#medieval talk

[wokrs-of-whimsy]

Goodbye soldier. Take this with you

I must thank thee, from ones own heart, for such a generous boon. This shall be of great use when facing against mine enemies . I shall doth thou proud! Riding on mine horse as I return bearing mine country's flag high and proud.

[garunsdottir]

on 'aldhelm's wardrobe' & tlk costumes

[this post contains my opinion, and it might not align with yours. it is fine as long as we are respectful. keep that in mind, thank you]

[around 1.5k words]

as one can see, i’ve been posting a lot [and more to come lol] about Aldhelm’s wardrobe lately, and i want to clarify something: i post mainly because i enjoy the character, and i’m utterly stunned by Aldhelm having such a chokehold on me [yes, at some point you might say that i was simply gifing him, and you will be correct]. but i have to say: those posts are not an appreciation for the well-done costumes, because...well, i was genuinely disappointed by how poorly they were made. but why is it important? [NB: i'm not an expert; it was just details that i noted from the perspective of a person who likes this stuff].

part I: let’s focus on Aldhelm first [i promise, it’s about costume design and its influence on a character’s development!]

if you go through my tags for those posts, you can see that sometimes i leave notes of what i have noticed so far. the latest set was for one of the first fits that we encountered with Aldhelm. many didn’t like his blue ragged cloak, and so do i, because i don’t find it appealing or flattering.

but it makes sense: Aldhelm is still relatively young, probably isn’t that wealthy as later in the series, and he is dressed for the road and any occasions [robbery, scuffle, etc.] that might occur. so, i find this cloak rather suitable for a young man who is still making his way in a career as a warrior and advisor. that way, you can clearly see that his position within the hierarchy is lower, especially when he is side by side with Aethelred. later in the series [around s3], we’ll see him wearing another bluish cloak made from a sturdier fabric with a rolled edge [no doubt, a boy got a promotion]. even his court mercian outfit [that i haven’t gifed it yet] looks considerably less prominent than Aethelred’s, and that’s the point [though why Aldhelm’s is brighter i would never get]. it is a simple tunic with and a god-knows-what sleeveless garment [write me if you know what the hell it is] without any embroidery. again, later, the outfit changes, and Aldhelm is serving the look with that collar embroidered with golden leaves. the outfit underlines his status and signals to the viewers that the character has undergone some changes. above that, we are getting small details that reveal the character [examples: the length of his mail in comparison to Aethelred's, the short knife in addition to his sword, which is a common thing but again cannot be seen on Aethelred, and even if he has one, it’s unlikely to be used as anything but adornment].

thus, you can see my point: a costume is important.

but it’s not only about what it consists of but also how it was executed. spoiler—badly.

most of Aldhelm’s silhouettes are simply ill-suited for him, and he is painful to look at in this respect. his tunics are more than always way too short for him because of how tall and lanky this man is, and the brooch attached so high and in the middle creates a puffy look but makes him seem fettered and tighter in the shoulders, as if the garment is too small for him. the 2nd outfit [in order of appearance in the text] is clearly made out of cotton [which is not available at the set time period] and has the weirdest texture that again won’t be easily achievable. his chainmail? at a closer look, you can see how poorly, almost haphazardly, rings are connected to each other; moreover, it doesn’t even look like a proper sturdy iron or steel. the embroidery on his collar and the hems on the shoulders are made by machine [and that’s okay! not everything has to be made by hand in order to preserve accuracy, but leave small details for viewers to believe it was actually made by hand! a few sticking threads? amazing. uneven pattern on the embroidery? wonderful]. and where is his pouch? more complicated buckles, anyone? finally, the thing I hate the most: s5 and Aldhelm becoming yet another leather man. *cries in mercian*

if we follow the tendency of elaborating the outfit within the character’s development, then we would want to see in s5 that Aldhelm’s wardrobe to be more well-put, restrained, but bold in colours and high-status style that would be perfectly fitted for his age and position [think somewhat of lord Odda s1]. fitted my ass, we didn’t even get an updated version of the mercian look. ideally something like a long blue linen tunic with golden threads along the edge and a yellow wool wrap-over coat with decorated cuffs [the guy is loaded, he can afford it, come on]. but nope, just another leather waistcoat. yeah, yeah, there was that dirty-red-coloured cloak, but I won’t buy it, underneath it was something I cannot even come up with a name for.

phew, we get to the others. my leather-pretty boys!

part II: Let’s talk colours and materials.

why is this show so bloody dark? i am not only complaining as a gifmaker, but as a viewer: yes, i want to be able to see what is happening on the screen! i'm more than sure they use some sort of god-forbidden filter, and everything looks so dreary and bleak cause there is no sunshine in Wessex, you know.

