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feartoxinjelloshot · 27 days

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The Black Mask was both with the name Roman, to Charles and Ruby Sionis, the wealthy proprietors of a cosmetics business empire based in Gotham City.

By all accounts he was a normal toddler. He was weaned off of milk and sent to preschool and potty-trained and all of the other things small children were bound to do. He was a quiet, polite, intelligent little boy who did his parents proud - they had been trying for a child for a long time, someone to inherit the business when they passed on. They made sure tiny Roman was aware of his importance early on. What better way to make a child feel special, feel loved? They were going to trust him with everything. He was going to be just fine at it.

The company, really, was Ruby's world. She was a woman, and cosmetics were a feminine empire. Charles - though he held his fair share of business responsibilities - was always more dedicated to his lifelong passion for hunting and taxidermy, which had been instilled in him by long family trips with his own father, out to remote stretches of forest, mountain and grassland to take down all kinds of exotic trophy prizes. When Roman got old enough Charles bravely attempted the same with him, even buying him his first very own gun for his tenth birthday. Roman was shy and hesitant, sometimes to the point of vexing his father with his lack of confidence, but Charles was patient and understanding and slowly coaxed the hunt out of Roman as well. The kid had a real talent for it, when he got over himself enough to calm down and aim. He was a genuine crackshot, and his father bragged about it at every chance, talking him up and ruffling his hair fondly. Those were some of the few times Charles saw his son show him a real smile.

The other side of it was not as comforting.

See, both sides of Roman's family line, in varying quantities and distributions, had always been prone to hereditary psychosis. This particular affliction had miraculously skipped both of his parents, and in a superstitious attempt to ward it away from themselves and their son, they neglected to ever mention it to him. In fact, they made a concentrated attempt to prevent him from ever figuring out what psychosis was in any meaningful way that might affect his development.

Roman grew up surrounded by animals. Sometimes they were whole animals, deer and tigers and caribou; sometimes they were just the head, set into a wooden plate on the wall. Each had a different personality and a different voice. They had been his friends since he was a baby, and he considered them truer confidants than even his parents. They comforted him when he was at his worst, spoke to him in quiet tones that he had learned by that point not to respond to in front of his parents: it's okay, you're okay, champ and you only did what he made you do and but you won't pick that awful gun up again, right?

But he never forgave himself for killing their sisters, the ones in the woods that looked and moved like them, with beating hearts in their chests and big shining eyes that went flat when his father finished them off. He never forgave himself for skinning them with a silver knife and eating their flanks when there was nothing else in the camp at night, because his father said he was proud of him and his chest was cleaved down the middle by a child's sick loyalty.

At a lack of other avenues Roman constructed himself into two faces. The first one was a happy, healthy little human boy who went to school and smiled at his parents and never made eye contact with any of his father's taxidermy or walked around the house at night on soft padding feet. The other one was his true self - an animal, among other animals, whose face looked less like the one in the bathroom mirror and more like a black thing with white eyes, too big to be a wolf and too small to be a bear, that howled its gleeful music up the chimney along with the chorus that lit up the mansion's crowded hallways just before dawn.

And for a while he survived like that: with his mask in the day and his life at night, not content but not wholly unhappy either.

But he had done his job well. He had done his job so well that his parents, through a combination of their own prideful ignorance and Roman's genuine deception of them, had not noticed that anything at all was wrong with their son. He passed his classes and didn't make trouble and spoke of his friends on occasion, and went hunting with his father every summer, and he was fine. They were all fine.

So on his eighteenth birthday they gathered him up and had a party for appearances and said Son, we had you late. We were old then and we're older now. We want to retire. And we love you, and we trust you, and so we're going to give you the company.

And Roman thanked them, gathered every shred of his human mask up to his face, looked at it, realized it wasn't going to be enough to cover himself up, and went deep into the house with his friends and didn't come out.

His parents were devastated. They'd been working so hard for this. The past eighteen years, and they'd been raising him for this. He loved them. They loved him. How could he be unhappy? And throwing a tantrum like a child? What had they raised him for if not this moment?

Roman, in the house, had been busy with the process of taking one of his father's unused taxidermy mounts, a deep dark glossy lacquered thing, and using his hands and a whittling knife to carve it into his real face.

The black mask. The wolf. It came out looking more like a skull, but he figured that it was penance, after all, for all the siblings he had killed. He put it on and was overcome with hysterical calm relief, which was when his parents found the spare key to his rooms and broke in.

Their anger at him for what he had done quickly turned to rage at each other, and the company, and then Roman again, and each other, and through their screaming match and Roman's hysteria and the ceaseless chattering of the animals on the walls, nobody remembered the leftover sconces of candles downstairs until the smoke alarm went off.

To be short: Roman made it out. He was the only one.

Obviously, he was the primary suspect for the fire. They didn't believe that he couldn't have engineered the physical evidence, or that he wasn't lying about where he was at the time. There was nobody else alive from the house to confirm his statement. His face would never be the same again, that much was clear: the detectives and psychiatrists made quick work of the family mental history that he claimed he had never even heard about before that point - fat chance, kid - and by the time he got around to blabbering over his so-called siblings nobody took him seriously at all. They wrote him up. He couldn't be officially accused until the hearing, but it was an open-and-shut case. Poor bastard, but hey, it's Gotham. Shit like this happens every other week.

Roman Sionis never made it to the hearing. He was out of the hospital for three hours before anyone noticed he was gone and his trail stopped cold at the exit doors. In forty-eight hours he had gone from one of the richest teenagers in the city to homeless, penniless, barefoot, and permanently disfigured - the fresh lacquer on his wooden mask had melted in the heat and fused straight onto his face, unless he wanted a complete transplant, skin and all.

Roman didn't. He figured that he had hidden enough. In his abject shock, he was starting to show some of his father's confidence, something he really always had hidden somewhere in the back but had always been pressing himself down too hard to show. He went into the guts of the city and stole a new set of clothes - all black, like the mask. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it in style. He was intelligent, a fast-talker, knew when to be quiet, and he really was still a crackshot, even after all those years. That was shit that could get a man pretty far down where he was.

The police never found Roman Sionis. They found the man who wore his body, sure, but the boy had been gone for a long, long time.

#black mask backstory piece because i felt like it #uneditied and its 1am btw. which is to say IGNORE ANY TYPOS PLEASEEEE #scribbles #clipsverse #black mask #roman sionis #its been haunting me that the image i have of kid roman in my brain is literally just thst one guy from metal family. can anyone here me #i WILL practice music all summer. etc

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raayllum · 4 months

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AU where Rayla is just a split second faster aboard the Sea Legs

She's not quick enough to dodge the icy wave that overtakes her limbs, exactly. She feels it in her fingertips, first, like the frostbite that had nearly overtaken her near the Shivering Glades her first year on her own, before she'd had Stella to help her conserve body heat. The cold creeps down to her neck, her torso, each vein burning in agony, fear and confusion running wild in her mind. It hurts more than anything else ever has, like her whole body rather than just her hand was about to fall apart on the other end of a binding, intensified in her heart most of all—

But Rayla doesn't have to be at her best to aim true.

The first halberd she'd stolen sinks into Finnegrin's shoulder, cleaving his arm from his body in one fell swoop. The second lands somewhere above his thigh and he sinks to his knee, howling. Blood spurts from his severed arm and Callum leaps back from it, wide eyed.

"You little—" Finnegrin hisses, spasming from pain. She's never seen so much hate in his eyes before.

His crew—disloyal, afraid—shuffle uneasily but none rush to help him. Even Elmer seems too stunned, frozen like a rock rather than the hunk of wood that he is.

Finnegrin's spell inches down to her waist, and then... Miraculously, it recedes, his concentration broken. His body too weak to maintain it.

Rayla coughs, sputtering, and drops to her knees. Everything aches, and she'll hit the deck hard, but—Callum rushes forward, sliding on his knees and catching her instead. Cushioning her fall as he meets her eyes, his own concerned and angry and frightened and so, so beautiful.

"Are you okay?" he breathes and she nods.

He helps her to her feet, a shoddy mirror image of her helping him up on the Ruthless just two days prior, and she's grateful to see that Soren has turned Ezran away, as Finnegrin bleeds out on the deck.

She nudges Callum away and limps over, glaring at the man who'd dared to attack them, who'd dared to torture her love and try to coerce him into dark magic, even as her stomach squelched. This was a horrible, slow way to die and—

She could be merciful without hesitation, as she wrenched the second halberd from his kneecap and dropped it over his throat instead, silencing him. The other halberd lay in the ever growing pool of blood as she stepped back and exhaled, her breath like a ghost in the stormy mist.

His spirit would not be missed.

And there were worse things to have her first kill over, hollow as she felt.

