#modern inheritance post war

[modern-inheritance]

I’m not checking the book itself, but I think Galbatorix had a room full of riders swords. Arya brings them back to Rhunon. Rhunon actually hugs Eragon when he and Saphira visit Ellesméra before they leave and thanks him for freeing the swords.

[modern-inheritance]

Post War Arya's friendship personality/style toward Murtagh and Thorn once they settle in Ilirea. Very Toph '*punches* That's how I show affection!'

"Don't worry. Fäolin taught me how to give affection at a distance."

Meanwhile, Nasuada can tell Arya and Firnen have decided to stop by to mess with her crown consort and his wingman by the loud scream of 'FECK!' echoing through the halls.

Fortnite, are you sure about this? Did you think it through?

[earlgraytay]

So, you've probably all seen this post going around, about how The Chuds Want Gentleman's Clubs (but can't afford to go to the things called "gentlemen's clubs" today, so wouldn't have been able to in the past either). And I hate to say it, but that post isn't accurate.

The things we call "gentlemen's clubs" today and the things that were called "gentleman's clubs" in the past are not the same thing; the one is descended from the other, but they used to be a lot more common and served a purpose that they don't really serve anymore.

The modern equivalent of the historical gentleman's club isn't the thing currently called a gentleman's club; it's the premium airport lounge. And by losing the concept for all but the turbo-rich, I think we genuinely have lost something! Let me explain.

(NOTA BENE: This is mostly about England and from about 1880-1930, and most of my experience with this is from fiction written in that era. I know enough to know what I don't know, but I also know menswear guy is wrong about this.)

So- gentlemen's clubs started in *wiggles hands* the late 1700s, and mostly served a particular purpose: they were places you could stay in a city if you mostly lived in the country, instead of staying in lodgings or owning your own place. Finding a place to stay in London was kind of a misery at the best of times, and owning your own house in Town wasn't practical for a lot of people, even rich people. If you were, say, a young man, just starting out in life, and you hadn't inherited your father's wealth but also weren't set up to live on your own? Having a place you were guaranteed to be able to stay was a fucking godsend. And as time went on, even people who lived in London most of the time started joining clubs, because they served another important purpose- they were a place you could go if you didn't particularly want to be at home, for whatever reason.

The way that historical gentlemen's clubs worked is, you got recommended to the club by a friend who was a member, you paid dues to the club, and in exchange, you'd get to use the club's facilities. * Most gentlemen's clubs had, at minimum, a dining room (with waitstaff, natch), a library, a couple of nice places to sit and hang out, a game room, and a bar. Many of them also had rooms you could sleep in overnight, fitness equipment, or stuff related to the club members' interests. Most of them had a room or two where you could invite friends who weren't part of your club and spend time with them. In the era where phones were a thing, a lot of them had a phone. You could write letters there and get your mail sent there.

Here's the thing: in the period I know best, gentlemen's clubs weren't just for the turbo-rich. They were the province of rich guys, yes- you had to be a 'gentleman' and know the right people to get in. But men who were doctor/lawyer/software-developer rich were most likely members of a gentlemen's club. Anyone who was rich enough to travel regularly was part of at least one club, because having somewhere to crash when you were going between (say) London and Delhi and back again was worth the cost.

Most gentlemen's clubs were owned by their members- not an outside corporate body. The club leaders were elected, usually by a small committee.

And a lot of gentlemen's clubs founded around specific interests, as time went on. There were gentlemen's clubs specifically for Guys Who Were Really Into Radio. There were clubs specifically for men who spent a lot of time traveling. There were clubs specifically for dudes who wanted to talk your ear off and clubs for old dudes who mostly wanted to nod off in their chairs and talk about The War and clubs for dudes who did not want to be percieved at all.

There were clubs for men who were really into science, or the arts, or sports. And one perk of being in a club like this is that you had access to equipment that you might not have been able to buy on your own. You didn't have to shell out for an entire library of scientific and medical books; you could go to your club and read in the library there. If your club had, say, an art studio, you could go paint at your club and not have to keep a studio space of your own.

There were gentlemen's clubs specifically oriented around specific political or social views. There were socialist clubs. (And a lot of them admitted women, which was !!!SCANDALOUS!!!) Like, they were still the province of goddamn rich people, there were a lot of trust fund baby socialists and not many working people, but there were socialist social clubs.

...I don't want to pretend that gentlemen's clubs were some kind of idyllic haven. 99% of these clubs were For Men, and For The Right Sort Of Men at that; if you didn't have a friend who was a member, or you weren't "respectable" enough, you didn't get to join. There's a reason that most of these clubs are gone now. Part of the point was excluding the Wrong Sort of People, and that became gauche over time. After a certain point, being part of a club became a thing for stodgy, out-of-touch rich men- not just "men who happened to have enough money to be part of a club"- and so most of the men who could join one didn't, and people stopped forming new ones. Only Old Money assholes (who will continue to do what they've always done, current trends be damned) keep the concept alive.

But like... the thing that replaced gentlemen's clubs for 99% of the people who would have had one a hundred years ago... is the premium airport lounge, and the premium gym membership, and the ~coworking hub~.** Anyone can join, yeah, as long as they're able to pay. You pay a corporation a chunk of money for similar amenities, and the amenities are ... fine? But because the entity is driven by profit, most of the money you're paying them goes into running their other business concerns and paying their CEOs a fat paycheck.

I think... as exclusionary as gentlemen's clubs were back in the day, there's the seed of a good idea there. I think the guys who wish they were still an attainable thing for a middle-class person have a point, and I wish we could inject some fucking nuance into this conversation.

A community-owned space that gives you a place to crash when you need one, has community-owned resources for its members, and isn't beholden to a corporation is a good thing. Third spaces that don't have to turn a profit are a damn good thing.

At the end of the day, my politics are 'everyone should get to have the kind of luxuries that were historically reserved for the rich'. Everyone should get to have the best life has to offer- leisure, beauty, good craftsmanship, and community. And so, you know, if this kind of community space sounds like a thing you'd like to have, maybe it's something you could work towards creating, too.

*TBF, this is still how they work today! But the networks are much smaller.

**I do find it very funny that apparently one of the biggest problems facing the few remaining Actual Gentlemen's Clubs (TM) is that people are trying to use their space to telework-- a lot of them are trying to ban laptops and business talk to "keep the club's character" (read: "we're too rich to have to work here").

[kenzdolls]

STAR-CROSSED BOUNDS . 15.8k

⌗ pairing: romeo! izuku x fem implied juliet! reader

⌗ tags: izuku x reader, izuku midoriya x fem! reader, mha x reader, bnha x reader

⌗ side note: well, I had this long thing locked in my google docs for a while [yes I write on google docs sue me bro]…so I guess I’ll js post it on here since I LEFT YALL FOR A WEEK IM SO SORRY STILL!!

the feud between the heroes and villains had raged for generations, long before izuku midoriya drew his first breath or you opened your eyes to a world already stained with blood and bitter hatred.

it began with all might and all for one—two titans whose clash shaped the very foundation of modern society. all might, the symbol of peace, had dedicated his life to protecting the innocent and upholding justice. all for one, the king of shadows, sought power above all else, viewing humanity as pieces on his chess board. their battle wasn't just physical; it was ideological, a war between hope and despair that would echo through decades.

when all might finally defeated all for one, the villain's followers didn't simply disappear. they retreated into the shadows, nursing their wounds and their grudges, building an underground empire that would rival the hero society above. the hero commission, in response, became more militant, more unforgiving. any association with all for one's legacy was met with swift and merciless justice.

this was the world izuku midoriya inherited when he became the ninth wielder of one for all. raised in the gleaming towers of hero society, he was groomed from childhood to be all might's successor—not just in power, but in purpose. the weight of expectation pressed down on his shoulders like a mantle made of lead. every training session, every lesson in heroics, every public appearance was a reminder that he carried the hopes of millions. the hero commission made sure he understood: he was not just a hero, but the hero, the one who would finally end all for one's legacy once and for all.

but you—you were raised in the depths of that very legacy.

as the first heir of all for one, your childhood was spent in hidden compounds and secret bases, learning that heroes were not saviors but oppressors. your father's followers whispered stories of the "false peace" all might had created, built on the bones of those who dared to think differently. they taught you that power was the only truth in this world, that the strong ruled and the weak suffered. every scar on your trainers' bodies, every tale of hero brutality, every friend who disappeared into hero custody was proof that the golden age of heroes was nothing but a beautiful lie.

you learned to fight before you learned to read properly. you learned to manipulate quirks, to exploit weaknesses, to strike from shadows. but more than that, you learned to hate—to hate the heroes who had made your people into hunted animals, to hate the society that celebrated your family's suffering, to hate the boy with green hair and freckles whose very existence was a threat to everything your father had built.

the rivalry between your families wasn't just personal—it was institutional. every hero agency had standing orders regarding all for one's bloodline. every villain cell had contingency plans for dealing with one for all's next wielder. the two sides watched each other across an invisible battlefield, waiting for the moment when the cold war would turn hot again.

which made it all the more dangerous when kaminari denki suggested they sneak into the villains' ball.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

"come on, midoriya!" denki had whispered conspiratorially, his electric personality crackling with mischief. "it's just reconnaissance! we need to know what they're planning, right? and what better way than to see them when they think they're safe?"

kirishima had been more cautious, his red hair catching the light as he shook his head. "i don't know, man. if we get caught—"

"we won't get caught," denki interrupted, grinning. "i've got it all figured out. fake identities, quirk suppressors to hide our signatures, the whole nine yards. besides, when will we get another chance like this?"

izuku knew he should have said no. every instinct trained into him by years of hero education screamed danger. but there was something else, something he couldn't quite name—a curiosity about the other side that went beyond mere tactical advantage. what were they like when they weren't trying to kill him? what did they believe in so strongly that they were willing to die for it?

so he found himself standing at the edge of a ballroom that existed in the space between worlds, wearing a mask that hid his telltale freckles and clothes that made him look like any other young villain. the gathering was held in an abandoned mansion on the outskirts of the city, grand enough to host society's elite but far enough from prying eyes to keep secrets safe.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

the ballroom was magnificent in its decay—crystal chandeliers that had somehow survived the years cast prismatic light across marble floors, while tapestries bearing all for one's symbol hung from the walls like battle standards. villains of every stripe mingled in their finery, from street-level thugs in their best stolen suits to high-ranking members of the paranormal liberation front in custom-tailored formal wear.

but it was tomura shigaraki who noticed him first.

the pale-haired young man stood near the bar, his red eyes scanning the crowd with the paranoid intensity of someone who saw enemies in every shadow. as all for one's most trusted lieutenant and your unofficial guardian, shigaraki had appointed himself the protector of the family's honor—and its secrets. his gaze lingered on izuku for just a moment too long, pale fingers twitching with barely contained aggression.

"something's off about that one," shigaraki muttered to dabi, who was nursing a drink nearby. "he doesn't belong here."

dabi followed his gaze lazily. "everyone's wearing masks, crusty. how can you tell?"

"the way he moves. too… controlled. too heroic." shigaraki's voice was like gravel, each word dripping with suspicion. "i should dust him just to be safe."

"at the young mistress's ball? all for one would have your head." dabi took another sip of his drink. "besides, could just be some new recruit trying to impress. let it go."

but shigaraki couldn't let it go. his eyes tracked izuku's movement across the room like a predator watching prey, every instinct screaming that something was wrong. when izuku began approaching the staircase where you stood, shigaraki's entire body went tense.

"he's going for her," he hissed, starting forward.

dabi caught his arm. "tomura. don't."

and then he saw you.

you stood at the top of the grand staircase like something out of a fairy tale, but one written in shadows and starlight. your gown was the color of midnight, flowing around you like liquid darkness, and when you moved, it seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. a mask covered the upper half of your face, but it couldn't hide the curve of your lips or the way you carried yourself—like someone who had never doubted their place in the world, even if that place was built on dangerous ground.

izuku felt his breath catch in his throat. he had seen pictures of you in intelligence briefings, grainy surveillance photos that did nothing to capture the reality of your presence. you weren't just beautiful—you were magnetic, drawing every eye in the room like a dark star.

you descended the stairs with practiced grace, accepting the bows and curtseys of your father's followers with the air of someone born to command. but izuku noticed something else in your posture, something the intelligence photos had missed—a loneliness that echoed his own, the isolation of someone who existed more as a symbol than a person.

he should have stayed in the shadows. should have observed and reported back. should have remembered that you were the enemy, the heir to everything he was supposed to destroy.

instead, he found himself walking across the ballroom floor.

the crowd seemed to part before him, though whether by coincidence or some unconscious recognition of danger, he couldn't say. his heart hammered against his ribs as he approached, every step bringing him closer to a line he couldn't uncross.

you noticed him coming, your head tilting slightly as you studied him with curious eyes. when he stopped before you and offered a bow that was deeper than necessary, you extended your gloved hand with the ghost of a smile.

"i don't believe we've been introduced," you said, your voice carrying the kind of cultured accent that spoke of private tutors and finishing schools—even villain royalty, it seemed, valued proper education.

"perhaps that's for the best," izuku replied, his own voice rougher than usual, disguised to hide the stammering earnestness that usually marked his speech. "some introductions are dangerous things."

you laughed, a sound like silver bells with an edge of darkness. "danger is what makes life interesting, don't you think?"

the music began then, a waltz that seemed to emerge from the very walls of the mansion. without asking permission, izuku offered his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, you took it.

from across the room, shigaraki watched with growing alarm as the mysterious stranger swept you into his arms. the way you smiled at him, the way you seemed to forget the entire world existed—it made shigaraki's skin crawl with protective fury.

