His romanesque nose is prominent and his eyes, stormy skies in an ocean of blue, are captivating. His curls, spun silk, bounce across his broad shoulders, as he commands the stage. The actor’s luxurious suit glints navy in the blinding lights on him, accentuating his muscled body. He is not phased in the slightest by the attention firmly placed on him. Completely in his element.

He enchants her, as though he was a wizard, and she, the poor soul under his spell. A snake charmer that she’s read about in books found in the gigantesque manor library, and her, the sin-riddled reptile under his control. He is forbidden fruit, and she wants a taste.

The performer is ethereal, and Florence cannot take her eyes off of him. She must find out who he is, somehow.

------

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 @earthfire-75 @thatiloveyouso @jonesyjonesyjonesy @jimmypages @kyunisixx (let me know if you want to be added!)

[casualcatte]

[RP Journal] Reach for the Light: Eight

Dearest Mama & Papa,

As always, I pray these letters find you both well and happy. From everything Papa wrote in your last letters to me, the dragonets seem to be taking to the work in the smithy rather well and there is a symbiotic learning between the lot of them that has made a new man of Papa. Given his preoccupation with his new, scaly apprentices, I took a commission I’ve been wanting to another smith in Ishgard, if you’ll both forgive me.  Vandros Kamdin, the smith in question, seems a capable man and will do his best work for me, I’m sure. I’ve been to his shop and seen his wares and they’re comparable to Papa’s work, if not better in some regards. I know Papa will grump and grouse at that, but he cannot be a master at every form of shaping metal, no matter how hard he tries. We all know aetheric attunement has always been elusive for him, hence the need for his new draconic helpers. I fear, though, that I will need this new weapon before any of Papa’s new styles are ready for testing. Rest assured, I’m at least in good crafting hands; you both taught me well and my appraising eye is perspicacious.

(Courtesy cut for length)

Life continues on, as it ever does. It might please Mama greatly to know that I have found it in my heart to give way to Syrio Nessaire. After the journey we’ve been on these past few moons, I found fewer and fewer reasons to deny him. He’s there for me when I need someone, and I for him. He knows me better than most anyone, even myself sometimes. My needs are met before I even voice them, no matter how inconsequential seeming they might be. There is a zest and a zeal to him, a thirst for life and adventure beyond the horizon -- things that were sorely missing from my life. Now that he reminds me of them, I want to take the reins in hand and ride rampant into the future.

I know Mama will find all of this horribly romantic and I know Papa is already preparing himself to give Syrio a talking-to. Know, above all else, that I am exceedingly happy, perhaps even content. When in recent years have I truly been able to say that?

There are developments beyond this, however, that I will speak of the next time I return home -- concerning Galen. Things I have long kept from the both of you that should, rightfully, come to light. I know the both of you will be both disappointed and outraged, but know that I plan to do something about him. I refuse to live in fear of him anymore -- and the two of you know that I live in fear of very little, if that lends you any of the gravity of what I have to tell you.

The Seventh Chantry continues to do well, we find friends and allies more and more with each passing day. Few members that prove up to the task we ask of them, but such is the way of Free Companies. You recruit, you test their mettle, and see who is left by the end. Still, our needs as a Company proceed apace, so there is no rest for the weary. Thanks to Vocemre Cemre’s potions, mine are well on their way to recovery after our tussle with the voidsent that held Syrio. Everyone is all right and hale; even I suffered little damage for once. Mama would be pleased.

Speaking of Vocemre, there are curious developments regarding him. He went to Dusk Vigil to procure a relic left behind by one of his old comrades and succeeded in the endeavor -- but to what detriment? When last I spoke with him via linkpearl his voice seemed strangely... feminine. This is not the first time I’ve been witness to transformative magicks that change the gender of people I know. I can only hope that it hasn’t changed him... her?... too far from the Vocemre I know.  Vocemre’s enthusiasm for alchemy persists, regardless.

Sakes, it seems like so long since I’ve written and there’s still so much to tell you of -- the excursion with Gils Vikar to rescue his friend’s ward, the ongoing troubles with Devonna Warren -- troubles I cannot help with, which you both know chafes me to no end -- the chirurgeonic skill of Deldeli Ririyadi, who gave me some needed healing after the incident with Gils’ little side mission.  Oh!  I am reminded, you’ll find attached herein the schematics for a shield I must needs commission in recompense to Master Deldeli, that will eventually go to his friend, Roy Chamberlain. 

As you can see, I keep myself busy, so there’s no need to worry at all.  I’ll be home in a sennight to visit with you both and so Mama can reassure herself of my well-being.  Who knows, maybe I’ll bring Syrio with me so she can fawn over him properly.

All My Love,

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP meme from the Baali Clanbook V2 in "Vampire the Masquerade" Part 2 of 2

"Look at the world around you. No, truly look. Do you see it? The entropy slowly eating away at the fabric of existence? The world is dying."

"Existence has always teetered on the brink in some way or another."

"From the coming of prophets and gods to the turn of the millennium. Mankind has always found some way to turn the metamorphosis of life into an “end of days” scenario."

"It's not hyperbole."

"All things must come to an end. Even our universe."

"We can either fear this new existence or we can embrace it. I know which I choose. What will your decision be?"

"I find humanity both fascinating and boring."

"I find humanity both fascinating and boring. They are creatures who have risen above their state as pure beasts in the wild. They have domesticated the world, bringing it to heel under the boot of technology and enterprise. They have tamed the lightning and created weapons of such incredible potency that they could end the entire world with the push of a few buttons. But, at the same time, they cannot even control their own impulses."

"I do love seeing the hope in a victim’s eyes slowly die."

"We need to talk about vampires."

"They are all in their positions due to back-alley deals, dirty deeds, and betrayals that they fear will one day topple them."

"They are afraid. Afraid of losing power."

"Power is a cruel master."

"Do not put yourself out there in a manner that draws unwanted attention."

"Those who are worthy of your knowledge should seek you out, not the other way around."

"Use what you know to twist their desires to your own ends."

"Utilize every secret desire and urging until your “clients” are nothing more than puppets on your strings."

"Above all, however, don’t forget to clean when guests come to call. It’s embarrassing to have a bloody carpet."

"Arrogance will be the gap in their armor that you can exploit."

"They wounded ego and regret."

"That’s a level of fucked up I can’t wrap my head around."

"So easy to guide around by their rage."

"Get over it already."

"They’re not corruptors unless you want to be corrupted."

"It’s bargain basement degradation at best."

"All good rites have some semblance of pageantry to help build up psychic energy for ritual release, sure. But when you perform the rite more for the pageantry than sacrifice or offerings? You’ve missed the point."

"The beautiful ones have this fucked up perception that they are icons of style, grace, and tact."

"The punks think of themselves as whirlwinds of creative destruction."

"After all, I want to see the world break out of this nascent shell of physicality and witness the birth of a new universe."

"So, I can get behind wanting to push past pain and physical limitations."

"These. . .things will not think twice about skinning you alive and making you part of the furniture. And honestly. . .I can respect that."

"These fucking guys."

"There comes a time in everyone’s life when they look at the world around them and wonder; “Is this it? Is this everything that there is?”

"Life, if we are honest, is nothing but a series of disappointments."

"My youth was spent chasing some phantom of purpose. Some reason for us being here, for going on, day after day, living."

"My desperate pleas were met with unyielding silence."

"We all wander through the world, clinging to half-promises of something greater."

"We will find the bliss of enlightenment only after the trials of our world."

"Why was everything we did destined to age and rot?"

"There was no blissful release. There was no epiphany of understanding. No moment of realizing my place in the universe."

"We are, each of us, insignificant."

"We don’t get rich off hard work. Luck and heritage define who rises to the top."

"We don’t find enlightenment as we grow older, we only find bitterness and fear of encroaching death."

"We race to accomplish something. . .anything, that will live on after our deaths."

"I thought sensation would provoke deeper understanding. It does not. It only burns bright, then fades quickly, leaving a person yearning for the next instance of fleeting bliss."

"There is nothing. No great reward awaiting the dying. There is no great paradise for the enlightened. There are fading memories of life and the swirling maelstrom of oblivion."

"Why would anyone want to deny themselves anything knowing that, in the end, they are only fit for utter destruction and darkness?"

"Take every moment of disappointment in your life. Every hardship. Every heartbreak. And then realize that none of it matters in any form in the end."

"Fuck the universe."

"Fuck every lie and every false promise of salvation or of some “great reward” that never comes."

"Enlightenment is a trap."

"Fuck every self-styled guru that peddles street corner bliss and a side of eternal understanding."

"This universe is a fucked -up failure."

"This universe is a fucked -up failure. An experiment with no principal investigator at the helm. Let’s scrap it and start something new. Something where we can make our own purpose."

"It is the only choice we have —to grasp our destinies and forge something new out of the corpse of the old."

"The end is coming and there is no stopping it. But. . .we can accelerate it. We can end this torturous existence and craft something new and meaningful from its remains."

"We are not destroyers, nor are we heralds of destruction. We are idealists seeking to bring purpose to existence. We are scholars burdened with the horrible truth that this universe must burn so that something new and pure can take its place."

"Evil. I hate the word."

"To the point, however, the word “evil” is such a catch-all that is, at its core, quite meaningless."

"We are the midwives of eternity, here to see to the proper birth of what is to come."

"Evil may be a word that can fit us, but to the darkness, isn’t the invasive nature of light evil?"

"I do what I do out of simple necessity."

"“Good” and “evil” are terms for children."

"They are just as “evil” as we. They simply lie to themselves about it."

"I think the truth lies between these tales."

"While the stain of grievous sins can color the auras of most, yours, for some reason, remains pure and innocent."

"You may not realize it, but your very essence sings with dark power."

"You understand the state of the world. You understand how it hangs so precariously between collapse and a great rebirth in darkness."

"In these dark, twisting visions, the future is revealed in flashes of blood-soaked fate."

"They will still be a missing person and be mourned, but they will be, effectively, simply considered another statistic and efforts to seek out justice for them will fade."

"While friends and family still remember the individual and their name, any efforts to seek out justice for them or to search for them cease after the ritual is performed."

"By sharing the affections of your damned patron, you can grant infernal powers to others."

"The allure of evil can draw in the curious like a moth to a flame."

"What is your most shameful secret?"

"What do you desire the most?"

"Whom do you secretly despise?"

"The most valuable advice, then, would be to act subtle. Be calm. Act comfortable."

"Akkadian script is simple, but apparently too difficult for you to count in."

"The quest for the next horizon has always haunted your mind."

"No matter what you were doing, no matter where you were at. . .there was always the allure of the unknown calling out to you."

"The allure of history and understanding what came before was simply too great to ignore."

"You were ravenous for knowledge."

"By the end of the week, you were no longer alive."

"Cultures died out across the world. Why?"

"The great puzzle of the universe lays before you. "

"The ancients knew secrets that would sear the minds of today’s scholars."

"The old gods are my strength. They are my shield."

"Mankind has forgotten where its oldest, bloodiest rites came from."

"Your traditions were handed down to you by your parents, and to them by their parents."

"Old deities that were converted into demons and devils by Abrahamic religions were once sources of inspiration to the world."

"While you have dabbled in mainstream paganism, practitioners these days ring hollow to you."

"Their worship more out of desperation than any true passion."

"It wasn’t for you."

"You caught the attention of something in the dark."

"There is a strength in the old ways that it seems many have forgotten."

"What you are doing is not evil. It is necessary."

"Do stop squirming. It ruins the effect."

"Something was always broken inside of you. "

"Your questions cut through the niceties of social decorum."

"You weren’t ignorant of the suffering you caused. You just didn’t care."

"They love their work and the pain it inflicts."

"You? You honestly adore the look of terror ."

"After all, what is the point of your work if you do not enjoy it from time to time?"

"You know the best ways to draw out the psychic energy for a proper sacrifice."

"They will come. Have no doubt of that."

"You simply didn’t understand the need for religion."

"You were out of place."

"There is a calmness that comes from knowing the end is inevitable."

"You are existing on the precipice of a new universe and you know this."

"Your faith sustains you."

"Aren’t you a beautiful soul?"

"It was an easy lie."

"You have been an apt pupil."

"I am here to do the Devil’s work."

"Life hasn’t always sucked."

"Being homeless creates a new kind of resentment."

"People walk by, either with contempt or pity in their eyes for you. Both are an insult."

"In your anger, you lashed out, you reached for something new that could explain all the inconsistencies in the world."

"Beings from beyond time? The hell does that even mean?"

"You are the devil’s own."

"Satan was a model of freedom from tyranny."

"Your soul is foul and beyond redemption."

"Power belongs to those who are daring enough to wield it."

"You became the popular one, the one in demand, who’s very expression could elevate someone or dash their hopes."

"So, you arranged the death of your beneficiary and inherited their wealth."

"They admired the grace and style with which you brought your targets to heel and slowly destroyed them."

"It only took a week to catch your eye."

"The world may be destined to die a slow, agonizing death, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have your fun wherever you can find it."

"Who are you to judge?"

"You are only as good as your last rumor."

"It’s the thrill of the hunt that drives you and exhilarates you."

"You don’t understand. I know what breathes in the dark. I’m trying to keep it asleep."

"You were always looking for a place to fit in."

"The desire to fit in is always powerful. It can guide our actions and even our thoughts. It can shift our perspective, causing a realignment of our core values."

"Once you found some semblance of purpose you could identify with—and one that made you out to be a hero fighting back darkness, you embraced it wholeheartedly."

"You will keep doing what you know you must do."

"If they only knew that you were working to protect all of them. . .maybe they would be more grateful."

"You have a subtle contempt for modern society."

"You understand the desires that drive people to extremes. . .and you have no qualms about twisting those needs and urges to your ends."

"Everyone you meet is a tool to be used, a potential sacrifice, or a threat to be neutralized."

"You dress to impress—always in the most stylish manners according to what is in fashion."

"Use every environmental factor to your benefit when possible."

"Make good entrances and silent exits."

"You are a cutthroat negotiator when you need to be but know that sometimes the appearance of defeat can serve you better than a clear victory."

[miracul0us-multishipper]

“You”

A grin spread over Felix' face as he let the charade drop.

“Me.”

The black haired girl he now knew was Marinette rolled her eyes and turned back to her sketch book, a clear dismissal.

“You’re blocking the light. Go bother someone else.”

He sighed and brushed his hair back, decreasing the similarities to his cousin to the necessary minimum.

“Why would I? Everybody else is so boring.”

No one in this entire city had even realized he was back; not their classmates, not the teachers, not even the brunette fashion disaster that obviously had some experience with deception. Of course his little charade would have to end once Adrien had recovered from the cold that kept him at home, but until then Felix would have his fun. Yesterday he'd spend the entire day in the Bourgeois Spa, fooling the entire staff, the Mayor and his clingy brat. Despite the latter being Adriens “best friend”, not even she had realized who she was really inviting. Getting rid of her had been a little harder, but in the end he'd spent a wonderfully relaxing day in a steam bath and his skin was softer than ever. Courtesy of the ridiculously expensive mud bath he hadn’t had to pay a single penny for.