#tdp #the dragon prince #tdp rayla #5x08 #canon divergence #s5 #arc 2 #a thousand times which isn't half enough #tw death #not of her lmao #AU

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

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The Silver Dragon (45/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4455

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Arianwyn wakes in Aemond's arms and faces the fact that her world has changed irrevocably.

Warnings: blood

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The Silence

Arianwyn woke with a smile.

While the bed she slept in at the Eyrie had been comfortable, it had been lonely and cold without Aemond to hold her and share his warmth. Now, she was back where she belonged, in her bed, with her husband holding her so tight it seemed he was trying to cleave them together, even in his sleep.

His legs were tangled with hers, their hips resting against each other, at once innocent and intimate. One of his long arms wrapped all the way around her waist, holding her flush to his chest, while the other encircled her shoulders with his hand cradling her head against his neck.

He was not just holding her. He was clinging to her.

For a brief moment, as Arianwyn looked at the soft light of the rising sun through the curtain of the tangled hair – belonging to both of them – that hung over her face, she clung onto him as well. They were only apart for three days, but she had missed him dearly, painfully.

Now, they were together again, and all would be well. Everything would be –

Then she was finally awake enough to identify the smell that filled her senses as she buried her face further into his skin – stale blood.

It reminded her that everything would not be alright. Far from it.

Aemond, or Vhagar, in trying to protect her rider, had killed Luke. And poor, nervous Arrax.

Ignoring the scent as best she could, Arianwyn pressed closer to him, squeezing her arms around his chest. He did not wake, but still returned her embrace as if it were as instinctual to him as breathing, letting out a small sigh of contentment.

If only they could stay in each other’s arms like this forever. If only they could remain here, in this moment, where he was at peace, and the rest of the godsforsaken world would not disturb them.

But the real world would come for them, sooner or later. Likely in the form of Otto Hightower demanding answers about what happened at Storm’s End. Even nature itself seemed intent on disturbing them. For when the morning breeze stilled as the last remnants of the previous night’s storm faded away, another smell emerged, an unfamiliar acrid sweetness.

Moving carefully, Arianwyn untwined herself from her husband, stroking his hair and softly humming a lullaby each time he began to stir. Miraculously, he was still asleep when she finally slid out of bed, donning her night slippers as flimsy protection against the shattered glass still covering half the floor.

Now that the room was filled with light, Arianwyn could see exactly how Aemond had spent the hours he’d been waiting for her.

She wished it was still dark.

Several empty bottles of wine had been discarded in the corner opposite where he had been crouched, at least two of them thrown so hard they shattered.

How much had he drunk?

Too much – far too much, judging by the mostly dried sick on the floor near the door to the bathing room.

And the other small pool of it, just by the door to the solar – not as dry. Somehow, she had not stepped in it last night when stumbling around in the dark.

And the third, in the southeastern corner where she had found Aemond, just past the mirror shards – hardly dried at all.

That was the source of the smell, no doubt.

Arianwyn’s heartbreak was far stronger than her disgust. Aemond, who always abhorred how wine and other spirits clouded the mind, had gotten so drunk that he made himself sick, and then continued to drink. Again, and then again.

Covering her mouth with a hand to block out the smell and muffle the sounds of her crying, Arianwyn looked back at Aemond’s sleeping form. His brows had furrowed once more, and he now clutched her still-warm pillow to his chest, burying his face in what remained of her scent.

With his face now illuminated by more than infrequent and violent bursts of lightning, she saw his scar in its entirety for the first time.

It would have been an easier sight to endure were it not crossed with new wounds inflicted by Aemond himself.

And yet it was still not as gruesome or harrowing as she anticipated, nor was it the pit of darkness she had seen in the night. What was normally hidden behind the sapphire was hardly different from the wrinkled grey skin surrounding it, only cloaked in shadow.

To Arianwyn, it was not frightening in the least.

Though she would admit, she preferred the sapphire. Not only for its beauty, but for what it represented – her, them, their love.

With a lingering look at where the sapphire lay on the table, still wrapped in that worn purple silk, Arianwyn stepped out of the bedchamber and through the solar. She spared only a single glance at the ruined wine cabinet before she cracked open the door and slipped into the hallway.

Six of her guards – more than had ever been stationed there before – all snapped to attention, eager to hear what she would say. None of them asked anything, for they knew their Princess would tell them when she was ready.

But it was not to any of them that she turned, but Kiran. Someone had fetched a stool for him to sit on, which he immediately knocked over for how fast he stood when Arianwyn emerged. She prayed the sound would not wake Aemond, and that Kiran had obeyed her order to return to his room last night to get some much-needed rest. The latter, she would find out another time.

For now, she brushed aside his babbling questions and concerns and quickly gave him precise instructions and permission to enlist her guards for any assistance he might need. Each of the Valeman immediately agreed without raising a single objection, despite the duties asked of them being far below their station.

With that settled, Arianwyn retreated back into her chambers, treading carefully around the damaged wood and sick and glass that filled the floor to slip back into bed beside Aemond.

It took some maneuvering to extract the pillow from his arms and insert herself in its place without waking him, but she managed. And then savored the feeling of him once more lacing his fingers through her hair to pull her closer.

Gods, how had he endured sleeping without her while he was in the Stormlands?

Arianwyn felt very much like the stuffed felt butterfly Helaena had carried with her everywhere for years when they were children. But the feeling wasn’t entirely unwelcome. If she could bring the same measure of comfort to Aemond that the butterfly – named ‘Pepperfly’ because it was not yellow like butter, but had black spots that made it look like it had been sprinkled with pepper – did to Helaena, she would do so happily.

She just hoped that she wouldn’t end up as worn and ragged as poor Pepperfly.

Only a few moments after Arianwyn was settled in his arms, she heard the door to the apartments open, and several sets of feet stepped carefully inside. She had hoped they would be quieter, but she could only expect so much when they were armored and in a hurry.

On any other morning, she had no doubt Aemond would have bolted awake at the first click of the door handle, if he had not been awake already. Only the day before, she had been joking with Gerold about how little her husband slept.

But grief, anger, and despair were each as exhausting as hours spent fighting in the training yard or studying in the library. Aemond had suffered all three – was suffering all three.

His body, his mind, and his soul all needed rest. To recover from what they had already endured and to prepare for what he would face when he awoke.

Arianwyn traced the Runes of love and peace on his chest, just as she had so many times only hours ago. Over and over, she ran her finger along the sliver of his chest that was exposed by his half-buttoned shirt.

There were no wounds there – at least not that she could see or feel. But still, the pale skin was covered with faded rivers of pinkish red, as though his tears had run from his eyes to his chest, the blood it carried staining everywhere it touched. Arianwyn rubbed lightly at one of the darker lines at the hollow of his throat to see if she could scrub it away, but to no avail. It was firmly set.

So, after pressing a soft kiss to that shallow dip where his collarbones met, she went back to tracing her Runes. The symbols could not wash the blood from him or change what had been done, but they could soothe him and keep him asleep until she heard the door shut again, and their apartments fell silent.

Aemond needed rest, and she would let him have it. If he wanted to sleep for an entire week, she would let him.

But first, a bath. To wash all the blood away.

And to give Kiran and the guards time to clean the bedchamber, so he could rest in clean bedding, in a clean room. Without bloodstains, broken glass, or pools of sick to remind him of what happened.

Not that Aemond would need to be reminded. Would ever need it.

He had slept fitfully enough before she returned that she knew he was remembering, over and over again. Reliving whatever happened in his nightmares. Perhaps he always would.

Arianwyn woke him as gently as she could, pressing her brow to his as she stroked his cheek. A firmer touch than she when soothing him, but still soft, still loving.

Aemond’s eye opened slowly, his brow furrowing as he blearily looked at his wife. As if it were any other morning, and he was simply confused about why she was waking him. But as his gaze cleared, his face fell.

That slightest hint of a smile – the barely noticeable lifting of the right corner of his mouth – disappeared.

So did the light in his eye. The lovely shade of periwinkle that was perfectly matched by the scrap of silk the sapphire was wrapped in went dull as he stared blankly back at her.

Arianwyn wanted to scream.

She licked her suddenly dry lips and moved her hand from his cheek to the line of his jaw, holding him as tightly as she could without hurting him. She opened her mouth to speak and –

Aemond winced.

Before she had even made a sound beyond an intake of air. Arianwyn looked at him to find his dull eye pleading, begging.

Last night, he had wanted her to talk. Well, maybe not wanted, but allowed. He had uncovered his ears and let her tell him about her journey. But today…

A quiet day, then. A silent day.

They had not had one in years.

Arianwyn nodded, petting his jaw in apology and understanding.

He closed his eye and leaned into the touch.

When he opened it again, her mouth was a thin line, her brows delicately furrowed. She looked over him, examining from his shallowly rising chest to his bloodstained hair and dipped her chin ever so slightly.

A question.