"this is wrong," he muttered, his quirk unconsciously activating as he gripped his champagne glass. it crumbled to dust between his fingers. "she's never looked at anyone like that."

dancing with you was like holding lightning—electric and unpredictable and absolutely captivating. you moved with the fluid grace of someone trained in combat, but there was an artistry to it that spoke of genuine love for the dance itself. every turn brought you closer together, every step seemed choreographed by fate itself.

"you're not from around here," you observed as he spun you away and then back into his arms. "your technique is too… refined. too heroic."

izuku's blood turned to ice, but he kept dancing, kept smiling behind his mask. "what makes you say that?"

"the way you lead," you said, pressing closer as the music swelled. "like you're trying to protect me even as we dance. it's very sweet. very foolish."

"maybe i like being foolish."

"maybe i like being protected."

the words hung between you like a challenge and an invitation rolled into one. when the music reached its crescendo, you found yourselves in the center of the dance floor, spinning in perfect synchronization while the rest of the world faded away. and when it ended, when the last note died in the air and left only silence, you were standing close enough to share breath.

close enough to kiss.

it happened so naturally that neither of you seemed to decide it—one moment you were looking into each other's eyes, and the next your lips were touching through the gap beneath your masks. it was soft and sweet and absolutely forbidden, tasting of champagne and danger and something that might have been destiny.

when you broke apart, your eyes were wide with something that looked like shock.

"i—" you began, but the words died as reality crashed back down around you both. the ballroom full of villains, the mission he was supposed to be on, the fact that kissing you was probably tantamount to treason on both sides.

"i have to go," you whispered, gathering your skirts and fleeing toward the staircase like cinderella racing midnight.

but unlike cinderella, you left no slipper behind—only the memory of your lips and the scent of roses and gunpowder that seemed to cling to izuku's clothes.

"you!" shigaraki's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd like a blade. izuku turned to find the pale-haired villain pushing through the gathering, his red eyes blazing with fury. "i don't know who you think you are, but—"

izuku didn't wait to hear the rest. every instinct screamed danger as he saw the way shigaraki's fingers twitched, as if eager to touch and destroy. he melted back into the crowd, using the confusion of the dispersing dancers to make his escape. but he could feel those red eyes burning into his back, could hear shigaraki's frustrated snarl as he lost sight of his target.

he should have left then. should have collected kaminari and kirishima and returned to report his findings. should have filed the incident under "intelligence gathering" and tried to forget the way you had felt in his arms.

instead, he found himself scaling the walls of the mansion an hour later.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

your room was in the east wing, marked by a balcony that overlooked the mansion's overgrown gardens. izuku had no business knowing which room was yours, but somehow he did—the same instinct that had drawn him across the ballroom floor now pulled him up the ivy-covered stone like a moth to flame.

you were there, leaning against the balcony railing with your mask discarded and your hair loose around your shoulders. the moonlight turned you silver, ethereal, like something from a dream. you had changed from your ball gown into something simpler—a nightdress that moved like water in the evening breeze.

"you shouldn't be here," you said without turning around, and izuku's heart nearly stopped. but then you continued, "it's dangerous for someone like you to be seen in a place like this."

"i don't care," izuku said, pulling himself over the balcony railing with more grace than he usually possessed. "i had to see you again."

you turned then, and in the moonlight, he could see your face clearly for the first time. you were even more beautiful without the mask, but it was a beauty edged with sadness, marked by the same isolation he knew all too well.

"you're him, aren't you?" you said quietly. "the ninth wielder. all might's successor."

izuku went very still. "what makes you say that?"

"the same thing that makes you think i'm all for one's heir." you smiled, but it was a sad expression. "we know each other, don't we? even without names, even without truth. we know exactly what we are to each other."

"enemies," izuku said, but the word felt wrong on his tongue.

"star-crossed," you corrected. "there's a difference."

he stepped closer, drawn by the same magnetic pull that had captured him in the ballroom. "it doesn't have to be that way."

"doesn't it?" you laughed, but there was no humor in it. "you're the symbol of peace's successor. i'm the shadow king's daughter. our fathers' war is our inheritance. there's no escaping that."

"i don't want to escape it," izuku said, reaching out to touch your face with trembling fingers. "i want to end it."

"how?" the word was barely a whisper.

"i don't know," he admitted. "but i know i love you."

the words hung in the air between you like a confession and a declaration of war rolled into one. you stared at him with wide eyes, as if he had just said something revolutionary.

"you can't," you whispered. "you don't even know me."

"i know enough," izuku said, stepping closer until he could count your eyelashes in the moonlight. "i know you dance like you're fighting gravity. i know you taste like champagne and starlight. i know you're lonely in the same way i am, like we're both playing parts in a story someone else wrote."

"izuku—"

hearing his name on your lips was like being struck by lightning. he kissed you then, pouring all of his confusion and longing and desperate hope into the contact. you kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his shirt as if you could pull him into your very soul.

when you broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"this is madness," you said against his lips.

"good," izuku replied. "i'm tired of being sane."

you laughed, and for a moment, it sounded like genuine joy. "what are we doing?"

"i don't know," he admitted. "but i don't want to stop."

you kissed him again, softer this time, full of all the things you couldn't say. and for a few stolen moments on that moonlit balcony, the war between your families seemed like something happening to other people in another world.

but fairy tales don't last forever, and yours was interrupted by a voice calling from inside your room.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

"young mistress!" himiko toga's distinctive voice carried through the open doors, sweet and dangerous. "your father wants to see you!"

you pulled away from izuku with visible reluctance, your hands lingering on his chest. "you have to go."

"when can i see you again?"

"you can't," you said, but your eyes said otherwise. "this was—this was just one night. it can't be more than that."

"it already is more than that," izuku said urgently. "you know it is."

"young mistress!" toga called again, closer now.

"go," you whispered, pushing him toward the balcony. "please. before she sees you."

izuku wanted to argue, wanted to stay and fight for whatever this was between you. but the desperation in your voice stopped him. he swung himself over the balcony railing, pausing only to look back.

"this isn't over," he said.

"it has to be," you replied, but your voice broke on the words.

and then he was gone, disappearing into the night like a dream, leaving you standing alone on your balcony with the taste of forbidden love still on your lips.

"coming, himiko," you called, taking one last look at the gardens where shadows might hide green-haired heroes before stepping back into your room, back into your role, back into a war that suddenly felt more impossible than ever.

but somewhere in the darkness, izuku midoriya was already planning his return. because some things—some people—were worth fighting the world for.

⌗ taglist: [open]

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @gh0st-g1rll @https-bakugo @cupkiki

© property of kenzdolls 2025 — do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my work onto other media

[phantomrose96]

12 years and countless 100k+ note posts (ranging from ficlets to humor to serious social issues) and the responses to a post about failing to produce a successor befitting enough to inherit your estate is what finally forces your hand...the denizens of tumblr are demonstrating, dare i say, heirless behavior

TRULY HEIRLESS BEHAVIOR

See if I WANTED to make an actual serious post about the pressures about having children, then I would have done so, and I would expect replies engaging with it.

This post was literally a bait-and-switch joke where it SOUNDS like a post about modern societal pressure until you realize the OP speaking is actually the last in their bloodline feudal lord and the "older generation" is question isn't parents/grandparents, it's political advisors desperate to avoid a civil war.

There's like 1-in-20 replies which are funny that are like "hey OP I'm a downtrodden orphan if you want you can pretend I'm actually your bastard child from a sordid affair many moons ago."

But the other 19-in-20 replies are like "I think you should be saying this to your therapist, not me a random 28-year-old who was making a feudal lord joke." kinds of replies. Do NOT tell me about your suicidal ideations or your "the earth will be dead in 20 years" theories on my FEUDAL LORD POST!!!!!

[modern-inheritance]

When the mailman in the local area finds out about the Rider Academy and he learns that there are hatchlings.

(via)

[madlori]

Ah, 90s TV

Y'all, I don't know how or why, but I've somehow fallen into a complete rewatch of "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman" (although I never watched this show start to finish when it aired, just now and then). It's surprisingly seductive and it sucked me right in. I'm slightly disturbed how VINTAGE it feels - it looks and feels like it was a contemporary of like, Little House on the Prairie, but was in fact made in the mid-90s (LHOP aired in the mid-70s to early-80s, btw).

The show holds up surprisingly well. It's got the typical tone and structure of "heartwarming prime time drama" from the 80s-90s (what I sometimes think of as the Schlock Era of TV). Almost entirely episodic, the succession of guest stars having an Incident of the Week that's totally self-contained (like seriously, one episode her little son had to have brain surgery and they made kind of a big thing of shaving his head and the next episode, full head of hair like it never happened). People are constantly getting kidnapped and experiencing grievous bodily injury so the other characters can lose their minds over it.

They do not shy away from The Issues. We've done "The Army Is Kind of Evil, Actually", "The Indians Are Being Treated Like Shit And That's Not Okay," "Racism is Bad, Actually", "Domestic Violence is Rampant and Also Bad", "Vaccines are Good", "Immigrants Are Also Being Treated Like Shit and That's Also Not Okay" and "Capitalism Poisons the Environment" and that's just the first season. Plus the usual personal storylines, like "the Civil War gave people PTSD," and "my teenage son wants to grow up too fast and I'm not actually his mom but it's too much" and "the mountain man I'm in a situationship with is a bit out there for my stuffy Boston relatives" and "I'm determined to be a pioneering woman doctor but sometimes I'm scared and uncertain and this shit is hard ok" and "hey I could marry this Boston doctor who actually thinks I'm awesome and should be taken seriously too bad this mountain man has my whole-ass heart."

You can almost HEAR the voices of the producers, too. "Okay we want this beautiful woman to be a DOCTOR and fighting against stereotypes, but we also want her to be MOTHERLY but also be free to have a SEXY ROMANCE with the mountain man so howwwwww wait I know she'll inherit three kids from a woman she just met who dies in the pilot. BRILLIANT."

The tightrope they're walking with most of the townspeople is tricky, too. Like they need them to be folksy and for you to like them, but also to exhibit period-typical attitudes (racism, sexism, etc) so that Dr. Mike can push back against it, so they often whipsaw wildly between likable and unlikeable depending on the needs of the plot.

I'm kind of impressed that they usually avoid making Dr. Mike a Super Doctor. She loses patients, she doesn't know how to treat some things - and they have to keep her to period-appropriate medical knowledge, so no antibiotics, brand-new smallpox vaccines, germ theory is barely a thing (it was very very new in the post-civil-war era). They don't have her independently recreating modern medicine (which is sometimes a thing Outlander does, although Claire has the benefit of being a time traveler whereas Dr. Mike is not).

Man you can also see the footprints of "Last of the Mohicans" all over this show, too. She couldn't have one of the stuffy townspeople as a love interest - she has to have the Wish version of Hawkeye (no shade on Sully, love Sully, but they obviously downloaded him right from that film). The film came out in 1992, this show started in 93.

It's shockingly balming to the soul. It's from an era when TV didn't take itself very seriously, there were no subreddits to pick everything apart, and the earnestness is just on full display.

I saw a post from someone else watching this who said "I just found out that the main couple on this show is a REALLY SLOW BURN" and like...oh you sweet summer child. Mike and Sully are not that slow. They were wildly obviously telegraphed as the OTP of this show from the first episode, had kissed by the end of the first season, declared their love in the first third of the second season and were married by the end of the third season.

That's not a slow burn by old-school TV standards. A slow burn is eight seasons of longing glances and slightly perturbed expressions when the other one is dating someone else. These two were all in from Minute One. Like, every episode has that obvious ticky box of "Mike and Sully have a sweet/tender/longing moment." They were constantly hugging, touching, and generally being all up in each other's business. This was never a "will they or won't they" although they tried to throw a few obstacles between them, there was never any doubt about it.

Man, this is real UST. This is how it's done. And these seasons are like 29 freaking episodes! WE USED TO HAVE A SOCIETY.

[evagreen-stories]

The Forest Beauty | (Aemond x f!modern!reader) (part 1/?)

Summary: time traveler decides to live her new life out in the kingswood, avoiding the new world she finds herself in until an encounter with a certain one-eyed prince changes her life.

Warnings: dark!themes, dark!aemond, obsessive!aemond, book!aemond, no intimacy (smut starts with part 2), intro and first part are kinda a slow burn to introduce the storyline & character

Non-Canon Storyline: 3 years post war – greens won, Aegon's only son was k*lled and only has two daughters remaining, he cannot produce more heirs, Helaena is alive but depressed,Aemond serves as prince regent ever since Aegon got injured during the war and is chronically sick and getting weaker, Aemond is to inherit the iron throne soon, Aemond k*lled Alys Rivers along with all other strongs, Aemond broke the betrothal to Floris Baratheon when he became Prince Regent and won the war (Also, I'm not a native english speaker, please be patient with me)

Divider @targaryen-dynasty

< intro masterlist part 2 > (coming soon)

You wander around the woods, returning from another day of working in the city and coming closer and closer to your home when you start to feel uneasy, as if you’re not alone in the forest. You stop and listen, noticing the sound of footsteps close by. With careful steps you approach the sounds, noticing a head full of silvery hair between the trees and watching it carefully.

A man with an eyepatch, dressed in black leather clothes and carrying a long, sheathed sword on his hip. You monitor him carefully; his hands behind his back as he is gazing out into the treeline, he seems to be taking a stroll. But this deep within the forest?