the same goes for clothes’ colours. why is every item either black, or gray, or any other dirty-washed colour? people in the 9th century had natural dyes, garments had colours, especially if we are talking about someone wealthy. we have a lot of manuscripts and pictures that show it! bright yellow, deep blue, bold red, olive, and many others were available. why are even members of the royal family dressed mostly in gray? yes, we’ve seen Alfred rocking some red, but still, it was awfully plain.

speaking about rock, have you, guys, ever thought why heavy metal groups are popular in the North? It cause all Danes were wearing leather while pillaging and plundering Saxon villages. duh.

so, yeah, even if we want them to look super broody and cool, leather was not very common as an everyday material to wear. nor was it suitable for a battle as a whole garment. or are you going to tell me that it is so convenient to sweat the shit out of yourself in summer and freeze to hell in winter while wearing your trendy sleeveless vest [yes, i am looking at you, Sihtric]. don’t you want to protect your arms at all? not even a bit? i have a nice linen or wool shirt that you can wear underneath. no? okay. i'm more than sure that one can achieve a great look using the correct materials. but what do i know? [let’s ask king Constantine of Scots who wears this tartan picnic blanket that looks like a rug from Ikea. or Brida, her jacket from Zara, those awfully sewn squares of fur from s1].

and my, oh my, how ‘historical’ dramas are terrified of headgear. especially the female ones. i haven’t seen a veil, a headscarf, or anything else that would have been appropriate for the time, specifically for married women. other adornments or jewels? have you seen Aethelflaed’s crown? it’s supposed to be golden and decorated with precious stones, but it looks like an easily flexible piece of tin. and I’m so glad I wasn’t the only one who saw that Aelfwynn was wearing temple rings instead of the actual earrings [even though we have preserved examples of real earrings that were common in the period].

so, what do we have? awfully combed Vikings in leather with modern hairdos, inappropriate shapes and materials, and poorly made garments. is it really that important?

instead of a conclusion:

personally, i think yes. i'm a historical fashion enthusiast, and i do love great costumes that represent time periods correctly. to my mind, it is significant because most people would never search for real studies on the subject and would just believe things they saw on screen. and that’s the problem that will cause a lot of stereotypes and wrong perceptions of history and the people in it.

when we create something that is history-based [i am not talking about fantasy; play however you like with clothes there, i will only support] we have to remember that those were real people as well. they differed by status, but they still wanted to look good, ate well, didn’t like to get wet, quarrelled with their siblings while they were teenagers, and played with their dogs. they wanted to be warm, so they wore wool; they wanted to feel fresh while working in the field, so they used linen. they wanted to appeal to their potential partners, so they adorned themselves with embroidery, jewels, headpieces, and small accessories. they were humans that shouldn’t be looked upon as inferiors, but those [as they portrayed them to be] small details that were overlooked created truly Dark Ages.

so, yeah, costume design is important; characters speak through it.

thank you, if you've read this post.

[and stay tuned for more gifs of Aldhelm’s wardrobe].

[ffcrazy15]

Someone needs to do an analysis on the way the Kung Fu Panda movies use old-fashioned vs. modern language ("Panda we meet at last"/"Hey how's it going") and old-fashioned vs. modern settings (forbidden-city-esque palaces/modern-ish Chinese restaurant) to indicate class differences in their characters, and how those class differences create underlying tensions and misunderstandings.

[luposlipaphobya]

Falling in love with an outer god

(Just wanted to imagine what it’d look like if Mel took a draconic form in front of Lazuli. I guess it’d be more voidy and nightmarish in game cause of the Fallen Aasimar of the Awful Deep thing, but let’s just say that Mel could also be related to a golden dragon who was also Pelor’s favorite so… 👀 I wanted to try a fairytale/medieval vibe here, kinda happy with how it turned out! Melisande belongs to @the-nothing-maker ❤️)

[lemonerix]

fixed up my templar sketch bc he's just so fun to draw :DDD

[parasitic-saint]

[katabay]

my knight-monk agenda strikes again, but this was less of a 'I read something that made me experience several emotions and a strike of inspiration at once,' and more of a 'wouldn't it be fucked up if the bejeweled skeleton saints came to life and and started. eating people. or something. in revenge. medieval catholic horror, or an older horror of not being buried right. zombies, even. a complete bastardization of holy visuals. zombies.'

it's a far away idea, but I still wanted to play around with font layouts. like, if I DID make it into a full comic: these would be visual vibes, perhaps.

it's also a little bit about the kind of intimacy that these kinds of spaces provide, or in the case of this monk: the heavy trauma of war and the death of your brother, the escape to a secluded monastery, spiritual brotherhood to make up for your dead brother, but your role as a physician keeps pulling you back to this violence you want to escape. physician, heal thyself, only you have a holy calling to serve those in need, so instead: physician, open up your wounds again. saint jude, patron saint of lost causes, give us a fucking hand here, man. amen.