His eye slid from hers, becoming distant and unfocused. He frowned with trembling lips.

An answer.

Aemond shut his eye tight and shook his head back and forth. Arianwyn had seen him do so before, many years ago, when Aegon and the others’ teasing had first begun – his desperate attempt to stop himself from crying. It was a wonder that he had any tears left to spill after last night, but they seemed unending.

Arianwyn just wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him into her. Let him bury his face in her neck as he wept. She still said nothing – no words, no murmurings, not even a shushing or a hummed lullaby. Even when a million words were screaming in her heart and mind, she said none of them. She just held him.

When the crushing wave of despair abated and his breathing calmed, Arianwyn laid him back down. Tenderly, she freed the strands of hair stuck to his wet face and wiped the tears away with her sleeve. She did not mind the blood and sweat that stained the fabric, as it had become dirtied enough after holding him all night. Perhaps too dirty to be cleaned – Elsie may simply have to burn it.

Aemond did not move from where he lay. Instead, he only stared into his wife’s face with a wide, wet eye. That eye, which in its depths contained more beauty and sadness and love and despair than Arianwyn had ever known one person could possess, was the only indication that he felt anything at all.

She had never seen him look so helpless. So lost. So broken. Not even on the day of his father’s death, when his mind flew somewhere far away and left him stranded, reliving his worst memories.

This was so much worse.

For even in his stillness and silence, Arianwyn could see that he was still present. He was not distant, as he had been that day. He was right here, with her, and with every awareness of what had occurred – what he had done.

At last, Aemond lifted his right arm and took her hand in his own. There was so little of his usual strength in his grip, but Arianwyn knew that it had taken all the strength of his heart to make even that slightest motion.

So, she was strong for him. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed, trying to say with her touch what she could not say with her words.

Aemond’s gaze dropped from her face to where they touched, where she held him so tightly. His brows knitted together, and his mouth tightened, but he did not squeeze back. After a moment, he looked back up to Arianwyn with a look of such pleading that her heart seized.

Make it stop, he had begged her the night before. Those were the last coherent words he had said.

Arianwyn still didn’t know how. Despite all the studying and praying she had done in her life, she still had no idea how to help her husband. If he even could be helped.

Well… there was one thing she could do.

She kissed their joined hands and laid his back on his chest as she stood from the bed. The sounds of the sheets ruffling as he lurched toward her, desperately trying to stop her from leaving, were so clear. It was almost enough to stop her, but she forced herself to tiptoe around the various messes on the floor to his side of the bed.

Aemond was frantic by the time she came to stand next to him, tears once more falling down his cheeks and flooding his empty eye as his chest heaved, and his eye was so wide with fear she could see the white surrounding his purple iris. The moment she stopped by his side, he shot out his hand to grip her arm so tightly no god could have ripped them apart.

Arianwyn leaned down and stroked his cheeks again, keeping a slow, steady rhythm until he calmed again. Perhaps forcing him from the bed this soon was a bad idea…

No. It would be worse to let his wounds remain unclean and allow them to fester. There had to be wounds beyond the cuts on his face – there was too much blood for there not to be.

And so long as she was near, he remained mostly functional.

Indeed, when Arianwyn pulled gently on his hand to encourage him to stand, he sat upright but went no further.

Aemond shut his eye, turning his head so that his scarred side was hidden in shadow. He squeezed her hand, ever so slightly tugging her back toward the bed.

Arianwyn held firm. She reached out to cup his chin with her free hand, bringing him back to face her. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, but all she could manage was a slight upturn of her lips.

Beneath her fingers, his skin was still crusted with dried blood and the salt from his tears, and the barest hint of stubble was forming around his jaw. As Arianwyn caressed his cheek, its rough texture – so at odds with the velvety smoothness she was used to – sent a shiver through her.

Worse, when she pulled her hand away, her fingertips were smudged with rusty red.

She turned her hand up so he could see and flicked her eyes to the bed linens and his pillow. They were so dirty it was remarkable anything was left on his skin.

Aemond followed her gaze, moving as though he were made of stone. Then, turning back, he bowed toward her, pressing his forehead into her open palm.

His breathing sped and deepened, and his body began to shake. But after a moment, he braced his arm on hers and stood.

He did not stand well. If anyone had been watching, they may very well have thought it was the first time Aemond had ever stood, for his legs trembled like a newborn fawn’s, and he had to lean heavily against Arianwyn to stay upright.

It was no surprise that he was so unsteady. Not with what he went through, and not with how much he had drunk.

Arianwyn avoided glancing at the bottles, both whole and shattered, as she led him toward the bathing room door. It would be no help to remind him of the state he had been in.

Though she couldn’t avoid looking at the small pool of sick in front of the door – directly in their path. As she guided him around it, he never met her eye. He only stared down at his clumsy feet, his nose wrinkled and lips pursed. She wanted to draw his gaze, to let him know it didn’t bother her – that she did not think less of him for it. But now was not the time to press him.

Not when she opened the door, and he looked up to see the full, steaming bath waiting for them. And soaps, oils, and fresh clothing. And supplies from the Maester’s tower. Tinctures and ointments for cleaning wounds, wrappings to bind them, and…

Arianwyn silently cursed as she watched fear and resentment wash over his face, ever so briefly, as he recognized the opaque white liquid beneath the glass of one of the larger bottles – milk of the poppy.

Not just a thimbleful or a vial, but an entire bottle. Likely the bulk of the Red Keep’s store.

She knew he would likely need it, and if she asked, he would not argue against taking it. But still, she wished whoever had brought it in had left it somewhere else. Somewhere Aemond would not have to see it.

Next to the collection was a sheet of parchment. Even from across the room, she recognized the script. So similar to her husband’s, the letters thin and long. After all, the man who wrote whatever was on that parchment had also taught Aemond how to write.

He taught Arianwyn, as well. But somehow, her hand always came out much more sloppily – her letters wide and short and somehow always crooked.

Grand Maester Orwyle had sent not just supplies but instructions on how to treat whatever wounds Aemond may have. She would have to do it herself, as Aemond would certainly not tolerate a Maester now. Not even Orwyle.

Did his promise to kill anyone who entered their chambers still stand? Could he even fulfill that promise if he wanted to?

Aemond’s face contorted in pain as Arianwyn lowered him to the small, cushioned seat that had been set by the bath. But he did not grunt, or moan, or even inhale too sharply. When he wanted silence, he always steadfastly upheld it. And he would until he was finally ready to talk or hear Arianwyn’s voice. Until then, she had to content herself with the quiet, even when it went against her every instinct.

As Arianwyn began to strip away his clothing, she tried not to remember how she had done the same thing for him only a few days ago, after he returned from Fleabottom. But, at least now, he could do more to assist her – raising his arms to let her slide off his shirt and lifting his feet so she could pull off his socks.

There was blood on his feet.

Thick trails of it down his ankle and staining his soles bright red. It must have been there for hours for it to have been dried by the time she removed his boots last night.

But where had it come from?

She had found no wounds on his chest. The only markings there were the pinkish remnants of tears mixed with blood.

His legs. He must have somehow wounded his legs. Perhaps sitting amongst all the broken glass?

Instantly, Arianwyn reached for his belt. She had become accustomed enough to removing his trousers that by the time Aemond – still sluggish – gripped her wrists and halted her movements, she had removed both his belts and was already halfway through on the laces of his trousers.

She pulled against him, trying to continue, but he held firm with more strength than he had shown all morning. And when she looked into his face for answers…

He knew. Whatever the wounds were, he knew. And he did not want her to see. Was afraid for her to see.

Though the fear she saw in his eye began to echo in her chest, Arianwyn did not let it show. She squared her shoulders and nodded, hoping she looked confident, even when she did not feel it.

Yes, she had fainted the last time she saw him bleed. But that was years ago; she had been through much since then. Seven Hells, she had stabbed a man, and had been ready to do so again with Jace. Whatever Aemond did not want her to see, she could handle it.

Couldn’t she?

Aemond’s lip began to tremble again as he released her hands, watching her resume her work. She went slowly, looking back up at him often to ensure he was still fine.

The trousers were halfway down his thighs when they stuck. Arianwyn assumed it was because Aemond was still seated and gave a sharp tug.

Aemond’s body went as taut as a bowstring as he jumped, holding back a guttural scream and leaning over his wife to clutch her back hard enough to hurt. Not intentionally; she knew that. But what had caused such a violent reaction?

She looked back at his thigh, only to see a new rivulet of fresh blood spilling down his skin.

Oh gods.

Oh, the cruel and merciless gods. They had to be so, to let her dear husband suffer like this.

When the blood clotted, the fabric of his trousers had dried with it. To remove them would be to rip the wounds open again.

With his brow pressed against hers, Arianwyn could feel when a tear dropped from Aemond’s eye and onto her cheek. One of her own soon joined it.