“Looks like you'd fit right in then.”, Marinette commented and drew an especially vigorous line in her book.

“Ouch. You wound me, darling!”

She shrugged and ignored him. Ignored him! That wouldn’t do.

With a last tug at his no longer messy strands he sat down next to her, leaning into her space as far as he could risk without getting slapped. His last few attempts had thought him that lesson.

“Oh, come on, Marinette, you must to tell me!”, he nagged her, happy when her face turned from concentration to annoyance. “What gave me away? Was it the wink? Or no, it was the greeting, wasn't it? Too much enthusiasm.”

“Why do you even care? You got all the others, didn’t you?”

He clicked his tongue.

“I have standards. If there's one person who can tell the difference, my performance is obviously lacking.”

She huffed and added a little bow to the skirt she was working on. Knee-length and plain colored, decorated with small ribbons. Classic and elegant, yet a touch of playfulness. He would have complimented it if he'd thought she might value his opinion.

“If it wasn’t my words or gestures, what was it?”, he asked on, not willing to give up and admit defeat. It was their little routine by now. He'd come up and try to pass as Adrien, she'd see through him and he would try to annoy her until she either gave him her full attention, or snarked him off. Marinette Dupain-Cheng – despite her cute appearance – could be mean, he'd learned.

“I don’t think I want to tell you.”, she shrugged, but he could see the beginning of a smile tugging at her lips. She'd deny it, but secretly she enjoyed their little battles of wits.

“What?”, he gasped and slumped against her in played shock, conveniently knocking the book out of her hands and onto the steps of the Trocadero. “But why?”

Now unable to draw on, she finally gave him her undivided focus.

“Because you, Monsieur Graham de Vanilly, are a major pain in my butt.”

“Oh? I would have thought you above such pettiness.”, he lamented. “To deny a fellow fashion enthusiast your criticism! To dishonor the sacred solidarity between artists! Truly a shame.”

“You? An artist?” She snickered. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Hey! Deception is as much of an art as these tiny scribbles of yours. And I am a master of my craft, thank you very much.”

She waved her hand and shooed him back a little.

“The questionable status of your craft aside, I'd hardly call you an expert. You were here for a day and already had the entire class plus three akumas after you. Your play didn’t even last an hour before it blew up in your face. Maybe you should ask Lila for a bit of advice! She's been here for months and is still on her unquestioned bullshit.”

He growled at that, drawing out another of these smug little smirks Marinette so rarely wore. After all his visits she knew how to rile him up.

“Do not compare me to that- that klutz! Anybody could spew some fancy tales and name drop, but that doesn’t mean she has skill. There's no finesse, no authenticity beneath that badly styled hair of her.”

“And there is beneath yours?”, Marinette said sweetly. He huffed and raised his chin.

“Of course there is. I don’t run around as Adrien for the fame, but for the fun of it. And I actually put in some effort. I was only found out because my goal required breaking character, and I still had a score to settle with my dear cousin. You think I only depend on my pretty face, because it looks conveniently close to Adrien? Wrong!”

His chest swoll a little as he spoke. With his accomplishments, he'd earned a little pride in himself.

“True, artful deception requires three things Lila Rossi couldn’t fake if her life depended on it: Discretion, Distraction and the right timing. She only ever barges in headfirst, unable to survive even a second outside of the spotlight.”

She hummed.

“My mistake. How could I ever assume you to be alike, since you obviously care so little about getting attention?”

Snarky little minx. Well, she wasn’t wrong, to be fair.

“Enough of that!”, he decided and eagerly turned back to her. “Now tell me what gave me away.”

“Let me see...”, she mused and pursed her lips. “I guess I could tell you that...”

“Yes?”

“...under certain circumstances...”

“Go on!”

“...it might be...”

“Might be?”

“The scent.”

He blinked. This had been his mistake? What kind of cologne did his cousin even wear?

“The... the scent.”

“Uh-huh.”

She moved to get back to her sketching, but he snatched the book before she could even touch it.

“Nah-ah! First you've got to expand on that. What perfume is he wearing?”

She shrugged and leaned back.

“Oh, isn’t it obvious? Adrien always wears “Manners and Class” N° 5. You on the other hand reek of “Wouldn’t know politeness if it hit me in the face”. A poor choice, really.”

She leaned in.

“You stink.”

It took a moment for her words to register, and he couldn't suppress a gasp when they did. With a satisfied smile she tugged her sketchbook out of his hands and crossed her legs, ready to put the finishing touch on her latest design. Felix fell back on the step next to her.

“That's it.”

“Yup.”

“You've won.”

“Fair and square.”

“I am defeated.”

“Annihilated. But to be fair, that opening was too easy.”

“Perfect set-up. Clean execution. Merciless punchline. You have earned your victory, so claim it properly.”

“I will.”

He fell silent after that, acknowledging his defeat. He lasted all but two minutes before his need for attention beat his shame.

“So? What do you want as your prize?”

“Peace and quiet?”, she proposed, gnawing at the end of her pencil.

He shook his head in disbelief.

“You're more ambitious than that, Dupain-Cheng. Here I am, Felix Graham du Vanilly, offering you everything I can give, and you settle for peace and quiet? Tsk, you can do better than that.”

“Maybe I could ask you to clear the area, while I’m already at it. For the entire week.”

He should leave. He wouldn’t get any real feedback out of her today, and now that he had offered her a prize she might develop some common sense and ask him for his connections, or some favors that could get her publicity. He was stretching his luck every time he decided to pester her again.

But he stayed. Whether it was his wounded pride, or his curiosity ever since she'd sent that little love declaration to his cousin... he couldn’t allow the only borderline interesting person in this city to dismiss him like that. Especially not when he hadn’t been able to get a rise out of her yet.

An idea popped into his mind and he spoke before he could think.

“You could ask me for a date.”

Now Marinette did put her book away.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She blinked.

“Did you miss the part where I asked you to leave me to my scribbles, as you put it? Because I am sure I mentioned it a few times, now.”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

She groaned and closed her book. He counted that as a victory.

“Well, then maybe you remember the fact that I’m in love with Adrien. Which you already know, since you watched the video clearly addressed to him. And deleted said video. And replied very rudely.”

He hummed and stood up to circle her. An actor had to have a sense of drama, after all.

“The past is the past. And in the present, I look just like Adrien.”

Now he finally seemed to have broken through her cool facade.

“So what?”, she snapped at him, crossing her arms. “Do you think I like him for his looks? Am I that shallow, in your opinion?”

Of course she wasn’t. But he'd finally struck a nerve.

“You're not?”, he provoked slyly.

“No!”

She stomped her pink flats on the ground with more force than should be physically possible.

“I love him because he is kind. And thoughtful. And funny and confident and fair and so classy, and because he loves to make friends, and because he's loyal and caring and-“

“Okay, okay, I get it. He's your little fairy tale prince.”, he interrupted a little harsher than intended. Clearing his throat he continued. “And you'll be relieved to know that I don’t want to date you either. No offense to you, but I am above such mundane things as crushes.”

She rolled her eyes and sat back down.

“Of course you are.”

“Fact is, my dear Marinette,” he lectured smugly, “that you can’t even say two words to your loverboy without seemingly suffering a particularly unflattering stroke.”

“What a flowery statement, Sherlock.”

“Another fact is that you can talk very fluently to me. Far too fluently, in my opinion.”

Marinette's eyes narrowed with suspicion and he smiled.

“What's your point?”

“My point is,” he finished his circling and came to a stand right in front of her. “that you can use me to practice. Here, I'll even mess up my hair again!”

“Wait, I didn’t even agree to-“

“You're welcome. Aren’t I a dashing little dream prince?”

He posed in true Adrien fashion and Marinette pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Please, just don’t.”

“Pah! Ungrateful as always. Anyway, back to business!”

He spun into a dramatic pirouette and kneeled down before her, taking her hand between his.

“Marinette, my fairest!”, he proclaimed with vigor. “Is there something on that bright mind of yours you want to share with me, Adrien Agreste?”

She groaned again, but didn’t pull away.

“If you'll leave me alone after that...”

“I'll do anything my good friend asks of me! I am sunshine personified!”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Close enough.”

He almost regretted looking for Marinette this late. The sun was about to set and most tourists had already left for locations with a better view. If there had been more, one might have captured a snap shot of Adrien Agreste kneeling in front of a random girl about to confess. His cousin would be delighted when he found out about his scandal in the news.

Alas, it was only the two of them who paid attention to each other. But Marinette was about to begin, so he didn’t ponder on the viewers anymore.

“I... I wanted to tell you that...”

He almost winced at that poor display of rhetorical talent, but she wasn’t done yet. Taking a deep breath, Marinette lifted her eyes off of her shoes and looked directly at him. And for a moment it felt as if she were looking into him. He'd seen these bluebell eyes roll in annoyance, glare in anger and sparkle with mirth, but never had he seen them this piercing, this all-consuming.

“Adrien, there's something I haven’t told you yet.”, she said, and it was as if he'd never heard her speak before. This wasn’t the voice that had teased and bantered with him, or the disinterested lull she mumbled in when she tried to ignore him. This was soft, yet firm and confident. Like tugging the strings of a violin: a clear, pleasant sound that offered a first hint of the potential in this slender instrument.

“I didn’t keep this from you because I don’t value our friendship.”, she said and her fingers tightened around his. Felix was suddenly sure that no expensive mudbath could ever make his skin as soft as hers. “It's the furthest thing from it. I didn’t tell you because I value our friendship so much. And I was scared to risk it.”

She took a step closer and he had to swallow.

“Adrien, you are the first person I think of when I wake up, and the only person I see in my dreams. Every morning, when I walk into class and see you, I feel like there's pure sunshine in my chest and springs under my feet. Like gravity is just a loose suggestion and I could float if I jumped. Like... like I could do anything I ever dreamed of.”

She looked down upon their hands. Disentangling their fingers surprised him, but even more surprising was that this time, she took his hands between hers.

“I know you feel trapped sometimes.”, she whispered and he found himself suddenly very insecure. Was she still acting? Was she this deep in their little charade? Or... or was she truly talking to him?

“I know you put up a smile and try to give everybody what they expect. And that you don’t have a lot of chances to just be you, not the heir of a great legacy. But I... I want to be your escape. Your safe haven. What I am trying to say is...”

She looked back up to him, and her smile was radiant.

“I love you.”

...

There was a tightness in his chest.

Because he wasn’t breathing, he realized.

Odd.

He didn’t have time to overthink this little detail, though. For as soon as he opened his mouth to say something – what, he didn’t know – she blinked and took a step back. The spell faded and his mouth fell shut again.

“So,” Marinette cleared her throat and looked away. “How... How was it?”

“Uh...”, he made, which was admittedly not the smartest reply he’d ever given her. The fact that he still hadn’t remembered to breathe in didn’t make things easier.

Marinette shifted her weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortable.

“That bad?”

Ha.

Ha ha.

He shook his head and finally sucked in some much needed air.

“Good”, he croaked out, which was still not much of an improvement from his earlier statement of ‘uh’.

“It was... really good.”

Ah. The simple beauty of a full sentence.

“You think so?”, she asked, voice high with surprise. “It wasn’t... I don’t know, a little too much?”

“No!”, he answered a little too fast. “Uh, no. No, it was really... really good.”

Marinette's eyes went narrow.

“Are you making fun of me? Because I may be small, but if you did this to humiliate me then I swear to god, I will take this pencil and-“

“I was serious. What you said was beautiful.”

They both blinked at his words. He hadn’t meant to say that. This wasn’t how their interactions went. They were snarky. Mean. Teasing from time to time. But not... this. Never this open. Never vulnerable.

“Thank you.”, Marinette gave back, seemingly unsure herself. “I should... you know, it’s late and my parents are waiting.”

He nodded far too eagerly for his earlier efforts to make her stay.

“Yes, of course. I'll... No, you know the way better than me, probably.”

She laughed at that. It wasn’t a snicker, or one of her smug little huffs. It sounded... sweet.

“Yeah, no need to walk me home.”

She eyed him for a a moment, then the emptying place.

“I could walk you home, though. If you want to.”

Yes.

“No.”, he said and something in his chest roared in disappointment. “Thank you, but it would be quite the detour for you.”

She shrugged.

“Alright. Don’t get lost.”

Shouldering her bag she took her sketch book and moved to leave, but stopped mid movement to turn back around.

“Oh, and if you tell anybody – especially Adrien! – about any of this, you'll find out what I was going to do with that pencil! Got it?”

He rolled his eyes, finally in control of himself.

“Yes, oh great master of pencilmanship. Your weapon is as feared as its wielder.”

Satisfied she nodded and turned around, but stopped yet again. With a groan she dropped the bag, stepped in front of him and grabbed his collar. He'd never admit to anybody that the surprised squeal that followed had come from him. Utterly frozen in shock he could only watch as Marinette came closer and...

“There!”, she hummed and combed back his hair with her fingers. “I like you hair better this way.”

A small nod was all he could muster up, but it was enough for her. Waving him goodbye she turned around for good.

“Well then. See you around, Felix!”

He watched her leave, desperately trying to regain his voice.

“Y-Yeah. See you around, Marinette.”

Only when she had completely disappeared in the nearby metro station he allowed himself to sit down, wobbly knees no longer able to support him.

“What...”, he mumbled to himself, “...the entire fuck...”

What did just happen? Nothing made sense, not this stupid idea and certainly not his reaction to it. Sighing he leaned back against the steps and touched his hair. It was still a little messy, but laid back against his head in its usual fashion. If he concentrated he could almost feel the warmth of her fingers trapped between his strands.

He sighed deeply.

...damnit.

- - -

A little one shot because I hadn't written about canon!felix yet.

[concussed-to-pieces]

Her Dove, His Falcon, Their Shield Part One

Fandom: Game Of Thrones

Pairing: Eventual Oberyn/Reader/Ellaria

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Disclaimer for Game Of Thrones writing here! This installment contains a reader that is a ruff tuff cheeto puff, a damn juggernaut. STRONK. I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks to culturalrebel and hulia for recommending me compilation videos, as well as to @zeldasayer for inspiring me to write a hella buff reader. This is peak indulgence, pauldronsexual hours bois. I wax poetic about Ellaria, it’s a great time. I'll see you all with part two on Monday. Enjoy!

Tag List: @culturalrebel @huliabitch @absurdthirst @helplessly-nonstop

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains depictions of canon-typical violence, allusions to canon-typical abuse, depictions of sexual activities with a pregnant party and vague allusions to breeding kink. Stay safe!] 

You were sure your fingers were broken.

The pain flickered sunlight-bright behind your eyes every time you had tried to move your pinky or your index, your entire right hand so gristly you didn't dare to look at it after you had bound it up as best as you could.