You stalk him for a while, trailing his steps as you make sure to stay hidden. Too busy with staring at him you don't notice a branch on the ground, stepping on it and causing a loud *krack* sound.

The silver haired stranger turns around quickly, facing you and making eye contact. You know it's too late to hide now, as his lilac eye meets yours and a wicked smile forms on his lips

“Hello there, little one. Are you lost?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” You say, looking him up and down more closely now. He doesn’t look like someone that should be wandering this deep into the forest. You notice the tell-tale signs of a Targaryen. You’ve heard of them and noticed a few children with these features when you explored the street of silk once. But who exactly was this man standing in front of you right now?

His mouth twitches, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Oh, I am not lost, little lamb. Simply having a nice stroll to take my mind off the stress of ruling. May I ask who I have the pleasure of finding so deep in the woods?”

“No, you may not.” You answer, staying wary of the stranger. You’re starting to connect the emblems on his clothes and scabbard with the ones you’ve seen on royal guards patrolling the city before, this man must be one of the princes. “You should leave. These woods aren’t a place for a pretty prince like you.”

“My, my, my. So confrontational. Why the defensiveness, my beautiful little lamb? Are you hiding something?” He steps closer to you, his voice now has a hint of danger in it.

“No one wanders this part of the woods. You’re better suited closer to the city.” You say, trying to sound more polite than before, quickly understanding the prince might not appreciate the disrespect.

“Ah, yes, no one wanders this part of the woods. Well, that only makes me wonder how a pretty little lamb like you got herself as deep in here as I did. Unless, of course, you are not alone.” His eye leaves yours, scanning along the tree line before stepping closer once again.

“Relax, this is no ambush. Unless you keep on intruding on my space, then it just might.” You say sternly, hoping to play into his paranoia and get him to leave quickly.

“I do so wish I could believe you, little lamb.” His eye still scans over the tree line as his hand falls to the hilt of his sword. “How do you expect me to relax when a beautiful girl like you is all alone in the woods? You couldn’t have gotten this far without help.”

“I have. You don’t think all that dirt and tools on me are for decoration, do you?” You say, gesturing to the axe tied to your belt, knifes dangling off the bag you carry that’s strung over your chest.

“And what exactly did I catch you doing all alone in the woods, little lamb?” His voice is firm now, eye narrowing as he takes a closer look at you, trying to judge you.

You remain quiet for a few moments before deciding to answer truthfully. “I live here.”

“You live here, little lamb?” His eye scans over you once more. “YOU live in the woods?” His voice is filled with equal measures of surprise and disbelief.

“I do.” You say affirmingly. “And I’m not fond of guests.”

“A woman alone in the wild? No man to protect her? No family?” His disbelief is evident in his voice and expression. “I cannot imagine how a beautiful woman like you has endured out here.”

Upset at his words, you feel anger starting to boil deep inside of you. Women in this time are still property to be owned, another reason why you decided to live out here, away from society. “Cut the feigned sympathy. I live just fine out here.”

“But is it really living, little lamb? Living in the wild? Surely a woman of your beauty must desire the comfort and luxuries of civilization. Do you feel no desire to start a family, to have someone care for you and protect you?” His tone seems kinder now, almost caring, although his disbelief is still clear and you cannot shake the feeling of danger coming from him.

Suspicious at his invasive nature you raise an eyebrow. “What is this? A tea party to exchange gossip?”

“Oh no, little lamb. You are a most fascinating creature and you have sparked my interest. I am merely trying to find out more about who you are.”

“I’m not interested in conversation-“

“Now, now, little lamb, we’ve come this far already. It wouldn’t be very polite to turn down a crown prince like this.” His eye narrows, an obvious predatory hint in his voice as his hand tightens on the hilt of his blade. “It’s appalling for a citizen to turn down their crown prince, my dear little lamb.”

You tighten your jaw, nervous at the sudden turn this situation has taken but unwilling to comply with his orders. “I am not a citizen of yours-“

“Everyone is a citizen of mine!” His words are soothing with anger as his patience has reached its limit and he pulls the blade from its sheath. “Now come closer little lamb. I’ll help you back to the city where you belong, where it’s safe.” He begins to stalk towards you, his dark gaze fixed upon you.

You take a few steps back before you turn around and start running, using the the fact you know these woods like no other to lure him away from where your home is before skillfully outmaneuvering him in the thick forest, hiding successfully in a small cave. The silver haired man tries to follow you, you can hear him yell profanities and curse words as he struggles to keep up with you, eventually getting caught up in the thicket and falling behind. "Damn you!" Aemond shouts as he breaks free of the branches and finds himself standing in a clearing with no sign of the little Lamb in sight. Where the hell did she go? Damn this forest. Damn her.

He inelegantly shoves his sword back into its casing, taking a last long look around the scenery before begrudgingly turning around to make his way back to the city.

The rest of his day is plagued by thoughts about her, remembering every single detail about his encounter with this strange, wild little Lamb. She lives in the woods all alone, with no one to care for her? Surely, he thinks to himself, no one would truly want to do that.

She did seem awfully skilled at maneuvering the trees and avoiding my chase. Could she truly be completely alone? He wonders, staring into the lit fireplace of his chambers, his finger mindlessly tapping along the rim of the almost drained cup in his hand. His interest in the little lamb was definitely piqued. He would venture out into the woods to find her again once his duties allowed him to.

time skip / two weeks have passed

Things went back to normal after the encounter with the stranger, you didn’t see him again, but you did make sure to be extra cautious about your surroundings at all times, avoiding all travelers for the time being.

You’re sitting on a boulder in the river, only your ankles in the water as you sharpen your axe using whet stones from the river while waiting for the fish you caught this morning to finish smoking. You’re deep in thoughts as when you notice an unusual rustling of leaves behind you and catch a glimpse of the familiar silver head through the trees.

Here we go again.

The silver haired man had been stalking the Kingswood once again as he had done for several days since he encountered the strange little Lamb the first time. Searching for any hints as to where she lived, so that he could go back and speak with her again.

His hope was running low when then he finally saw her again, sitting in the river, tending to her tools. His heart skipped multiple beats, he couldn’t quite explain why he felt like this.

Still, she is the only one this far into the woods. No one around to protect her, just like when he had met her last time. This woman was a mystery he was most eager to solve. He slowly and deliberately stalked over to her, taking great care to be as sneaky and quiet as possible.

Even though you had noticed him immediately you keep focusing on your tool, pretending you hadn't noticed him as he approaches, hiding behind the last tree that provides him with cover before he would have to step out into the open.

"What is it you want?" You ask after a while, your voice loud and clear while your eyes are still focused on the task at hand. His attempts to remain hidden are more amusing than anything else.

The man was startled but quickly covers his reaction with his typical demeanor, standing proud with his hands behind his back as he steps out of the tree line and approaches the mysterious beauty carefully, as if trying not to startle her. She had quite a sharp ear. Although, he should have known better. If this little lamb had survived by herself in the woods, hearing the noises of the trees and animals was a skill she must have honed greatly.

Once he’s only a few feet away he stops abruptly, contemplating his choice of words before he speaks in a friendly yet stern manner. "You are quite perceptive little Lamb."

He remains quiet for a while. You’re still focused on your tool, not looking up, as you probe him further. "Speak. I know you've been following me for a while."

“I was simply fascinated with your lifestyle after our last encounter, that is all." He comes a few steps closer, enough to look at her properly, but not so close as to make himself a threat. "Why do you live out here, by yourself? Away from civilization and society?"

"Because I wish to do so." You say, now leaning forward to wash off the freshly sharpened axe in the river water.

"But is there no other reason little Lamb? You do not get... lonely? You do not yearn for society or friends? This forest is cold, dark, and dangerous." The mans voice seems filled with what seems like genuine concern for your welfare.

"The forests seem like that only to those who aren't welcome in them." You say, now looking up at him for the first time this conversation. "What do I get out of sharing my life story with you?"

Aemond's eyebrow quirked slightly at your words. Your words were not aggressive but they were not exactly kind or welcoming either. „You get to answer your crown prince a few questions that have been gnawing on his mind for a while. Who could say it wouldn’t be worth it?”

“I could say. The less people know about me, the better. Easier to stay hidden that way.”

Aemond stays silent after she says that, thinking over her words in his head. Stay hidden from what? From whom? What could make her feel that she must remain hidden... "Tell me, my little Lamb. Who are you hiding from?" Perhaps after finding out that one thing, he can put this obsession to rest.

"Men like you." You answer, now shifting your attention back to your tools, reaching back into the river to fetch out another whet stone to sharpen a big knife now.

"Men like me?" His eye narrows. " I am no threat to you. What could possibly have led you to believe that? You are alone so deep in the woods and I have not shown you any hostility... yet."

"No hostility?" You say laughing. "Chasing me with your sword was what then? A local friendship ritual I’m not familiar with?"

"Oh, I was simply trying to get you to stop and talk to me. That is all." He says, a small smile gracing his lips at her words. He found her laughter quite endearing.

“Didn’t work very well now, did it?”

"No I suppose not," His smile grows slightly, he finds this strange little Lamb's demeanor quite intriguing. He was never great at interacting with women, but this one seemed comfortable in his company, at least somewhat. Even if she was also incredibly untrusting and suspicious of him, or of men in general. He looks at her intently, savouring her smile as he knows his next words will wipe it right off her face again.

“I want to know more about you. I will not leave until you tell me more.” He says and as predicted, her cheeky smile gets replaced with a frown again.

“I told you, I won’t-“ he interrupts her quickly, almost pleading with her, “I know, I know. But I need to know. I cannot rest at night. I will not tell anyone about you. Whatever you tell me, it will not have any consequences, I swear it.”

You sigh deeply, pondering his words. You couldn’t care less for telling your story, the possibility of sharing too much lingering in the back of your mind. Then again, perhaps this is just what you needed. Sharing a bit of your true self with someone after having to carefully craft a fake persona and uphold it for the past two years. “Fine then. What is it you want to know?”

His eyes light up at that statement as he takes his time deciding which one of his many questions he should ask first. “Your accent, it seems out of place. Are you not from here?”

You immedily begin to regret your decision to talk to him, struggling to find a way to phrase the truth in a way it doesn’t sound too outlandish. “No, I am not. I come from a land far away, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Did you come alone?”

“Sort of. I came here with others but they… forgot me. Or maybe they are just unable to return. I wouldn’t know.”  You say, looking out into the flowing river as you remember.

“Forgot you? Why would your family just forget you?”

“They weren’t my family. They were… people I knew. We went here and they left, never to return, at least not until today. They probably told my family I died.” What had they told your family? You often wondered it. The changes of the seasons and moons made it easy for you to tell how much time had passed here, in this world. Did as much time pass back home? Was your family even informed of what truly happened or were they waiting back home for a sign of life that would never come, with no way of knowing your fate?

Aemond is quiet for a while, processing this information. “How long have you been here?”

“I’ve been here two winters already, the coming one will be my third.”

“THAT long?” He blurts out, mind racing. “You have survived here alone all this time, out in this forest, with no family or friends? How?”

A slight smile tugs at the corner of your lips, amused by his disbelief. “Yes, I have. I’m friendly with some of the farmers around here and some merchants. I was fortunate, really, that I was stranded here with a few tools and a bit of money.”

“That could not have been enough to make you survive here. The winters can be hard, as can be nature itself. I don’t know a single woman that would be able to survive like this even with all the tools in the world.”

“I suppose you’re right.” You shrug. This is your normal, all you knew for most of your life, you often forget just how unusual it really is. “I come from a family of farmers. We lived far out, away from civilization, and I learned a lot about nature that way. I am, or was, my parents only child. I spend many years of my childhood in the forest with my dad. He was an avid fisher and knew all the ways around the forest, while my mom taught me all about her knowledge of herbs. She was a healer of sorts.” 

Your smile returns as she recalls all her fond memories of home. Oh, how you wished you’d never left the farm. “They bred, trained, and sold horses too. I was strapped to a saddle on my own horse before I could even walk.”

His face shifts from one of shock to one of sympathy. He could tell by your words and the tone your voice takes that you missed home dearly. “And you have no way back?”

“No.” You state plainly. Do you? Truthfully, you do not know, but you surely hope you do.

“Why? If I give you coin for passage, can you go back home?”

“I’m afraid its not that easy.” You huff, struggling to make up an answer to this question. “Unless they come get me, I have no way back. I… I’m done talking about this.” You say, now shaking your head.

He wants to press further but understands he shouldn’t, not if he’d like to keep you talking. “Well then… What are you planning to do here then? You can’t just stay out here forever.”

“Why not?” You conter. “I’ve gotten comfortable out here. I know my way around the woods and can survive quite well out here. I’ve come to appreciate my little life out here quite a lot, actually.”

“Is this really life or is this survival? What about finding a family of your own, what about children?”

You sigh deeply. “I may not have answers to all those questions yet, but I do now I’m content here for now. I have no duties here, no bills to worry about. I just need to figure out my next meal and get to enjoy nature the rest of the time with all the peace and quiet it offers me.”

The change of topic strikes a chord in you, one you didn’t realise was as sensitive as it seems to be. The prospect of having to live out the rest of your days in this time is one that seemed more and more realistic and the question of what you would actually do for the next twenty, forty, sixty years of your life was one burning in the back of your mind more and more frequently.

“I’m done talking for today. You may leave now.” You dismissed the prince, frustration growing inside you.

He is not happy about this, his expression shows this as much as the tone of his voice. “Leave? I just arrived. You can’t just send me away.”