Homosexuality in the Renaissance: Behavior, Identity, and Artistic Expression, James M. Saslow

and this one is about earlier history than the medieval period that this comic is set in, but the monk character is sort of an exploration of earlier themes. a little bit. I like overlapping eras with each other, I've done it before and I'll do it again. this character is an exploration of some other stuff too, but mostly this book was interesting to read

From Monastery to Hospital: Christian Monasticism and the Transformation of Health Care in Late Antiquity, Andrew T Crislip

bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost

[venezashade]

Born of a maggot prince, torn from his sister’s head, with a foot in both worlds! I serve you, now. The Dies Irae.

I LOVE YORICK SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!!! NO IDEA!!!!

Here is also speedpaint! :D

[knighthelm]

Lady Olwen and the Unicorn

Some Deep thoughts I was having while painting this piece below:

Unicorns in medieval art sometimes represented the chastity and purity women were expected to maintain, but also the game of courty love. In order to slay a unicorn, a maiden was to sit out and wait for the creature to find her, then the hunter nearby would strike. Obviously this is just an allegory for sex and the loss of virginity from a deeply patriarchal society. It also illustrated the expectation of women's roles in courtly love in the period.

It reminds me of the purity culture I grew up in, to be honest. I heard stories like this, cautionary tales that growing up and becoming a woman was like the violent killing of a sacred creature. The point of this piece became very therapeutic for me, and served more to heal something that had been hurt a long time ago.

I've also been in love with the Unicorn Tapestries since I was a teenager I wanted to draw a woman surrounded and protected by these motifs. Obviously she's not a virgin, but she is still deemed worthy of a visit from a unicorn.

[angst-and-fajitas]

I think loveless aros deserve a thousand dollars for every time someone claims that love is the meaning of everything or love makes us human etc etc

"by love we mean all forms of love, including nonromantic!!1!" You clearly Do Not understand. Return to start, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.

There is no center of the universe, there is no unified meaning of everything, and there is no social or biological trait that "makes us human" besides the literal being humans thing, and any attempt to assert otherwise will other and alienate more people. There is no one emotion that you need to feel in order to be a good person or even a person at all

[lilybug-02]

Artfight against @ejsuperstar ft. The Mad King and Chip. They're both so evil. I hope they have the most extravagant downfall of any onscreen villain.

This interaction is based on a little fic writing >:)

[pricetagged]

that death is a very stable job

''Cause I love my baby, tall, dark Hades. Lord of death is down on his knees for me.'' Poor little Dormouse, with her cruel father and labourer's hands. You find an unexpected guard dog in one of the passing Knights.

Enjoy 4.8k words of half inaccurate-medieval, half poorly-built-fantasy AU. Inspired by a few existing historical AUs (like @bi-writes 1600s au, 391780's 'the rus') and a scene from 'The Serpent Queen'. Also, I stan 'old grizzled dog with a heart Ghost' so here you go.

Warnings/content: implied domestic abuse/sex work (not Ghost), very mild suicidal ideation, violence, power imbalance (social hierarchy ew), kissing & intimacy (no smut. yet.). Reader is described as a young woman, generally body-neutral (one reference to being 'plump').

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

What makes betrayal so potent is that, by its very nature, it can only come from someone you trust. Of course, as a child you knew little of the abstracts and intricacies of trust. You knew the warmth of your mother's bosom. You knew the sharp, lingering smell of lye that slung to her chapped hands. You knew that you were not hungry or hurt for those blissful early years, at least.

You did not know that you had a father.

He spent those blissful, early years of yours fighting for a King and cause that meant far less to him than the pocketful of coins he earned and promptly spent on pleasures. But a soldier cannot earn coin in times of peace, not if he weren't a member of the standing army, so with treaties signed he shipped back to neglected wife and babe.

You did not know that fathers could be cruel.

Your mother protected you as best as she could, but slippery riverbanks and lixivium fumes were hardly safe for a little girl. So you learned to scurry about, eyes wide and feet soft as a dormouse. When your mother's whimpers and father's shouts split the silence of dusk you crouched and covered your mouth lest his attention switched to you. On the rare times your father called for you, you remembered your mother's hushed advice - be quiet, be meek, be sweet - and bobbed along to the waves of his fickle moods. When your stomach growled and gnawed you stifled it with a look at your mother's wan face, her fingers worked to the bone for mere pennies that were no longer spent on peat and produce. You lived in a cold house, an empty house. A strained house.

'Look at the size o'her, running wild, eating me out of house and home!' Lies. Your father hunched over your mother's shaking form, three meager brass farthings spilled across the crooked kitchen bench. 'You put her to work, or I will.'