You clutched your hand to your chest, forcing yourself to focus. The wharf. You had to reach the docks. That had been your plan this morning, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. 

You crept through the shadows, dashing away your tears with your threadbare shawl. Your weeping would only be a sign of weakness, urging the vultures to circle on your corpse before it was even cold.

The creak of timbers heralded your arrival to the waterfront and a soft sigh of relief left your mouth when you spotted who you were looking for. The sailor that had promised you passage was there, leaned against the wall of the nearby harbormaster's quarters. He glanced up at the sound of your voice when you hailed him, tipping his head.

"Well well, look what the cat dragged in." He chuckled, wandering hands already tugging at your shawl. "Have you brought the payment, my dear?"

You pulled forth a small purse of coins. "I know it is less than what we promised, but I was unable to-" The man clicked his tongue, obviously disappointed. "I-I am certain we can come to an agreement, please." You begged desperately. You were so close to your escape!

"Darling, we had a deal." The sailor chided, sounding like he was scolding a child. "You bring me the payment, and I convince my captain that having a woman on board our vessel isn't bad luck. Now, at the eleventh hour, you decide you want to bargain?" The man crowded you back against the wall, his face inches from yours when he muttered, "I don't barter with whores." The blow caught you unawares, the back of his hand connecting with your cheek. You shut your eyes when he raised his hand again, gritting your teeth in anticipation of stifling your noise. 

Gods, you were so tired of this.

"What are you doing to that girl?" A man's voice demanded, his distinctive Dornish accent thick with either drink or weariness. "Get away from her or I will cut you down where you stand, you cur." 

"She is hurt, lover." That voice was lilting, intrigued, a woman's voice. "Look at her hand, and the way her face is turned. She has been struck."

You abruptly felt the sailor's weight removed from your body, the sudden action making you cringe back against the wall. Large, trembling fingers eased your wounded hand away from where you had it protectively curled into your chest. "What has happened to you, sweetling?" You didn't dare to open your eyes and the man tsked after a moment, relinquishing your hand. 

"Lover, we must get you onboard, your wounds-" 

"A moment, Ellaria. This…" A hand touched your cheek, making you start and open your eyes. Dark, textured leather armor met your gaze, the surface spattered rusty with blood. Your breathing stuttered. You didn't dare to look up at the man who wore the armor, staring at his chest as hard as you could manage.

The hand slid beneath your chin, tugging your eyes reluctantly upwards as your shawl slid off of your head. You gasped when you caught sight of his face. The man appeared battered, the sides of his head badly bruised at the temples and cheeks. There were livid contusions that looked suspiciously like large handprints, as if someone had attempted to crush his skull with their bare hands. His left eye was bloodied, laced with spiderwebbed veins and swollen half-shut. The fingers that touched your face were still shaking, his other hand pressed to a dressing that wrapped around his left elbow.

"Not a girl, I see. A woman." The Dornishman said quietly after enduring a moment of your impolite gawking. "And as such, I cannot make this choice for you."

You swallowed hard. You had heard stories about the people of Dorne, about Sunspear and the supposed depravity that took place there. True, you had been hoping to get aboard a ship and go somewhere, anywhere, as far away as you could manage. And with that sailor denying you passage...

The man's deep brown eyes saddened at your silence. "Would you stay here and endure this mistreatment from men like him, simply because it is familiar?"

You shook your head, fleetingly meeting his gaze and opening your mouth. "I have never been on a ship before, m-my lord." You attempted a belated curtsey. You had no idea who this man was, but it was best to err on the side of caution that he was of a higher social ranking than you. Most people were.

He seemed amused if anything, a pained smile crossing his haggard features. "You will soon grow to love it, little dove."

"If it pleases you, my lord." You demurred in a whisper, your heart pounding in your chest. Were you trading one cruel man for another? They often hid their true intentions until their audience was gone. But the woman at his side...she didn't seem fearful. "I have naught to offer for my passage but this, my lord." The small purse of coins jingled softly as you extended it to the man in front of you. "I am uncertain how much distance it will buy me, but I am not afraid of hard work."

The man waved it off, cupping your hand around the purse. "Do not trouble yourself with such things, my dove. Our time grows short." 

…

You had been warned of the sea illness, but you appeared to be able to ward off the heaves if you stayed above decks. The fresh salt air stung your cheeks, yet you refused to move from your spot by the railing. You made yourself scarce beside a pile of coiled rope, staying out of the way of the sailors bustling about and watching everything with wide eyes. Your injured hand was still cradled to your chest, but you had no attention for it as you hungrily devoured your surroundings.

King's Landing had been an area tinged gray, dour with gilded suffering. The golden sunsets that would pour through the high windows of your barren room paled in comparison to the sunset you were witnessing now. It was as if the horizon itself was ablaze, a cacophony of reds and oranges that turned the ocean brilliant. You had never seen such a sunset in all your years, and you prayed that it was a good omen. 

The sailors sang as they worked, all of them settling into a rhythm in order to keep everything running smoothly. It was fascinating to watch men pulling lines taut and tacking the mighty vessel into the wind, the ship nimble enough to respond to such rapid adjustments.

"There you are, little dove." Ellaria swayed easily with the motion of the craft, one hand resting on the shrouds to keep her balance. You started in surprise, having not noticed her approach. "You enjoy watching the sailors?"

"They are incredible, my lady." You replied honestly, cocking your head to the side. "I know very little about sailing, but surely their skill is unmatched? You must be immensely proud."

Her laughter was a beautiful noise, just as beautiful as she was. "My lover will be pleased to hear such flattery from your lips! He takes great delight in sailing. Now come with me, flattering dove. We must have the healer tend to your hand." 

You shakily climbed upright, gripping the bannister with your good hand as if your life depended on it. The journey back to the elaborate cabin was fraught with peril for you, and you envied Ellaria's gauzy, simplistic garb every time your heavy skirts got caught on the various cleats and belaying pins. 

Ellaria opened the cabin door and ushered you into the darker environment, tutting between her teeth. "Lover, you should not be upright." She scolded.

The wounded man (now heavily bandaged), shot her a lazy smile from his place at a desk, quill resting on a half-used sheet of vellum. "I know, Ellaria. She tried her best to tell me so as well."

An older woman (the healer, judging from her no-nonsense expression) rolled her eyes and dusted off her hands, approaching you rapidly. You flinched back and she slowed, her gaze flicking to Ellaria in question.

"We encountered this sweet dove on the docks. It is her hand, Ael." Ellaria said quietly, taking your arm. "Come, sit. Ael will not harm you."

You were settled onto a soft cushion and the healer slid your hand into her own, her touch light and careful while she unwrapped your bruised fingers. "How?" She asked, her voice just as quiet as Ellaria's.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the memory, biting your lip. "It was an accident, I didn't mean...I upset him."

"Him?" The man asked, leaning forward and then grimacing in pain. "That man on the docks?"

"N-No, my master. I am...well, I suppose I was, a-a helpmate of sorts. Shield-maiden. I...helped him to don and doff his armor, and I," you hesitated, "well, did whatever was asked of me."

Ellaria made a noise in her throat. "So what crime did you commit, to earn such punishment that would render you useless for your primary task?"

"I...I broke two of his fingers." You extended your uninjured hand in a gesture to allay concern. "I did not mean to! It was an a-accident, he had a trial to prepare for today with a fearsome opponent. His mind was elsewhere, and when I went to slide his gauntlet on-"

"What was your master's name, little dove?" The man interrupted you, his expression thoughtful. 

"His name is Ser Gregor Clegane, my lord. An enormous man who has been dubbed The Mountain." 

"You mentioned a fearsome opponent. But with a master such as that, who was this fearsome opponent?" 

"A prince of Dorne, my lord, one of your own! Can you even imagine?" You sighed dreamily, vaguely aware that Ael was giving you an odd look. She probably thought you childish, still swooning over faceless royalty. "I was told that he was an immensely fierce and clever man, though not in such forgiving language." Then, forgetting your place, you muttered, "I hope that he roundly trounced Ser Clegane."

The man burst out laughing, but winced and held his jaw as Ael fixed him a stern glare. You were certain your confusion was quite bare on your face. "Apologies, I do not laugh at your misfortune, little dove. Rather, at the providence of it all." He explained, still chuckling. "You are to thank for his terrible temper and sloppy work at the trial, then?"

"Oh, you witnessed the duel? What happened?" You asked excitedly, rocking on your seat in anticipation. 

"Oberyn, stop teasing." Ellaria murmured, sounding almost like she was chiding him. 

Oberyn. 

Your heart leaped into your throat as the man tossed you a pained smirk, moving to the pile of cushions and blankets on the floor. "Y...You? You are-?" Your voice failed you.

"Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, a fierce and clever man among many other virtues?" He drawled, looking like the cat that ate the canary as he gingerly reclined on his soft throne. "None other than, sweet dove."

"They are so deliciously genuine, lover." Ellaria crooned to him while you felt your skin flush hot with embarrassment. "They had nothing but lovely things to say about your crew, and now this? Such courtesy."

"Truly?" Oberyn (Prince Oberyn! your mind shrieked in horror) asked, his tone bordering on surprised. "And all of that, without even knowing who you spoke to? Rare courtesy indeed." 

"I...I am so sorry if I've offended you, your highness." You whispered, "I know there is no excuse for my ignorance."

"Nonsense! I owe you a debt, it seems!" Oberyn replied cheerily. You dared to look up, finding him with a hand pressed to the side of his well-bandaged jaw. "Ser Gregor sought to crush my skull after I had run him through. Clearly, it is thanks to you that he could not maintain his grip and I escaped with this colorful bruising."

"So you killed him?" You asked, knowing full-well that the hope in your voice was unbecoming.

"If he is not dead yet, he will be soon." Oberyn seemed outrageously pleased with himself, though his eyes were strangely melancholy. "Justice has been served. I only wish that I could have stayed to witness him breathe his filthy last, but it seemed that the royal family had other plans regarding the outcome of the trial. I thought it better to take my leave before they decided to finish what Ser Gregor began."

You ducked your face into your elbow, trying to quickly hide your tears. Ellaria caught your chin though, her confusion evident. "Why do you weep, little dove?"

"P-Please forgive my loss of composure! I w-weep for myself, my lady." You hiccupped, the words spilling out of you. "I suffered much by the hand of that man. To know that Ser Clegane is in agony or already perished…it feels like a precious gift, yet I should take no joy in the knowledge. To luxuriate in his demise makes me no better than him."

"You are alive and he is not. Luxuriate in that, if you will not give yourself the satisfaction of indulging in vicarious revenge." Oberyn murmured, his tone troubled. "Did he shame you, little dove?" 

You raised your eyes to his and he must have seen the truth there, even though you said softly that you had heard of him doing far worse than what had ever been done to you. "I believe I was one of the luckier ones, your highness."

The prince cursed under his breath, rubbing his temples. "I will be overjoyed to be back in Dorne once again. King's Landing is fraught with madness. A wonder that it still fills me with fury! I am half-dead." He muttered. 

"Indeed you are, lover. You ought to be resting." Ellaria chastised him, her tone fondly concerned.

"Yes, my love. I am immensely weary. But council me before I slumber. What shall I do with this unforeseen ally?" The prince asked, waving a hand in your direction. "They spake so sweetly to me, and I could have been the lowest man in all of Dorne. Such honesty deserves reward."

"Not to mention that without their aid, your head would have been crushed." Ellaria pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "And I would not be able to do this."

"You graciously offered me passage, your highness. That is more than enough-" You began to protest, wincing when Ael tightly bound your fingers together once again. 

Oberyn dismissed your reasoning with naught but a slow flick of his wrist, yawning widely. "Ellaria, the weariness has ensnared me. Do with them what you wish, my love." He mumbled, sinking down into the nest of blankets. Ellaria studied you for a time as you sat silently, letting Ael tend to your hand. You didn't dare to meet her eyes, so frightened that she might view you as defiant. 

"I know you must be used to making yourself small, little dove." She finally spoke softly. "Take heart, the people of Dorne are not so cruel as those you have encountered." Ael had finished wrapping your fingers and Ellaria encircled your wrists, the other woman searching your eyes. "Men use such pretty terms to describe the anguish their counterparts inflict upon us. Shamed, as if you were a naughty child." She shook her head unhappily. "I would promise you your heart's desire, for it is because of you that my beloved still breathes. Anything you wish, you need only ask."

You stared at her dumbly, trying in vain to blink back the fresh tears that rose at her practical words. 

Ellaria tutted, her hand rising to smooth over your tangled hair in a maternal fashion while the tears spilled down your cheeks. "You are exhausted, little dove." She soothed, a gossamer sleeve catching your tears and patting your face dry. "Sleep now. I will ask you in the morning."

...

You woke to someone gently brushing your hair, the groan of timber and faint sounds of water all around you. Certain that you were dreaming, you hummed and shifted your weight, snuggling a little closer to the lap your head rested in.

"Dove, are you awake?" Ellaria. You nodded sleepily, trying to remember who that name belonged to. "I had hoped to be done before you woke." She sighed. "Try to stay still for me, sweet. I will be finished in a few moments." 

As you felt her begin to plait your hair, your mind slowly seemed to shake off the warm haze of sleep. The Mountain. Your hand. Prince Oberyn--

Gods, Prince Oberyn! You flinched, wide awake now. Ellaria patted the top of your head, obviously satisfied with her handiwork. "There! Beautiful." She said decisively. "You slept so soundly, my little dove! You needed the rest, I imagine."

"My lady…" Right back to where you had started, you nearly wept all over again. Your life had been devoid of tenderness for so long, cut off from any warmth or care. Now here was a small smattering, a ray of sunlight through the clouds, and you were utterly in a shambles. "I apologize for my turbulent emotions." You breathed. "I am at a loss."

"Hush, little dove." The woman murmured, a finger tucking beneath your chin to tilt your face up. "You are so pensive! I would see you smile. Breakfast, perhaps?"

You hesitated, your stomach knotting uncertainly. "I do not know if I will be able to, my lady. The ship...I am unused to its motion." 

Ellaria smiled at you, a genuine, soft smile that wrapped around your soul like a secret. "We shall eat above decks, my dove. Something light, to baby that green belly of yours."

Gods, was she teasing you? You had no idea what to think as she got to her feet and extended a hand to you. The light played across her golden skin when she helped you rise, even more of her body on display in today's garb. You felt like a drab sparrow beside a brilliant goldfinch, trying vainly to smooth the wrinkles out of your skirts as you followed behind her.

The sky was blue overhead, the sun just slightly above the horizon. It was still early, though normally you would be going to sleep at this hour.

Your shudder had nothing to do with the brisk sea wind.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Ellaria said gladly, tilting her head at you. Her brown eyes fairly danced with good humor, like she was sharing a joke. 

Your heart clenched in your chest and you swallowed roughly. When you agreed with her, you were unsure of whether you spoke of the sky or the woman beside you. 