She shot up from the floor and grabbed the instructions Orwyle had left, reading over them as quickly as she could.

Nothing.

There was nothing about what she should do now.

It was only lists of herbs to put on the wounds, which tinctures to give him, and how much milk of the godsdamned poppy to make him drink. Arianwyn barely resisted tearing the sheet into ribbons. But she would need it later.

She wanted to run away. Get Ser Warren to help, or Ser Simon. Queen Alicent, perhaps. Or Criston Cole.

Most of all, she wished and wished that Orwyle was here. He would know how to help Aemond, how to heal his wounds. He would know exactly what to say to Arianwyn to make her feel better.

But she was alone.

She was nineteen years old and had been married for hardly more than a week. She was the ruler of lands she had no memory of and the bearer of the legacy of hundreds of men and women – Royce and Targaryen alike – who would all know what to do now.

What did those ancestors think of her now, as they looked on from whatever afterworld they went to? As they saw their bloodline reduced to a little girl who had spent her life in one tower or the other and couldn’t even stop her own husband from bleeding?

Arianwyn stumbled back to Aemond and knelt before him, Orwyle’s instructions left behind. She cupped his face in her hands, begging him silently to please, say something.

Silence had always been his way, but she couldn’t stand it. She needed him, needed his voice, needed him to tell her what to do.

Aemond only shook his head.

Arianwyn collapsed into his lap, her hands braced on either side of his waist as she cried and cried and cried.

They were supposed to go to Runestone.

They were supposed to have their fairy tale.

Not this.

Aemond did not know how long he sat there and let Arianwyn cry. Long enough for the new blood on his thigh to dry once more.

He didn’t care.

He knew it would hurt again when she calmed and resumed removing his trousers. He didn’t care.

He didn’t even care about the obscenely large bottle of milk of the poppy on the table across the tub.

He only cared that he had made Arianwyn cry.

And he hated himself for it.

For the only light that remained in his shriveled, blackened heart, though distant and small as a single candle, was her.

Aemond would follow wherever that little light guided him. He would do whatever he needed to help it shine.

Summoning all his strength, he lifted his hand from where it had begun to hang limply at his side and brought it to her perfect silver hair. He stroked it slowly, gently. As she had done for him earlier.

Then, he leaned down, ignoring the straining of muscles that came with the movement, summoned all his willpower into his voice, and did something he had never before done – he broke his silence before he was ready.

“I’m sorry, my love. I��m so sorry.”

She began to cry harder.

Next Chapter

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firstkanaphans · 11 months

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I don't know if you would be willing to do the kiss prompt list for Aye and Akk too but please please. I would desperatly wanna read 1. whispering ''kiss me'' to your lover for them and Akk being the one who desperately needs that kiss

So, unfortunately, I'm an idiot and got so excited after reading the first half of this prompt that I totally ignored the second half where you specifically requested that Akk be the one to request the kiss 🙈 But I think you're going to enjoy this anyway! So, without further ado, I present to you an AU where the dream kiss is actually a reality…

1. whispering “kiss me” to your lover

Akk awoke to the sound of screams and for a second, he wasn’t quite sure where he was, but then he saw the familiar trappings of his own room, felt the warm heat of a body lying next to him, and remembered everything that had happened the night before—how he had shown Aye the darkest parts of his soul and how Aye hadn’t damned him for it. How he had instead followed him home and climbed into bed with him.

Akk sat up, immediately on high alert, but he quickly realized that whatever terrors were haunting Aye existed only in his own head. He was still asleep, but that didn’t make his pain any less real. He was thrashing in bed, crying out for help, and although Akk had spent weeks pretending not to care, it had all been an act. Because he did care. He cared a lot.

He reached for Aye and held him close the way Akk’s mom had always done for him when he was trapped in a nightmare, and, miraculously, Aye settled at his touch as if his body recognized he was safe in Akk’s arms even if his mind didn’t. He stilled, but he did not wake, and his breathing remained tortured and heavy.

It was a helpless feeling, being so close, so willing, but not knowing what to do to make the pain go away. So Akk just stroked Aye’s hand with his thumb and eventually, his breathing slowed, his whines turned into whimpers, but the pain on his face remained. His brows were furrowed and for the first time since Akk had met him, Aye looked lost. It was then that Akk started to realize that Aye’s confidence was just as much of an act as Akk’s obedience.

Akk’s heart clenched in his chest at the knowledge that Aye was struggling everyday just like he was. He couldn’t help but lean down and place a soft kiss of reassurance onto his cheek—something to chase the bad dreams away—and finally, with that small act of love, the nightmare seemed to dissipate. Aye’s muscles uncoiled and his eyes opened.

Akk thought that he should probably be embarrassed to have been caught providing comfort when he had fought so valiantly to keep Aye out of his bed, but the only emotion he was feeling was relief. Aye was awake. He was okay. His thumb continued stroking Aye’s hand as the two of them stared at each other. He found that he wasn’t ashamed.

“Kiss me again,” Aye whispered, residual tears leftover from his nightmare still clinging to his cheeks. “Please.”

And because Akk was so incredibly tired of pretending he didn’t want this, because it was the middle of the night and all of his defenses were down, because Aye was staring at him with both hope and tears in his eyes, he leaned down and he kissed him. It was his first kiss and it struck him like lightning—a single moment cleaving his life into a before and an after—because nothing was ever going to be the same again.

He pulled away almost immediately, scared of his own feelings, but then he looked down at Aye, his tears now dried, and his body begged him for more. So when Aye reached up and pulled him back down, Akk let him.

It felt like a confession, a secret shared between the two of them, an admission that despite the games they were playing, they had both known all along that they would end up here, together.

So Akk kissed him, trying to chase away the pain, silently giving Aye the same promise he’d given Akk earlier that night: He was allowed to be weak, at least with him.

From the a hundred different kisses prompt list

#can you tell i've been looking for an excuse to rewrite this scene for literal months?#that kiss will always be real to me!#asks #sarah writes things #the eclipse #the eclipse fanfic #akkayan #akkayan fanfic

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unecoccinellenoire · 5 months

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Do you ever wonder what would it have been like if Nathalie had met Gabi Grassette instead of Gabriel Agreste? What if Gabriel hadn't changed his name and such?

Honestly I never had considered this scenario just because...it is Gabriel Agreste that Nathalie meets and falls in love with and a lot of that history is tied up in him being that person that would change his name.

If Gabriel still meets Emilie first then I feel like the version of him that stays Gabi (although we don't know for certain if that is his legal name or just a shortening he went by) Grassette is both less sucessful and sucessful less quickly. So maybe he's doesn't get into the rich conspiracy and he's not of interest to Tomoe so she never introduces him to Nathalie.

And becoming Gabriel Agreste, creating this persona and idea of what an Agreste is, is I think is very strongly linked to this desire to create Adrien as The Perfect Son/Model/Boy. Admittedly we don't know Emilie's feelings on the matter and her being the one to actually create Adrien and making him look so like her definitely speaks to a desire to have a biological child that no one else has any claim on. But I feel Gabriel in this scenario is much more likely to consider adoption or going abroard for surrogacy rather than chasing after the Miraculous.

So again we end up in a scenario where the canonical meeting with Nathalie doesn't happen.

But let's try again, maybe the boy that stays Gabi Grassette doesn't dare to dream the way the boy that becomes Gabriel Agreste did. He isn't brave enough to apply to art school, or to try to become a fashion designer amongst people who look down on him without a safety net, or ignore his parents' concern about his career. He's softer- less willing to cut off people he thinks might way him down.

So he doesn't meet Emilie. And if he does maybe he's not brave enough to reach up to this star out of his orbit.

And thus he doesn't meet Nathalie.

But you're asking about if he does meet Nathalie, except the first question is how?

What's Nathalie doing in Paris, or Normandy or the Region Sud or wherever Gabriel lives in France rather than hunting relics on the other side of the world. What's Nathalie's backstory? Is her life different too?

I think that regardless of their universe Nathalie and Gabriel always work well together. They have this instinctive understanding of each other and in some ways they're very compatiable- they both treasure the quiet times together, physical affection means a lot to them, they love fiercely but they're also mean- they don't care about the people they don't love and they almost enjoy that, certainly they'd be the type to cattily gossip about things together.

They have their differences. Both of them only truly cleave to a small network of people but Gabriel wants this wider adulation, he wants to be seen as sucessful, as good, as in love in a way that Nathalie has no interest in, and frankly prefers not to be perceived. Some of that internal/external validation discrepancy also shows in how Gabriel has to justify things where Nathalie owns her decisions.

All of that is still there. But Nathalie loved the Gabriel who's ready to take that leap of faith and do anything for what he wants. Can she love a Gabi who doesn't?