The lye stung your skin. Sometimes you imagined yourself floating off, down in the frigid waters, your funeral clothes being salvinia and your shroud made of pennywort. Those thoughts rose like lily pads, big and blooming and plentiful, the autumn your mother passed.

'You've really got to work now, girl,' your Father sneered. 'Got to earn your keep now that your mother can't cry on your behalf.'

The glint in his eye pricked at your neck, made your spine stiffen and eyes shift away. Be quiet, be meek, be sweet. You wondered if your mother's advice would save you from his basest assertions, or encourage them. You would soon find out.

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

Ordinarily the Mid-Autumn festival was a slight reprieve, allowing a few days for your aching, numb fingers to warm and stretch as you enjoyed the city turned to colour. Ordinarily.

This year, you found yourself hauled down to the drinking district, your Father's blunt, filthy fingers digging into the soft meat of your upper arm. It was still daylight, thankfully, but you already felt exposed as he had you linger in the square near the public houses. You could already hear the hoots and laughter of raucous men enlivened by drink and company. The smell of stale ale and piss was not enough to cover the scent of fresh baking and roasted game drifting on the breeze. You shivered, your burned, you hungered.

Meek little dormouse, scurrying around the greasy ferret who held her tail under his claws.

Your Father's chance came as the sun was setting, candlelight just now visible through the slats and windows of taverns. Far from cozy, it reminded you of the lidded eyes of some lazy predator about to watch your ruination.

'I don't care if you are crusader to the gods themselves! Knight of the Realm or not, you can't come into my pub and throw furniture around like you're at the Solstice games!'

The snarling Madame looked comically small next to the absolute beast of a man currently ducking under the doorframe. Watching her chuck the splintered leg of a chair after him you thought her lucky that he didn't want more of a fuss. You had never seen a man so big, so broad, seeming bigger whilst dressed still in his mail and wearing the colours of the King. He merely grunted as he made his way to the tethering post, letting her threats and screeches fizzle into the cool, twilight air. Leather-gloved hands worked at the harness of the dappled stallion you had been admiring earlier, easily more than 18 hands tall and capable of carrying this brute. You had imagined earlier slicing that very harness and riding hard across the cobblestones away from your father. Away anywhere.

'Good sir, are you in need of lodgings?' The words dripped from your Father's lips like ichor. You could smell the sickly underlying rot.

The Knight's hands stilled, head still lowered. His voice rumbled out, deep and rough as gravel.

'You offerin', then? 'ow much will that cost me?'

'Well, it's busy in the Festival. The guest houses are full but my home is open to weary travelers-'

A barked laugh cut him off. The Knight raised his head, pinning your father in place like a moth in a hobbybook. You quickly looked away, pretending to busy yourself with a nearby fruit cart. His face was covered, a dark black slash across his lower face like an empty maw. But his eyes. You could have drowned in those eyes, dark as they were. They pulled you in more than the call of the river on your bad days. If you stared too long you'd never wade out.

'Ain't you charitable,' you couldn’t see his mouth but you were sure that he sneered.

'Well, a former soldier should be willing to support the Crown. Although, with a mouth to feed a few coins wouldn't go amiss..' his hand swept back and you tried not to cringe away.

'Former solider, eh?' Your Father clearly had the Knight's attention now. As did you. Though you continued to look away you felt his gaze like you felt touch. Like he was grasping you, keeping you still. Your head felt heavy as you raised it towards them, now a part of this bargain whether you wanted to be or not.

'I know what it's like to seek the comfort of a warm hearth and soft bed. I would not see you ride off into the cold night.'

The Knight huffed; you could almost mistake it for a laugh. Though quiet, the voices and laughter of the nearby inns seemed quieter, like all sound and light was absorbed by this armoured beast. Once, just after your mother died, you headed to the riverbank as always for work. It was barley daybreak, some of the older more experienced women already beginning their washing, but you walked on. And on. Until the river led you to its mouth, rushing and rocky and dangerous. You wanted to jump in. You felt the same now, gazing at this man.

'How much for the girl, then?' He looked right at you as he said it, catching your wide, staring eyes. You didn't blink, couldn't look away.

'She is my daughter! Sir, I-' that same rot, spewing out of his mouth.

'I didn't ask who she is, I asked 'ow much?'

Your Father took a step towards him, faltering under the weight of his gaze. He leaned, then, trying to seem ashamed. Trying to seem like a father should.

'Sir, she is my daughter. I can do nothing but take offence at what you are suggesting.'

The Knight pulled out a small velvet purse, heavy and distended with coins. They clinked as they smacked into the cobbles at your Father's feet. All pretenses dropped, then, as he scrambled to pick it up with greedily shaking fingers. Prize in hand, he found his courage as he sidled closer to him, thick neck open and exposed as he leaned in to whisper his betrayal. His filicide.