After a light breakfast, Ellaria left you to your own devices. You continued to watch the sailors with awe, thankful that they all seemed perfectly content to ignore you.

It did not take long for the prince to grow bored in his confinement, his complaints growing louder and louder until he emerged onto the deck. Half-dressed, Ellaria following after him bearing a light golden wrapper, Oberyn stalked to the railing and stared moodily across the water at the other ship that had departed alongside his at King's Landing. 

"Had I not promised Cersei that I would bring that miserable pile of driftwood to her child, I would scuttle the whole affair." He muttered, stroking his facial hair. Ellaria attempted to drape the dressing gown around him, beckoning for you to come assist her. "Even after all the harm she's done, I will not cause undue grief to...ah, my dove!" The sight of you seemed to shake him from his doleful contemplation, and you couldn't help your flush when the prince idly brushed his fingers over your cheek after you had succeeded in helping Ellaria. "Have you decided what you might ask of me, little dove?" Inhaling a bracing gulp of air, you nodded. The prince inclined his head, tucking Ellaria into his side and then raising his eyebrows at you in silent query. 

"I ask...I-I ask two things of you, your highness." You winced when your voice squeaked nervously. "First, I humbly request that you hear me until the end. What I will ask...I know that it is laughable." The prince frowned, but nodded. "I was trained for much of my years in the manner of a soldier, as my mother bore my father no sons. That is how Gregor found me." You steeled yourself. "I would like to continue my tutelage and, once I have become a full-fledged warrior, I would ask to join your soldiers and fight under the flag of Martell."

"Why...Why would you ask for that?" Oberyn queried, his tone one of immense confusion. Ellaria looked bewildered as well.

"After everything that has...happened, to me, everything that has been done to me, I am no longer fit to marry." You explained, doing your best to be ginger with your speech. "Yet, I would serve the man who slew Gregor with my very life. All I can ask for is the chance."

The prince lifted his hand, laying it across the back of your neck and tugging you to lean close. He pressed his forehead to your own, his eyes searching yours. "Not a dove at all." He murmured finally. "A falcon. You will have your wish and one better, my falcon. I will not see you amongst the rank and file of soldiers in my brother's army. You shall train as a knight." His hand clapped your shoulder warmly. "A knight of House Martell. It will be difficult! But I know you would not expect ease after the life you have endured." He glanced at Ellaria. "What say you, my love?"

Ellaria's smile was soft and a bit sad. She cupped your face, touching her forehead to your own as well. "Elia would have loved the spirit of this one."

Elia Martell. You had heard the stories, of course, but the depth of the anguish you saw in Oberyn's gaze took your breath away. 

The prince nodded sorrowfully after a moment, kissing Ellaria's knuckles. "Aye, she would have. But she can rest easy now, my love, and that is all that matters."

…

"Again!" The battlemaster shouted, his hand extended to direct. "First form!"

You had flourished under the watchful eye of the head warriors of House Martell, training alongside several of Oberyn's own daughters. The strength you had built through your prior training with heavy plate and shield made you unexpectedly hardy, especially when clad in the much lighter leather and chain mail that the Dornish warriors wore. 

You were able to wield a pike on foot with relative ease, and Oberyn saw to it personally that you were granted a larger shield. "If you are to be drawing the enemy's attention, I would rather you are shielded…"

You assumed the first stance, your form wavering ever so slightly when Oberyn and Ellaria emerged from a nearby hallway to observe the training. 

The prince was well on the mend from his grisly ordeal with Gregor, only bearing a slight tenderness in his left elbow during poor weather. He was a truly lucky man. Ellaria was in good spirits this afternoon, her smile radiant as she waved to you. You bowed, panting a little from the exertion of your training. The battlemaster dismissed you with a grin, overused to such royal interruptions. 

Oberyn's younger daughters flung themselves at you in their typical fashion the second they were permitted, all of them piling onto you in an effort to take you to the ground. You struggled valiantly against the assault as Oberyn laughed, the man wading into the mass of bodies after a moment to pluck Loreza from your back. "Such violence from my beautiful children! You are your mother's daughters." He teased with a broad smile, rubbing his nose against Loreza's. 

Dorea danced around her mother, tugging at her hands. "May we go to the water gardens, mama?" She asked, pausing to meticulously straighten her petite bracers. Dorea took the training very seriously. 

Ellaria nodded, patting her on the head. "Alright my little snakes, rise from the sand and go play." She urged, "You have all done so well in your training today! I am very proud." Elia rolled her eyes, shaking her head when Obella and Dorea shrieked their delight. She was, of course, too old to let such maternal praise cloud her impressions of how her training had actually gone. 

You wished you didn't light up as bright as the children whenever the prince and his paramour praised them. You knew that it was foolish. 

"We are both impressed with your progress. It has only been five months and yet, you fight as if you were of Dorne yourself." Oberyn observed after his children had departed, his hand resting at the small of Ellaria's back. 

You went hot at the praise, bowing and stammering, "a-all due to your faith in me, your highness!"

"How many times must I insist that you simply call me Oberyn?" He asked, the grin he shot you making your knees weak. "After all, unwittingly or not, we conspired together as equals!"

"Do not tease her so, lover!" Ellaria chided him. "We had something to tell her, remember?"

"Apologies, my love." Oberyn cleared his throat, and his face grew incredibly serious. "My falcon, we come bearing wonderful news. My paramour is pregnant once again." He announced, "A new Sand Snake will be born in but six months time."

You gaped at him, then at Ellaria, who was beaming. "Oh, that is...good?" You half-questioned. True, the people of Dorne had radically different viewpoints from the rest of the world when it came to bastards, carnal acts and indeed, their sexuality in general. You were still adjusting to such broad views.

Ellaria nodded, thankfully not visibly offended by your hesitation. "In Dorne, children are a treasured blessing, not the death knell that so many seem to see them as." She rested her hands on the nearly imperceptible swell of her belly. "Oberyn wished to ask you to become my sworn knight, to defend me from such trials that pregnancy brings." Her eyes were dancing again; she was joking with you. 

You chuckled nervously, dusting the knees of your breeches off. "I fear I would do more harm than good in that department, my lady." Despite her insistence that she was but a bastard, you always referred to her as 'my lady', just as you always referred to Oberyn by archaic honorifics. 

"Are you greatly concerned with the skirmish I am sending you to, my falcon?" Oberyn asked bluntly. 

You shook your head. "Not at all, your highness. I have faith in my skill, as well as the competence of Prince Doran's military."

"I will be there as well, though only advising in my elder brother's stead." Oberyn sighed wistfully. "You must be twice as fierce on the battlefield, my falcon! Fill my place in the ranks."

"I must be at least six times as fierce if I were to try and match you, your highness!" You protested.

"The genuine nature of your flattery never ceases to raise my spirits, my falcon! Dorne will need your strength." The prince grinned sharply, "And your ferocity. I assume we can expect great things from you?" He extended his forearm and you clasped it, feeling the coil of muscle that lurked beneath the sleeve of his brocade robe.

"You may depend on me, Prince Oberyn." You replied firmly.

...

It was to be a simple pincer attack, your small battalion held in reserve to strike at the most opportune moment. Everything always seemed so straightforward when in the map room.

Now, in the muddy chaos of the battlefield, you planted your massive tower shield as a rallying point for the foot soldiers and warded off the attacks that poured around it like river water. Cavalry thundered past you into the fray, lances up and proud Martell trappings flapping in the breeze. You struck down Dorne's foes without mercy, attempting to do the absent Oberyn justice.

Until you caught sight of Elia, torn from her horse by a greatsword-wielding warrior. She hit the mud hard, barely rolling out of the way of the man's full swing. He landed a glancing blow on her shoulder and you heard her cry out.

You jerked your shield up out of the ground, terrified beyond measure that she would not hear your voice. You gathered your legs beneath you to brace for her weight and shouted, "Lady Elia!" Her eyes met yours for a split-second. "Ninth form!" With your shoulder and knee set into the back of your shield, you tilted the metal.

The smaller woman bolted up and onto your slanted shield, then wheeled and sprang off with her arm outstretched to grapple the warrior's neck. The man was floored by the blow, he and Elia tumbling to the ground. You thrust your spear through the offending wrist that still gripped his sword, your razor-sharp weapon piercing the weak point in his armor and pinning his hand to the ground as he screamed. 

"If any man dares to touch a Sand Snake, he shall lose his hand and his life." You seethed, raising and then crushing the edge of your shield down on his throat. Elia stared up at you, hurriedly accepting your hand when you offered it. "Are you badly injured, my lady?" You asked worriedly.

"Just winded." She jibed but winced afterwards, touching the blood blotting her armor at the shoulder. "Damn it, and perhaps my shoulder could use tending."

"Shall I escort you back to the stratagem, my lady?"

"So courteous! A true knight." She teased, laughing. "Of course, deliver me to the hands of my hen of a father, that he might chatter and squawk about how careless I was." She tossed her head haughtily. "Wonderful."

"I meant no disrespect, my lady." Elia had a rebellious streak that may have very well been the entirety of her body. Fiercely capable and cunning beyond measure, this would be a blow to her pride. But you could not very well permit her to venture on wounded and get herself killed in the bargain, so you herded her gently back towards the stratagem tents.

You were both soaked head to toe with the blood and sweat of battle, so Oberyn's gut-wrenching expression of terror upon catching sight of his daughter was to be expected. "Elia!" He cried, striding out of the tent. "Where is the wound? You would not retreat willingly, you are too stubborn."

"Hush, I am well. Your falcon saw to that." Elia retorted, gesturing at your massive shield. "She clove a man's head off with that simply for touching me."

"He did a sight more than touch you, my lady." You replied stiffly, "I merely retaliated."

Oberyn enfolded his daughter in his arms, squeezing her tightly as you stripped your helmet off. "Straight to Ael with you. You have done well." He praised her, "but this shoulder will need to be tended lest you lose feeling in your hand."

After Elia had departed, you dropped to one knee. "Forgive me, your highness. I was not fast enough to keep her from harm."

"Lightning itself is not fast enough to keep that one from being wherever she wants." Oberyn replied dryly, clapping your shoulder and urging you to stand. "You brought her to me, a task which I'm certain she did not make simple. You are…" he trailed off, staring at you. Since you had removed your helmet, you assumed you must have some mud on your face. Why else would he look at you as though he had never seen you before? Perhaps the sun was in his eyes, or maybe your hair was much more hopeless than usual.

You quickly scrubbed at your cheeks, but Oberyn remained silent. "Prince Oberyn?" You queried tentatively.

"You are capable." He managed to finish his thought after several more moments. His voice was strangely faint. "Thank you for returning her hale and whole to me."

"Are you well, your highness?"

"Quite well. Astonishingly so, given the circumstances."

...

You were knighted formally as Ser Shieldove of House Martell on the following new moon. Oberyn winked at you in playful insinuation when you and several other new knights knelt before his brother to be anointed with seven oils, nearly causing you to embarrass yourself by laughing. The younger prince had become markedly more flirtatious towards you after the skirmish, his teasing bold even for his standards. You had dismissed it though, certain that he was merely expressing his gratitude with some flattering attention directed your way.

At the feast that followed, Oberyn and Ellaria flanked you instead of taking up their usual position at the head of the table with Prince Doran. Ellaria in particular was nearly hanging off your arm as the both of them fed you from their own trenchers. His tender touch while he plied you with fruits and the brush of the pads of her fingers against your lips made your throat burn with an odd emotion that you dared not examine. The flavorful dolmas hit your tongue and turned to ash in the wake of Ellaria's beautiful smile and Oberyn's jests.

The prince was regaling anyone who would listen with the thrilling (and greatly exaggerated) tale of you and Elia in the skirmish. "-my daughter, Elia Sand, though wounded, fought valiantly against a warrior seven times her size. Ser Shieldove, thinking quickly as she always does-"

"That is a falsehood, your highness." You protested, making Oberyn and his audience laugh. "I was in a panic. I was so fearful I would not reach her in time."

"What is a skirmish if not an opportunity to embellish?" The prince teased. "As I was saying, Ser Shieldove utilized one of the many tactics she learned in her knightly training…" While Oberyn prattled on, you felt his hand rest idly on your leg. You barely kept from leaping out of your skin when he gripped down a little tighter, his fingers rubbing circles through the gossamer of your gown and the fabric of your hosiery.

"More wine?" Ellaria asked sweetly, refilling your goblet before you even had the chance to nod. 

"Thank you, my lady." You cocked your head to the side. "Are you well? I hope the babe does not grieve you."

Her lovely laughter, combined with the hypnotic press and drag of Oberyn's fingers, made you wish that you could stay where you were forever. "I have done this four times before, my falcon. Or should I say, Ser Shieldove?" She chuckled. "I am prepared for whatever discomfort this little one sees fit to inflict upon me."

You smiled at her, stating sincerely, "I am in awe of you, Lady Ellaria." 

"Of me? Whatever for?" She asked in surprise. 

"Your willingness to bear children. It is...I do not know if I would ever have the strength for such an endeavor." You admitted softly, leaning in a little. "Your joy is pure and rare, unlike anything I have ever witnessed. You are practically aglow. It makes my heart ache and sing all at once, to see you so happy."

Ellaria took your hands in her own, clasping them to her heart. "Ser Shieldove, your flattery has not lost its edge." She murmured, her eyes bright. "Though I know your duties may take you elsewhere, when you have a moment of respite, I...would be more than willing to have one of my midwives explain certain things to you. I understand that fear of the unknown keeps many in the darkness."

Your heart buckled in your chest, hope and terror at war with one another. "I know not whether I...that is, I am uncertain if I am able, Lady Ellaria." You replied in a hushed tone. 

Ellaria nodded, her expression saddened. "I know, sweet dove." After a moment, she rose to her feet. "Oberyn, lover, will you accompany Ser Shieldove and myself to the water gardens?" 

The prince immediately rose and you floundered to do the same, caught off-guard by the sudden request. "Of course, my love." Oberyn's tone was light, but you couldn't shake the notion that he had been waiting for her to say something.

His hand stayed on the small of her back the entire stroll to the gardens, and you found yourself envious of those fingers, envious of her skin. To know such gentle touch, to be able to touch so gently…

During the day the pools were alive with the sound of children of all ages, laughing and splashing about in the refreshing waters. But here and now, the only sounds were the wind stirring the water's surface and the low, inquisitive calls of the bullfrogs. Ellaria settled onto a bench, patting the stone beside her after a moment. You sank down in an unwieldy mass of delicate fabrics, longing for your armor. The dress was beautiful, but it drew so much attention.

"Speak to us, sweet dove." Ellaria implored, taking your hands in her own again. "We would know what troubles you in regards to these delicate matters, without fear of judgement or embarrassment." 

Oberyn cleared his throat, large hands framing Ellaria's shoulders. "The merrymaking of the evening cannot erase the furrow of contemplation from your brow, my falcon." 