“I do not wish to tell any more stories.” You state. Just as he begins to talk again you turn to face him quickly, looking at him for a few seconds before proposing a compromise. Maybe you just needed some time to gather your thoughts and calm the inner turmoil you can feel bubbling deep inside your chest right now. “How about this: If you can find me again, I will answer you more questions. Anything you want.”

His jaw clenches as he lets out a long sigh. This is not how he wanted this conversation to end but he could tell from her expression that she seemed exhausted and the prospect of getting to ask anything he wanted seemed tempting enough to agree. “Fine then. I will seek you out again soon, but I will not rest until I have all my answers. You must swear you will not avoid me again.”

“I swear it.” You answer, a reassuring smile on your lips. “Have a safe travel back, my prince.”

She had been speaking so freely all this time that hearing her address him properly caught him off guard for a moment. He stands still in place, watching her a bit longer, before begrudgingly turning around to leave after bidding a small goodbye.

As he walks away you turn around slightly, watching the swaying of his silver hair until it disappears completely between the trees. A long, deep sigh escapes your lips as you resume your tasks for the day, thinking about all the questions he asked and what you really wanted from your life now.

You were honest, you did love your life as it was now, but sometimes the solitude did get to you as well. A craving for the love and closeness your family had brought you. As much as you cursed the prince when you had first met him, maybe having his attention on you could be a good thing after all.

He thought his mind would be calmed after speaking to her but to his dismay, the opposite had happened. His head is filled with questions still and worse so, genuine worry about her wellbeing. Yes, his little lamb had survived well by herself, but the confirmation that she was truly alone out there was deeply unsettling to him. When he is laying in bed that night, he realised just how little he knew about her. He didn’t know where she lived – did she have a house or did she sleep under the stars? He had never even asked her name. What would it be? If she is from far away, it surely was exotic.

He keeps tossing and turning that night, the picture of her smiling face filling his mind, even more so when he closes his eye, as if he can see even clearer when the world isn’t distracting him. He tries to sleep but he swears he hears her laugh, still as clear and comforting as it had been when he heard it the first time. A sound so sweet it could lull him to sleep, if only there wasn’t the gaping emptiness next to him, reminding him of your absence, of the fact you’re all alone out there. If something happened to you tonight, would he ever find out? He could not bear the thought of it.

His night stays restless. He falls asleep again and again, dreaming vividly about the way your cheeks rounded when you smiled at him, about the freckles on your nose, the small dimples that appeared under your cheeks when you smiled and over your lips when you pursed your lips in dismay at another thing he said.

It was improper, he knew that much. For a prince, the heir to the throne, to be so enchanted by a forest dweller. Nevertheless, his heart skipped a beat every time he had laid his eyes on her. His mind went back to think about all your interactions at every chance it got, even in the midst of important meetings. He was a devoted and proper man; he knew better and yet, something about her felt so fundamentally right that a future without her seemed wrong.

When the first rays of sunshine broke though his windows he had made his decision. He would go to see her again and this time, he would not leave her behind. He could not. He will find her and bring her – well, where? Somewhere, anywhere he knows she is safe, where he knows he can find her whenever he wants to see her. He will figure it all out, he will find a way to make this work.

His feet soon carry him through the castle, unaware of where he is going until he finds himself in front of two wooden doors. The kings, his brothers, chambers.

Currently editing the next part, that one will be 18+! Second series about Aemond x reader coming soon as well (currently proof reading chapter one)!

[modern-inheritance]

Ay, found Murtagh!

He’s constantly being told off when he starts visiting the Rider school post-invaders because he literally can’t stop the little things that give away him thinking everyone hates/hated him and Thorn. It gets to the point that Eragon takes a page out of Glen’s ‘how to get Arya to understand she’s wrong about something she’s saying’ book and just starts putting his full hand on Murtagh’s face, like full on covers it with his hand, and just STARES at him sternly. It’s so weird that it usually breaks Murtagh out of it enough that he hears what Eragon and Saphira tell him.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Keeper (Immediate Post-Galbatorix time period)

(A/N: This was just going to be a few ideas slapped together, and then it turned into...this...big thing. I don't feel like do a lot of notes right now, but be warned, there's going to be a bunch of new concepts tossed out there, and there are some instances of wound description. There will be other stories from this time period at a later date, but for now, take this.