'She's a bit older, yes, but unused to the ways of men, mind. With a firm hand I'm sure she cou-' a gloved fist at his throat turned perfidy to gasps. You watched red bloom instantly under those fingers, and marveled at the strength. The violence.

'Your own daughter,' he sneered. 'What kind of man, soldier at that, would sell his daughter to a man like me?'

Your Father was bigger than you, yes, but looked like a poppet in the hands of this beast, so easily dragged towards him ready to be shaken in his maw.

'I'd love to think that she isn't yours, that she's some whore you peddle out to drunken leches in the alley. But you're slimier than an eel in birdshit, aren't ya?'

You didn't move, didn't speak as you saw his fingernails scrabbling uselessly against the unforgiving strength. You, for a small moment, felt the claw release your tail. Run, you thought. A look at this behemoth and his horse had you thinking again. Run where?

Be quiet, be meek, be sweet.

'Please!' The plea bubbled up your throat like acid.

He said nothing, did not loosen his grasp, as he tilted his head like a dog.

'It is as he says. He is my father,' you continued.

A scoff stilled your words.

'Some father, look at the state of ya.'

You looked down at your chapped, scarred hands. Your patched, slightly-too-short shirts. You felt the throb of the bruises on your upper arms, the beginnings of hollowness eating away at your usually plump cheeks.

'You mistake me, Sir,' You could barely hear your voice over the blood rushing in your ears. 'I am not asking for his life. I am asking you to take me with you. Please.'

Silence. His eyes flickered over you anew, contemplating. Your hummingbird heart fluttered in your chest.

'Close y'r eyes, girl. Until I say.' Your shocked hesitance made him growl. 'Now!'

The imprints of tavern candlelight burned behind your lids. You let the corners of your mouth flick up.

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

Your Knight's name was Simon. The Ghost, it was rumoured. You weren't seasoned on the field so you knew not of his reputation, but the reaction of those you encountered gave it away. Even without the blood staining his hands he was imposing. Tall, broad, intense. You still hadn't seen under the kerchief he kept around his face, but you spent many nights imagining. Was his nose crooked, or was it a trick of the light on fabric? Did he have stubble across his jaw that matched the fine, blond strands that decorated the top of his head? Did he smile? Scowl? Was he handsome?

He was gruff, certainly. You spent the first few days obeying your mantra - be quiet, be meek, be sweet -but it didn't provoke anything in him at all. Neither praise nor censure. It seemed, rather, that he was determined that your presence would be nothing more than a fact of circumstance. Not worth much fuss.

'She needs winter clothes. A nice dress. A travelling cloak. And some boots.'

That was how you found yourself perfectly still, getting prodded and pinned in the parlour of a tailor shop in the city's mid-tier. The seamstress' cheeks burned red as she turned her disapproving eyes between her task and the Knight who refused to leave the dressing area. He dwarfed the chaise, leather and chains indenting delicate brocade. After a grunted 'She's my Charge. If you want my coin, then 'm not leavin'' he sat silent. Just kept his eyes on your face. As always.

You couldn't find it in you to feel embarrassed. He'd done no more than see you in your petticoats, even at the guesthouses where you lodged for the night. An altogether better set up that you could've envisioned for yourself. You had thought your Father like a sly weasel, thought any future husband like a carrion crow ready to pick over whatever your Father left. But you thought Simon like a grizzled old guard dog. A dormouse held no interest when bigger prey was to be had. When you didn't pose a threat.

He clothed you. Fed you. Ordered hot bathwater for your room - a luxury you had never experienced - and otherwise left you alone. All he touched you with was his gaze, steady and unashamed. Strange how you now saw your silence -quiet, meek- as a barrier.

'Where are we going?' You worked up the courage to ask as you rode behind him up to the next tier of the city, seeing wooden roofs change to tile.

'The Palace.'

'The Palace? What, but what about me?'

'You asked me to take you wiv me, didn' ya?' you felt the rumble of his words all the way from his chest to your arms.

'Yes, but.. What, what will I do there? How will you explain this?'

You realised now your lack of foresight. You foolishly assumed that someone high-ranking wouldn't be starting brawls in lower-tier taverns. Or magistrating over scoundrels due to the sale of their daughters. You thought, perhaps, of an impoverished country knight who came to the city only for the festivities. You could bargain your way (or slip away) if he turned out to be just as bad as your progenitor, and make a living in one of the towns or hamlets that stretched along the woodlands of the Kingdom. Foolish girl.

'No one will ask questions. No one will bother ya,' You believed him, felt the threat in his words.

'But they'll think. They'll wonder.' I wonder, you thought to yourself.

'Can't stop that,' He snorted. 'Why don't you ask me what you really want to ask?' He pulled sharply on the reigns, causing you to clutch hard around his waist and whisper your words pressed into his back.

