#medieval snippet

[amethystpath-writes]

Weapons and Flattery

NOT A PR0MPT

“Stop swinging your sword like that. It is a weapon, not an axe.”

“An axe can be a weapon, too, soldier.”

“I could be a weapon if someone threw me hard enough. Throwing a body is not practical, though, so we use a sword.”

There was a pause, a flitting moment in which the princess thought to not vocalize what she was about. The moment was very brief and ultimately overturned, like the flipping of a coin.

“You are a weapon, looking like that,” she said.

The soldier was stunted, it seemed. Pained. “Are you calling me ugly, Your Highness?”

The princess tried her hand at swinging her sword fancifully. It clattered to the ground and she blushed. “No. Um, the opposite, actually.” Her eyes dashed to the ground, seemingly more interested in her feet. Or, maybe it was an instinct to hide her cheeks. “My- my books do not teach flirting.”

A smile possessed the soldier’s face, and he, unlike the princess, swung his sword in a skillful fashion. “I could teach you a thing or two.”

Well, she wasn’t sure how to respond to that either. The princess had never been given a proper chance to flirt, nor be flirted with. She began to wonder now what she was even doing. And better yet, why? It was bad enough she asked the soldier to teach her how to wield a sword. Now she was trying to flirt? Even admitting that that was what she was trying to do? 

Her actions couldn’t be from a place of interest; she hadn’t known him at all before she stopped him. Maybe it was fun. A man she hadn’t seen before- because the last one died. Maybe it was because he was new, and young, and she was curious, so she sought him out the way the adventures in her books taught her how.

“Well, Princess?”

Looking up, she noticed the soldier had also lowered his sword. The tip of it was embedded in the ground and the princess could see it was because he was leaning forward on it. She didn’t know much about weapons, but- “You will dull your blade like that, trying to look fancy.” Maybe this was how she could shut it down- now that she was having second thoughts.

“I can get it fixed later. Maybe it can give you a real chance against me for now?” His eyebrow lifted and the corner of his lips slid up as he looked to the princess with hooded eyes. It made his eyes stand out, being in the shadows like that. It was handsome, charming- but no. This was a mistake.

“I should leave. It is only a matter of time before my father walks out and finds me like this.”

Shrugging, the soldier said, “Do you think it will matter if he sees you in the act? Your skirts reveal enough. The king is smart- he would figure it out. If not swordplay, maybe something even more scandalous.”

The implication startled the princess. She gasped. “I would never.”

“I know that, and I am sure you do, but your father does not. At least if he saw you with a sword, he could never suspect that his little princess is rolling around in the dirt.”

She had heard of princesses like that, sneaking off in the night and having their fun. The princess didn’t think of herself in that way, but she realized, standing beneath the blazing sun in a pit of sand, sword at her feet, that she was just the same. Perhaps it wasn’t the worst thing. It was exciting, even when she kept telling herself it should have never gotten this far.

“You would be in trouble if he caught you teaching me.”

“He would never get rid of me. I volunteered for this position.”

“How does that mean anything?”

“I was the only one to volunteer for this position,” the soldier corrected. “Your father is respected by citizens because of his title. They have to please him, or else they have no food, no land, no anything. The army, though, has a different bargain.”

Everything revolved around the king, as far as the princess knew. He controlled the lords, the lords’ people, the lords’ armies, and the lords’ lands. Of course, the lords had a say first, but any disputes were settled ultimately by her father, which made him bigger than this soldier.

“You are very arrogant,” the princess observed aloud.

He laughed. “Because I see truth? Princess, look at it this way. Your father might be the commander of every army in these lands, but when every soldier despises their commander, who would ever expect them to fight?”

It would make sense, truthfully, but the princess didn’t understand. “My father is loved.”

“Is that what he tells you? Your life is tailored to him.”

This was becoming too much. First, it was playing with a sword, then getting her dress dirty, then flirting with a soldier (not even a prince), and now she was questioning the likeness of her own father, the king. If the latter wasn’t betrayal, the princess wasn’t sure what was.

Sword fighting was better than considering her father was a bad king. She asked, “You are confident you will not be punished for teaching me this?”

“You called me arrogant earlier. The king will not touch me, and because of my rank, no one else will either.” A full-fledged smile captured his lips. “You haven’t come to fancy me, have you, Princess?”

“I could never.”

But then again, she’d thought that before, when risking to ask if the soldier would train her. She had built up the courage to even talk to him when he became her guard. For what? She wasn’t sure. He was younger than the last (much younger), and seemingly stronger with broad shoulders and a straight stance. He wasn’t caving in on himself, and maybe that was all it took to capture the princess’s eyes.

“Pick your sword up. I have a thing or two to teach you.”