You hesitated, staring down at Ellaria's hands wrapped around your own. Her fingers were slender, delicate. "I see the two of you, how tender you are with one another and I wonder if...I wonder whether I might ever find such companionship." You shrugged helplessly. "I am unskilled in these matters. Gregor was...the only one. I do not know if I could ever subject myself to...if I could ever…" You trailed off, biting your lip.

Oberyn muttered an oath under his breath and then quickly apologized, continuing on to say, "Brave, fierce falcon. You were dealt a terrible wound the day that monster stole you away. I had wondered why you did not accept the propositions offered to you by many of the other knights, but I merely assumed it was a difference of our cultures." 

You shook your head shyly. "No, your highness. I find their attentions flattering, yet frightening for this very reason." You were dealt a terrible wound. Oberyn regarding it as such, instead of simply as a normal occurrence for a woman to overcome, was strangely heartening. "Perhaps the wound lingers, festers beneath my skin. Perhaps I shall never be gentle again, and never know myself what such gentleness feels like." You thought aloud, voicing your worst fears. "Perhaps my life will be nothing but roughness and the whirling tumult of battle, my only chance thieved away from me."

"Oh, my sweet dove." Ellaria sounded distraught and you turned your attention to her, surprised when you saw her weeping. Her hands cupped your jaw, tugging you close enough to rest your forehead against her own. "You have such an immense capacity for love, daughter-defender. My heart breaks at the thought of you locking yourself away out of fear." 

"My lady…" Tears welled up in your own eyes and you tried to wipe them away hastily.

Oberyn shifted to the side, his arms wrapped loosely around both you and his paramour. "Do you watch us often, my dove?" He asked quietly. "Does it bring you peace to see how we exist together and with others, as easily as rising in the morning?"

Your throat ached with your tears. "The way that you touch her, your highness-"

"My body was designed solely for the pleasure of my lovers, sweet dove." Oberyn informed you, his deep brown eyes unbearably soft in the dim light of the lanterns. "It is a weapon on the battlefield, but never in the bedroom. Even if I come at my lovers with passion, there is not and should not be fear."

"I am a knight of House Martell, and yet I cringe at something so mundane!" You tried to jest, tried to smile.

"Many a warrior is thrown from a horse once and refuses to ever ride again." Oberyn pointed out, his hand absently stroking over your hair in a calming motion. "If an action has only ever caused you agony, you learn to avoid it." Ellaria tugged at Oberyn's sleeve, whispering in his ear when he bent lower. The prince smiled after a moment, nodding. "Of course. Whatever you like, my love." He agreed.

"Sweet dove, at some point in the future I would like to invite you to witness us in our bed chamber," said Ellaria, the words from her mouth damning and sweet as honey. "We are comfortable with an audience and multiple partners, as you are well aware. We would be more than happy to display the way certain acts ought to be performed." She laughed after a moment. "Truly, if I get much larger I may have no recourse but to ask for assistance when my cravings grow too raw!"

You swallowed, then inhaled raggedly. How long were you planning on languishing in this manner? Ignoring your desires out of fear and anxiety over what had transpired? Though Oberyn had assuaged your feelings of inadequacy, you no longer wanted to be the warrior thrown from your horse. You were a knight of House Martell, in soul and now in title. "I would be honored to witness such a thing, my lady." You croaked out, wincing and clearing your throat awkwardly. 

Oberyn's smile was a fond one, the man placing a kiss on his paramour's forehead. "Never fear, falcon. We shall not push you further than you can go."

…

Some weeks later, the battlemaster woke you out of a sound sleep, his tone one of long suffering. "Prince Oberyn seeks your council, Ser Shieldove. He bade you wear your armor, but bring no weapons."

Your mind whirled. Had something happened? Gods, Ellaria-

You weren't certain if you had ever donned your armor faster. It was scarcely ten minutes before you were striding through the airy halls, your tunic rustling beneath your light armor and mail. No weapons, he had said. What manner of exercise could this possibly be?

The prince flung open the doors of his chambers when you approached, his expression tight yet grateful. "I apologize for rousing you at such a late hour, my falcon." 

You dropped to a knee in typical salute. "What has transpired, Prince Oberyn?"

"Ellaria believed that tonight would be a good night for you to...witness. That being said, she wished for your assistance." The man said delicately. "My love is--ah, how to say this without being crass. She is swollen with child, and yet she craves a certain position." Oberyn raised his eyes to your own. "She reasoned that your strength would be sufficient to keep her balance while she indulges."

Your mouth went dry. "M-My strength?" You stammered. He nodded, studying you intently. His heavy gaze alone had you smoldering, had you nodding without thinking twice. He gestured you onwards into their private chambers, closing the doors after you.

Ellaria, her form barely concealed by the thin curtains of their bed, called your name so sweetly. Like a sinner to judgement you crept close, eyes averted from her nudity. "My dove, there is no shame here." She crooned, one finger beneath your chin urging your attentions to her body. Her kiss to your forehead was gentle, her heavy breasts pressed against your armor with her closeness. 

"Lady Ellaria." you breathed, wanting more than anything to greedily embrace her in your arms, shield her from the world. No one deserved to even look at her, no one--

Except Oberyn, of course. The prince was leaning easily against one of the banisters, one ankle tucked over the other while he observed his paramour with a blissful expression. Only Oberyn. Your heart ached, full enough to burst with your unspoken affection for the prince and his beloved. 

"The prince said you requested my presence, my lady?"

"I want you to see us, my dove." Ellaria said simply. "I may require your assistance, but until then…" She beckoned Oberyn closer and did not finish her sentence. 

The prince cupped her face and kissed her passionately, his smile curved against her lips. Once he was done, however, he turned to you. The bristle of his mustache met your forehead, grazing the skin teasingly before he kissed it. "A kiss from a prince. Let us hope you do not turn into a frog!" He said with a grin.

Ellaria's fingers kneaded at his light dressing gown, spurring him to peel and discard the garment. "Come, Ser Shieldove. Sit on the side of the bed and watch us." She implored.

"Are you certain, my lady?" You asked, hesitation plain in your voice even as your fingers twined greedily into their rich bedspread. "It is not...distracting that I am here?"

"Far from it." Oberyn grunted, chucking you under the chin. "It is a rare treat, to have my devastating falcon in the same bed as my lovely paramour. I will not involve you beyond function, of course, not without your consent. You are the audience tonight, and Ellaria wishes to show you the tender acts I inflict upon her."

You did not trust your voice to reply. You knew logically that there was no possibility of Oberyn causing her harm. You watched his hands, the shift of the candlelight shadows playing across the olive skin. Oberyn was languid in nearly every aspect of his life aside from training and battle, so it was no great shock that he was slow in his approach as well. 

He trailed a single finger down between Ellaria's bare breasts, over the swell of her stomach. Your hands fisted tight enough to ache in the bedspread when Ellaria crooned to him, the sunset-hued fabric wrinkling in your grasp. You were entranced, enthralled as surely as if you had been under some spell. 

"Lover, please…" Ellaria begged, and oh! Her voice was the sweetest music, a wine heady and luxuriant. How did Oberyn resist her? How did he temper his longing, when all you wanted to do upon hearing her ask once was fall to pieces?

"She knows I will satisfy her." Oberyn said softly, as though he had read your thoughts. He lowered his mouth to her breast and her fingers found his hair, cradling him close. His hand wandered lower and lower, seeking out the wetness that had built between her thighs. 

Your gorget threatened to choke you when you swallowed convulsively at Ellaria's trembling sob of pleasure, the prince shooting you a smirk from his prime seating.

"I think our falcon has taken a shine to your mewling, my love." He informed Ellaria quietly. His hand spread her wide, fingers lewdly displaying her plush entrance slick and pink, delicious--you caught yourself leaning in and quickly jerked upright. 

Ellaria noticed your interest, if her moan was any indicator. One hand left Oberyn's hair and reached out over the blankets to you, fingers extended as far as they could go. She fell just shy inches from your arm, blindly fumbling. 

Oberyn carefully scooped her hand back up, kissing her knuckles. "We do not touch her, my love." He reminded her. "Until you need her help to take me, and even then. Our falcon, our dove, she is a warrior, not a plaything." He glanced over at you, his expression mischievous. "It is enough that she wishes to touch you already, my love." His fingers plunged into her cunt and gods, she was wet enough to hear. 

Your thighs clenched and you felt shameful, like an intruder, but Oberyn hummed as if to draw your averted gaze to where his fingers plundered her slick folds. 

"She is much more sensitive when she is bearing." He sounded a little breathless, his dark eyes nearly black in the dimmed lighting. "I can wring two or three from her with ease, just my fingers. No pain."

"Two or three?" You echoed him in doubt, your voice rasping in your throat when Ellaria's back arched off the bed. She cried out and Oberyn moaned with her, his own enthusiasm evident in the way he claimed her mouth with his. She was beautiful, skin flushed and damp with sweat, and he was so gentle with her.

"I need you now, lover. I cannot wait, please, please-" Ellaria implored against his lips, and the tender way he soothed her hair back from her forehead made your chest ache. "I have missed you beneath me, my sweet Oberyn."

"And I have missed you, my divine Ellaria." Oberyn helped her kneel, then gestured you closer. "If you wrap your arms around her midsection--"

"Is that safe?" You interrupted warily, concern destroying your propriety. Oberyn just chuckled, rolling off of the bed to divest himself of his pants. You fought the urge to bury your face in Ellaria's neck out of embarrassment.

"Sweet dove," Ellaria's hand cupped your burning cheek. "If this is not to your liking…"

"Of course it--I mean, if-if I...what if I do something wrong? What if I hurt you?" You mumbled. "Men act as though we are unreasonably delicate for expecting an ounce of caution, yet we endure so much at their whim."

Ellaria interlaced her fingers with your own, bringing your palms to her defined hips. "I will not break, my gentle dove." She stated, a defiant toss of her head serving to drive her words home. She was the devoted paramour of Prince Oberyn, after all! Already mother to four of his children, soon to be five. 

Oberyn knelt on the bed and you couldn't help the way your eyes devoured him. His hair tousled, mouth still red from hungry kisses, lean body on full display. The member that hung between his legs had your breath hitching with a mixture of vague apprehension and arousal, how-

You tore your eyes away, tucking your nose in the thick waves of Ellaria's hair as your thighs flexed yet again. She smelled of comfort, of citrus and the spiced strongwine from their evening meal. Ellaria sighed, relaxing her weight back into your arms. "You are so warm, sweet dove."

Oberyn's hand stroked your cheek and you were unable to conceal your flinch. "Do not fear me, gentle dove. I would never harm in the bedroom; here, I am no longer the Red Viper." His tone was grave, and you saw sorrow in his eyes when you dared to look up. "I am simply a man hopelessly in love." His hands covered your own, tightening your grip on Ellaria's hips. "Now, help my paramour to rend me as she sees fit."

You did as you were asked, feeling the anticipatory tremor that ran through Ellaria's body. She wanted him. She yearned for him, canting her hips as far as she could to draw him close. But Oberyn was thorough, coaxing her thighs apart inch by inch and laving her hot skin with thousands upon thousands of adoring kisses. She was on the verge of collapse before he even deigned to lay down beneath her, and now you understood your place in their endeavor. 

She sank down onto his cock without hesitation, a breathless whine of delight leaving her lips while her head lolled back against your shoulder. Oberyn's cry in response was low, wanting, the prince's chest heaving as he thrust up into her. "Ellaria, you beautiful fucking woman." He seethed through his teeth, "Help her take me, my falcon, hold her steady while she tears me apart."

"Oberyn!" Ellaria sobbed, clinging to your arms while he urged her hips forward and back to ride his cock.

"If she wishes for another child, she entices me by laying on her stomach and beckoning me near." Oberyn informed you lazily between arching his hips up to meet his paramour. "When she does I am but her willing stud horse, lost to breed. Her hips fit perfectly in my hands and she begs me so sweetly for another babe, another little one to bring to her breast and nourish. My Ellaria, my beautiful, precious Ellaria." 

Oberyn reached up, his eyes so warm and fond as he cradled Ellaria's face in his large palms. You buried your face in Ellaria's hair again, not wanting either of them to notice the tears threatening to spill over. 

Ellaria nuzzled against his fingers, coaxing a ragged groan out of Oberyn. "Lover, you always know what to do to make my body sing for you." She breathed, planting her hands on his chest and circling her hips. Oberyn swore and gritted his teeth, his head falling back against the pillows. "But I would much rather you sing for me instead."

The prince's voice broke wordlessly in his throat, the noise sharp with longing. Your eyes widened and your whole body tensed at the sound, warmth coating the worn trews between your legs. What…? You had never experienced such a rapid reaction, and all it had been was a simple groan! Your grip on Ellaria tightened unconsciously and she moaned your name, her body pushing back against your armored chest as she rose up onto her knees. 

Oberyn fairly growled at her, one hand clutching at her thigh while the other delved between her legs. She cried out and you could feel her body spasm when he found her center, hips undulating hard to grind herself against his palm. "Come for me, my love, drench me." Oberyn encouraged softly. "Tear my seed from my body, milk me with that divine cunt of yours."

His heated words made you feel like your heart would beat out of your chest. Ellaria tilted her face into your neck, her panting, breathy cries whispering over your skin and making you wish more than anything that you were the one causing them-

She went taut in your hold and you watched Oberyn watch her come with the same blissful expression on his face that he had sported earlier. It was as if his own release was an afterthought, the prince humming to echo Ellaria's incoherent whimpering while he shifted his hips restlessly beneath her. "Keep gripping me, my love, keep-" Oberyn bucked up hard, hands covering your own on her hips to keep her still when he buried himself in her again. His shoulders tensed, thighs trembling as he came with a shuddering gasp of her name. 

Gods, you wished it was your name he spoke with such passion!

Ellaria nearly collapsed, your arms around her the only thing keeping her upright. "I have you." You breathed, cradling her back against your chest. "I have you."

The other woman blinked up at you sleepily, one shaking hand raising to stroke over your hair. "Thank you, Ser Shieldove." She whispered. Oberyn clapped her thigh, carefully tilting her hips and closing her legs once he slipped out from beneath her. 

"Steady, I need to fetch a cloth." He instructed you, nearly staggering when he rose from the bed. "Gods, Ellaria, you will make me swoon one of these days." Oberyn continued, half-laughing and shaking his head. He wrapped his light robe back around his body, looping the belt once and then abandoning it.

You hid your face at the sight of him stretching languidly, his lithe and golden form barely covered by the haphazardly-tied dressing gown. "You can look at him, you know." Ellaria sighed in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "He loves being observed. He preens." She confided, chuckling softly. 

"What are you telling her, my love?" Oberyn called from the washbasin, shooting her a suspicious glance.

"Nothing, lover." Ellaria winked up at you, relaxing into your arms a bit more. "Nothing at all."

"Now, my falcon. Is it your turn?" Oberyn asked conversationally while he tenderly bathed Ellaria's intimate area. The other woman hadn't stopped squirming, trembling beneath his careful ministrations even as she clung to you. 