'What are you going to do with me?'

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

"Ho, Simon! Hard to drag ye from yer hermitage in Northmire,' you stared as a smiling Isleman slapped your Knight hard on the back, hooking his arm and dragging him down into the booth. 'And ye've brought a wee Bonnie thing with y-'

'That'll do, Johnny,' Simon growled. Still, he let himself be handled onto the bench. He looked at you, standing still, staring at the other side of the table. 'Well? You sitting down or wot?'

You scrambled down beside him, too timid to sit next to the laughing stranger. Too wary to put your back to the rest of the tavern. Past Simon's profile, you snuck a peek at the man - Johnny - and found him looking back at you. He looked friendly, sure, but you were reminded of the harriers that plucked young hens from the woods. His eyes were too sharp, too bright. His smile was a little wicked, too. Too intense to be without danger.

'Well, the King'll be happy. He'll finally have a real reason to say naw to all the harpy mothers pecking at him about their single daughters. Cannae say I expected it, but congratulations,' You blinked. 'Cannae believe you beat Garrick to it an' all, thought fer sure he'd be the dutiful one. Well, first that is.'

Simon ignored him as he flagged down the serving girl. He ordered for you, as always.

'Bit bold of ye, though, plastering her in your colours. Scared o' a challenge to her? Like anyone would chance their arm seeing her wi' you, Your Grace,' Johnny laughed again, blue eyes shining as he watched Simon's jaw tick under the scarf. 'Go oan then, introduce us.'

'Dormouse, meet Johnny.'

'Aw, come oan!' Johnny leaned over, then. 'He's forgotten his manners all the way oot in Northmire. I'm John MacTavish, of the Northern Isles. I've known this one fer a while, but never knew him tae settle.'

You squeaked out your own name in return, quickly taking a sip of the weak ale Simon pushed in front of you. Gave yourself more time to take stock. He too had the King's colours in a sash across his chest. Unlike Simon, he wasn't wearing full mail or a face covering. A heavy shirt of forest green, a red tartan kilt, and thick knitted socks were his attire of choice. Blue warpaint swirled from his temples down to his jaw, and he'd shaved his hair only on the sides. Not commonly seen in the Tiered City, but you knew the islanders to the North of the mountain wore similar garb. You let your eyes catch the glint of a dagger in his socks, as well as the hefty broadsword hooked by the table. The warpaint on his face was not just for decoration.  

You stayed quiet, munching on thick slices of bread dipped in broth as they talked, Low, rumbling voices and warmth from the hearth lulled you to a wakeful sleep, eyes still open but mind calm. MacTavish had called Simon 'Your Grace'. You were wearing his colours. You were going to the Palace. Something about that niggled at you, deep at the base of your skull.

You woke to Simon gently sliding you along the bench. Big hands and stained fingers so soft, like you were an overripe damson he wanted to preserve.

'Time for bed. C'mon, mouse.'

'Why do you call me that?' You murmured, still feeling his arm around you as he led you to your rooms. 'I never told you that was my Mother's nickname for me. Dormouse.'

You felt him huff out a laugh, pressed close against you.

'Didn't need ya to. It's obvious.' he answered after a pause. He leaned down, bracing you against the  room door. Only his scarf separated you from his flesh, close as you were. Wide eyes meeting dark. You shared the same breath.

'You're quiet like one. Seem sweet. But I saw you'd be willing to chew y'r own leg off to escape a trap,' he whispered that horrible truth so tenderly. His blunt, calloused fingers left firetrails on your cheek. 'My mouse. My survivor.'

His thick forearm braced your back as he opened the door, stopping your from tumbling into the emptiness behind. He needn't have bothered; you'd already fallen into him.

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

'How many more days' to the Palace?'

'Two, if we don't loiter. Johnny'll meet us at the gates to the Citadel.'

You looked up, seeing the Palace fortress taller and more intimidating than it had ever seemed down at the city's lowest levels. You were awed by the mason and marble buildings up here, the clean streets and cleaner people. Everything seemed to gleam this high-up. This close to the sun. Close to the Palace. Your skin had started to heal, after a week or so without labour and with good meals and rest, but you could see the discolouration that would never fade. It made you pick at your sleeves. Dormice didn't gleam. They hid.

You looked at the wide streets and their sun-bleached stones. Nowhere to hide here.

'And when we get there? What will happen?'

'We'll greet the Court. I have news for the King. They'll be a Ball f' the Festival. And you,' Simon stilled your steps, 'You will be good. You'll do as I tell ya. Not everyone is a friend. And I won't always be wiv ya.'

Perhaps you imagined it but you swore you could see something soft - warm - in those dark eyes of his as you nodded. You had years of experience avoiding the attentions of predators; you could do the same for Simon.