******

Tag list: @faeruine 

To be added, comment on this post!

[cpt-winters]

Technically Medieval Whump? - Team Leader Edition

"Cap- Captain…" Medic steadied their hands in front of them. "I need you to slow down, okay?"

Leader's brows creased, heart still frantically thumping as his fingers tightened around his sword, the soft dirt rubbing into his warm palm against the metal hilt.

"What are you doing? We got them on the run!" He stepped around his comrade, eyes fixed on the scattered enemies descending the rocky hill, their weathered helmets glinting under the setting sun. 

"We'll take care of that, just.." Medic stumbled back in front of him, hand outstretched as they took a cautious step forward. "..Stop moving."

Leader gritted his teeth, frustration rising as a hand clasped his shoulder. "Why are you-"

"Cap, try to stay calm."

He paused as Medic motioned someone from behind, the clang of metal and cries of battle all but forgotten as another set of hands latched behind him, leaving a strange sensation to settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Easy," another familiar voice ushered from behind. "I got you."

The captain's knees faltered, a strong grip quick to catch his weight as his gaze fell to his torso. A crimson-stained spear protruded through him, bits of skin smeared around the metal shaft and fleshy folds hung from its jagged head.

"It's okay- Don't look at that," his teammate behind him started. "It's alright. Medic's gonna fix you right up, okay?"

The warmth pooling around the grass under him said otherwise.

Back eased against the dirt, the captain raised shaky fingers to the weapon, shallow breath hitching before two calloused hands caught his.

"Don't.. lie to me," Leader gritted out, eyes glued to the passing clouds above, their orange hues easier to look at than those around him.

"I'm not. So don't you fucking quit on me."

The grip clasped around his bloodied palm tightened as his teammate went on, repeating the same assurances neither of them could truly believe.

[incorrect-koh-posts]

Hello I have a bit of a weird question here , well , do you think modern women or modern women we consider beautiful in our time now would be considered beautiful in the medieval times ? Let’s say conventionally attractive women of this time such as Tyla , Madison beer , Sabrina carpenter , women we agree all that they are beautiful, do you think they would be this appreciated in let’s say medieval Europe or the crusader kingdoms ? Thank you very much for reading and answering 💗

Hello, anon! Sorry for the extremely late reply 🙈

Ngl, I had to google these people because I had no idea who they are. So in case any of my readers are like me and lack a basic understanding of recent pop culture, here they are for reference:

All in all, medieval ideas of beauty were actually not very different from our present ones. Looking at descriptions of beautiful women in medieval European literature, we see that, in general, writers prized features that are symmetrical and signal youth and health - which also pretty much sums up our 21st-century understanding of feminine beauty. So it is likely that those we as a society consider beautiful would have elicited a similar reaction from Baldwin and his contemporaries. (Though I imagine they would have had a word or five to say about the future's skimpy clothing, and not only for reasons of modesty. Like, where are the swathes and swathes of luxurious fabric? Are we too poor to afford it?)

Of course, medieval and modern ideals differ in some particulars. As you asked specifically about medieval Europe and since the crusader kingdoms largely followed the customs & culture of the French court: Yes - to get the obvious out of the way - there was an emphasis on the whiteness of a woman's skin at the time. Which is here not only an issue of race (a whole 'nother can of worms to open) but also of class, as lighter skin would have been regarded as a signifier that the woman was (or looked like) a member of the nobility, who did not have to do physical labour in the fields etc. where the sun would have been beating down on her all day.

That said, there are examples of dark-skinned characters in medieval European texts who are described as beautiful, such as Queen Belacane in the early-13th-century German chivalric romance Parzival. However, I would be denying history if I didn't acknowledge that even these characters, sometimes subtly, sometimes considerably less so, tend to be presented as an Other. In Wolfram's Parzival, for example, Belacane's people are "liute vinster sô diu naht" ("people dark as the night", Parzival 17,24). She is thus deliberately constructed as the opposite of the European ideal of the courtly lady (Mieger 191), who tends to be described as things like "liehters denne der tac" and "touwegen rôsen" ("lighter than the day" and like a "dewy rose", Parzival 24,6 and 24,10).

I haven't found any specific research materials on beauty standards in the crusader states, but I'd imagine this might have been less of an issue there than in the more remote parts of Europe, given that the cultural melting pot of the Levant would have exposed its inhabitants on a daily basis to different ideas and ideals of beauty. First and foremost, in any case, would have come considerations of religion - a beautiful "heathen" would have had to be very appealing and otherwise virtuous indeed for a European writer to apply courtly adjectives to her, whereas a Christian woman, no matter the colour of her skin, would have been regarded a little more favourably (though again likely exoticised as an Other if she wasn't white).