Arya and Glenwing are informed by others that Islanzadí was gravely wounded by Barst after the citadel has fallen. While Glen tends to her mother, Arya waits outside the tent and grapples with the prospect of losing her remaining parent only a handful of years after reconciling with her. And then a particular bird drops from the damn sky.)

~~~ MODERN INHERITANCE: KEEPER

Everything here smelled of blood. 

Arya braced her hands on her knees, forcing herself out of Trancing. The half-sleep state had snuck up on her mind despite the stress and chaos of healers and doctors and medics rushing too and fro across the churned up soil. 

Apparently preparing for the end of all things after over seventy years of conflict, navigating a trap-laden fortress of a castle, being nearly talked to death by a megalomaniac, watching the love of one's life fight their half brother, and then fighting and taking down a dragon larger than what large could even define could make the unfortunate person experiencing such a day quite exhausted. 

Shaking off the last traces, Arya leaned back in the folding chair and strained to hear anything past the canvas of the tent at her back. 

Nothing. Warded. 

When the healers had finally slowed and led them to the tent the elven Queen had been evacuated to, both her daughter and Glenwing had pushed to enter. Glen had only made it a single step inside, his head just past the tent flaps, when he had thrown his dented metal arm back and shoved Arya away. 

“Stay out.” 

“The fuck do you mean–”

“Arya, stay out.” Glen took her by the armored shoulders and walked her three paces back, almost into the frantic flow of medical personnel constantly surging between the tents. “You don’t need to see her like this, and I can’t focus if you’re in there and can’t compartmentalize. She needs the best right now, alright? And she would never forgive me if I let you see her in this state.” 

His eyes were bright, hard chips of liquid gold burning from the inside. “Please. Stay out unless we call you.” Glen gave her arms a quick squeeze. “We– I – will do everything we can. But if it’s clear, then…”

Arya reached up and seized his wrists before leaning forward. He joined her out of instinct and long built trust, their foreheads pressed together in a moment of quiet. 

“Just keep fighting. Don’t waste time with me, just fight to the end.” She wasn’t shaking, but her eyes were closed. “Please.”

“I understand.”

With that Glen slipped away into the tent.

And so Arya sat on one of the rickety folding chairs outside the tent. She had spent some time pacing until the thin layer of muck made of dirt and blood binding together in a paste coated her boots. After that she sat again and now found herself shaking off the half sleep state, still waiting, still out of the loop.

That’s when she heard it. 

Arya bolted to her feet, head snapping up. That call. Among the cacophony of the camp, the pitched struggles still being fought in pockets out on the plains of Ilirea, the screeching and screaming and croaking of hundreds of thousands of carrion birds. One stood out, one piercing, warbling cry, keening and slicing through the cacophony.

Heart pounding, eyes glued to the dust and haze above, Arya began to run. 

‘Not another one. Not today. Not here.’

Slipping between soldiers, leaping over supplies. A white speck the only thing that had her attention, the only thing important in that moment. The white dot wobbled and grew, following her as best it could on turbulent, low winds from the fires until the young elf burst through into a tiny clearing. Barely the size of three tents crammed together, a single piece of open land not flooded with people or bodies or equipment. Some long buried boulder or mass of roots sloped the ground up a foot higher than the rest, leaving the patch unusable except for a measly breath of fresh air.

Without a single thought beyond the damn determination to keep one more member of her dwindling family alive, Arya slammed a foot down as she crossed the threshold and leapt into the open air. Throwing her weight, twisting, she opened her arms. 

“Blagden!”

Bloodied wings went limp, surrendering to exhaustion and long-stalled pain. With a morose crackling croak, Blagden, white raven of the Knotted Throne, plummeted from the sky like a rock straight into Arya’s chest.

Arya folded herself around the wounded bird and hit the ground with a solid whumph. The shock half absorbed by her armor vibrated her sternum and yet she refused to let it transfer to Blagden’s broken body, coughing as the air drove from her lungs. 

“I have you.” The words were a wheeze. “You’re safe, Blagden.”

She could feel the rapid beating of the raven’s heart through the fingers holding him to her chest, his lungs heaving. His right wing was crooked even as it lay open, feathers tickling her neck. Sticky gore clung to his talons, strips of flesh still tangled in the shaggy fluff of his ruffled throat. 

Careful, supporting his broken wing, Arya rose up to a crouch. “Don’t you dare give out, you damn bird.” Blagden merely grumbled in response, a short hiss of pain when the woman shifted to kneel and rest his body on her lap. “Shh, okay, just…fuck, okay, I’m going to…I’m going to heal your wing, alright?” 

Arya reached out with her mind, ironclad barriers encasing the mental tendril. Her brows lowered, exhaustion creeping in again with just the minor exertion, when she encountered wards around the raven. Some were familiar, the spicy richness of sandalwood and sparking ozone so distinctly her mother’s magic that it made her heart twinge with a renewed fear of loss, but the other was…different. Like…like the cool, smooth, immovable stone carvings in Tronjheim, but half blanketed with soft moss. Crackling campfires, smokey and oddly similar to her own strains, the feeling of music without the sound, a sudden flash of flat stones skipping across a pristine lake–

It took everything she had left for Arya not to hug Blagden to her chest as the raven’s mind brushed her own and the image of her face above him, lightning brow tipping down, determination set at her lips, morphed into a face she only ever saw in hazy Recall dreams of years long past. In fairths and pictures and the few aching memories shared. 

‘Da.’

“I won’t break them.” For the first time that day, tears dropped from Arya’s eyes. They wet Blagden’s feathers, rolling light streaks through the collected soot. “He stays with you. I promise.”

Glenwing was always healing any injured bird that he came across. He left the windows of their flat open most nights, an open invitation to any feathered friend to come rest out of the elements. Arya herself had helped on occasion, Fäolin lending his hand all those years ago when a third set of steady fingers were needed to help calm a nippy eagle or cradle a jackdaw deadset on flying before it was ready. 

It was with those memories in mind pushing aside her parents, Arya found the gaps in the wards. Energy, warm and buzzing, trickled from the fingertips gingerly holding Blagden still. Apologies, something so unfamiliar between them, poured from her lips as the bird thrashed and cried out with harsh squawks as the hollow flight bones realigned like broken straws. They fused together smooth and strengthened, the energy moving on to fix bruised muscle, torn tendons and ligaments stressed beyond their limit from his flight–

And then the magic snapped like rotten rope, a surge from within the white raven’s own mind lashing out like steel blades to sever the connection. The mental ricochet felt like it slapped straight to the center of Arya’s forehead, a sting and a throb of a promised headache pulsing to the surface as she cursed and curled forward, catching herself on a hand before she completely folded in and smothered the ungrateful feathered wretch. 

“Blagden, I’m trying to–”

It was almost pathetic, really. The way the bird flipped and flopped off her lap and managed to stagger to his feet with his undamaged wing outstretched. “A Queen’s touch only may apply! Only she will make me fly!” He hissed, loud and threatening, as Arya reached for him again. “Touch again and learn it well! Your bite’s not the only one to give hell!”

That ripped a broken, choked laugh from Arya’s throat. 

It was all too much. 

The laughter, so incredulous and disbelieving at the gall this spicy raven always had boiling in his feathered body, transformed to ragged, gasping sobs. Fuck, why did she feel so small again? After everything that day, after confronting Galbatorix himself with Eragon, Saphira, Elva, Nasuada, Murtagh and Thorn? All of them little pieces in that mad king’s sick game, their lives and struggles all turned to seemingly useless specks of dust before his discovery and manipulations. After standing, blood cold, staring up at an ice blue eye with nothing in it but malice and hatred for all things and so…so much larger than she had thought possible, only to later meld minds with the smaller of its kin, Thorn and Saphira both, and feel dragonfire bathe her skin before making that fated leap to end its miserable existence…

Not once had she felt small. 

It was here, kneeling on a torn up knoll with her sobs drowned out by the keening, wailing and screams of the wounded, the dying, the mourning, the lost and the found, being confronted by this damn two foot tall menace of feather and saucy tongue refusing to be healed by anyone but her mother, who lay, likely dying in a tent some distance away…it was here that Arya suddenly felt seven years old again. 

So small. Barely a foot taller than the raven himself. The same raven that had perched on her father’s casket until it had lowered at the base of the ancient tree and had sung for days on end, mourning the man who had made him as he was. The friend he had become. 

And now. Now he might sing again. Sing for her mother as they wrapped her body for the long journey back. Cry his funeral tune for days more. Clawing at her ears, piercing the bittersweet veil of the ended war. Reminding, for days and days and weeks and months that her mother was dead, as dead and gone as her father.

The feeling had her crying harder, the images of that casket long buried dragged up to dance with her new fears. Islanzadí, dying? How was it not impossible? How was there even such a chance? After so long at war, witnessing and experiencing and feeling it all in every shape and form and in every role of soldier, leader, wounded, captive, saboteur, assassin, bodyguard. The mourning mate and the warrior lover side by side with the man she loved the day one died and the day one triumphed. 

She knew people died. She knew elves were not invincible, had screamed that fact at the Lords of House with her scars laid bare and her rage boiling. How dare they think that elves, hidden as they were, were untouchable, invincible, when Glenwing had his arm taken, when Fäolin didn’t even have life anymore, after her heart just about stopped too many times to count, actually gave out more than once?

But…but Islanzadí…she wasn’t an elf. She was their Queen. Her mother. And after Da, Arya should have known, did know, that the quietly whispered promises to a tiny child at night that they would never, ever leave her were lies to make her and them feel better…. But how could Islanzadí die?

Burning anger followed close behind. Arya struggled to stop her chest from heaving, teeth set, ragged near squeals of air pushing forward and back against them as her body clawed for the chance to submit to the emotions. She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of scuffed palms, dirt and avian blood smearing at her cheeks. 

Galbatorix may be dead, yes. The promise she made to Brom all those years ago finally fulfilled, yes. But damn it all to whatever emptiness awaited the lost souls of the blood soaked war now ended–

‘I still have work to do. Now is not the time for tears and a fucking breakdown!’

“Right–right now–” Arya hiccuped, trying desperately to get tears off her cheeks with the rough straps at her shoulder. Their presence was a dim and hollow reminder, one that should have been bringing fiery hope but now felt heavy. The dragon egg, tucked at the small of her back in the hastily emptied and secured medic’s kit Glen had repurposed for her on the fly as they ran, was free. Her mother would have been overjoyed. 

If she lived to see it. 

“Right now, I’m the–the best you–you’ve got.” 

Vision blurred, tears and dirt and blood clinging to her eyelashes, Arya dug into one of the side pouches on her leg and scrambled her fingers around until they met wax paper. She tore the packet out and ripped the paper away, the large muslin sheet flapping out like a flag. Swallowing a fresh wave of tears, the elf tied to opposing corners in a knot behind her neck and slipped her arm through the loop. 

“Get in.” Still rough with contained sobs, but firm and carrying at least a hint of her mother’s command, Arya opened the makeshift sling slightly. “Get in and I’ll take you to her. You can’t…you can’t balance right with your wing like that.” 

When Blagden did not move, wing still limp at his side, Arya reached out her fist. “She needs us.”

The white raven lifted his head, ruff rising. “Paths entwine, root and vine.” With a bit of a wobble, Blagden strutted forward and hobbled up onto the offered perch and allowed her to transfer him into the cloth’s embrace. “Our strength grows with your blood and mine.”

And that was how it came to this. Arya, sitting again outside the warded tent, eerie false silence as the world faded in and out around her. A bloodied white raven nestled in a sling against her chest, looking almost comical were it not for their surroundings. 

Blagden had allowed her to carefully wrap his wing with strips of the muslin. He kept his promise of a painful nip as well, squalling his indignation at being restrained when Arya stopped him from marching into the tent like some knee-high, feathered general checking on his second-in-command. The puncture to the back of her hand burned, but it was a welcome distraction in the chaos.

The raven eventually settled. He slept now, head tucked into the cloth, talons flexing in his fever dreams. Arya gently rubbed her fingertips at the crown of his head, the spot he ‘loved a good tickle,’ as Islanzadí always said despite the halfhearted grumbling Blagden always made at such a description. His feathers were already wrecked, and she didn’t want to risk stripping them of even more of their precious oils by stroking his back. 

Time passed, though Arya could not tell how long. The smoke from the raging fires and lingering dust of the king’s explosion nearly blotted out the sun, robbing her of any sense of time yet again. 

A battle frazzled elf carrying a large crate of fortified nectar bottles hurried by, hastily placing two of the six bottle carry cases down at Arya’s feet. In a flash she caught his arm as he made to pull away, stopping him dead. His features, splattered with mud and flecks of blood, were hazily familiar, but Arya couldn’t spare the energy to find his name in the moment.

“How long–” Arya fumbled, at a loss for a point that she could draw reference from that the man would also know. She went with the first thing that came to mind despite the excess it would add. “How long since the explosion?”

The elf yanked his arm free, already moving on with the barest glance at a scratched timepiece hung around his neck. “About four hours. If you can stand, grab a crate from block eight and start passing these out to healers and the wounded!” And then he was gone, his call to action trailing into the masses of people looking for loved ones or tending to the injured.

‘Four…four hours?’ 

Just four hours?

The tent flap suddenly slapped against the middle support, one of the occupants stumbling out into the grey light. Arya bolted to her feet and caught Glen around the shoulders as he nearly pitched into the dirt. 

“Easy! I got you, I got you.” The man feebly clung to his CO’s forearm, legs unsteady. He could feel himself being guided back, collapsing into one of the folding chairs hastily set up outside the hundreds upon hundreds of healing tents. “Sit.”

Glen raised his bleary gaze to Arya’s face. He had to tell her. “Arya–” 

“Shh.” There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. “Here, drink this. It’s got the powder in it.” Something pressed first to his palm and then his lips as it was raised to his mouth. “Just…take a minute.”

Sweet, thick nectar slid down the medic’s parched throat. The gritty feeling of fortification powder did little to dissuade him once the liquid touched his tongue. He leaned back, dizzy, draining the bottle before tearing it away with a ragged gasp of air. “Arya–”

“No.” Arya’s voice lacked any bite. It cracked at the edge of the word. Through his steadying vision he could see the shine of tears clinging to her lashes, the pallor of her face beneath grime and streaks of blood. And yet…as always…the fire in her eyes. Different from any time he had seen it before, but still there. “Glen, I can’t…I can’t hear what you’re going to say right now. Just…take your time. Let me take care of you. Please?”

Numb. Exhausted. Blood, blood so akin to hers, caking the joints and creases and crevices of his prosthetic. Tightening and tangled in the fine hairs on his remaining forearm, flakes of it falling from his knuckles as he gripped his knees.

Glenwing nodded, and, feeling every one of his hundred and twenty six years, slumped back in the rickety chair’s embrace.

When he was next aware of his surroundings, cool water was pressed against his arm. Arya knelt before him, her face hidden by the bow of her head as she gently scrubbed away her mother’s blood from his skin. A clean bucket of soapy water was at her knee, several soiled rags in a rough hewn bowl beside it. His prosthetic wasn’t gleaming, but it was as clean as battlefield washing could get it without removing the plates. 

Bandages, soft gauze and clips keeping pads in place, had replaced his left pauldron above the prosthetic. Tape over his right ribs. The slight tug of three stitches, her knots feeling as perfect as he had taught her, over his right eyebrow. Wounds he hadn’t felt, dressed and tended.

Arya’s voice was a shivering murmur, the woman still trying so hard to contain the tangled emotions at war in her chest. “I hope you…don’t mind some company.” She squeezed out the washcloth and used a mug to pour fresh water onto the fabric to avoid spoiling the bucket. “He’s cranky.”