Panic seized your body at the idea of being naked, being vulnerable, exposed, and despite the hard work the both of them had done, you found yourself shaking your head violently. 

Oberyn simply laughed, dismissing his own words as a jest and easily soothing your terror. 

...

When you returned to your quarters later that evening, you could not remove your armor fast enough. Clad in only your underthings, you slumped into the chair beside your bed and put your head in your hands. 

I can wring two or three from her with ease, just my fingers. No pain.

Ellaria's wanton cries rang softly in your ears. The way she had sought him out with her body, sought to be cherished, claimed-

You are so warm, sweet dove.

You flushed hot, rubbing frantically at your eyes. Gods, the way the two of them praised each other, praised you...it hurt, it made your body throb. You bit back a sound of pain, your eyes watering. To be loved by someone, to have their love in return...well, that is what all the songs and stories of man were about! 

Yet here you sat on the outskirts of a camp you dared not approach, gazing at the raging bonfire of someone else's affection. 

And you envied, with a ferocity that made your jaw ache from how tight you clenched it.

Envied Oberyn, for being a prince, being free to do as he wished, being able to trace secret patterns over Ellaria's skin as often as he pleased. Envied Ellaria, for being brave, being so effortlessly sensual, being able to bring Oberyn to heights of ecstasy that you could not even dream of.

You felt like a child that had been happily playing pretend, only to have a bucket of cold water thrown on you.

Your fingers dug into your thighs, rubbing over the scarring there. No, you would never know, would you? You would never know the true depth of another's love. You were not destined for such things, and you had been foolish to grasp for them in the first place.

You had been greedy, overeager to voyeur on the prince and his paramour due to your deep admiration of and attraction to the couple. This was hardly behavior befitting a knight of House Martell! You would have to do better in the future, instead of taking advantage of the generosity extended to you in good faith. All Ellaria and Oberyn had wanted to do was help you, and you had turned it into some lewd fantasy. 

You shook your head at your own thoughts, thoroughly disgusted. You would tear down everything good that you ever had, just to delude yourself into believing you could be bedded by a prince of Dorne and his beautiful lady.

Part Two

[ampleappleamble]

— His voice echoed in her mind still. The entrance to the catacombs was exactly where the apparition in the burnt temple had said it would be– tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of Copperlane, unguarded and easily accessible to those who knew what they were looking for. But as she stood before the humble stone archway, steeling herself for the ordeal to come, Axa had suddenly found herself swept away from the here and now into a memory from another time, another life– –It was her turn, at last. He smiled at her approach, warm and fatherly. "You are from Creitum, my dear?" "I am, Your Eminence." She smiled back, bashful and slightly starstruck. This was an honor, she reminded herself, an immense honor for such worthless caitiff as herself. "I was born and raised in Creitum." His smile broadened–

Axa had never heard of any city called Creitum, but she had heard the name, had heard him ask her that same question before. In dreams, in memories hidden deep within her soul. "Axa? Y' okay?" She felt Edér's hands gripping her shoulders as the vision faded away, ready to prop her up should she need him to. She had wavered, but she had not fallen. Her little hand found his, squeezed it gently as she smiled up into the bearded man's face. "Yes, Edér, I'll be... I'm fine. Thank you. Let's just get this over with–" –"A fine city, one of the very finest we have encountered outside of our own. Creitum has produced many strong, principled women and men who have heard the call of the gods and answered that call with reverence and devotion, determined to spread the truth of Their word." He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his smile as warm and nurturing as the sun, and she felt her heart swell with respect and adoration for him, for the gods who had lead her here. "And how did it come to pass that you should hear Their call, my child?" She had hoped, before, that he might not ask about her previous life, pathetic and meaningless as it had been. But now beneath his benevolent gaze, her answer came easily– The vision replayed itself over and over in her mind, even as she knelt before the dead man just beyond the bottom of the entrance stairs. The essence still clinging to his rapidly cooling body had revealed to Axa that, for better or for worse, they'd come to the right place to find the Leaden Key. Axa heard Itumaak growl behind her, heard Edér and Pallegina draw their weapons and Kana start chanting. She whipped around just in time to see the troll lumbering out of the shadows at them, flanked by black oozes that undulated grotesquely in the torchlight. There was no turning back now– –"I suffered through... troubled times in my youth, Your Eminence. Dark times." She was surprised at how easy it was to admit now, how the shame and sorrow that had seemed heavy enough to crush her before now slipped from her shoulders like an old shawl as she spoke. "I was lost, adrift in a meaningless world without light, without hope. Nothing made sense. But that all changed when your order brought the word of the true gods to us." He nodded sagely, his grip briefly tightening on her shoulder– "Gee back, ye clods! These hooded fiends is nae t' be trusted!" Aloth's hand shot out to grab her by the shoulder, but Axa spun on him instead, eyes wide with alarm, surprising him just enough to allow him to regain control. Strong hands seized him then, shook him roughly as he coughed and stumbled. "Postenago, what are you doing? You will give away our position!" Pallegina's golden eyes narrowed to slits in her anger, baring her teeth as she hissed at the trembling elf. He opened his mouth to stammer an apology, an excuse, anything to get the Godlike to ease off, but Axa beat him to it. "It's alright, Pallegina, he didn't do it on purpose. He can't–" She glanced at Aloth's face, winced, continued– "he can't help it." To her surprise, he didn't look betrayed or even angry with her for spilling his secret. He simply lowered his gaze to his feet, apologized again, hugged his cloak tightly around himself as Kana gently ushered him off to the side of the damp, earthy passageway to sit and collect himself. "Forgive me, I... I don't know what came over me." He smoothed his hair back with shaking hands, eyes rimmed red and watery. "But... when we're finished here, I–" "When we're finished here," Sagani snapped, "you're going to have some explaining to do, I wager." The little huntress regarded him with that mix of righteous anger and genuine concern that only a parent could truly master, hands planted squarely on her hips. "Until then: Watcher, you've a job to do. And by the sounds of it, you've not much time to do it in." She thrust her chin at the door at the end of the corridor, voices behind it rising to a crescendo before coming to an abrupt halt. Axa nodded, pulled on the itchy, stifling hood and mask– –"I see. Indeed, very little makes sense taken in the context of the falsehoods under which so many innocent lives have labored for so long. Too long." His kind, gentle smile had been warped by pity into a rictus grave and sorrowful, and she feared for a moment that her words might have actually caused him pain, somehow. But the smile slowly returned as he continued speaking, like storm clouds breaking and drifting apart to once again reveal the beauty and power of the sun. "It is by the mercy of the gods alone– praise be to Them!– that we have been permitted to bear the torch of Their divine truth to these distant shores, to enlighten so many of the lost and heathen in these chaotic times." His hand tightened on her shoulder again, and the tears she had not even known were there spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks. He brushed them away with the back of one finger, showing her such compassion as she had never known in her old life. "Are you ready, initiate? Are you ready to take the oath, to devote yourself body, mind, and soul to spreading the word of the gods? To bring to the ignorant the light of the truth?" She found the courage to look into his eyes at last, and in them she saw salvation. Finally, she was saved. And in turn, she would help the order to save them all. "I am–" "State your name and purpose." Axa was not able to tell if the masked woman was speaking to her with her voice or with her mind alone. But neither had she the luxury of dwelling on such minutiae. "My name belongs to the gods, and my hand to their service." She had never been a particularly devout woman, but somehow the words felt familiar as they left her mouth. As though she had not learned them mere moments ago from some fidgeting neophyte, but had always known them, deep in her soul. "What company do you seek?" A vision of her friends outside flashed before her mind, the five of them huddled together in the little hallway, nervously awaiting her return. She pushed the thought away as quickly as her wits would allow. "I seek the company of shadows, that our labors may remain secret." Secrets and shadows seemed to dominate her life ever since coming to the Dyrwood, that much was certain. Ever since that night, the bîaŵac, the machine– "Tell me of your labors." She had yet to fully recover from the day's efforts, her body still aching from physical exertion, her nerves raw. All the problems in the city– was it all the work of these people? How could that be so? "To see that the craft of kith and wilder does not disturb what bones the gods have buried." For all that the robed man in her past life had spoken of bringing the "truth of the gods" to the people, this cult seemed awfully keen on obfuscation. Burying secrets, hiding in the shadows, locking it all away– "How do we know your purpose?" And they demanded knowledge while offering none themselves? Threatened with death those who opposed their hidden will? She thought of Kana, pursued across two continents as he quested for the truth of his homeland's history. To what end...? "You shall know it by the confession of my tongue, the deeds of my hand, and the oath on my soul." Sins kept secret. Atrocities committed against the innocent. Promises broken and falsehoods unchallenged. Axa's heart pounded in her chest. These people were very dangerous. But a choice between provoking their wrath by opposing their will and allowing them to continue their nefarious operation unabated was no choice at all. "And how is your oath guarded?" She looked into the acolyte's masked face, and saw an emotionless, inscrutable void. Whoever these people were, whoever guided them from the shadows, she would not let them subdue her, or Kana, or anyone who sought the light of the truth, ever again. She swore it. "It is sealed by the Leaden Key." —

[simschallenges]

Zodiac Legacy Challenge

(note: because the original poster has deactivated, i am reposting an archived version of the challenge rules retrieved with the wayback machine. all of the following text is a copy of the original post by @autumnalpixels.)

As someone who is a bit of a nerd when it comes to astrology and witchcraft in general, I of course love learning about western zodiacs. So I thought I’d bring my love of the zodiac signs to the sims.

I know that a challenge with this name has been made before, however mine will be more structured for each generation. This is a 12-generation legacy, with each generation representing one of the different zodiacs.

Side note: This legacy is not meant to misrepresent or offend anyone. The generations are being based off of descriptions of the zodiacs from this website. Feel free to read up more about each zodiac to get a better sense of your sim’s personality!

Starting out:

Feel free to make your founder however you’d like. Traits for each heir will be listed in their section, but their looks are up to you so feel free to get creative! You’ll start out like a traditional legacy on one of the 50x50 lots (or 64x64 if you’d like). Here is a link to Pinstar’s legacy rules.

General Challenge Rules:

Honestly this is the only way to fail the challenge, other than not producing an heir.

Generation One: Aquarius

“Aquarius’ are shy and quiet, but on the other hand they can be eccentric and energetic. However, in both cases, they are deep thinkers and highly intellectual people who love helping others. They are able to see without prejudice, on both sides, which makes them people who can easily solve problems.”

Who ever said eccentricity was a bad thing? You are a little out there and can be pretty spacey sometimes, but overall you are very passionate about your morals and strive to make other people’s lives better. Just be careful not to become a pushover.

Traits: Self-assured, Insane, Ambitious Aspiration: Leader of the Pack Career: Politician

Goals:

Reach level ten of the Politician career, either branch

Complete your aspiration

Have a club gathering at least once a week (your club can literally be for anything! Get creative!)

Have three kids, get married as an adult

Have at least four good friends (they don’t have to be a part of your club)

Reach level ten of the Wellness skill

Generation Two: Pisces

“Pisces are very friendly, so they often find themselves in a company of very different people. Pisces are selfless, they are always willing to help others, without hoping to get anything back.”

You love to socialize and surround yourself with all different kinds of people. Your parents loved you and raised you to be kind and perhaps a bit sensitive. You can be insecure at times, especially when it comes to your significant other. For some reason, you can’t seem to stay in a relationship for very long. Is there a way to fix this?

Traits: Creative, Jealous, Gloomy Aspiration: Soulmate Career: Painter

Goals:

Have at least two friends of a different race/gender/sexuality than your sim

Reach level ten of the Painting skill

Reach level ten of the Painter career, either branch

Must go through at least two girl/boyfriends before settling down

Have two kids

Own a pool (at least a 4x4 size)

Generation Three: Aries

“As the first sign in the zodiac, the presence of Aries always marks the beginning of something energetic and turbulent. They are continuously looking for dynamic, speed and competition, always being the first in everything - from work to social gatherings.”

You’re competitive and hard working, and can sometimes come across as a bit arrogant. However, you have a bit of an inferiority complex, so every time your sibling or a friend succeeds, you aren’t too happy about it and always try to one up them. But after a while, you realize that you acting this way is pushing away the people you care about. Can you salvage these relationships before it’s too late and the damage is done?

Traits: Hot-headed, Ambitious, Perfectionist Aspiration: Renaissance Sim Career: Secret Agent

Goals:

Be enemies with your sibling until you are both YA

Only have one friend until you are a YA, since they were the only one who stuck around

Repair your relationships as fast as possible

Reach level ten of the fitness skill

Reach level ten of the Secret Agent career (any branch)

Complete your aspiration

Go for a jog for a total of three hours each week

Have one kid

Generation Four: Taurus

“Practical and well-grounded, Taurus is the sign that harvests the fruits of labor. They feel the need to always be surrounded by love and beauty, turned to the material world and physical pleasures. Stable and conservative, this is one of the most reliable signs of the zodiac, ready to endure and stick to their choices until they reach the point of personal satisfaction.”

You grew up truly appreciating food and what it meant. You were amazed how a simple meal could bring a family together, and how many memories were made because of that. You were close to your parents and were taught to always stand your ground and share your opinions. However, this caused you to become a little bull-headed (pun intended). You’re super stubborn and don’t like to be wrong, and won’t admit that you are ever wrong. This makes romance hard for you, but you keep trying because you are a hopeless romantic at heart. And once you find that special someone, you are loyal ‘til the end.

Traits: Romantic, Foodie, Materialistic Aspiration: Mansion Baron Career: Business

Goals:

use the cheat sims.get_sim_id_by_name {PlayedSimFirstName} {PlayedSimLastName} Get the pregnant Sim’s ID, then use the cheat pregnancy.force_offspring_count {simID} {amount}

Generation Five: Gemini

“Expressive and quick-witted, Gemini represents two different personalities in one and you will never be sure which one you will face. They are sociable, communicative and ready for fun, with a tendency to suddenly get serious, thoughtful and restless. They are fascinated with the world itself, extremely curious, with a constant feeling that there is not enough time to experience everything they want to see.”

Growing up, you had the “perfect life”: two parents who loved each other, lots of friends, good grades, and a beautiful house. You were living the good life, so why did you always feel like you wanted more? You decide to take a step on your own, leaving your family behind to pursue your dreams in the big city. However, you quickly realize that life is harder than it seems. You can’t find a job you’re comfortable in, you can’t hold down a relationship, but you find solace in entertaining people and throwing parties. Something about being a host really makes you feel happy.