And is Gabriel resenful about how his life's turned out? Does he wake up and work and wish he'd chosen to do something he loved? Does he feel like he doesn't have a future or a career - just a job selling chips from a trailer in the rain?

Does Nathalie feel like adventure to him? Or is she put off by the anger she can feel inside him?

Or does he have friends? Is his life unexciting but full of love and life? Does he go for a drink on his free days and get unencouraged to settle down, and he's never go over the girl who got away but now Nathalie feels like another chance?

I mean it's a fun scenario because (unless you go full chip shop AU and Nathalie's his employee) Nathalie isn't his subordinate here so that changes the dynamicc in of itself but there's just so much to figure out how this would work.

That said, I'm pretty sure @silver-hibiscus does have an AU for this scenario so go send some questions her way.

#gabriel agreste #gabi grassette #nathalie sancoeur

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thecreaturecodex · 9 months

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Protean, Alengos

“Keeper of the corrupted coppice” © Timi Honkanen, accessed at his ArtStation here

[Our next protean is inspired by my annual teaching my students about ecological succession, and the subsequent explanation that the reality isn’t nearly as neat as the textbook version. I like to think that these guys are why there’s always potatoes in European fantasy settings hundred or even thousands of years before the Columbian Interchange (I’m looking at you, Tolkien.

As a reminder, all of these protean species have names that are anagrams of someone thematically related. Can you guess who “anelgos” is?]

Protean, Alengos CR 6 CN Outsider (extraplanar) This creature has a serpentine lower body and a humanoid torso, and appears to be composed of leaves woven together. Its head bears a crest of foliage, and its face is radially symmetrical, like a closed bud. Its hands are thick pincers, from which structures like the interior of a flower emerge.

An alengos is the protean of ecological succession. As new land is created and fields are left to go fallow, they are colonized by plants. Usually, this occurs in a somewhat predictable, stepwise fashion, but alengoses are perfectly happy to mess with the order of operations by magical and mundane means. Alengoses often seed plant species onto new islands or new continents, and they were fundamental in the creation of the Spawning Stone in the Maelstrom.

Alengoses are more likely to fight on the ground than many other species of protean, as their signature ability, the entangling aura, only functions when they touch a solid surface. Plants spring to life and grab at anyone in the area, except for other chaotic outsiders and plant creatures. An alengos will typically treat entangled enemies as lower priorities while it lobs caustic pollen at those that are not entangled, or merely crushes them to death in its coils. In the wake of a combat, an alengos will often spend some time making sure that dead bodies are broken up into suitable mulch to accelerate decomposition and increase nutrient uptake.

The influence of an alengos can be a boon or a bane to mortal farmers, loggers and other people who work regularly with plants. If properly mollified, or if the whim strikes them, an alengos can create a miraculous crop, or bring novel and useful plant species to the attention of people. On the other hand, their favorite plants are typically considered to be weeds, and their transplantations are as likely to be invasive as they are beneficial. The alengos itself rarely cares one way or the other, preferring the riot of life over any consequence their actions might cause in the long term.

Alengos CR 6 XP 2,400 CN Medium outsider (chaos, extraplanar, protean) Init +5; Senses blindsense 30 ft., darkvision 60 ft., greensight 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +14 Aura entangling (20 ft., Reflex DC 16) Defense AC 18, touch 11, flat-footed 17 (+1 Dex, +7 natural) hp 66 (7d10+28); fast healing 3 Fort +6, Ref +6, Will +9; +4 vs. mind influencing effects, paralysis, poison, sleep, stunning DR 5/lawful and slashing; Immune acid; Resist electricity 10, sonic 10; SR 17 Defensive Abilities amorphous anatomy, floronic, freedom of movement Offense Speed 30 ft., climb 30 ft., fly 50 ft (good) Melee bite +10 (3d4+3), tail slap +5 (1d8+1 plus grab) Ranged pollen puff +8 touch (3d6+3) Special Attacks constrict (1d8+3), pollen puff (6/day) Spell-like Abilities CL 7th, concentration +10 Constant—speak with plants At will—bristle, forest friend, soften earth and stone, warp wood (DC 15), wood shape 3/day—burst of nettles (DC 16), fungal infestation (DC 16), thorny entanglement (DC 16) 1/day—arboreal hammer, command plants (DC 17), diminish plants, plant growth Statistics Str 17, Dex 13, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 18, Cha 16 Base Atk +7; CMB +10 (+14 grapple); CMD 21 (cannot be tripped) Feats Cleave, Great Cleave, Improved Initiative, Power Attack Skills Climb +18, Fly +11, Knowledge (nature, planes) +12, Perception +14, Sense Motive +14, Stealth +11 (+19 in vegetation), Survival +14, Swim +10; Racial Modifiers +8 Stealth in vegetation Languages Aklo, Protean, Sylvan, speak with plants SQ change shape (animal or plant, beast shape III or plant shape II) Ecology Environment any land (Maelstrom) Organization solitary, pair or grove (3-10) Treasure standard Special Abilities Change Shape (Su) An alengos can change shape at will, but does not gain any healing from reverting to its normal shape, as is typical for proteans. Entangling Aura (Su) An alengos radiates difficult terrain in a 20 foot aura whenever it touches the ground. Creatures in the area must succeed a DC 16 Reflex save or be entangled and unable to move from their square for 1 round. Creatures with the plant type and the chaotic subtype are immune to this effect. The save DC is Charisma based. Floronic (Ex) An alengos receives a +4 racial bonus on all saving throws against mind-influencing effects, paralysis, poison, sleep and stunning effects. Pollen Puff (Su) As a standard action, an alengos can throw a ball of magical pollen. Treat this as a ranged touch attack with a range of 40 feet and no range increment. A creature struck either takes 3d6 points of damage or heals 3d6 points of damage, as the alengos chooses, modified by the alengos’ Charisma modifier. An alengos can use this ability a number of times a day equal to 3 plus its Charisma modifier.

#pathfinder 1e #protean #alengos #plant monster

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shwoop · 1 year

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cleaved lore notes

- this world takes place in an alternate multiverse

- where the kwami are tiny gods that gaslit gatekeeped and girlbossed themselves into making forgeting still following the Guardians rules

- kwamis aren’t tiny, like at all. they choose their forms

- master fu doesn’t choose who gets a kwami (all the time)

- there are many different branches of the guardians

-kwamis give more than one power

- kwamis can change there powers ( as long as it remains in their domain) depending on the pantheon they’ve joined, or there champions.

- the main five kwami’s come from different pantheons

- the wish is the prize in the chinese zodiac myth

- the american heros belong to either the greek/roman pantheon and native pantheon

- renling may or may not exist

- hawkmoth ain’t a perma villian we will see him unravel (literally and figuratively) as this progresses

theres more to come till then

sincerely shwoop

#miraculous cleaved #ml cleaved #cleaved lore

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themousefromfantasyland · 1 year

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Moses and the Miraculous Staff

We already have plenty of movies inspired by Moses’ life and the Exodus from Egypt, but most of these come from Christian interpretations of the story. That makes me wonder: How would a Moses film be like if it were inspired sorely by Jewish legends and folk tales surrounding his life.

I think it would look a little like this.

@ariel-seagull-wings @thealmightyemprex @tamisdava2 @amalthea9 @princesssarisa @the-blue-fairie

It all starts with a rod, Moses’ staff. Moses’ staff is described as being a sapphire stick, engraved with the tetragrammaton and the initials of the ten plagues destined for Egypt. The rod was created by God on the sixth day of creation, Friday afternoon, and was given to Adam, and then it was handed down through Enoch, Shem, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to Joseph.

During the period when the Hebrew were been enslaved by the Egyptians, the rod went in possession of the pharaoh’s court. But one day a Midianite man went to Egypt, stole the rod and planted on his own backyard. That man was Jethro, or Reuel, Zipporah’s father.

Back to Egypt, Pharaoh is told by his soothsayers of the coming of a liberator to the children of Israel, a man that shall destroy all Egypt. Around the same time, young Miriam started having visions and prophesized to her father, Amram, that:

“Behold a son will be born unto us from my father and mother this time, and he will save Israel from the hands of Egypt.”

When Moses was born, a peculiar and glorious light filled their entire house.

Back to Pharaoh, still fearing the prophecy, he immediately ordered for:

“Go now and seek throughout the land of Goshen where the children of Israel are, and see that every son born to the Hebrews shall be cast into the river, but every daughter you shall let live.”

I swear to you, I’m not making that up. This happens next:

“And when the children of Israel heard this thing which Pharaoh had commanded, to cast their male children into the river, some of the people separated from their wives and others adhered to them.

And from that day forward, when the time of delivery arrived to those women of Israel who had remained with their husbands, they went to the field to bring forth there, and they brought forth in the field, and left their children upon the field and returned home.