What did European courtly culture consider appealing then, other than ominous "dewy roses"? As far as text sources go, medieval society liked women to have a slender figure, healthy but not too thin, with a small but full mouth, a well-formed, not too prominent nose, rather small feet and hands, a long elegant neck, and white and even teeth. Mathieu de Vendôme’s Ars versificatoria (late-twelfth century) uses the example of Helen of Troy as the epitome of beauty. His Helen has golden and free-flowing hair, a “Milky Way-white” forehead, black and separated eyebrows “like arches”, sparkling eyes “like stars”, rosy cheeks, a straight nose which is neither too flat or too large, rosy and delicate lips, straight teeth that are “whiter than ivory”, and firm, small breasts (da Soller 98).

Another interesting example is offered in a thirteenth-century Castilian translation of an Arabic folk story, La historia de la doncella Teodor: “the beautiful woman has eighteen signs: three long, three short, three small, three white, three black, and three red. three long: torso, neck, and fingers; three white: body, teeth, and white of the eyes; three black: hair, eyes, and eyebrows; three red: cheeks, lips, and gums; three small: mouth, nose, and feet; three wide: hips, shoulders, and forehead” (101).

So, going back to the three women you mentioned, I'd say they fit the medieval ideal pretty well. Though we prefer somewhat more prominent curves and probably slightly more striking facial features nowadays than our ancestors (as well as fortunately moving away from prizing only light skin), I think we do see here that the difference between medieval and modern isn't actually that large. There's still an undercurrent of kalokagathia in our society's thinking, i.e. the idea that outward beauty signals inner virtue (think, for instance, of the fact that our fictional villains tend to be conventionally unattractive as opposed to the usually attractive good guys).

All things considered though, I shall end this rambling lecture by saying that, ultimately, tastes differ, today as well as in the Middle Ages. It is understandable that you might wish to appeal to, say, your favourite medieval king, but after expounding at length on what's supposedly beautiful or not, let me remind you: As people (and especially women), we do not exist to be ogled and judged by others - you are valuable regardless of whether a particular person considers you beautiful or not. 💛

Sources:

da Soller, Claudio. "Beauty, Evolution, and Medieval Literature." Philosophy and Literature, vol. 34, 2010, pp. 95–111.

Mieger, Hannah. "Königin of Color – Belacane in Wolframs von Eschenbach Parzival als intersektionale Figur." Intersektionalität und erzählte Welten: literaturwissenschaftliche und literaturdidaktische Perspektiven, edited by Verónica Abrego, Ina Henke, Magdalena Kißling, Christina Lammer, Maria-Theresia Leuker, 2023, pp. 187-201.

[persephoneflouwers]

Harry sits messily on the floor like a delicate flower lay crushed and scattered on the ground, trampled by careless feet. Yet even in his brokenness, there is beauty to be found. Like petals, Harry’s lips and pale skin blend together in a mosaic of soft pinks and red, his glassy eyes blinking slowly as he starts to realize just now Louis is standing in front of him.

DE AMORE EX TEMPORE - part ❤️/🎨

READ NOW on AO3

[bigbadivy]

I was grateful for the warmth of my horse's neck. I held on to her as she galloped through the city, skillfully going around people who ran everywhere. Searching for shelter in the night, but Only worsening the chaos.

Another lighting struck a building me, causing another yell of screams.

"EVERYONE HOME NOW!"

I shouted, praying that my voice is heard to all through the thunderstorm.

"DIRECT ORDER FROM THE KING!"

"HOME NOW!"

My horse, steadfast as she was, ran through every street. Inspired by her persistence, I kept yelling to the crowd. Ignoring the thunders, the pouring rain and my rattling sword.

We kept going until the crowds dissapeared. I whispered to my horse to slow down, caressing her neck. I allowed myself to lead her to a small market stall, where we could rest from the rain.

Maybe, just maybe, we finished our part. Maybe our night now ends.

"HELP!"

Of course.

I jumped down and ran towards the voice.

"My sister!

She is stuck under the fallen tree!"

I turned and searched for a tree in my eyes, but there is no... NO

The sound of an unleashed sword stood out against the rain.

I sprut towards my horse, but my sheeth was already empty.

Of course. Someone will try to use this disaster.

This will be a long night.

I saw the blade's shine from above me, and recognized a person climbing the nearby stone building.

She balanced herself on a window, then swiftly brought herself to the next.

"Halt!"

Whether she heard me or not, she made no sign to care. So be it.

I got on my horse and stood up on her saddle. My legs shook, but I managed to hold on to grab at the side of the closet window. I tried to move legs up to it, thankful for the empty street. There was no crowd who saw me wobbling in my armor. I looked up to the stranger, she watched me from afar. I couldn't see her face well, but her head was tilted to the side in an amused way.