Traits: Noncommittal, Outgoing, Insider Aspiration: Party Animal Career: None

Goals:

Must have a twin (feel free to cheat for this)

You are the opposite of your twin, in obvious ways such as style, but also in more subtle ways such as emotions and reactions to events (for example, you could be stereotypical and make one of the twins a “preppy” person and the other an “emo” person)

Reach level ten of the charisma skill

Must move out to an apartment with the Needs TLC trait

Throw every type of party at least once

Complete your aspiration

Have three jobs (at least one week for each) before deciding to freelance (writing books)

Travel to at least two community lots each week and stay there for at least an hour

Have at least level four in three different skills by the time you’re an elder

Learn all of the recipes from the vender stalls in City Living

Have one set of twins (keep trying until you get them)

Be caught cheating by your spouse (you can decide whether they stay together or not)

Generation Six: Cancer

“Deeply intuitive and sentimental, Cancer can be one of the most challenging zodiac signs to get to know. They are very emotional and sensitive, and care deeply about matters of the family and their home. Cancer is sympathetic and attached to people they keep close. Those born with their Sun in Cancer are very loyal and able to empathize with other people’s pain and suffering.”

In another life you would have become a doctor, but in this one you are content with looking after your family and making sure your children grow up the best they can. You’re a loving but strict parent, and just want what’s best for your children. However, will you push them away by being too overbearing?

Traits: Gloomy, Jealous, Family-Oriented Aspiration: Super Parent Career: None

Goals:

Gen six heir must reach level five in Imagination and Communication as a toddler

Master Baking skill

Master Cooking/Gourmet Cooking skills

Host a tea party (or a small get together) every week. Invite over your neighbors, your friends, your family, whomever you’d like. Must have a baked good for the gathering made by you.

Complete your aspiration

Pick up woodworking as a hobby and craft every sculpture

You live off of your parents’ money until you get a spouse: you are to be a house wife/husband, and will never have a job. You’re allowed to sell duplicate sculptures for money, however.

Show off your sculptures by putting them on display somewhere in your house!

Pack a lunch for your kids every morning. If you forget, make them a snack when they get home.

Keep the house clean—all you have to do all day is chores, after all!

Have two kids

Both kids need to have A’s in school

Generation Seven: Leo

“People born under the sign of Leo are natural born leaders. They are dramatic, creative, self-confident, dominant and extremely difficult to resist, able to achieve anything they want to in any area of life they commit to. There is a specific strength to a Leo and their “king of the jungle” status. Leo often has many friends for they are generous and loyal. Self-confident and attractive, this is a Sun sign capable of uniting different groups of people and leading them as one towards a shared cause.”

Your parents were so overbearing to you and your sibling growing up that in your teenage years you began to rebel. Staying out late, skipping class, whatever you could think of. Your parent made sure you got good grades, but you didn’t care about school. All you cared about was your music. You were going to make it big, and you didn’t need calculus to help you rock out on your guitar. You’re arrogant and stubborn, but determined to succeed no matter what the cost. Unfortunately, that means that you can miss out on things that are most important in life.

Traits: Materialistic, Music Lover, Cheerful Aspiration: Musical Genius Career: Entertainer

Goals:

If your heir for this generation is male, come up with some sort of reason for why you got the baby. The mother didn’t want it, the mother died in childbirth, whatever. You can even move her in until she gives birth, then they have a big fight and she walks out on them.

Generation Eight: Virgo

“Virgos are always paying attention to the smallest details. Their methodical approach to life ensures that nothing is left to chance and their heart might be closed for the outer world. This is a sign often misunderstood, not because they lack the ability to express, but because they won’t accept their feelings as valid. The symbolism behind the name speaks well of their nature, born with a feeling they are experiencing everything for the first time.”

You grew up without a strong parental figure in your life, which made it hard for you to trust other people. How do you know that they would be there for you when you truly needed them? You’re cautious and shy, but curious about the world. You truly enjoy learning and collecting things, and through this passion is how you meet the love of your life. They are the only person you can trust, but they can tell you’re always holding yourself back and hiding parts of yourself away from them. Can a relationship last with this kind of distrust?

Traits: Loner, Geek, Bookworm Aspiration: The Curator Career: Scientist

Goals:

Marry a coworker who has at least one trait in common with you

Get married right before becoming an adult

Separate from your spouse for a while after a large fight (your choice if they get back together)

Reach level ten of the Scientist career

Complete your aspiration

Have a home library (at least 25 books)

Finish a collection (your choice)

Have two kids

Generation Nine: Libra

“People born under the sign of Libra are peaceful and fair, and they hate being alone. Partnership is very important for Libra-born, and with their victorious mentality and cooperation, they cannot stand to be alone. The Libra is an Air sign, with expressed intellect and a keen mind. They can be inspired by good books, insurmountable discussions and interesting people.”

You thrive on socialization. Your parents are kind of shy homebodies, but you crave constant company and cannot stand to be by yourself. This can come across as quite overbearing to some people, so sometimes it’s hard for you to make friends. And, despite being such a sociable person, you are kind of oblivious when it comes to romance. You are very childish in the best possible way, and are the kind of parent to get down in the dirt and play with your children. You are a very supportive parent and you strive to make your family as happy as they can be, through whatever means.

Traits: Unflirty, Loves the Outdoors, Goofball Aspiration: Big Happy Family Career: Social Media

Goals:

You post a lot about your kids and about your life, so take as many pictures of your kids as you can!

Generation Ten: Scorpio

“Scorpio-born are passionate and assertive people. They are determined and decisive, and will research until they find out the truth. Scorpio is a great leader, always aware of the situation and also features prominently in resourcefulness.”

You grew up watching true crime television shows and superhero movies and decided that’s what you wanted to do with your life: bring justice and fight evil. Unfortunately you can’t become a superhero, but you can become a police officer/detective. You want to make the world a better place than it was before, and you want your legacy to be something of legend. Hardworking and dedicated to your craft, you tend to focus too much on work and it puts a strain on your relationship.

Traits: Ambitious, Good, Genius Aspiration: Nerd Brain Career: Detective

Goals:

Get married to your high school sweetheart

Complete your aspiration

Reach level ten of the Detective career

Reach level ten of the logic skill

Reach level ten of the handiness skill

Get a divorce (you can decide who gets custody of your kids)

Get remarried as an elder, retire from your career

Have three kids

Generation Eleven: Sagittarius

“Curious and energetic, Sagittarius is one of the biggest travelers among all zodiac signs. Their open mind and philosophical view motivates them to wander around the world in search of the meaning of life.”

You love travel and learning new things. You want to experience as much as you can in your lifetime, which means meeting people different from yourself. You heard that one of your ancestors (generation five) was a big traveller too, so you decide to follow in their footsteps.

Traits: Outgoing, Noncommittal, Dance Machine Aspiration: Friend of the World Career: None

Goals:

Live in three different worlds for at least a week before settling down

Have kids with three different people

Never get married

Make money freelancing (collecting, gardening, painting, writing, whatever you wish!)

Completely redesign your house at least once (after settling down for good)

Go to every festival (unless you’re at work/on a date/at a wedding/etc)

Travel to the Nightclub every Friday

Complete aspiration

Master dancing skill

Master comedy skill

Generation Twelve: Capricorn

“Capricorn is a sign that represents time and responsibility, and its representatives are traditional and often very serious by nature. These individuals possess an inner state of independence that enables significant progress both in their personal and professional lives. They are masters of self-control and have the ability to lead the way.”

You hated how free spirited and laid back your parent was, and craved structure and discipline. Since a teen, you had a schedule every day after school: do homework, practice your skills for an hour, eat dinner, go to bed. Moving around so often meant that you didn’t make many friends, so you chose to devote all of your time to mastering as many skills as you could. But focusing in on one detail of life made you miss out on the bigger picture.

Traits: Ambitious, Snob, Mean Aspiration: Fabulously Wealthy Career: Tech Guru

Goals:

Since this is the final generation, you can choose whether to have kids or not. Preferably none.

Reach level ten of the Tech Guru career (either branch).

Master logic skill

Have at least level seven in three other skills (your choice)

Follow a schedule every day; spontaneity is not your strong suit

Get married as an adult to someone who shares at least one of your traits and is in the same career as you.

Live in an expensive house (200,000 simoleons or more) by the time you’re an adult

Surround yourself only with other snobby people

Buy an expensive item every Wednesday. (Perhaps even start a collection of expensive artwork or sculptures and showcase them somewhere in your house. Feel free to get creative with it.)

Oh wow, we’ve made it to the end of the challenge! I hope you enjoyed. Feel free to show me pictures or update me on your playthrough on this if you’d like (tumblr: autumnalpixels.tumblr.com/twitter: @absoluteking8). You can also use the hashtag #autumnalzodiac so I can see your posts and reblog some of them!

If you have any questions or suggestions, feel free to tell me and I’ll take them into consideration. <3

[fascination-street-writing]

I Am Not Yours | capitolo iii | Pannacotta Fugo x Reader

Pannacotta Fugo – his name rolls off your tongue like the dry wine Giorno insists be served at dinners. You like the sound of his name far better than you do the taste of Sangiovese. You like his strawberry blonde hair, too. And his violet eyes. 

Her voice rattles in your ear as you raise your coffee mug and nod, an inclination that you might be listening. Yet, your mind wandered elsewhere. She reaches for the almond biscotti on your plate and you realize only now that she had asked for permission to take it. You do not mind – you only care for the pistachio ones

A comment passes from her lips before she bites down: she praises you for receiving the highest grade for your poetry translation. You smile. Scattered crumbs on the tabletop distract you as she drones on about an upcoming assignment.

You catch her movements from the corner of your eye: Sheila drinks from her espresso and watches you. You know that she would never harm you, lest she invoke the wrath of your brother, and yet her presence makes you feel not unlike a mouse in a field scurrying amongst stalks of grass, desperate to flee from the swarming falcon above – her predatory gaze sends a shiver through you. It must be an insult to her, the demotion that came after dismantling a narcotics team. Now, she sits in a café like a common tourist whilst bodyguarding the Don of Passione’s sister and her schoolmate. A glorified babysitter.

Sheila’s demitasse rests atop a saucer, clinking against the porcelain. Your mind falls to Fugo – you imagine that, instead of the scarred brunette girl, it is he who sits in that distant seat: violet eyes tracing the words of prose as he balances a leather-bound novel and an espresso shot in his grasp.

When your friend places her hand over yours – a futile attempt to reign you in with whispers of her own crush and subjects of gossip – you wish it were his palm that kisses the back of your knuckles. Not even a sojourn for coffee can pass without thoughts of Fugo. You blame it on the espresso – it reminds you of the way he smelled that day in Giorno’s library.

Fugo had volunteered to help you clarify your translation, his demeanor initially nonchalant. You choked over your own breaths as you watched him scribble notes along the margins of your notebook with your ballpoint pen. Whenever he questioned your work, you responded with stutters. He reviewed your finished assignment with scrutiny akin to the eye of a higher being.

A declaration of his approval followed – he had bit his lip to stop the smile that pulled on the corners of his lips. You remember the hesitation. He tapped your pen against the surface of the desk. You relished the silence that filled the space between you two, until the moment you spoke and overstepped boundaries that you knew not existed: you had asked him for his interpretation of the poem.

He spoke with authoritative lucidity on the subject, so much that he might have been a master of the craft. He insisted that the poem represented the speaker’s desire to become fully immersed in their relationship – to be truly enveloped by affection – despite how said speaker felt detached from their partner: it was a plea over the anguish of needing to be loved. 

Perhaps, if you had not composed your own understanding of the piece, then you might have been inclined to concur. You told him you respectfully disagreed. He listened intently as you delivered your variation.

For a moment, ever so fleeting, you were his intellectual equal. His gaze shifted into a glare and he grit his teeth. It did not go unnoticed by you: pure, unadulterated coldness. He huffed.

He told you that your interpretation is simply wrong.

You had retorted that poetry is subjective.

He said that the poet clearly had one idea in mind when writing, and therefore the poem – and poetry in its entirety – could not be subjective.

You asked if he wished to accompany you to America to dig up the poet’s corpse, to inquire as to what her true intentions were.

The chair toppled over – the sound of the crash was muffled by the shelves of tomes that surrounded you. He leaned over to hurl an insult at you, his warm breath close enough to feel on your skin; his fingers captured your chin and pulled you close as he hissed tu stupida ragazza, amongst other things.

He had left without so much as an acknowledgement of your own wits. You would have followed him down the halls of Giorno’s estate, your tongue readied with quips like a gun and its bullets, if you were not so infatuated with him. Even after he had lashed out at you, you could not muster the same aggravation that fueled him. You knew from your brother that the boy suffered from fits of rage – sooner or later, he would apologize: if not out of sincerity, then respect.

You realize, sitting in the café while your friend orders a slice of dolce to share, that Fugo never returned your pen.

| 821 Words | capitolo ii | capitolo iii (here) | capitolo iv |

[yurimother]

LGBTQ Light Novel Review - Sexiled Vol. 1

When J-Novel Club announced that they would be releasing Ameko Kaeruda’s light novel Sexiled: My Sexist Part Leader Kicked Me Out, So I Teamed Up with a Mythical Sorceress! I remember seeing some backlash on Twitter for the main title and cover art of the Sorceress, Laplace, exposing a solid third of breasts in a tight black dress. However, I dug a bit deeper into the work (because it is my job to do so) and was very excited at the prospective plot of women kicking ass, kissing girls, and fighting the patriarchy. After reading Sexiled, I am thrilled to say that my expectations were not only met, but exceeded by the length of a massive and impractical anime sword. This book is an excellent work of feminist literature and one of the best light novels I have ever read.

As the long title suggests, the story begins when Tanya Artemiciov, a prodigious mage, is fired from her adventuring party by its leader Ryan. The slimy, sexist, and cowardly antagonist of the book. Outraged, Tanya sets out to the wasteland to blow off steam in a spectacular and curse-riddled manner, when she accidentally releases Laplace, an ancient sorceress sealed away for centuries. After besting Laplace, the two women agree to form a party to enact sweet revenge against Ryan and take down the patriarchal society while they are at it.The story is not subtle at all with its mean themes. From the start, it is clear to the reader that sexist ideas dominate this society. Everything in the story, from the comments men make, “us men are just naturally better equipped for the job” to the oversexualized garments female adventurers are forced to wear, trace back to sexism. Great credit must be given to Kaeruda here, as the examples and instances of sexism are all taken from reality. The scores of female applicants to the mage’s school being docked mirrors last year’s scandals of Tokyo Medical School. Female adventurers are paid less and expected to retire early to start families, reflected the treatment of women in the corporate world. A full comparative list would easily take up half this review.

Not only are so many issues of sexism identified and explored in the light novel, but they are also each confronted by the heroes. Sexiled’s world and characters are typical of a power fantasy series. The protagonist is leagues stronger than anyone else, and the world has game-like qualities, with classes and levels. However, unlike the typical annoying male protagonist whose best defining character trait is “exists,” the women in Sexiled use their incredible powers to obliterate the oppressive systems. It is a pure indulgence to read, as there are few experiences more satisfying than reading descriptions of god-tier characters destroy selfish, egotistical, and demeaning men.