And the Lord who had sworn to their ancestors to multiply them, sent one of his ministering angels which are in heaven to wash each child in water, to anoint and swathe it and to put into its hands two smooth stones from one of which it sucked milk and from the other honey, and he caused its hair to grow to its knees, by which it might cover itself; to comfort it and to cleave to it, through his compassion for it.

And when God had compassion over them and had desired to multiply them upon the face of the land, he ordered his earth to receive them to be preserved therein till the time of their growing up, after which the earth opened its mouth and vomited them forth and they sprouted forth from the city like the herb of the earth, and the grass of the forest, and they returned each to his family and to his father's house, and they remained with them.

And the babes of the children of Israel were upon the earth like the herb of the field, through God's grace to them.

And when all the Egyptians saw this thing, they went forth, each to his field with his yoke of oxen and his ploughshare, and they ploughed it up as one ploughs the earth at seed time.

And when they ploughed they were unable to hurt the infants of the children of Israel, so the people increased and waxed exceedingly.

And Pharaoh ordered his officers daily to go to Goshen to seek for the babes of the children of Israel.

And when they had sought and found one, they took it from its mother's bosom by force, and threw it into the river, but the female child they left with its mother; thus did the Egyptians do to the Israelites all the days.”

When Moses is exactly three months-old, his mother, Jochebed, built a small ark of bulrushes and sealed with slime and pitch, sending his son in safety through the waters of the Nile, while Miriam watches by.

It happens that God sent an intense heat upon Egypt, “which burned up the flesh of man like the sun in his circuit, and it greatly oppressed the Egyptians.”

Because of the intense heatwave, Bithia or Bathia, the pharaoh’s daughter, went to bathe in the waters of the Nile with her maidens when they found baby Moses’ ark on the reeds.

Now, because God imposed that the mouth which was destined to speak with him could not take unclean milk, Moses refuse all the attempts of the princess and her maidens to breastfeed him. However, because Miriam happened to be closer, she gave the princess a brilliant idea, why not Jochebed? That Moses was nursed by a Hebrew woman, that unbeknownst to the princess, was the baby’s own mother.

This part I found hilarious because everyone gave a complete different name to the baby. It would be understandable if it were just the Hebrew and the Egyptian households that gave the boy different names based on their distinct cultures, but no. Everyone in the Hebrew household gave him a different name.

“And at the end of two years, when the child grew up, she brought him to the daughter of Pharaoh, and he was unto her as a son, and she called his name Moses, for she said, Because I drew him out of the water.

And Amram his father called his name Chabar, for he said, It was for him that he associated with his wife whom he had turned away.

And Jochebed his mother called his name Jekuthiel, Because, she said, I have hoped for him to the Almighty, and God restored him unto me.

And Miriam his sister called him Jered, for she descended after him to the river to know what his end would be.

And Aaron his brother called his name Abi Zanuch, saying, My father left my mother and returned to her on his account.

And Kehath the father of Amram called his name Abigdor, because on his account did God repair the breach of the house of Jacob, that they could no longer throw their male children into the water.

And their nurse called him Abi Socho, saying, In his tabernacle was he hidden for three months, on account of the children of Ham.

And all Israel called his name Shemaiah, son of Nethanel, for they said, In his days has God heard their cries and rescued them from their oppressors.”

Now, it has to be said that although modern works depict Moses as not knowing his Hebrew heritage while growing up in Pharaoh’s court, nothing in the sacred texts, folk tales or rabbinic interpretations mentions this fact. It’s most likely a trope used to make Moses’ story much more dramatic. Everyone knows he is a Hebrew, even his own people who, initially, deeply resent him because of that.

At three years old, sitting at the king's table in the presence of several princes and counselors, Moses took the crown from Pharaoh's head and placed it on his own. The princes were horrified at the boy's act; and the soothsayer said that this was the same boy who, in accordance with their former predictions, would destroy the kingdom of Pharaoh and liberate Israel. Balaam and Jethro were at that time also among the king's counselors. Balaam advised the king to kill the boy at once.

The angel Gabriel, who was pretending to be one of the Pharaoh’s advisers, said that the boy should first be examined, to see whether he had sensed enough to have done such an act intentionally. All agreed with this advice. A shining piece of gold, or a precious stone, together with a live coal, was placed on a plate before the boy, to see which of the two he would choose. Gabriel then guided his hand to the coal, which he took up and put into his mouth. This burned his tongue, causing him difficulty in speaking that would only be healed when he received the tablets with the Ten Commandments.

This episode is very infamous, and it’s the only one that I could find with artistic depictions.

Anyway, Moses grows up in the royal court, but he is still somewhat close to his blood family and is deeply concerned with his people. It is thanks to him that Pharaoh gives the slaves a day of rest, the Sabbath.

Eventually, Moses has to flee Egypt, because he murdered an Egyptian man that tried to rape an Israelite woman. It’s clarified that, technically, Moses didn’t commit murder at all, as Egyptian merited death because “he had forced the Israelite woman to commit adultery with him”.

Pharaoh forgave Moses for a lot of stuff, but this wouldn’t be one of them.

“And Pharaoh heard of this affair, and he ordered Moses to be slain, so God sent his angel, and he appeared unto Pharaoh in the likeness of a captain of the guard.

And the angel of the Lord took the sword from the hand of the captain of the guard, and took his head off with it, for the likeness of the captain of the guard was turned into the likeness of Moses.

And the angel of the Lord took hold of the right hand of Moses, and brought him forth from Egypt, and placed him from without the borders of Egypt, a distance of forty days' journey.”

If you know the story by the movies or even by the “official” telling in the Book of Exodus, you may think that now Moses will go straight to Midian, where he will marry Zipporah, but you would be wrong. There’s an entire new chapter in Moses’ life between these two events, one in which Moses would be king of Cush, Etiophia.

The fugitive Moses went to the camp of King Nikanos, or Kikianus, of Ethiopia, who was at that time besieging his own capital, which had been traitorously seized by Balaam and his sons and made impregnable by them through magic. Moses joined the army of Nikanos, and the king and all his generals took a fancy to him.

When Moses had spent nine years with the army when King Nikanos died, and he was made general. He drove out Balaam and his sons, and was proclaimed king by the Ethiopians. He then was obliged, by the wishes of the people, to marry Nikanos' widow, Adoniya. He became king at age 27, and ruled Ethiopia for 40 years, during which he considerably increased the power of the country. After forty years his wife, Queen Adoniya, accused him before the princes and generals of not having cohabited with her during the many years of their marriage, and of never having worshiped the Ethiopian gods. She called upon the princes not to suffer a stranger among them as king, but to make her son by Nikanos, Munahas or Munakaros, king. The princes complied with her wishes, but dismissed Moses in peace, giving him great treasures. Moses, now 67 years old, went from Ethiopia to Midian.

By now you would think the story finally would go the way other retellings of Moses’ life go. Wrong.

In Midian, Jethro keeps Moses in a dungeon for ten years, receiving as food only small portions of bread and water by Zipporah, without her father's knowledge. After ten years she reminded her father that he had at one time cast a man into the dungeon, who must have died long ago; but if he were still living he must be a just man whom God had kept alive by a miracle. Jethro went to the dungeon and called Moses, who answered immediately. As Jethro found Moses praying, he believed that he had been saved by a miracle, and liberated him.

Remember the staff?

Jethro asked every one who wished to marry one of his daughters to pull up the staff from his back garden; but no suitor had yet succeeded in doing so. Moses, on being set at liberty, walked in the garden, saw the rod, and read the inscription. He easily pulled it out of the ground and started using as a staff. Jethro thereby recognized Moses as the deliverer of Israel, and gave him the virtuous Zipporah as wife, together with much money.

Well, I will end the story here, because there’s so much wilder stuff ready to happen and I feel like this is enough for today. There’s so much more to tell like the way the completely unhinged way the Pharaohs treat the Hebrews:

“And whenever any deficiency was found in the children of Israel's measure of their daily bricks, the task-masters of Pharaoh would go to the wives of the children of Israel and take infants of the children of Israel to the number of bricks deficient, they would take them by force from their mother's laps, and put them in the building instead of the bricks;”

For the curious, the source I used for this was mostly “The Book of Jasher.” It’s not actually the Book of Jasher mentioned in Joshua and 2 Samuel, no matter how much translations such as that of Moses Samuel in 1840 want you to believe. Sefer haYashar (ספר הישר) is a medieval Hebrew midrash from the 16th century. Mormons strangely LOVE this book.

For all my Jewish friends I wish a happy Passover 😘😁

#moses #jewish culture #jewish folklore #happy passover #passover #pessach

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thepastisalreadywritten · 5 months

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SAINT OF THE DAY (November 25)

Catholics and other Christians around the world celebrate today, November 25, the memorial of St. Catherine of Alexandria, a revered martyr of the fourth century.

St. Catherine was the subject of great interest and devotion among later medieval Christians.