When you reached the Citadel Gates Johnny was waiting as foretold, chatting with a guardsman by the pulleys. He perked up as he spotted Simon's horse, all dappled grey with black skull harness. A proud danse macabre, carrying The Ghost.

'Here they are, the Duke and Duchess of Northmire! Let them pass, go oan. Here, raise his banner.'

It was a good thing that your blood turned to ice in your veins; it prevented you from letting go of Simon's waist. You watched as a square banneret in the same colours as your new travelling cloak - and dresses, and overskirts, and, and - rose to flutter slightly below the banner of the King. The wind lured the heavy fabric to thwack against the sky, echoing the drumbeats of your tambour heart. What were you marching towards?

Johnny had mounted his own stead, canting a light pace next to you and Simon.

'Ye should hae seen the ponces and pricks - sorry, My Lady - who came riding up here in their carriages this mornin'. I ken they think they were showing off but the guards and I were havin' a barry laugh watching the wheels get stuck in the cobbles and streets from the mid-tier all the way up-'

'Y'r point, Johnny?'

'Alright, cool yer blood. The point is, we've got tae change our travel plans. Be at the Palace tomorrow, nae a day later.' He sent Simon a significant look that you weren't so stunned as to miss. 'We've got a night hosted by Garrick's sister, then we'll be off in the morning.'

'Garrick's sister' was a comely, slender woman with sharp eyes and a kind smile. She, or rather the Garrick family, kept a townhouse in the top tier close to the Citadel as well as their estate at Thamesbury.  As a close peers and allies of her brother, her doors and hospitality were open to you all. You didn't want to seem like the uncultured urchin you were, but even the entry hall surpassed any luxury you'd seen thus far. You had to suppress an instinctual flinch as her manservant stepped behind you to reach for your cloak. Or perhaps the lessons from the streets were written all over your wide eyes. You saw Johnny chew on a smile as Simon glared down at the man, massive arms crossing across his great oak chest.

'That'll do,' he growled. 'There are saddlebags to be seen to.'

The poor man scarpered with a stuttered, 'Of course, Your Grace.'

You stared after your Knight as he stomped up the stairs, heavy footfalls disturbing the frames of the Garrick ancestors across the walls. He looked back, silhouetted with a hand outstretched.

'C'mon then.'

His rough, warm hand enclosed yours and you followed him to exegesis.

Ensconced in your chambers - shared chambers, marriage chambers - you found your tongue.

'Should I be calling you 'Your Grace'?' Be meek, be sweet.

He snorted, inelegant against the filigree and flowers that bore witness to your unsettled feelings.

Be meek, be sweet. Be meek, be sweet. Be meek-

'I do not speak in jest, Simon. Sorry, 'Your Grace',' Your mouth twisted, trembling with the force of holding back. 'I asked you to take me with you, yes, and I have tried not to inconvenience you beyond…beyond the circumstances of our meeting. But I must demand, now. Tell me what is going on.'

He merely tilted his head, old grizzled dog on a velvet chaise. You could see his lips - what did they look like, what did they feel like? - move under the black of his kerchief.

'We're in a guest room, talkin'. Listenin' to you ask stupid questions.'

'If the question seems stupid it is because you have made it so!' You felt your stubby nails bite into your calloused palms. The feeling made you shake, brought tears to your eyes. Shame and fear turned saliva to acid. You flung your hands towards him. 'Look! You see these. These are not the hands of a girl addressed as 'Duchess'. If this is a joke, I ask you to stop it now. I am grateful to you, I will remain so always, but playing in this manner is lower than whatever my Father had-'

"Do not. Compare me. To that man.' His growl cut you from cutaneous to cartilage, exposing your raw, soft innards. You hoped he'd be kind. Even if he chewed on your heart, popping gristle between sharp canines, perhaps you'd be a part of him, dripping down his throat with an intimacy you longed to initiate.

Viper-quick, your hands were in his. Your lap was in his too. Too warm, too bulky, too close.

'Quit y'r squirmin'. Look at me, no. Look!' Your jaw was turned more gently than you expected from hands made for violence. You couldn't meet his eyes, but that mattered not as he brought your hand and his up to your sight. 'Look. My hands aren't delicate neither.'

You took a deep breath, feeling him pant underneath you, and reached to cup his hand in yours. Butterfly-soft, you turned it, watching candlelight catch on silver scars and pockmarks. Deep gouges and veins raised valleys between knuckles and wrist. One finger seemed slightly too short, like the top joint had been lost in some gruesome accident. When you looked at the palm, it was calloused. You had already felt its roughness, deep imprints from years of work. Of war. He flexed, closing his fingers around yours.