The sexist setting is the main focus of the story, which makes some of the plotlines predictable. However, there is a surprising amount of nuance in some of the issues presented. Tanya has lived her whole lives in this society and is thus blinded to the harsh reality and unfair circumstances around her. One of my favorite moments sees the women discussing armor and how revealing and sexual clothing is demeaning when forced, and empowering when chosen:

“‘Um, Laplace? You forgot to cover up your, uh… chest area.’ Hmm? Why should I?’ ‘Well, weren’t you saying we don’t need to show skin?’ ‘Correct–we don’t need to. But in this case, I want to.’”

Unfortunately, the plot is a bit monotonous. The one-note that is it, powerful women using magic to fight against sexism, is a superb one, but I would have liked to see a bit of variety or actions taken by women that were not solely motivated by men. It is disappointing to see that all the actions taken are in response to the atrocities of society, especially considering how feminist the book is. The points, while important, are merely the blemishes on a masterful work of art and culture. Sexiled remains one of the most engaging, fun, and relevant visual novels on the market.

Speaking of light novels, I have to mention and praise the prose in Sexiled. Usually, the writing in light novels is tolerable at best, and agonizing at worst. However, Kaeruda and the English translator Molly Lee, have done the unthinkable, crafting a light novel that is not only easy but enjoyable to read. Everything from the wonderful descriptions, entertaining dialogue, clever references, and wondrous use of profanity are highly polished and well crafted. A particular favorite of mine is Tanya’s incantation for the spell explosion, “From twilight, I summon the ultimate f***ing destruction! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; heed my call and unleash your f***ing might! F*** this s***!” Sexiled has become the new bar for light novel localizations! A complete side note, Lee is also translating Seven Sea’s English adaption of the Adachi and Shimamura light novels, which gives me such hope for that series. Before I sing any more praises of Lee and Kaeruda, I should talk about the characters.

Both the main characters in Sexiled are lovely. Tanya is confident, powerful, kind, and a hilarious drunk. She seamlessly transitions between ruthlessness in battle to loving and compassionate when speaking to her friends. However, she never loses the sharp wit that helps her stay refreshing and hilarious. While I adore her, I am entirely entrenched by Laplace, who also goes by some fantastic pseudonyms, including “the Wicked Dragonwhore” and “Stone Cold Stunner.” She has an immense amount of self-confidence and an irresistible bravado. She is also very playful and enjoys teasing Tanya. The interactions between these two make for some of the best moments in the volumes:

“‘That look on your face says you think I’m nothing more than a human-shaped balloon.’ ‘Damn right!’ ‘Wow… I wish you would’ve at least tried to deny it…” They are perfect together.

Many of the female side characters have equally precise and detailed treatments. Nadine Amaryllis, a low-level healer that joins the girls’ party, is likable and has a comprehensive and dramatic backstory that functions as one of the work’s best reveals. Additionally, the minor villain, Katherine Foxxi, is one of the more dynamic characters. She starts blind to the sexism in her world but slowly changes throughout the novel. Unfortunately, Foxxi is also the focal point for one of the book’s only bad sequences. I would not be surprised to see a full redemption story or maybe an anti-hero persona for her in future volumes. However, the male villains are decidedly shallow. In fact, there is not a single half-decent, or even well-intentioned man present in the story. I do not mind, but it is a bit suspect. Other light novels have had similar villains and themes while still allowing for nuance and avoiding stereotyping an entire demographic.

The yuri elements in Sexiled are pretty minimal. Most of the story focuses on the women’s’ quest for revenge and their fight against the patriarchy, leaving little room for romance. There are a few light service moments where Laplace kisses Tanya, such as when she unlocks the mage’s full potential, but other than that, there is no physical contact. However, the strong bonds between the characters are apparent, and they all share a few touching scenes before the final chapters. A particular favorite of mine is Laplace using magic to make Nadine fly. There are also clear indications that the characters have multiple targets for their affections. Both Laplace and Tanya are implied to have interest in Nadine, as well as each other, thus sewing seeds for future romantic plots. While subtle, intense romantic relationships are present, and they add to the story while never distracting readers from it, which is a massive plus.

Sexiled: My Sexist Party Leader Kick Me Out, So I Teamed Up With a Mythical Sorceress! is an absolute must-read. The detailed and phenomenal writing is matched beautifully with strong female characters, hilarious dialogue, and exceptionally satisfying moments. It manages to expose the flaws of our society while providing an escape for those who suffer because of them. It does not make any profound or unique statements but allows the reader to revel in its indulgences. Sexiled is a spectacular masterpiece of fantasy and feminism that far outpaces other works in its genre and medium. This book is easily a new obsession of mine, and I cannot wait for the English release of volume two.

Ratings: Story – 10 Characters – 9 LGBTQ – 3 Lewd – 2 Final – 9

You can purchase Sexiled digitally now on Amazon: https://amzn.to/2J14WCj

Review copy provided by J-Novel Club

[hellzyeahwebwielingessays]

The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 13: MJ is complicit in several crimes (including identity theft)*

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In this post we tackle why MJ going along with Beck is utterly unethical and makes her complicit in his crimes.

As detailed in prior instalments, MJ (through osmosis, common sense or basic research) should be able to deduce Beck hasn’t been legally released from prison. And she simply knows there are current super villains within the film crew.

By not blowing the whistle or trying to bring him to justice at all makes her complicit in enabling his continued evasion of the law (and arguably all crimes he committed to escape). This also applies to all the current super villains among the crew and arguably the former felons. I don’t know the specifics of law in Hollywood but I do know in some situations if you have  criminal record it is illegal (or against a company’s policy) for you to have certain jobs. MJ has no way of knowing if every former felon is working there legally beyond Beck’s word, and she knows  he systemically lies and deceives.

She is also complicit in Beck’s crimes of conning people out of their money and gambling it on a risky movie. For all she knows because of Mysterio they’d have unjustifiably lost millions of dollars and people might lose their careers. That’s the nature of the movie business normally of course but usually the people in charge gamble having a fair idea of the odds of success/failure.

Above all else though MJ is complicit in Beck’s continued identity theft of Cage McKnight.

Regardless of how harshly the letter of the law punishes this crime, ethically it is very serious. It can prove to be incredibly damaging to an individual on a mental, emotional, social and professional level.

Cage McKnight could return to America and find his friendships and work contacts in tatters because Beck neglected them. He could find that his professional reputation in disrepair because a controversial movie with his name on it flopped at the box office. Even were it to succeed and he was now known as ‘the Mysterio guy’, he never consented to making that movie nor to the risk of having that reputation follow him. What if Beck as McKnight uses his reputation to get into some compromising situations (like assaulting a crew member for example…) and McKnight now has to face legal ramifications for a crime he never committed. Even if he is publically cleared mud can often stick meaning he’d have to live with an unwarranted stigma surrounding him.

In fact such a thing applies to anything  Beck might do with his identity. He’s an indie director, he’s not got the professional clout or huge fanbase that’d enable him to weather bad publicity like that. Look at Bryan Singer. He’s a mainstream Hollywood director who’s been accused of paedophilia. And yet in spite of that he still made ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and it was still a successful movie. If he was a small time indie director and a similar controversy hit him that could potentially wreck his career forever. Especially if it was somehow connected to his first big scale Hollywood production.

No matter how many times anyone explains the truth many people will not bother with the nuances of the situation. And even if they did he’d look at least foolish for pointlessly playing with penguins for a whole year whilst someone else pretended to be him. It’d also be humiliating and potentially harm his career if the truth came out and movie was a box office smash. Can you imagine how he’d be regarded by the public, film buffs, or Hollywood? “Lol the guy pretending to be Cage McKnight made a better movie than he ever did!”

As for the mental and emotional damage, whilst not strictly speaking physical, the mere act of someone deliberately taking your property is hurtful, and that’s when it’s an inanimate object. In McKnight’s case it’s his literal name, appearance and reputation. Mysterio is leeching off all of that for clearly selfish reasons. He might believe it to be for a more morally superior purpose. MJ might even believe Beck believes that.

But MJ still knows Beck is trying to do something good before he dies whilst exploiting another innocent person in a way they never consented to. Not only would that be grounds for mistrust but it would be grounds to shut things down. Being a bad person and seeking to do good should not, and cannot, come at the expense of an innocent person. But Beck never cared about that, Cage is just the latest in a long line of people Beck has used for his own selfish ends. And remember among those people was MJ’s life partner and a teenaged girl…that Beck sexually violated…

What makes this especially nonsensical is that Mary Jane’s loved ones have been direct victims of the exact crime Beck is perpetrating against Cage McKnight .

The love of Mary Jane’s life has frequently been framed for crimes he didn’t commit by people who’ve appropriated his identity; both in and out of the moniker of Spider-Man.

Her acquaintance J. Jonah Jameson had weeks of his life stolen and his social life messed with when the Chameleon impersonated him for an extended period of time. (see part 7).

MJ was a first hand witness to the emotional upheaval caused to May, Peter and herself when an actress impersonated Aunt May and died in her place.

Mary Jane and her lover suffered immensely when Peter was tricked into believing he was a clone. He had a full on mental breakdown, he tried to murder Ben Reilly in a furious rage, he accidentally hit MJ herself in that same incident. Hell, he was vulnerable enough that he briefly joined forces with a super villain (the Jackal). Even after his recovery he was mentally and emotionally vulnerable and struggled a lot to come to terms with his lost sense of self. Beck isn’t committing a crime like that here, but it nevertheless proves that MJ would be aware of the damage messing with someone’s identity on any level could cause.

She was caught up in the turmoil of Otto Octavius pretending to be Peter Parker, a time period that involved him nearly raping her. Remember, Mysterio had a teenaged girl sexually violated as part of a scheme. So can MJ really  afford to presume Beck won’t use the identity of a respected (and seemingly attractive) indie film director for similarly nefarious ends? In Hollywood  no less!

Also, given her study of psychology and acting (a craft that can risk damage to someone’s psyche) you’d think MJ would have some knowledge about how important identity is to the human mind and the potential damage that can be wrought by toying with it.

Mary Jane would never stand for such a crime and yet here she’s merely concerned for Cage’s physical wellbeing and beyond that content to allow Beck to continue using it without McKnight’s consent.

*I will admit to not actually knowing for sure what the legal definition of Beck stealing Cage McKnight’s identity is. In lieu of that knowledge I am using the term ‘identity theft’.

P.S. It’s also worth bearing in mind MJ understands the pain from press slander. Not only has Peter in and out of costume been subjected to it, but she herself has endured it to. In ASM #521-522 a paparazzi peddled a story about her having an affair with Tony Stark. The experience ruined her joy over her stage debut and generally upset her. The art in these issues heavily imply she was brought to tears.

According to AMJ though, I guess she doesn’t care when it’s someone else’s reputation.

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[doingthejukes]

D&D Characters

This is my first post on tumblr, so I’ve gotta make it one to remember.

I present to you, Brook of Swift Water, the Tabaxi Way of the Four Elements (Homebrew version made by me to make it usable and interesting) Monk. A silver haired 5′10″ Tabaxi with black spots and blue eyes. He stands straight up when conversing with others but in battle he flows and strikes like a river, moving in and out of ones reach without them ever realizing what hit them. When he was a child, he grew up in a small Tabaxi village by a river, caring for his younger siblings and the crops that his family grew. Life was simple but he had no desire for adventure or a greater purpose, he was content to live in peace with the world he knew, a small village of his own kind. But one day, a terrible storm came from the north, bringing with it winds that knocked over the villages frail straw houses, and rain that flooded the river, causing it to rush along the banks and sweep over his entire village, and taking away his whole life with it. During the chaos of the storm he was separated from his family, and barely managed to survive by hanging onto a piece of drift wood, barely staying afloat. Battered and exhausted, he washed up on a shore many leagues away from any land he knew, and was found by a man in strange attire, sandals, something akin to a skirt, and a shirt that barely covered any of his chest. This man carried the broken boy to his home, where he would care for him till he recovered his strength. Brook told the old man of what happened, and begged him to help find his family. The man agreed, but before he left, Brook asked him his name, and he said it was Piez. Brook waited for weeks before the man returned, and in the mean time he explored the mans home, finding man strange things, like a wood staff with metal bands around it, and hundreds of books about all kinds of things, the elements, the flow of ones life force, strange picture books with what seemed like strange dances, and hardly any food, only just enough for Brook to sustain himself. When Piez returned, he carried terrible news, that nearby towns that had worried about the Tabaxi village nearby had searched for surviviors day and night for the past 2 weeks, and found nothing but corpses. Brooks life had been destroyed in one day, and everything he had ever cared about had been taken from him. He ran off into the forest, crying to his hearts content, unable to control the emotions racking his body, and the guilt he felt at being the only one to survive. Piez found him and spoke to him softly but firmly, stating that he understood, and that for now he could mourn. But there was a path Brook could walk if he wished to truly take back his life, the same one Piez had taken, the path of a monk. He would teach him the ways of nature and the elements, and the natural force that resides in all life, their ki. Piez taught him everything he needed to know so that he could control his own destiny, as well as the forces that had taken away his old life, water. After 2 decades of constant training and practice, Piez had finally taught Brook all he knew of the world, and in his last act as his teacher, and almost a father to the orphaned Tabaxi, he told him the location of a scroll that contained instructions on how to control the elements. After this, Piez’s age caught up to him, and he died at the age of 137. Brook set out to find this scroll, and upon acquiring it, he would train in a temple to master 2 of them, the Flowing Stance, and the Water Whip, to be able to both be one with the force that tore his life apart, and to control it. Having done all that Piez wanted of him, Brook was free to wander the world, seeking out his destiny and trying to do good in the world, helping those in need no matter what the source of their suffering, whether it be a man or the forces of nature themselves, or even demons. On his travels, he heard of a town in the kingdom of Humans that had not been heard from in weeks, so he went to check it out. As he approached the supposed location of the town, a heavy mist fell on the area, and he happened to bump into a Bugbear, who turned around and smiled at him warmly, and asked “Why hello there friend! Say, do you know where Roc Town is?” Brook answered with a smile of his own, and said “I have a map of its location, but it seems little help with this fog, let us find it together.” and so they walked deeper into the mist, and eventually found the town. But it was not as it once was. Roc Town was supposed to be a beautiful town of intricately crafted buildings and a symbol of craftsmanship and success across the kingdom, but all the walls were covered in vines, and dust and fog hung in the air, as did a deathly silence. As the two furry companions walked through the streets, they heard a horrible screech, and witnessed a blood red creature fly above them out of the town. “Was that... a fiend?” the Bugbear Gugur asked, with an expression containing both intrigue and worry. “I’m afraid it was my friend. It seems this town is truly in need of help.” -The End (Of the beginning)

This was the backstory of a character I made named Brook of Swift Water, who is now being used in a campaign homebrewed by one of my friends, and which I am currently playing through with another friend, the one who made the Bugbear Gugur. This was quite the backstory right? Very sad although pretty cliche. Wanna know how I came up with it?

*hue hue cat no like water hue hue funny*