Devotees relished tales of her rejection of marriage, her rebuke to an emperor, and her decision to cleave to Christ even under threat of torture.

Pope John Paul II restored the celebration of her memorial to the Roman Catholic calendar in 2002.

Catherine's popularity as a figure of devotion, during an era of imaginative hagiography, has obscured the facts of her life.

It is likely that she was of noble birth, a convert to Christianity, a virgin by choice (before the emergence of organized monasticism), and eventually a martyr for the faith.

Accounts of Catherine's life also agree on the location where she was born, educated, and bore witness to her faith.

The Egyptian city of Alexandria was a center of learning in the ancient world, and tradition represents Catherine as the highly educated daughter of a noble pagan family.

It is said that a vision of the Virgin Mary and the child Jesus spurred her conversion. The story has inspired works of art, which depict her decision to live as a virginal “spouse of Christ.”

Emperor Maxentius ruled Egypt during Catherine's brief lifetime, a period when multiple co-emperors jointly governed the Roman Empire.

During this time, just before Emperor Constantine's embrace and legalization of Christianity, the Church was growing but also attracting persecution.

Catherine, eager to defend the faith she had embraced, came before Maxentius to protest a brutal campaign against the Church.

At first, the emperor decided to try and persuade her to renounce Christ.

But in a debate that the emperor proceeded to arrange between Catherine and a number of pagan philosophers, Catherine prevailed – with her skillful apologetics converting them instead.

Maxentius' next stratagem involved an offer to make her his mistress.

She not only rebuffed the emperor but also reportedly convinced his wife to be baptized.

Enraged by Catherine's boldness and resolve, the Emperor resolved to break her will through torture on a spiked wheel.

Tradition holds that she was miraculously freed from the wheel, either before or during torture. Finally, she was beheaded.

Maxentius later died in a historic battle against his co-Emperor Constantine in October of 312, after which he was remembered disdainfully, if at all.

St. Catherine, meanwhile, inspired generations of philosophers, consecrated women, and martyrs.

Ironically, or perhaps appropriately – given both her embrace of virginity and her “mystic marriage” to Christ – young women in many Western European countries were once known to seek her intercession in finding their husbands.

Regrettably, the torture wheel to which she herself may have been subjected was subsequently nicknamed the “Catherine wheel” and used even among Christian kingdoms.

Today, St. Catherine of Alexandria is more appropriately known as the namesake of a monastery at Mount Sinai that claims to be the oldest in the world.

#Saint of the Day #St. Catherine of Alexandria

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altocat · 1 year

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what's the most severe injury seph has ever sustained during the wutai war?

When Sephiroth first entered the war as a small, but formidable child warrior, his first real campaign led to the slaying of over a hundred Wutai soldiers, all from a single fleeting instance of instability, fear, and rage at the shock of his first real battle.

Word of this victory quickly spread across enemy camps, with the quick proclamation that, should anyone catch sight of this unnatural, otherworldly demon's child, he is to be killed at once on the spot. Wutai isn't taking any chances, and with all the spooky rumors going around, they don't want any ill omens infecting morale.

In the bloody weeks that follow, Sephiroth encounters his first one-on-one duel with one of Wutai's greatest warriors--a lead commander over forty years his senior with decades of experience. Sephiroth, smaller, scrawnier, and still not yet wholly seasoned in his craft, must engage in single combat for his own survival. His enemy quickly gains the upper hand and he is nearly cleaved in two as a result, an ugly diagonal wound that skewers him from hip to upper torso. Sephiroth is bleeding heavily, his body ripped and butchered nearly beyond recognition before the very utmost fury of Jenova's power allows him to find the strength to slash forward and strike the enemy while he's still gloating, tearing him to pieces.

Sephiroth's slaying of the commander secured a quick victory for his men, but he's heavily bandaged and bedridden for weeks on the road to their next battlefield. There are times when the caravan is certain he will die, occasionally delirious and just barely clinging to life. In these ugly, painful, feverish hours, he calls for Gast, for Hojo.

For his mother.

Everyone is shocked to discover that not only does Sephiroth ultimately survive, but his wounds heal with barely any scarring. Afterwards, Sephiroth learns enough from the experience to hone and perfect his skills and within the year, he is already borderline invincible in single combat. His fight with the commander becomes one of the many war stories that builds on his reputation, and his miraculous recovery also begins to paint him as something of a legendary, supernatural warrior as well.

Years later, Cloud strikes the very same angle that the Wutai commander managed to land on Sephiroth all those seasons before, reopening wounds Sephiroth had once thought to have long since vanished.

And this time, had he not been tossed down into the dark depths of the reactor, there would have been no subsequent recovery.

#sephcanons #ffvii #ff7 #crisis core #asks #jenova #hojo #wutai war #sephiroth #cloud strife #final fantasy 7 #gast faremis #babyroth #compliant with A Monster's Threads

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dawritingdragon · 11 months

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Gonna go sleep after this ask, this got slightly gorey so mini tw

Au of her calling au where each time a user of the mink miraculous uses the power of will, the miraculous takes bits and pieces of the user. Those bits and pieces are memories, that awaken randomly in long term users.

Chloe had gotten used to the dreams of screams and pangs of bullets in the air. She was used to waking up in a sweat, unaware that she was not in fact a soldier at war, but a 16 year old at home in bed. She has felt bullets fly through flesh, tearing away muscle. She has felt a saw, saving her from infection for the lack of penicillin by cleaving her joint in two. She has felt gas fill her lungs and burn everything in the process. All at once, she was a 16 year old soldier at war in her bedroom in unimaginable pain.

Goodnight/G'mornin

Pretty sure this isn't even an au dude.. It happens 😭

#Her calling au

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arachling2 · 4 months

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𝑼𝒑𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈,

He had always remembered it like one remembers a comfortable cage, his whole life almost like an empty room, that only had the breeze from the draft that came through the walls & misery for company. Of course, he wouldn't recognize his rearing as miserable at the time, as a youth, it was framed as the necessary stepping tones towards living up to divine expectations.

One could only imagine what it meant to be 𝘓𝘰𝘭𝘵𝘩's son, she, who is the paragon of chaos, the dark weaver, the hand behind the hand that stabs another in the back. Her machinations were beyond the understanding capacity of the simple mind, but whatever she intended for her little spiders, you can be assured it is likely a most foul fate to endure.

He was different from the others, the cabal of priestesses he called ilninil, kaoveh, ilhar, always asserted so. He was different than the others, better, stronger, he was born of the Spider Queen's blood & that made him the crucible within which 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐 & God were miraculously united in the flesh. In any other world, his heritage might've entitled him to indulge in a life of luxury, doted on by the pious, revered by common folk, but they were 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐 & there was little comfort (if any) to be offered.

Their culture is one that smothers out the weak, survival of the fittest, a 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐 must cleave through their own to obtain any status of note in the perpetual war for power. To be descended of a major house aids in that endeavor, but without genuine talent & skill, you might as well just walk yourself into an open grave & save an assassin the trouble.

Male 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐 are victim to societal convention, for every priestess of 𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁 that falls, a dozen of her soldiers will fall with her. The ideal man must be swift, silent & obedient. His body must manifest as a well honed weapon, no different than the swords & spears in the hands of their betters. He must be lethal, unemotional, sound of mind, he must operate as blades do, with the biting chill of indifference for every pound of flesh carved.

A'byssel did live with a fair bit of privilege, given that the De’ana could be considered distant cousins to the 𝖣𝖾𝖵𝗂𝗋, but he could argue that all of his enjoyed luxury was hard earned. There was never a single second where he was not expected to prove himself worthy of his lineage. His quasi-divinity meant that his breaking point was harder to reach, not that it didn't exist. Every time legs buckled, he was forced to stand. With every bone broken, the sentiment was told to him that it would heal quickly& become stronger than before. The screaming ache of his back-breaking limits became a familiar presence, after forcing himself to meet them time & time again, he grew to know them, these torn muscles & shattered bones, just as well as one would know an old friend.

His training began as early as it was able, the women of the house taught language, the occult & the arcane while the lessons on the makings of a warrior were remanded to the discretion of others. 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐 are primarily raised by tutors or distant family, given the reclusive nature of the De’ana house, he remained in the main house under the various tutelage of multiple masters. They were kept in healthy rotation, whomever began to know too much for the Matron’s comfort was introduced to the orbb’s jejik or spider’s maw, an opening in the floor of the matron’s grand foyer through which the unwelcome were dropped. This constant shift in tutors ensured they did not live long enough to become a source of Intel, it also dissuaded the young 𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁spawn himself from imprinting on any of them, knowing that most of them, if not all, would be swallowed by the maw.