Still bleary, Glen tilted his head down further and found a haphazard pile of feathers nestled in his lap. Blagden let out a half croak of protest, his bandaged wing flopping as he tried to make clear his displeasure. There was blood soaked into the white flight edges, soot turning his startlingly bright form a dingy grey. 

“I healed his wing.” The tremor in Arya’s tone rose for a moment. She turned Glen’s hand over, began clearing the grime from his palm with shaking fingers. “He…he won’t let me do anything besides the bones.” Another fresh wash of clear water. “He wants her.”

Droplets of blood-tinged suds dripped from Glenwing’s fingertips. As his CO pulled away again, wringing out the rag a third time, he caught her wrist. 

Still armored. The moisture made the aramid weave glitter.

“Arya.” 

“Don’t.” 

Carefully shifting a grumbling Blagden to the crook of his metallic arm, Glen gently seized Arya’s elbow and stood. She followed his motion out of ingrained instinct, trying to steady him, grasping his forearm. 

The exhausted medic barely wavered, however. “Arya, look at me.” The younger elf refused, shoulders rigid, teeth set and face obscured by the wild, singed fringes of her hair. Glen gave her no choice, his heart bubbling as he cupped her jaw and turned her back. “Arya, listen.” 

His palm was wet. Not from the water, but from the tears cutting streaks through the soot and blood on Arya’s skin as she finally looked at him. 

“Glen, please.” He could feel her shaking. She was begging him, pleading. “Please, I can’t…I can’t take this right now.” 

Damn it. She really always expected the worst. It’s what made her so fierce, always made her come up swinging. But right now was not a time that required fight. Not from her, at least. 

“Arya.” Glenwing gently squeezed his war sister’s cheek. No, they weren’t war siblings anymore. She was his sister now, forever and always. Kid sister, who he would watch over and take care of just as much as she watched over and took care of him. And right now, he could ease her pain in a way she needed more desperately than any time before. 

“Arya, your mum is alive.” 

The green eyed soldier stared at him. Stopped breathing. 

“Islanzadí’s alive, Ari. She’s stabilizing.” 

A strangled noise, half released pain, half relief, and all bewilderment at the revelation, clawed its way from Arya’s throat. And then she tipped forward and fell against Glenwing’s shoulder, arms almost limp from the shock of it hanging around his body and let out a sob that he could feel deep in his chest. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Careful of the raven cradled in his arm, Glen followed his sister to the ground as her knees gave, holding her to his chest with a hand on her back. “It’s alright, Ari.”

He let her sob into his half-removed armor, cheek pressed to the side of her head as he stroked her unraveling braid and squeezed as tight as he dared. All the while he spoke, repeating himself over and over. Trying to prepare her for the inevitable.

“Arya, she’s alive, but she’s still hurt. We had to stabilize her fast. The only way we could was to take her arm at the shoulder.” 

The feeling of muscle, pulverized, shredded, slippery arteries threatening to retract into flesh, all giving way under scalpel blade and held in place by unforgiving clamps made his throat convulse. A piece of a person separated, so clearly removed, across the tent. The white, purplish hue to the hand, so clearly lacking any bloodflow. 

Deep, deep in his mind, Glenwing wondered if that was how his hand had looked to the healers that night now years in the past. 

And then he shook himself and focused on the present, the woman shivering against him, thanks tumbling from her lips only half intelligible. 

“She’s still weak. We’re putting her in the Dream State for a few days. The healers are going to keep working, they’re doing everything they can to preserve nerves and repair her collarbone and ribs, but it’s slow going, okay? She’s alive, and she’s stabilizing. That’s the important part right now.”

A few more long moments passed, the two of them clinging to each other, before Arya pulled away and rubbed her eyes dry with a scarred wrist. “Can…can I see her?”

Glenwing gave his sister a gentle smile and wiped away the last of her tears with his thumb. “Let them keep working, okay? She’s still in rough shape, and like I said, she’ll kill me if she learns I let you see her like that.”

A small nod and shaky breath in and out. “Okay.” Her smile was bright, eyes still shining, but there was that fire, that spark of hope and tenacity in the face of everything around them. “Thank you.” 

They both slumped into the folding chairs, Glen passing Blagden off to Arya. He didn’t comment when she half wrestled, half shoved him into a bloodied sling across her chest. Just grinned and touched the back of her hand. 

“Now. It’s my turn.” The exhausted medic lolled his head to the side, eyes flicking over his CO’s battered and burnt armor, catching on open spaces where pieces had cracked or fallen away during the pitched throne room battle. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Arya let out a soft laugh. “Don’t you dare go trying to heal anything. I’m alright. Just bruised and banged up a bit.”

Glenwing’s golden eyes were hard when Arya looked to him, pulled by his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t feel that?”

“What, you grabbing me? Of course I do.”

“Arya,” He chose his words carefully. “You look to have a lot of burns on your right side. Just from what I can see.”

Arya blinked. ‘Burns?’ She turned her gaze downward, following where Glen had indicated with his own eyes. 

Most of the armor pieces on her right arm were gone. A few measly shards of spidersilk aramid hung limply at the connection points, edges and fragments sharp as glass. The undersuit was…adhered. In some places. In others it had burned away entirely, the tissue beneath bright cherry pink in rippling flares while shiny tissue spidered out around them. 

Glen grabbed her hand, fingers interlacing with hers, when she went to twist the limb to further examine the damage. “Take it easy, don’t move too much.”

“Bit late for that.” Arya stared. What the hell had happened? She had barely fought at all, Eragon and Murtagh taking the brunt of the close quarters combat on themselves while Saphira and Thorn had rushed–

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Glenwing looked up from carefully wetting pieces of the adhered undersuit with the remaining water from the bucket. Arya had fallen silent for several minutes, eyes glassed and far off, when he began working on getting her free from the charred remains of her armor. He wasn’t exactly surprised at her muted pain reception, adrenaline still pumping even now in his own body, likely covering the pain of any of the injuries she had wrapped while he Tranced outside the tent. But Arya always hated burns, and always made that fact known whenever she had one. 

Arya stared down at her skin as the last strip of undersuit was gently worked off her right arm. Tongues of flame stood embedded in her flesh, licking up her forearm, thankfully missing her joint and skating up to her shoulder like liquid dragonfire had become one with her body. 

“Shruikan breathed fire on me.” She cocked her head. The patterns were honestly quite pretty the longer she looked at them, raw flesh aside. 

Glen reached to the back of his webbing, servos and mechanical joints whirring to manipulate his arm in ways a normal limb could not naturally bend. Burn ointment. Lidocaine ointment. Gauze. “Mm-hm.” He began smearing a mix of the medicines over the burns, quietly thanking whatever the hell may be out there, real or imagined, that the pain was yet to begin. These would not feel good when Arya finally registered the full extent of their spread. 

“I had to go through it.” Even through the numbness of shock and exhaustion, Arya couldn’t suppress a sigh at the cooling feeling creeping over her skin. “Wouldn’t have been able to kill him if Saphira and Thorn hadn’t helped me.”

“That was nice of them.” Loose wrapping. Give it a little bit of air, space for any swelling. Once they both had rested they would reassess. Crazy as she was, Glen had no doubt Arya was going to pester him to let her keep some of the burns as scars. And it was only right, after all, having earned them by killing–

“Wait, what?” 

Blagden’s ruffled head appeared above the edge of the sash. “Be kind, rewind! The thread of fate is confused this time!”

Both Arya and Glenwing stopped their motions and stared down at the beleaguered raven. 

And then pointedly ignored his quip.

“I think the thermal shock is what exploded the armor.” Arya reached up and massaged the right side of her neck. Tiny scratches made themselves known under her fingertips where splinters of the aramid had sliced microtears in her skin. “Explains why my neck itches like mad here.”

“No, wait, hold on!” Glen grabbed her hand and pulled it down. “You killed Shruikan?”

“Saphira and Thorn did all the work getting his head down. And they came up with the plan.” A ghost of a grin touched Arya’s lips at the mention of Murtagh’s partner. “Thorn’s got a very kind consciousness. He’s confused, but he’s very sweet.”

Glenwing stared. As surreptitiously as he could, he used a free finger to palpate her wrist, checking her blood pressure in the most rudimentary way possible. “Ari, slow down a second, okay? You killed Shruikan?”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” The mumble would have alarmed him further had he not seen the bright green fire in her eyes, no hint of any muddling beyond that of exhaustion. “But Eragon and Saphira told us what Elva felt. There could be no saving him. And he was going to kill Saphira and Thorn and everyone else if I didn’t take the opening, so…” She shivered, and Blagden burrowed his head deeper into the sling. “I…I gave him rest. We could give him that much, after what Galbatorix put him through.”

Arya took a steadying breath again and shot Glen a wan smile from beneath troubled brows. “I hated that damn spear.”

Glenwing squeezed her hand. “He’s not being used anymore. That was the best thing for him.”

“True. But it still feels…wrong. To kill a dragon.”

“I know.” 

The conversation lapsed, Glen focusing on the extent of Arya’s burns while the woman leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. The few minutes of Trancing here and there was doing wonders for the both of them, bringing the world back to clarity. 

As he tucked the final tail of the bandage and sealed it with a clip, Arya raised her head and blinked away waking dreams. 

“All good?” 

The medic grinned and rubbed his sister’s head roughly. “Good as it’ll get for now.” He ducked a halfhearted swat and tapped his forehead to hers. He had seen the flicker of her eyes towards the tent, the glimmer of ache. “Do you want to go find Eragon and Saphira? Or Brom? Waiting is going to be more difficult than doing.” His voice was soft. 

Arya stretched and winced as the movement sparked pain along the wrapped burns, quickly soothed by the numbing ointment encasing them. “No. No, they’re all needed elsewhere. Eragon’s working on the citadel wounded, and Saphira’s doing evac. Brom’s–” She paused, a whipcrack tendril of thought finding the old Rider among the thousands upon thousands in the camp. “He’s helping Jörmundur.” She looked past the tents arrayed before them, where the elven command center was nestled in the distance. “If you’re clearing me, then I think I need to find Däthedr. He’d have taken command.”

Glen raised an eyebrow. Of course she’d try to dive into work. In all honesty, he was itching to get back into some normalcy, as odd as their normal was. Taking stock and helping the wounded after a pitched battle always gave him a sense of strange calm, as if the differences made both on and off the field were evening out in alignment. 

Motion caught his eye, snapping his attention to the throng flowing back and forth in the makeshift alley. People were parting, moving to the sides as if a force of nature split their river. 

He tapped the uninjured back of Arya’s right hand, tried again when he touched the nerve-severed portion by accident, and pointed. “I think Däthedr’s already found you.”

The Queen’s aforementioned second was breezing up the muddied lane, the handful of the Lords of House that had not been left behind to tend to Du Weldenvarden fast on his heels. 

Both Glen and Arya pushed themselves up to standing as they neared. Däthedr dismissed their tired salutes with an equally tired wave of his hand, bandages already smeared with dust from the thickened air flashing at his forearm. “Enough of that. I think we can forgo our culture’s formalities at a time like this. It is good to see you both made it out of the citadel.” 

“It’s good to see the lot of you in one piece as well, sir.” Arya gave her mother’s advisor a half smile, one that wobbled at the edges when she straightened and gestured toward the tent at their backs. “If you’ve come about the Queen–”

“Finli has already informed me that Islanzadí lives.” Däthedr’s eyes softened, and, maybe with as much surprise to himself as Glen saw on the faces of the Lords of House, the elder elf stepped forward and gently hugged the woman before him. He pulled back after a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing that the lot of them were in public. “I wish I could say I am here solely to provide support, but time and power moves quickly. We are here to speak on official matters.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” Glen stepped forward to be shoulder to shoulder with his still somewhat bewildered CO. The hug seemed to have caught her off guard just as much as the others, completely unused to the calm and collected Däthedr of all people giving in to what equated to an emotional outburst. It didn’t help that Blagden, woken by the movement and determined to take part in official duties, had begun clambering out of the sling and up her cracked cuirass, using beak and claw to haul himself to a wavering perch on her left shoulder. “Queen Islanzadí is still being tended to, and she is to be put into the Dream State to heal for the next two days at least. With all due respect, I’m afraid you’re going to have to handle the politics on your own.”

Däthedr nodded, head dipping lower than usual. “Understood. We are not here to speak with Islanzadí, but to speak with Arya, and, by extension of your role, you, Glenwing.” He returned his attention to Arya, who seemed to have shaken off her shock, if not the raven clinging to her pauldron. “Nasuada, Eragon, Saphira, Brom and the other leaders are gathering at dusk. The choice of the Broddring ruler is to be made. Our own ruler must attend.”

Arya blinked, then pinched the bridge of her nose, elbow braced against the back of her scarred right wrist where the bandages did not reach. That headache that Blagden’s earlier snap had started was beginning to bloom between her eyes. “Right.” The word came as a barely contained sigh. Really? Now? “Regency. You need my okay to go ahead with electing the Keeper.”

“Keeper?” Glen’s hand at the small of her back was a brief touch, probably invisible to the gathering of elf lords and ladies in its speed. The message was clear, an offering of physical support if she needed it. The question he voiced, while genuine, a subtle way to allow her to catch her metaphorical breath.

It made her grin inwardly. Maybe he should go into politics. 

“Keeper of the Knotted Throne.” Her responding quick tap of her knuckles to his assured him she was fine. “It’s basically a regent, put in place when our ruler is incapacitated until the king or Queen is able to resume duties fully, until they die, or until they pass the throne on to someone else.” Arya dropped her hand and squared her shoulders, ignoring Blagden’s half startled ‘whoop’ at the movement as she fixed her gaze on Däthedr. “They need my permission to put a Keeper in place since I’m the Queen’s next of kin. The Right of Blood, remember? They’re trying to see if I’ll push a claim.”

“Ah.” Glenwing tilted his head slightly. He had only heard Arya invoke Right of Blood a handful of times, all within the last few years, and only within Eragon and Saphira’s band of protectors. Blödhgarm was a reasonable man, and his thinking frequently aligned with Arya’s when it came to commanding the spellcasters that were technically under Eragon and Saphira’s control. 

But cultural standards and hierarchy frequently tied his hands when it came to a few points of contention, and Arya had found her Right of Blood, given by her status as Islanzadí’s daughter and her military rank, allowed them to circumvent such blocks. When Arya spoke with the Right invoked, she spoke with the Queen’s authority, a temporary power but a very high one indeed.

Her use of it during the fateful meeting after Nasuada’s failed kidnapping had been what revealed her parentage to Nasuada and Orrin, and while a rather heated debate on the differences between nobles and primagenature monarchy for humans and elves had followed, the Right had been useful in the end. 

Again, Däthedr bowed his head. Arya’s lips tightened slightly at the lower than normal dip, recognizing it for what it was. Deference. “Yes. We need your permission to name a Keeper.” There was no wary light in his eyes when he met her gaze, just honest exhaustion and a will to find a raft of normalcy in the new storm of uncertainty. 

She could put this in his hands. Her Da had put his faith in him, and so did her Mum. He would not lead the Lords of House to a weak leader, and he would not allow them to manipulate his nomination, nor the Keeper’s judgment. 

Arya sighed again, and this time made no attempt to hide it. She was sore, and she was tired. The sooner she and Glen got to work, the sooner she could forget those facts. Forget that her mother was laying in the tent behind her, arm gone, fighting it out in the Dream State. 

“Alright. I put aside my claim through Right of Blood. You know her better than most, Däthedr.” She nodded firmly. “I trust you’ll find the right person to fill the role, one that the Queen will approve of.”

In the back of the gathered lords, a few shifted slightly. Whether they thought Arya would have pressed claim or were miffed she had so clearly appointed Däthedr to lead the search was unclear. 