'I'm not 'of the blood'. I'm good at spillin' it, but the stuff inside me isn't worth much. Was a Squire. Then a Knight. Caught some eyes on the battlefield and was sent to defend the borders. Became a Margrave for it an' all. Now I'm a Duke. The titles don't mean much t'me, except I've got more coin and can tell nobles to fuck off without spending a day in the stocks.'

You're not sure whether your sigh was a laugh.

'Then, what? Please, Simon. What are we doing here?'

With your face this close to him you were reminded of the night in the tavern where you first met Johnny. You felt that you were sharing the same breath then. Now, here on his lap, you felt more. The warmth of his body that leeched through your skirts. The hard press of tough leather plackart. The pounding of his heartbeat - or was it yours - as you clutched his hand with trembling strength. That same trembling strength had you meeting his eyes at last, your position allowing you to be equal in height. His pupils dilated under scarred eyebrows, deep brown melting into pitch black.

'I took you wiv' me. It was sealed in blood. You're mine.'

You cupped his jaw, feeling stubble peek through his scarf. The sensation grounded you, kept you from flying off as his words used all the world's gravity.

'Bit of a terrible dowry, blood.' You whispered, a whisker away from his lips.

'I'm not made for anything else.'

Wrong, you thought as you pressed your parted lips to his covered ones. You were made for me.

His hand trailed up your arm as yours trailed across his jaw, two bodies with one mind. With deft, strong fingers you removed the last barrier between you. Black fluttered to the floor, still flesh-warm, and your lips met again. His lips were a little thin, but hungry. He groaned, supplicant to your taste, as you sought to press him closer. You could feel stubble tickling your chin, and the firm outline of another scar close to his cupid's bow. Lightning struck across the back of your neck, making you shudder against him. All you could taste, all you could smell, all you could feel was Simon.

And he all was yours.

After his face mask fell, so too did all barriers. You feel asleep together, entwined on the same bed. You awoke to his face made soft in the morning light. Sunbeams danced in the crevices of his scars, pale and rugged like the mountain you'd looked up at as a child. You watched, sentry, as you mapped the features of his face. Golden hair, golden stubble. A crooked nose that had been broken and set several times. Tributaries of scars running down to a strong jaw. And dark, unwavering eyes that creased a little as you met his gaze.

'G'mornin'.'

'Good morning,' You murmured, still sleep-soft. You traced along his lips, laughing as he nipped softly. 'Why do you cover this up?'

'To preserve my modesty,' he smirked as his tongue flicked out to soothe your nipped fingertips.

'Simon!'

'I'll tell ya. One day. When we get back 'ome. I don't trust everyone in this city.'

'You can trust me,' you whispered as you pressed your tingling digits into his mouth, catching on blunt teeth.

You felt the heat of his gaze bring blood to your cheeks. His eyes didn't leave yours as he bit down, softly. You knew the dog wouldn't bite.

'I know, Simon. I trust you too,' You leaned your forehead against his. 'Just, wherever you go, take me with you.'

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

Got a part ii drafted (palace intrigue, meet John and Gaz, Ghost and his mouse finally enjoy marital rites *wink*, conflict, etc., eventual HEA) but I'm not sure if there's an audience for it. And this is the first writing I've published in y e a r s since my cringe forays into dark videogame smut as a 19 y/o, so I'm not really confident. This is unedited/not proofread. Here ya go~

[ackee]

knight!deuce the celibate virgin who's rejected many women's advances in order to focus on his job vs 1 pink haired temptress

[doodlingleluke]

hi I recently played pentiment and I`ve been going crazy about it and especially about these very close friends who just happen to randomly spend more time in the woods together than at home with their husbands

[paleo-cafnir]

Medieval tapestry but dinosaur style

[starry-knight-nsfw]

oh to be a dnd bard who flirts with/fucks their party to “inspire” them

short rests meaning them sucking everyone off, like a good little stress reliever

every night at the tavern, they get passed around for the whole party to use until cum drips from every hole

they’re sent back downstairs after a cold shower to gather intel, tired but ready to be a good fuck for whichever patron seems to know the most

the next morning, the artificer comes in with yet another invention for them to try out. they’re worked open by firm, methodical hands and a vibrator is pushed inside

they’re made to keep it in all day, every twitch and muffled whimper a ‘reminder of what the party’s fighting for’

the group laughs every time they fail to dodge or miss a spell attack because of the vibrations which they could swear the artificer keeps changing just to mess with them

the carriage ride back to the tavern is torture, every bump on the forest road bringing them closer to orgasm, but never enough

and then the party gets to the tavern, they organise everyone’s rooms, and do it all over again

(the party still makes fun of them, though - their job’s so easy! the rest actually have to fight, all they’re there for is to look pretty. just need to smile and everything’s handed to them. surely, then, this is the least they can do.)