I let go of the window's side and started taking off my armor, leaving only a dirty shirt to fend me from the cold. Slowly but surely, I climbed up.

I was cold, clumsy and sluggish, but had a small smirk as I managed to make my progress. This troublemaker picked the wrong knight.

The roof was just above me.

I raised my hand to climb there, and a lighting struck above it. It was the closet one I saw. I would want to believe that it's power made me tremble, but nothing but my own terror caused me to lose my grip.

I fell and- No.

A hand caught my arm, and I grabbed the roof tightly. I felt myself being pulled up signed in relief as rested on concrete matter.

The woman crouched down next to me. Her hood's shadow covered her eyes, but I could see her cocky grin clearly.

"You screamed a little, sir craven."

This could go unmentioned.

I inhaled and looked right into her.

"Thank you,"

The cold was taking it's tall at my exposed skin as I tried to keep my voice confident.

"But I cannot let you steal a weapon of the king's knights.

Tell me where the sword is and we both can go home safely."

Just let us go home.

"I have no evil motive,"

She said assuredly.

"It is right there."

She turned around and I could see my sword.

It was a few meters behind her, emedded in the center of the roof.

"And it needs to stay here. This is the only way to keep the lightings at bay."

She did not sound like she was lying.

And if she had any intent to harm me, she would have already done so.

But danger wears many faces.

I started getting up.

"I am sorry, it is my role t-"

A radiant white light crossed from the sky to the roof.

By incstinct, I tackled onto the hooded woman and placed myself between her and the light. I stayed above her, careful not to let us touch and make us both defensless.

Shaking, I waited for a strike.

"We are safe, craven."

Her voice was so sweet, I could barely tell it was the same person.

"Look."

I slowly opened my eyes.

Her hood fell, and revealed a freckled face and a beaming, knowing smile. Her sparkling, green eyes gestured to the sword.

I unwillingly turned back to it.

It was magic.

The very next lighting struck it as well.

"How?"

Her smile grew brighter.

"A witch never tells."

The white lights only highlighted her eyes. She was far more mirthful than I ever thought a witch would be. Far bolder and kinder, too.

I realized that I was smiling as well.

"Also, you have an awful method to protect someone from a lighting."

She said, deciding I was too happy.

"But, thank you, you are..."

Her smile turned softer.

"Yes?"

I urged her to continue. It was my turn to smirk.

"You are not as much as a craven as you seem."

I tilted my head, still smirking.

"Try not to drool too much, my lady."

She merely rolled her eyes and I laughed. Feeling safe for the first time since the night came.

My smile died down when she started getting up.

"Thank you for your chivalry,"

The witch said, pushing dirt of her cloth.

"and the amusement, of course."

I moved aside to let her stand, yet my eyes were unable to let go of her. I did not even know her name.

"But it seems like your duty is done and mi-"

"Wait, just..."

She did.

The cold barely mattered anymore. I searched for a reason, an excuse, for her not to leave. The way her eyes stared into me made it seem like she was looking for an excuse, too.

"Tell me what is needed to protect the city,"

I said then. Praying that the glint in her eyes was not just my imagination.

"I can get more weapons, and people who will embed them wherever is required."

The witch merely stared at me. Looking for any sign of dishonesty. Then her childish grin came right back.

"If you manage to climb down without fainting, I might just cooperate, sir craven."

Her taunt only made me smile.

"Your challenge is accepted, my lady."

I gestures to the roof's end, bowing a bit. She bowed dramatically, holding her hood with both hands as a dress. Her movements were swift and gallant as she jumped to the window, and soon I started following her.

There was a long night ahead of us.I did not mind that at all.

[wonder-worker]

"In the medieval imagination there was a constant tension between the idea of women’s changeable, corrupting, Eve-like influence in the world; the sense of their childlike inability to govern themselves or to be responsible for their behaviour; and the ideal of the vulnerable lady and mother who might intercede, Madonna-like, to create peace."

-J.L. Laynesmith, "Cecily Duchess of York"

[jessicas-pi]

REBELS BUT MAKE IT 1900S PLEASE

Also Paint Bombs, Pixie Cuts, and Elopement!

eeeheheheee~~~

SOOO, as you probably guessed, Rebels but make it 1900s is my Currently Untitled Kanera The Shuttle AU! Here, have a scene from Kanan and Hera's second meeting!

---

She stopped on the overgrown pathway, the wind lashing her hair into her face as she stared upwards at the gray sky. Sabine leaned against Hera with a sad sigh, and Hera put her hand on the child’s shoulder.

“I wish you could fix it here, too,” she mourned, and Hera gave her a warning squeeze—the groundskeeper was still right there.