“Thank you. However, I’m happy to report that the choice has already been made now that you have given your consent.” Däthedr gestured toward Islanzadí’s tent. “Queen Islanzadí thought it wise to set in place a…living will of sorts. There were…” He paused, grey eyes flicking to the preening Blagden almost too quickly to notice. “Some fears that Islanzadí could be gravely injured or killed on this day. The nomination for Keeper of the Throne was chosen well in advance, as well as Islanzadí’s nomination for her successor should she be killed.” He swept his outstretched hand back, indicating the gathered Lords. “The Lords of House agreed then, and still do now, with the nomination. All that is left is to present the title to them.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but Blagden beat her to it. The white raven lifted his head, ruff proudly raised, and uttered a sharp croak.

“Wyrda!”

Arya scowled at him from the corner of her eye, voice harsh.  “Cram it!” How a raven managed enough expression to look offended, Arya had no idea. He took the chance to nip her ear, growling softly. “Knock it off!” 

Once the feathered terror had taken a few shuffles away from the side of her head, Arya put her hands on her hips, left palm settling on the guard of her father’s blade. A flicker of thought at the sword’s name, amusingly kinned to Blagden’s call, flitted through her mind before it was gone again. 

“That makes this far easier. I’ll leave it to you and the Lords of House to alert the Keeper and prep them if they accept.” She shrugged. Entertaining the idea that the nominee, hand picked by her mother, would refuse the position was a nauseating prospect, but if chaos was what awaited them, then they may as well meet it head on. “If they refuse the position, just let me know when you come up with another one and I’ll do this song and dance again.” 

Arya tilted her head towards Glenwing. “We’re going to head for block eight. Help where we can.”

“Very well.” Däthedr suddenly planted his staff in the mud and squared his shoulders. 

“Arya Shadeslayer of House Tialdarí, of House Varden. You have been chosen by Islanzadí Dröttning, Queen of the elven nation, to assume the mantle of Keeper of the Knotted Throne, and to rule as Queen Regent until Queen Islanzadí is fit to resume her duties or pass them on.” 

Däthedr’s voice rang clear in the crowded space, unmistakable power bonded to the truth of the Ancient Language. “The Lords of House are in agreement and stand united with Queen Islanzadí’s choice, made in sane mind and with due diligence done as required by our laws. This nomination is unanimous.” 

Däthedr locked his grey gaze to Arya’s burning green.

“Do you accept this title, position, and the responsibilities it entails?”

It felt as though the entire camp had gone silent. 

People in the lane stopped and stared, frozen by the authority lent by Däthedr’s voice. Though many had not understood the words, the overall feeling was clear. Something was about to change, a ripple through the fabric of the world ready to race out to enact it.

This was history.  

…Odd how making history still felt fresh during such an already historic day.

And as the last of the sounds of Däthedr’s words rang, even time held its breath.

Arya stared back into Däthedr’s eyes.

And managed only a single croaked, dumbfounded word:

“Huh?”

[thefusioncelestial]

Mix 10: We Only need One Prince & One Kingdom

For the last one thousand years, two neighboring kingdoms have been in some form of conflict or another.

Recently they achieved peace. A weak peace.

With the wisdom borne from two kings, they formed a peace treaty via a marriage contract. A daughter to a son. The son would inherit the daughter's kingdom and unite the warring nations.

There is a problem. Both kings had sons.

Here is one half of that problem:

Prince Admir.

Everyone wants him. In normal circumstances, he would be considered a great boon to a kingdom. In this male dominated world, a male prince is always a good thing. But not in this case.

He was supposed to be female. A princess. The snake in his pants meant that war could be coming. His father is trying to get the nations to wait one more generation, but it is clear to everyone that he & the other king will fail. Even to this famously shy prince.

In the meantime he does whatever he needs to do to play the part: be athletic, sociable, dutiful, and now play the marriage game. He gets a marriage proposal from every noble & aristocratic family every month. He turns them down.

He has to pick the right marriage.

The wrong one could cause a province to revolt. It could lead to assassination attempts. There were other royal lines within his family who would love to take his place.

He needed to clear his mind. He needed speak with the other prince; his best friend.

And he got that opportunity. An secret invite reached him via the royal guard, and he wanted to meet Admir at a beach on neutral ground. It also said that he had a long term solution.

He could use any of the modern transportation methods to get there, but they were electronic & detectable. Too many people would follow. If either prince got hurt, it was war then & there.

He went by horse.

A one hour trip by train took three days by horse.

It was a serene beach. Blue sky, clear water, and light caramel brown sand. He spotted a cottage & a horse tied to it.

A white Saludorian Stallion. My friend, no practically my brother's horse he thought. He had very fine tastes. That breed was imported. One costs one village's tax revenue for a year.

Worth every penny.

Within minutes, he tied his own horse to a post next the other prince's.

The other prince came out and with a sword. He thought he was followed, or that some neighboring country wanted him dead. Many nations would benefit if he got hurt and from the ensuing war.

Or someone wanted to move up the line.

Once he saw that it was Admir, he dropped his blade. His tense look went a away. His muscles relaxed. A very slight smile ran across his face.

Admir noticed it. Prince Kazahad was naked.

He left his eyes open, but blushed. Had fate been kinder, he would be seeing and feeling that wonderful body as his wife.

"Brazen as usual," Admir said.

"I am in the company of my best friend, and why should I deny what I am," Kazahad responded.

"A little decorum goes a long way," Admir said.

But before he could continue, Kazahad was already in the throes of taking Admir's clothes off.

"Let's enjoy each other as we naturally are, one last time," he said.

Admir & Kazahad were secretly dating. Had either of them been a lady, they would be able to do it more openly.

Since puberty had hit them and left 5 years ago, they came to know and like each other. But two rods can't further the line. They can't be married. In the old days of such parings, the married couple each would have their own harem.

But harem politics is nasty. Every mother wants the throne for their son or daughter. Much bloodshed.

And trust it all that the two princes have read & tried nearly everything to get each other pregnant. If one of them could get a baby bump, they could marry each other and unite their kingdoms. But fate says no.

"What do you mean last time, found a marriage partner, who is the lucky princess," Admir asked.

Kazahad went back in the sea cottage. There was rumbling. Admir was piqued, but he stayed outside. He watched the area to make sure he wasn't followed.

Kazahad came back out with a scroll. A really old one. The decayed and flayed edges giving hints to some of what the scroll went through to survive to today and be beheld by his eyes.

"Mir, you know that both our kingdoms have been around for over five thousands years. That's a long time-,"

"Long enough to live through the mysticism of the old eras, see the transition into a more logical one, and benefit from age of scientific reasoning, " Admir finished for him.

Admir was known to be a shy prince, but Kazahad an affect on him. He found his courage whenever Kazahad was near. Kazahad lowkey wished he knew the shy Admir. He didn't even look away when he came out in the buff. But he loved confident Admir more. Especially with what he was about to do to both of them.

"The modern era has no answers for us. Straight up gender swapping is still in its infancy when it comes to making families. In our positions, adoption is a no starter, and royal surrogacy would see our systems abolished after the reforms five hundred years ago ended the Harem system," Kazahad continued.

"So I went into the royal library, very deep too. Five thousand years of storing knowledge means very extensive tunnels. Anyway, the answer is a form of time manipulation," he finished.

"So what, you want to grandfather paradox our kingdoms," Admir asked.

"No, I want to merge us into one. One prince. We are both heirs to our kingdoms. If we become one, our timelines become one. Perhaps our kingdoms as well. If I read right," Kazahad finished.

Admir closed his eyes a little. He has seen magic performed. He still preferred science though, Kazahad was all about the magic. This reflected in their kingdoms too. One drenched in technology, the other magic. Kazahad was the most powerful mage in his kingdom. He practiced the sword too. He was a noted battle mage. But Admir was better on the front. Better with the physical arts, worse on the magical. A Magic Warrior.

Kazahad put the scroll down and quickly scooped Admir in his arms.

He whispered in Admir's ear: "Come one let's do this."

Admir loved that about Kazahad, he went for what he wanted. It also meant he sometimes acted before thinking. He mastered teleportation for a reason.

Admir got out of Kazahad embrace. He looked miffed. He turned around and looked out into the area. The sea breeze and the smell of saltwater was calming.

"What happens to our minds, who is operating this new us," Admir asked.

"Both of us and neither of us. We will become a new being, a new persona. Everything we do, we do as one," Kazahad answered. He was scared that Admir was going to say no. He was asking Admir to give up his individuality for their kingdoms. To be joined and mixed up with a another person.

"Is it permanent," Admir asked.

"Yes."

"..."

"..."

For his people. He was raised to be self sacrificing for his people. If this is what he had to do to obtain longer lasting peace, to not push the problems of the past to the next generation, his prospective kids & grand kids, he must do this.

Sigh.

"Ok," Admir responded.

Kazahad was elated. He wanted to jump up and down like an 8 year old girl, but he too understood what they were giving up. But oh, what they would be gaining. Kazahad was excited with the idea of join his existence to Admir's. His body showed it as well. Admir looked over and saw the rod reacted in agreement. He blushed again. He was joining with this oversized knuckle head.

Kazahad got the scroll and some belongings and took Admir to the beach. Before long, Admir realized what he was doing. A picnic. One final picnic before they tie the knot. Romantic.

They finished their last lunch together as individuals, and cleaned up the area. After digestion, the bathroom, and wash up, they were both back on the beach.

Kazahad unfurled the scroll and began drawing a large design in the sand.

"While I finish making this, take it all off. I am not going to become part cotton," he said.

Admir agreed. He then sat next to the symbol and waited. He looked out at the beach one final time as himself. He took a deep breath.

It was done. Admir couldn't make out heads or tails save a large featureless circle in the middle.

"We sit or stand in the middle there. I pour my mana into the circle, and boom: super hot mega prince," Kazahad was beaming.

"How do you know that this new prince is going to be hot, we could just turn into a blobby monster," Admir joked.

"Haha, get over here," Kazahad said.

"Such a rush to join with me," Admir responded.

"Who wouldn't want to," Kazahad said.

Admir blushed for the final time.

They were soon in the middle of the circle. Admir was careful to not smudge the lines. Kazahad poured his mana into them. They glowed green & blue. The color of their princely auras.

Then both princes went limp. They fell to the ground, the circle expanded to not have them fall out of it. They were both in an sleeping position.

Both princes began to melt. They were now two puddles with the color of their skin next to each other. They then swirled around each other and mixed. The merged puddle stopped moving.

Inside this puddle was the sum of their merged mass. The dna of the two princes merged, but in a rare occurrence, became a quad helix dna structure. Nothing of each other on that level would be abandoned. Once the new structure was done making itself, it fired off.

The puddle began to move again in response to the new genetic instructions. Starting from the head first, a body began to form. It was as if someone was floating out of a deep pool. And as more of the body came out, the puddle shrank as well.

There was a featureless humanoid where the princes once stood.

The dna fired off again.

The initial body was lanky, the features small. There was a series of pops. He let out a low "uhhh". His chest, shoulders, neck, arms and legs suddenly exploded with muscle. It was clear that this was Kazahad's doing. He was the bigger of the two.

"ah"

His hands & feet followed, they grew to meet all of that muscle. More ligaments came as well. You could hear a snaps as they connected his limbs.

"mmm"

His stomach expanded to be like Kazahad's but Admir took the reigns, the skin tightened around his stomach area. He had Admir's abdominal insertions, but Kazahad's abdominal size.

"ngh"

Admir & Kazahad were sitting on a beach. The same beach cottage nearby. They knew this was it. The final step. They were next to each other. All they had to do was join hands. Admir hesitated at first. No more him, but what he would become, this new journey he would share it with Kazahad, his love.

He took the initiative and grabbed Kazahad's hand first. Kazahad blushed this time. He finally did it, he made Kazahad blush instead. Kazahad let out a sigh of content. They both looked at as sea. This was this new prince's inner mental world, his subconsciousness. His two halves would live in blissful harmony, within him.

The face began to change. He had a mixture of the two prince's hair & skull shapes. Kazahad's style with Admir's volume. The ears were Kazahad's. The nose Admir's. The eyes & mouth were a mixture of the two. The eyebrows as well.

Admir's skin tone won out.

The new prince opened his eyes to the waking world. He was Prince Ehsan.

There was a bag of clothes next to him, he a got a shirt and a towel before he noticed the surrounding area:

The beach had a city on its shores. And there were people gawking at him. Some giggling too. He was naked. He facepalmed himself, Admir's side, and ran to the still existing cottage. It was too late.

News of the prince going naked at the beach hit the news. Again. Lots of comments from admirers. The negative ones wanted his work out & diet secrets.

The two kingdoms merged as well. A kingdom of science & a kingdom of magic became a kingdom of alchemy.

Ehsan was one of the best alchemists as well. Some attributed this to his intelligence, some to his habit of going full in on experiment without crossing all of the t's & dotting all of the I's, and lucking out 90% of the time. Kazahad was smiling from deep inside Ehsad.

In this new timeline, the kingdoms merged five hundred years ago. Finding a balance between magic & science has led it to becoming one of the most advanced civilizations in history.

While Ehsan ensured peace for the two kingdoms he would call home when he was two people, these two kingdoms, now one, were not the only nations out there. However, he was happy as he was, and didn't want to go about absorbing other princes. His better understanding of this merger method and time meant that he could risk unraveling time & reality.

He put some clothes back on, and went to the internationally famed academy. It was the final stop to becoming a mage, warrior, alchemist, scientist & everything between and out within his kindgom. His people's university. He was a professor there. It was time time scout out talent and create his own royal squad.

The dragons are going to quake in their scaly boots.

[galactic-glamour-girl-posts]

The Animaniacs Shared Universe (A.K.A The Tooniverse)

It goes deeper than you think!

(I put way too much thought into this lol)

Tier 1 - Mutually Canon (They definitely share a universe)

I'll be separating each property mentioned into tiers (hey I told you I put too much thought into this). This tier is for properties where characters from Animaniacs have shown up in them as themselves, and vice versa. These have to be more than just references. No parodies, knockoffs, cases where the characters exist but are fictional in universe (as in they're not toon actors, they're fictional cartoon characters with no thoughts of their own), etc. These are part of the ASU, no question.

Tiny Toon Adventures

First, there's the fact that Ralph debuted in Tiny Toon Adventures, before he became a recurring character in Animaniacs, although he was unnamed at the time:

Then, once Animaniacs started, characters from Tiny Toon Adventures would often make cameos, and Animaniacs characters would cameo in Tiny Toons' post-series specials:

Before I move on to the next property, although most of the properties mentioned in this post don't always adhere to continuity, I still only want to provide evidence from content that at least could be considered canon, so while I feel obliged to acknowledge the existence of "Pinky, Elmyra and the Brain", given that it isn't canon, it's depiction of how these characters share a universe doesn't really matter.

Pinky and the Brain

A pretty obvious pick, given that Pinky and the Brain were initially just Animaniacs co-stars before getting their own show:

Their spin off series has plenty of references to Pinky and the Brain's adventures in Animaniacs. Also, Phar Fignewton, Billie, and other Animaniacs characters all make appearances (with Billie and the Warners appearing multiple times):

Those in addition to the series finale ("Star Warners"), where the cast of Animaniacs reunite to do a sketch that parodies Star Wars, make it clear that the spin off definitely takes place in the same world as Animaniacs.

Freakazoid!

This show is more removed from Animaniacs than the previous two properties, but Wakko and Brain show up in Freakzaoid, and Freakazoid shows up in Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain, so it's in the ASU alright.

Space Jam/Classic Looney Tunes