His contact outside the stalactite was limited, selectively filtered by the women of his house who guarded him like the well kept secret he was. They reduced his exposure to the city where possible, which is the primary source of his quiet disposition even when in the presence of favorable company. Many powerful houses retain a master of secrets, which sounds like exactly what it is, an individual who specialized in the collection of valuable Intel that should not be known. It was these powers they hoped to evade with their purposeful obscurity, much to the irritation of the other matrons.

𝖬𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖾-𝖬𝖺𝗀𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 was his first true delve into living among peers, a bit of a rude awakening as his enviable size & cool demeanor made him more of a target than an asset to befriend. He learned very quickly of the duplicitous nature of other 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐, the underhanded tactics intended to give his dueling partners the advantage only showed him all the ways a knife could find his flesh. He'd also already become acquainted with the rigorous cruelty of masters, even though they lie at the bottom of some chasm now (surely impaled & long dead), he had their firm hands to thank for his notable success in both the Grand Melee & 𝖬𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖾-𝖬𝖺𝗀𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 as a whole.

Remedial lessons still commenced even after graduating the academy, the family did not agree that six months at 𝖲𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖾 was adequate tutelage for the spell casting skill they expected of him. He was taught the proper ways to channel spells, developing the ability to cast several cantrips on top of varying levels of spellwork that he combined with his adept physical prowess. Similar to his adolescent masters, the pressure for perfection persisted & the magical rebound of a failed cast was, on occasion, more agonizing than a split belly.

The only other event in his early life worthy of note was the falling of house 𝖣𝖾𝖵𝗂𝗋. In 𝖬𝖾𝗇𝗓𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖺𝗇, if one house attacks another & does not eviscerate them in the process, then the house initiating conflict will be annihilated themselves. They failed in their ambitions & the full force of the council, the houses & the academies descended on house 𝖣𝖾𝖵𝗂𝗋 to bestow upon them the consequences of their failure. Always keen to estrange themselves from their ‘ cousins ‘, the normally withdrawn De’ana participated in onslaught, lending their bright eyed 𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁spawn to the fray to gain valuable experience from this battle of extinction.

House 𝖣𝖾𝖵𝗂𝗋 had lost 𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁's favor, to do so without a skilled hand in diplomacy is the equivalent of inviting ruin upon your family line. Without her grace, no magic can be worked, no spells can be cast & should the other houses descend upon them, the Spider Queen would not bat an eye.

#ˊ 🕸️ ﹙ 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢 ﹚ ﹐#* if ive forgotten something i will simply amend it

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warmageragnar · 6 months

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CW: Death, tragedy, unrequited love "No. I am part of her very being! I could never betray her!" Blaidd's pained protests were carried to me by the frigid wind before his hunched frame came into view. "No matter what might happen... Ranni... She needs me...!"

I stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to that abandoned tower, not knowing yet what I could do for him. Even down on one knee, his fur-cloaked form loomed over me... His enormity and might used to inspire awe and comfort. Now it only instilled in me an ice-cold dread. "Blaidd," I called weakly as my metal-clad hand tepidly reached towards him. What could I do?

The Greater Will had caught wind of Ranni's act of heresy. As soon as she had brandished the knife cursed with the Rune of Death against the Two Fingers, they exacted their revenge. Blaidd, her shadow, the eternally loyal half-wolf given to her by them would be the instrument of her demise.

With every moment, he strained and thrashed against the uncontrollable impulse to destroy her. His gentleness waned to give way to savagery, until the air itself smelt of hot steel. When my voice reached him through the tempest of his mind, the half-wolf's blue eyes peered at me through his fingers, and for one last moment I saw the man I had fallen for. Gentle, faithful and warm. In those eyes was shock, and a plea: run.

Thus I knew I had failed him, adding to his suffering by putting myself in his path of destruction as well. But to do otherwise was unthinkable, I could not abandon him. There was no path before either of us free of pain.

The comforting blue of his eyes was replaced with a flash of red, and the man I loved was there no longer. His massive sword was hoisted into the air and he leapt down from his perch to cleave me in half. Fighting the sickening desire to let him end me, I reached for my own weapon, and his dark steel clashed with my blade of freezing moonlight.

The battle was a blur. His familiar movements were marred by unbridled savagery, each swing possessed of enough force to almost send me flying each time I blocked it. My grip on my greatsword was deathly tight from both the frenzy of battle and my inner turmoil. For all the distance I had travelled to find him, at no point did a plan arise. No miraculous solution, no chance of salvation. Even though I desperately refused to accept it, there was only ever one choice.

Another leap and his sword plunged into the ground I'd been standing on a split second ago, only to erupt in sharp, blinding frost. I threw myself backwards, my arms growing numb from the countless icy spears tearing at my flesh. I had not struck once. His ferocity was immeasurable, but it was not his overwhelming offense that stayed by blade; it was my own weakness.

I feared not to perish, for Queen Marika's Grace would not allow the grave to hold me. I feared the cruel reality that I would soon have to face. The man I loved was fated for death, and I was the one who had to deliver him to it. The loyal knight who had shown me nothing but kindness and comradery, had to be repaid with my betrayal.

With a silver flash, I finally swung at him, possessed of newfound strength to rival his own. I had dallied long enough. My cowardice was accomplishing nothing but the prolonging of his suffering, as well as my own. If I faltered, his beloved Ranni would be the next target of his unnaturally imposed bloodlust. For his sake, I had to stop it. I had to be strong.

Steel met steel once more, his flurry of cold magic matched by mine, and his speed challenged by the range of my sorcery. I was once more the warrior who felled General Radahnn and earned Blaidd's praise. The nameless Tarnished turned strongest contender for the title of Elden Lord.

I am not sure how long it took. My whole body was in a constant state of both burning and freezing from the exhaustion and the bitter cold penetrating my armor. But finally, the sadistic conclusion was reached.

Blaidd's royal greatsword had fallen some yards away in the grass, and my blade of moonlight was plunged through his chest, while countless snowflakes gently fell around us. The half-wolf, up until then moved by a blind rage, was perfectly frozen in place, his empty eyes looking past me into the gray landscape.

A torturous silence followed, stretching that horrid moment for what felt like an eternity. Only during that frigid eternity did I gain awareness of the hot tears running down my face, and the choking knot in my throat.

I don't know if he was still himself, somewhere in the depths of his mind. I don't know if he could've heard me. But in the precious few seconds he still had, I mustered the courage to deliver his lady's words to him: "Ranni... she told me to say... She l-loves you..."

No response came. Eventually I withdrew my blade and Blaidd's body gave out. His limp form crumbled on top of me, forcing me down on my knees to catch his enormous weight. He was in my arms, and his familiar warmth was swiftly fading as it spilled from his chest and only mine, painting the snow red underneath us. I pressed my face to his shoulder, clutching his furred cloak and cried out in unrestrained anguish.

Such cruelty I could not bear, to finally have him in my arms as I had always yearned for, and for it to come to pass in this manner. I clung to him until sensation returned to my limbs and then left them again, weeping bitterly and cursing the world around us.

I cursed the Greater Will and its callous designs. I cursed Marika for delivering me from death only to suffer such pain. I cursed Ranni for dooming Blaidd with her defiance. I cursed every sunrise that would come without Blaidd, every spring and every winter I would spend away from him, and every breath I would take in this now empty, colorless world.

Perhaps most of all, I cursed my own selfishness. For even with the pain of losing him, and of being responsible for his death, I could distinguish the wicked poison twisting my heart. The ache from knowing that his final words had been not for me, but for Ranni.

As if the universe, in its sickening sadism, had chosen to tell me in the worst possible way that even had things turned out differently... I would never have him. I would never be the center of his world like Ranni had been.

• • •

It was nighttime when finally I had the strength to stand. Later still when I had the strength to carry him and make the slow, numb journey to the nearest Site of Grace, from which I could teleport back home.

Only once did I glance back at the sword I had left abandoned at the site of our battle, casting its pale light. The symbol of my loveless union with the moon witch. I would come back for it... or I would not. The pragmatic nature of our betrothal mattered little, now that all my youthful hopes for true love had died.

Once I reached that clearing, surrounded by the golden embers of Marika's so-called grace, I looked towards the horizon, towards the gargantuan Erdtree, looming and shedding its soft, golden light onto the Lands Between.

I was reminded of how torn I had been when Melina informed me of what needed to be done. That in order to pass the impenetrable thorns, we would have to commit the ultimate cardinal sin and burn our sacred Erdtree down. As I gazed upon it, that monument to the petty, callous rule of the gods, I felt all my previous reservations dissolve.

Once I felt more like myself again, once Blaidd had been laid to rest... the Erdtree would burn, and the entire Golden Order with it. With that flicker of hatred ignited in the numb void of my heart, I closed my eyes, and our bodies were carried by the Grace like seeds in the wind.

(THE END)

#elden ring #elden ring fanfic #blaidd the half wolf #blaidd #tragedy #tragic #sad #depressing #tw death

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