The rumble of thunder interrupted the stillness of the moment, and Hera realized with foreboding that the sky’s grayness should have been a warning to her.

“It’s going to rain,” she observed. “We ought to go back.”

“Nonsense,” said the groundskeeper. “It’s six miles. You’ll never make it back before the storm comes. You must step inside the house and wait it out.”

Hera was taken aback at his boldness. “We couldn’t! Not without an invitation. That would be an imposition on the Earl.”

The man started to speak, but hesitated, started again, and stopped with a sigh.

“I… suppose… I should have told you before.” 

He bowed his head with a rueful smile. 

“Kanan Jarrus, fifteenth Earl of Shatterpoint, at your service, Miss Syndulla.”

---

AAAND, something from Paint Bombs, Pixie Cuts, and Elopement!!

---

Sabine grinned. “Well, at least you don’t have an overbearing mother breathing down your neck every time you so much as look at a man who’s not from a Mandalorian clan. She made a list of possible husbands for me to choose from.”

“All stuffy, boring heirs?” Ezra asked, ignoring the twisting in his stomach at the reminder that—someday—she would get married, and nothing would be the same between them when that happened.

“Yeah.” She huffed. “I didn’t realize until Mother told me this winter just how tense things have been getting. There’s a real chance of war now, and we do need alliances. I’m not arguing with that! But why couldn’t it at least be someone I like? Someone like Beni; I don’t mind him! Or Kieran! Gods and Kings, even Hadrian might not make me unhappy. But… Dieter? Carthage? Oh, Forces take me now.”

“I guess I understand the politics of it all,” he said, “but there has to be a better way than making you marry someone you don’t like.”

She scowled viciously. “I could list on one hand the Mandalorian men my age that I can tolerate. How am I supposed to find one that I won’t hate being married to, and that Mother thinks is important enough?”

Ezra yawned, leaned back, folded his hands behind his head casually, and delivered the joke with a perfectly straight face. “I’m important. You might as well marry me.”

Sabine stared at him in shock, but a second later a smile dashed across her face, and she narrowed her eyes conspiratorially.

“Mother would never consent. We would have to elope.”

“Elope?” He tried not to grin as he played along. “That sounds exciting.”

[destroyusall]

I'm writing a novel(ette?) about unicorn slaying and how their blood is used for fuel.. and my god. It is fun.

It's fun making the characters and thinking about cool scenes and pausing to port my rough draft to the Book app on my gay little phone and see it all laid out.

It's so cool trust m

[amethystpath-writes]

Sir Knight

NOT A PR0MPT

A prince rescued by a flirty knight

I made him a little less flirty and a little more spicy and teasing- my bad. Enjoy your tarnished platter <3

******

The prince couldn’t bare the rustling of grass. Who knew what prowled in the field before him, with him? Creatures with four-legs seemed a reasonable conclusion, though unlike that which everyone worried about, Prince Neveer was more worried about a creature with two legs. Another human.

More alarming than anything, Neveer worried he was being chased by these other humans.

Damn it, he was always being chased. Always, no matter what. No matter the pacts he made, the treaties he signed, the princesses he swore he’d marry...no one knew those seals were made with his father’s ring, not his own. Or maybe they did. And maybe that’s why every noise in the tall grasses scared the prince so.

“You are a deer.”

The voice startled the prince so badly that he hurt his neck turning his head. His heart nearly combusted with how quickly it was beating.

Black hair, silver shoulders. The knight who rescued him countless times. The knight which Neveer spited every chance he got for his arrogance. He rolled his eyes and turned away.

“A small, quaint, and injured deer.” The knight added, after a moment of continued observation, “With scared, doe eyes.”

“How did you find me?” Annoyance laced the prince’s tone, but truthfully, he was grateful to see the knight’s face.

The knight shrugged, practically ignoring the prince, and came closer to him. His lips became pursed as he brushed a calloused thumb over a scratch on Neveer’s cheek. The prince, in turn, winced and smacked the hand away.

“Or a feisty cat. So feline with your pretty robes and shiny jewels. Not strutting now, are you?”

Neveer wasn’t a deer, or a cat, or whatever else the knight wanted to call him. He was a prince. A prince whose crown was constantly being knocked off his own head. How sad, he bet the knight thought of him. Neveer didn’t need pity; he needed-

“Home. Now,” the prince said.

“Not going to ask me nicely? Call me Sir, even?”

“You are titles beneath me.”

“And a foot taller than you.”

So Neveer was at a standstill. He knew the knight wouldn’t move another step until he got what he wanted. Gritting his teeth, the prince asked, “Will you take me home, Sir?”

“I think you might have forgotten a word.”

“Please! For the love of your commander, of your prince, and king. Please,” he shouted, “take me home!”

The knight smiled, looked Neveer up and down…hummed. “I like that,” the knight said, and began trekking through the tall grasses. “If you want to make it more than three steps into these grasses without stepping on a snake, how about you kneel and beg me to carry you.”

It was no suggestion. “Absolutely not. I do not kneel to you,” Neveer said. “You kneel to me.”

“You are going to say that to me now?”

The prince’s lip curled, challenging the only person capable of taking him home.

“I thought princes were supposed to be more levelheaded than this. Your dramatics are endearing, but we should really go before the sun sets, so do yourself a favour”- the knight smiled- “and kneel.”

Loosing a deep breath, the prince finally complied- not because he was lesser than the knight, or because he was weak-willed, or anything of that sort. Neveer knelt because even he, an arrogant and selfish man with too many rings on his fingers, knew better than to stay in a field of tall grass after dark.

“Will you please take me home, you-brilliant-knight-you? Carry me through the fields and leave me at the gates beneath the shadows of clouds, beneath the moon as glorious as your eyes.” The knight wanted dramatics? There they were.

Shrugging, the knight said, “I guess so, but only because you asked so very nicely, Neveer. Stand up, we have a long walk from here and we are losing sunlight with every heartbeat.”

“Sunlight does not matter when I have you to lead me,” the prince snarked. “If you ever pull this again, I will send you to the dungeons, do you understand?”

Laughing, the knight gloated. “You might have been exaggerating when you begged, but I know how you look at me, Prince. If you sent me to any dungeon, I am not so sure the chains would be used to detain me.” 

******

[cpt-winters]

Lil' Bit of Medieval Whump

Whumpee gasped for air as Whumper yanked at the chain, giving it no slack as they strutted across the feasting hall. Whumpee's fingers clenched around the collar tightened around his neck, a futile effort to ease it as Whumper tugged on the chain.

The heavy oak doors slammed closed behind the two, commanding the attention of each of the warriors filling the room.

Whumpee's cheeks flushed crimson at the humiliation as he stumbled behind Whumper, struggling to preserve a slither of dignity by avoiding being dragged toward the Warlord.

"You treat him like a dog," the Warlord sighed as Whumper approached and took their seat to his right, forcing Whumpee to kneel beside them.

"Why shouldn't I? He has been defeated,” Whumper declared proudly, shooting Whumpee a smile as he glared back from his spot on the floor.

"I will choke you with this chain..." Whumpee growled quietly. His gaze was abruptly pulled from the floor as Whumper jerked the chain, forcing their eyes to meet.

"What was that, Knight?" Whumper taunted.

"N-nothing," came the strangled reply.

"Where is your honour, Whumper? “ the Warlord questioned, shaking his head as he took a sip from his goblet. “He was a great warrior.”

"Was, Lord,” Whumper corrected, finally releasing Whumpee from their grip. “And now he may serve as a trophy. Nothing more.”

[nostalgia-tblr]

WIP Wednesday

Gonna use WIP Wednesday to throw a bit of the not-Ottoman-Empire not-thorki fic at tumblr and see if anyone else finds it at all interesting/appealing (pls tell me whether to finish this or to pretend I never even thought of it):

Farbauti tells Loki tales of his siblings, all of the things she remembers about them as children and all of the strengths and weaknesses she has gleaned from weary travellers in the years since. Loki sharpens the blade of his favourite dagger as she rambles on, idling in the heat from the fire in the hearth and only half-listening to her words. His mother notes how his attention wanders and she tells him, sharply, “This is information that will save your life one day. This is how I’m going to win you your throne.” Loki nods, apparently contrite, and drags the whetstone along the length of the knife. “I’m listening, Mother. I always listen.” “To me?” “To everything,” he answers, just as she wants him to. Farbauti continues; “The one you must be most careful of is Thor. You were only small when he left the palace, and he wasn’t much more than a boy himself, but he takes after his mother. Which means that he would slit her throat if he saw any advantage in it. Perhaps he already has.” She laughs at that, loud and scornful. Loki does, in fact, remember Thor. He remembers golden hair and easy laughter. He remembers the two of them playing together, dodging behind pillars in a game of chasing and hiding. He remembers, quite clearly (too clearly, perhaps; this part might be a later invention of his own imagination), that the game ended with both of their mothers scowling.

[incorrect-koh-posts]

"He made good progress in his studies and as time passed he grew up full of hope and developed his natural abilities. He was a good-looking child for his age and more skilled than men who were older than himself in controlling horses and in riding them at a gallop. He had an excellent memory and he loved listening to stories. He was inclined to be thrifty, but he always remembered the good things that people had done for him, and the bad things as well. He was very like his father; not only did they look alike, but they were of similar build. They walked in the same kind of way and their speech patterns were similar. He had a quick understanding, but he had a stammer. Like his father he had a passion for hearing about history, and he paid attention to the good advice he was given."

- William of Tyre on the young Baldwin IV, quoted in Bernard Hamilton's The Leper King and His Heirs (p. 43)

[chaotic-orphan]

Medieval, fantasy writing

*~*~*~*~*

The two guards walked with their backs straight, as easy as if they weren’t carrying a struggling, cursing, kicking Hero between them down to the dungeons. Her hands were cuffed in front of her with heavy manacles specially made to fit her small wrists.

Hero didn’t look like much, but King was done underestimating her apparently. One of the guards motioned for the jailor to open a cell door.

“You motherfuckers! Let me go!” Hero cried out, catching one of her legs off of a Guards and attempting to trip them. The guard just looked down at her impassively, massively and then she was thrown into the cell, her shoulder skidding off the cool stone floor. She let out a hiss, getting to her feet to see the Jailor locking her cell.

She walked to the cell bars and kicked at the door, with every effort a fresh curse falling from her lips. “Fuckers. Pricks. Wankers. Let me out!”

“There’s no point,” a voice said in the darkness and Hero turned in her cell, looking for the owner of the voice but there was no one. She scoffed, going back to kicking the hinges on the cell.

“I’m not giving up,” said Hero. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. A groan of frustration before she looked to her manacles and the chain connecting them. She pulled them apart, the chain pulling taut too soon. Barely two inches in length.

Fuck. She hadn’t accounted for the King’s Guards to be guarding the shipment… Raven had told her that there would be guards. Hero could deal with normal guards but the King’s guards were barely human, all muscle and zero emotions. Hero knew the only reason she was alive was because the King wanted her alive. If she had been ordered to die the King’s guards would have killed her.

Hero bent her wrists, trying to grab the chain but the chain snapped too soon, not letting her get a proper angle on it.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she growled, getting down onto her honkers and putting her foot on the chain and yanking her hands up. She let out a cry of pain, but the manacles didn’t fucking budge.

“Could you be quiet? Please?” the voice asked again, and Hero looked for it again.

“Where are you?” She asked, standing up and walking around the cell.

“Cell next to you,” came the voice and Hero walked to the right side of the cell and peered through the bars. “Other side.”

“Could’ve told me that,” she huffed and crossed the concrete to the left side. He was sitting upright at the back wall of the cell, head resting against the brick. His hands were spread on either side of him, slightly elevated and chained to the wall. “Shit,” hero said. “He must hate you more than he hates me.”

The prisoner laughed, a small chuckle. “Yeah. He must.”

Hero walked to the back of her cell and sat down heavy, resting her head against the wall in much the same way as the other prisoner. “I’m Hero, by the way.”

“I know,” was the reply.

“Usually people tell you their names in reply,” Hero told him, staring at the cobble arched ceiling.

“Yeah,” the prisoner said and then they fell into a silence. The question burning under Hero’s tongue, itching at their skin but they stayed silent. When the prisoner wanted to tell her, he’d tell her.

She didn’t realise she had fallen asleep until she woke up to the sound of the heavy doors at the end of the corridor heaving open with a loud, stuttering groan. Hero was alert and awake immediately, but she stayed on the ground in solidarity with her new prisoner friend.

She knew it was him the moment his heels clicked off the stone steps down. Three more long strides and she saw his pale face once more. The same face that caused every hair on her body to stand on end, a chill running through her spine branching off to all her nerves screaming at her to remain alert.

He looked like he walked straight from a gothic painting. His regal cherry wine tail coat so dark it looked black in the dim lighting, the shadows clinging to him like an old friend, carving out every angled feature making him look more formidable. Less human. She saw his usual black armour under his tailcoat and couldn’t help but smirk at it.

Hero was the reason King needed body armour in the first place. Sometimes she loved being a woman, underestimated at every turn. Her chains clinked as she readjusted her position and her eyes turned hard.

Not bigoted enough to underestimate her anymore…

King stopped between the two cells, his guards at his back looking soulless and frightening.

King turned his lips up into a cold, thin smile as he spread his hands to the pair of the prisoners: “wow. You’ve already made friends. That was fast, I’m impressed. I assume no introductions are in order then?”

His voice still the same silk spun silver, melodious and beautiful.

Knowing.

Dangerous.

“Your assumptions are correct,” said Hero confidence leaking into every syllable. “Our reputations precede us both. And what was that saying from the Sloughs? Enemy of my enemy is my temporary acquaintance. We’re about at the acquaintance mark. Give us a few more hours and we’ll be fast friends.”

The King’s eyes glinted with that sharp cunning Hero could see from where she sat. “I’m surprised at your ambivalence Hero. So forgiving. So unlike you.”

The words struck her like lightning to the heart, but she just smiled in reply and said: “like I said. Temporary acquaintance.”

King’s eyes turned to the other prisoner, eyebrows raised: “and you Graves? How do you feel about this acquaintanceship?”

Hero sat still, though every muscle in her body ached to flinch at the name. King wanted her reaction. He knew full well that Graves had never told Hero his name and now she knew why.

If it wasn’t for Hero, King wouldn’t wear armour.

If it wasn’t for Graves, Hero wouldn’t be a weapon.

Perhaps she would have lived a simple, happy life, but the man in the cell next to her ensured that she would never know peace again.

Her heart started beating a bit faster in her chest, behind her eyes welling up with tears she had shed for far too long and still hadn’t mourned enough. Still the tears were ready to fall at the utterance of a name.

She just stared forward at the King and his smug little grin and his stupid little guards and she wanted to see their blood on her hands.

“Like Hero said. Enemy of my enemy…”

Hero looked at the cell next to her and found bright silver eyes peering back at her and she wanted to sob. Fear’s molten hand was burning around her heart, choking her chest in its panicked heat that washed over her at the memory of those terrible silver eyes in the flames.

“Hmm,” said the King, standing straight again but Hero didn’t even acknowledge him. Eyes transfixed on those mercury pools of flesh and blood. How many times had she seen those eyes in her nightmares? How many nights had she lay awake committing them to memory?

She promised herself she would take the light from those horrific silver eyes. She had promised…

And yet… Hero’s eyes went to the King’s. What was he even doing here? Graves. Chained in the King’s dungeon for gods know how long…

“As much as I’ve loved our little chat,” said King, eyes on Hero as the Guards opened his cell and started taking his hands from the chains. “Graves and I have a previous engagement to attend.”

Graves said nothing as he was dragged out of his cell. He didn’t even look back at Hero as they escorted him through the hall and up the dungeon steps. “I’ll come back for you later. We can have a chat.”

“Go fuck yourself, King.”

King smiled and wordlessly he left. Hero sat in the cold darkness alone, and her sank to the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t long before she heard the screams, her eyes staring straight ahead. Wondering how the fuck she was going to get out of this one.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Snippet from future Medieval! Ainur fic

Eager to see me? Cannot wait for the ceremony to begin? You wrinkled your brow in confusion. Oromë barely spoke with you. He certainly didn’t call on you or court you. His letters had been brief, and few and far between.

Nessa looked on expectantly, awaiting your answer.

“I pray I will be a good wife to him” you say hesitantly.

Granted, this can still change, but I cannot wait to finish and upload this, hopefully by the 7th. 

[foolofatook001]

“Tell to me, Tam Lin,” she said, “Why came you here to dwell?”

“The Queen of Faeries caught me, when from my horse I fell. And at the end of seven years, she pays a tithe to Hell— I so fair and full of flesh, I fear it be myself.”

("Tam Lin," Fairport Convention version)

Here’s the thing— Martyn knows how this kind of story is supposed to go.

The plucky hero goes into the heart of the enchanted wood, and through a bit of cleverness and the virtue of their pure heart, they rescue the victim from the horrible entangling grasp of whatever evil faerie creature has them. Now, he wouldn’t say he’s got a pure heart, necessarily, but he is certainly clever, and, well— he’s made several forays into the enchanted wood, as it were, and gotten away unscathed each time. 

But what do you do when the victim refuses to leave with you?

He’s tried reason. He’s tried logic. He’s tried gifts. He’s tried impassioned pleas. Ren still keeps going back to the Shadow Lady. He keeps insisting he’s not enchanted and that “his Queen” wouldn’t take away his free will, which is unfortunately exactly what someone enchanted and without free will would say, so he can’t really take Ren’s word for it. 

He’d love to work with Ren, really he would. (He’d love to get into that very solid and defensible tower with a proper moat and everything, too.)

He just doesn’t want to take on a fae as well. 

The Shadow Lady has extended her reach far, and though Martyn knows she’s got limits on her power, the sight of her doing something to Ren to make him harmless to her when he went red— something with enough magic to black out the sun in the middle of the day and nearly knock Martyn to the ground with the pressure— well, he’s pretty sure that speaks for itself. Grian had warned them about her, early on in the game, and though Grian is lost to the red names now, his warning still holds water, at least in Martyn’s mind. 

Maybe the problem is that he’s thinking about this as the wrong kind of story. Maybe this isn’t one where the clever hero spirits away the innocent victim from the faerie queen, leaving her to curse his name from afar. 

Maybe he’ll have to take up dragon-slaying. 

[muzzlemouths]

FINALLY getting some (albeit rusty) words out in the form of an old prompt LET'S GOOOO