I realise that Looney Tunes in general doesn't really have a "universe", just various iterations/reboots. So the versions of the Looney Tunes I imagine exist in the ASU are the ones in the Space Jam movies/classic shorts (or pretty much any version of them that are toon actors in the modern world).

The Looney Tunes appear or are at least mentioned in Animaniacs multiple times:

Space Jam is alluded to in the Pinky and the Brain episode "Inherit the Wheeze", and the Warners are in Space Jam: A New Legacy (their water tower is even placed in Looney Tunes World in the movie).

There's also the fact that Tiny Toons is an official Looney Tunes spin off, so presumably if Animaniacs shares a universe with that show the Looney Tunes should therefore exist as toons in the ASU.

Tier 2 - Implied/Headcanon (They could share a universe)

For cases where Animaniacs or another ASU property implies that they share a universe, but this isn't done the other way round (for example, if a character from the property appeared in Animaniacs, but no characters from Animaniacs appear in their franchise). This can be done via references, cameos, mentions, etc., but they have to come off as more than just references/jokes, they have to imply characters from those properties really do exist. Basically, the Tooniverse may consider them canon, but the feeling isn't mutual (yet, at least).

Mickey Mouse & Friends

For this franchise, when I say they might "share a universe" it's assuming the context is that Mickey and Friends are also toon actors in the real world, like the Warners, Slappy, Bugs, etc. I'm also including Goof Troop stuff, Donald Duck universe stuff, etc. WB cartoons reference/take shots at Mickey/Disney ALOT, so I'll only talk about a few references that imply that Mickey, Minnie, etc. are real people in Animaniacs.

Slappy mentions attending Daisy Duck’s bar mitzvah in a season 3 segment called "Gimme a Break", so that implies Daisy, and therefore the rest of the gang, really do exist and aren't just fictional characters. She also mentions Huey, Dewey, Louie in the same episode. She mentions these characters while delirious, but one of her gimmicks is being reminded of younger versions of other cartoon stars she's met, so who's to say she hasn't actually met them?

Dot says "Why don't you go bug the kids on Goof Troop?" to a nanny in another season 3 segment called "The Sound of Warners". Again it's just a mention (and a sarcastic one at that), but it does imply that they are real people in their world.

DuckTales has been mentioned a few times; by Pinky in "Opportunity Knox" ("Egad, this is better than a DuckTales episode.") and Yakko mentions the DuckTales reboot in "Suspended Animation - Part 2".

These references alone don't imply Scrooge, the triplets, etc. are real, but alongside the previous references, it does seem to imply that the cast of DuckTales are animated actors in this world too (Animaniacs, the show, exists in-universe too yet the Warners are real people).

All these and more just seem to repeatedly hint that Mickey and his pals are toons in Animaniacs just like the Warners, but since they're from another studio we can't see them onscreen.

This is supported by the possible presence of…

Roger Rabbit

Ralph greets Roger as he enters the lot in the limo (presumably with Jessica) in Tiny Toon Adventures, and although we don't see Roger's face and he's wearing grey gloves rather than yellow ones, Ralph explicitly refers to him as "Roger":

He shows up again later:

OK I admit this one's kind of a cheat because this guy could count as a knockoff (different clothes), but think about it, if he is just supposed to be a knockoff, why hide his face? Why make sure we never see him up close? He's one of the only supposed knockoff characters they do this with. It just implies that this is actually supposed to be Roger, but for the sake of copyright they keep his face away from the camera, since Roger Rabbit is considered a Disney property.

Mickey, Minnie and more appear in WFRR, which goes perfectly with the implication that they are toon actors in Animaniacs. It’s also one of the only properties where both Bugs and Mickey exist (or in Animaniacs' case, Mickey is implied to exist) in the real world as themselves and not parodies or fictional characters. I'm just saying, Animaniacs and Who Framed Roger Rabbit being taking place in the same world would make sense, considering they are both about toons in the real world.

Plus, Steven Spielberg directed Who Framed Roger Rabbit and even voices the "knockoff". I think it's only fitting the movie that got him invested in directing animation shares a universe with the rest of his animated work.

Tier 3 - Reaches/Outside References (It's possible they share a universe, but unlikely)

For cases where a property implies/shows that Animaniacs/ASU characters exist in their world, but this has not happened the other way round. This tier is also for cases where the property has no canon and hence can't share a universe.

Histeria!

Some of the character models that were used in Histeria came from Animaniacs (like ones for caricatures of historical figures such as Michelangelo and Ludwig von Beethoven), and some Animaniacs characters are mentioned/seen in Histeria!:

So why isn't it in Tier 1?

Two reasons. First, in regards to the character models, this seems to be a case where they just reused background character designs rather than intentionally putting an established character in a different show. For example, the World's Oldest Woman was not given a name until Histeria! and was slightly redesigned, and Ludwig von Beethoven has a different voice in Histeria!, so they're not really official appearances of those characters as their Histeria! selves. Yes that's a similar situation to Ralph, but the difference is that the background characters have completely different roles in Histeria! whereas Ralph is the WB security guard in both Tiny Toons and Animaniacs and looks exactly the same (Frank Welker even voices him in both). In the case of the historical figures, two properties depicting the same historical figure does not mean that they share a universe.

As for the Animaniacs references, Histeria has no canon. It's not like Looney Tunes and Space Jam where there's at least a duology of films where one continues the story of the other. There are recurring characters and gags but each episode is completely standalone (different settings, time periods, etc.), unlike most of the other properties which are episodic, but do have continuity (Miss Flamiel is hired in her debut episode and continues to be the Warner's teacher in later episodes, Snowball buys Microsponge in season 1 of PATB and still owns it in season 4, etc.) Histeria! exists in it's own little reality-warping world. Therefore any references to Animaniacs are just that: references.

Teen Titans Go!

Yes, really.

Starfire mentions that the WB water tower is where "the Animaniacs" live in "Teen Titans GO! To the Movies".

(Yes they make the mistake of calling the Warners "the Animaniacs" when that name is meant to refer to the entire recurring cast of the show, but to be fair official Animaniacs media has made this same mistake so whatever.)

And before anyone thinks "Well she's an alien who probably doesn't understand that cartoon characters aren't real", TTG is yet another show where toons are actors in the real world. This is confirmed in multiple episodes, such as their Warner Bros. 100th Anniversary special:

So Starfire knew exactly what she was talking about. The thing is, the Warners themselves don't appear in any episodes of the show, neither inside or outside the water tower. However, the Animaniacs cast may still exist as toon actors in their world. This is implied by:

TTG'S ACTUAL CROSSSOVER WITH FREAKZOID. Granted, he is sort of treated as a fictional character, but in a meta way that would fit right at home in an episode of Freakazoid. The toon actor reasoning can still apply. The point is he's interacting with the real world and doesn't only exist within a TV screen. However, until TTG itself is referenced in some way in either official Animaniacs media or some other ASU property, these are just references.

.

.

.

I realise most of these were probably just seen as fun cameos and/or references and nothing more, but the idea of the Warners and Bugs Bunny canonically being co-workers who have known each other for years, or something like Dip actually existing in their world, etc. just feels right. Helps the world seem...larger, and more developed! (Goodnight Everybody!)

Ahem. Anyway, this was post fun to think about, and only slightly less fun to make (f#@% the 30 image per post limit).

[erzherzog-von-edelstein]

So, you want to draw Austria in uniform?

Here's a long overdue post that I suggested a while back. Maybe it will be useful to an artist or two.

Q: Why would I draw a character who is notoriously bad at fighting in uniform? A: Because Austrian dress uniform was a symbol of status. Most officers would wear it in public. It was also a tradition of the Habsburg dynasty to be part of the military and wear their uniforms on official occasions, regardless of their own military prowess. Franz Joseph, for example, wore a uniform practically every day of his life and had a rather lackluster track record for battles. Roderich wearing it would be more about prestige than anything else.

If you want to draw him in a historically accurate uniform, there are references below:

So, what do they look like?

Color: White. This is how you would identify Austrian soldiers and officers. The pants are often red. If you're looking at the 18th century or later, this is the uniform in different shapes as fashion changes:

(from left to right: Seven Years War, Napoleonic Wars, and 1850s)

None of this applies to periods before the standardization of uniforms (which is in the 18th century)

It does also come in light blue, though that is the less common version:

Changes: In the Mid-19th century, there is an increase in the use of dark grey or blue overcoats in battle. This was because of the increased precision of firearms, which made putting officers in bright white a worse and worse decision.

You sometimes see these overcoats in paintings over someone's shoulders:

Hey did I mention that Franz Joseph wore uniforms every day? It makes him such a good reference for what Austrian uniforms looked like.

The overcoats are a protective measure for the battlefield, and if Roderich is at a formal event, he should still be in white.

Don't forget the sword! He doesn't have to be good at using it to wear it symbolically. Dueling and fencing were large parts of Austrian officer culture.

Important Decorations (for adding spice to his uniform):

The Red and White Sash: This is self-explanatory. The colors of the flag of Austria. The sash is often associated with being part of the Order of Maria Theresa.

The Order of the Golden Fleece: This is a chivalric order that the Habsburgs were (and still are) the heads of. It goes back to Burgundy as an order of Knights. It's insignia looks like this:

You'll see it in every portrait of a Habsburg king, emperor, or archduke. There is a Spanish and Austrian version because it is inherited from before the split (and divorce means you split custody of the chivalric order). Both Roderich and Antonio should have one of these. In the Early Modern Period, these were often worn on a chain. In the Modern Period, they're worn on a ribbon:

The Order of Maria Theresa: Order of Military Merit founded by Maria Theresa during the Seven Years War. Its badge looks like this:

Order of Franz Joseph: Order of Military of Civilian Merit found in 1848. It's insignia looks like this:

These are both orders from beloved sovereigns that Roderich is likely to have, just be mindful of when they are created.

One more that was common for Habsburg monarchs, but consider the symbolism if Roderich is wearing it:

The Order of St. Stephen of Hungary: Founded by Maria Theresa, but associated with Hungary. This is still the highest honor of the Hungarian state:

If you wanted to only include him wearing it after 1867, it could be symbolic of his marriage.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta mythos-integrity="obliterated"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="DISNEY_STAR_WARS_BETRAYAL::REY_TRILOGY_BACKLASH_EXPANDED" EFFECT: legacy grief storm, mythic narrative autopsy, forced nostalgia detox TRIGGER_WARNING="agenda rage, fan betrayal, ancestral myth desecration" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “THE FORCE IS FRAUDULENT: HOW DISNEY GUTTED THE MYTH” [MYTHOS AUTOPSY — EXTENDED CUT] “For every fan who cried on Mustafar — and gagged on Canto Bight.”

He trained himself. He bled for it. He heard the Force first. And they still made him a background extra.

—

This post is not for casuals.

It’s for the ones who grew up treating Star Wars like scripture. For the ones who still remember Vader’s breath as a religious moment. For the ones who watched Luke toss his saber and felt their entire childhood collapse.

I’m not here to argue. I’m here to mourn. I’m here to dissect the corpse. Because the myth is dead. And Disney killed it. Not with hate. But with branding.

—

Let’s start with the fraud.

“The Force is for everyone.”

Cool slogan. Until they weaponized it. Twisted it from spiritual lineage into focus group inclusion. It’s not mythic magic anymore. It’s a marketing keycard they swipe at will.

Rey didn’t earn it. She absorbed it. No Yoda. No training. No trials. Just plot invincibility and constant applause.

They didn’t give us a character. They gave us a vessel for modern talking points.

Meanwhile?

They threw Finn in a broom closet.

—

Let’s talk about him.

Finn. The stormtrooper who woke up. The conscripted soul who broke the spell. The man who felt the Force before he knew what it was.

THAT MAN should’ve been the spine of a new myth. The new archetype. A sweaty janitor turned Jedi philosopher. A force of will who didn’t inherit destiny but built it. From blood. From grief. From rejection.

Instead? They muted him. Sidelined him. Reduced him to a scream.

“REEEYYYYY!!”

Not a romance. Not a duel. Not a rite of passage. Just chasing her shadow. Like a dog begging for subplot.

—

And now they’re announcing more Rey. Another trilogy. Another forced resurrection of a character who never bled.

Let’s be clear:

📊 FACT: Rey lost nothing. 📊 FACT: Rey never trained. 📊 FACT: Rey was handed the Force like a wellness brand sponsorship. 📊 FACT: Rey is Palpatine’s granddaughter.

Let’s stop right there.

—

Palpatine. Literal evil incarnate. Sith devil. Architect of genocide. The man who poisoned the Republic, groomed Anakin, enslaved clones, and force-electrocuted the galaxy.

Now? His granddaughter is the light-side’s final hope? A pure-hearted Jedi angel?

Bitch how?

Did his sith nut skip a generation? Was his lineage purified by midichlorian PR firms? You’re telling me the blood of Satan created Space Jesus?

Make it make sense.

—

This is not storytelling. This is ideological laundering. They cleansed the dark with marketing glitter. They sacrificed lore on the altar of agenda.

Meanwhile?

Anakin’s arc is voided. Luke’s sacrifice is mocked. Ben Solo’s death is pointless.

It’s narrative malpractice.

—

Let’s do a MYTH DEATH CHECKLIST:

✅ Luke Skywalker — turned into a depressed space hermit ✅ Leia — turned into a Jedi Master off-screen ✅ Han Solo — stabbed by his son, no Force redemption ✅ Poe — shamed into irrelevance ✅ Finn — de-powered and benched ✅ Snoke — clone gibberish ✅ Rey — instant god-mode ✅ Palpatine — resurrected with zero logic ✅ Lightsabers — meaningless trinkets ✅ Prophecy — never resolved ✅ Force Ghosts — used like Siri popups

—

You feel that?

That’s decades of lore collapsing. That’s the sacred burning.

And all of it?

For the worst trilogy ever made.

The Rey Trilogy wasn’t just bad. It was spiritually insulting.

—

Compare it to what came before:

🛑 Anakin Skywalker — traumatized boy turned fallen god 🛑 Obi-Wan Kenobi — haunted brother with nothing left 🛑 Padmé — voice of peace torn by war 🛑 Luke — idealist who stared into evil and chose mercy 🛑 Yoda — exiled monk watching the temple he built burn 🛑 Leia — born from war, made from grace

These characters had pain. Fear. Cost. Love. Failure. Growth.

They died with myth.

Rey lived with entitlement.

—

Let’s talk about what Finn should’ve been.

Force-sensitive stormtrooper

Becomes a rogue monk

Builds his own path

Refuses Jedi dogma

Protects children like he once was

Doesn’t need a lightsaber

Uses the Force to confront trauma itself

Becomes Master not by rank — but by respect

That story?

Would’ve sold billions. Would’ve healed the canon. Would’ve created a new mythos.

Instead?

We got Rey picking her last name like a Starbucks order. “Skywalker.”

Without loss. Without training. Without heritage. Without anything.

Just self-assigned legacy.

—

📊 LORE CRIME STATS 📊

Rey’s Jedi training time on-screen: ~3.5 minutes

Times she almost dies: 0

Number of meaningful losses: 0

Lightsabers she wields: All of them

Force powers used with no instruction: Every one

Actual struggle? None.

—

This is not a character. This is narrative malpractice.

And you wonder why the fans are furious?

Because we remember what myth used to feel like.

Sacrifice. Fate. Brotherhood. Real stakes.

Anakin’s scream when Obi-Wan leaves him burning? That’s myth. Luke throwing away his saber in defiance of hate? That’s myth.

Rey screaming “I am all the Jedi” while looking like a wet napkin with eyeliner? That’s TikTok lore. That’s content. That’s fraud.

—

🧠 Read more scrolltrap rage sermons and myth arc dissections at: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble 🛡️ Emotional canon funerals. Legacy CPR. 🚪 Warning: This post may awaken Force rage you thought you buried.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [THE FORCE DIDN’T DIE. THEY COMMODIFIED IT INTO A CONTENT SLAVE.] -->

[puppetwoman17]

@ace-is-undead It’s nice to meet a new fan! I hope you make lots of friendships on here❤️

For anyone who’s curious, this person asked me:

as someone taking interest in Captain Marvel because of the movies (never heard of him before :/), I'd love to know why you think the movies ruined Billy's image! Bear in mind, I recently started reading some comics about Shazam

I knew I’d be making a hella long comment, so I thought, hell, let’s make a post!

Now, as a preface, I worded what I said a little too strong. The 2019 movie isn’t the worst piece of Shazam/CM media ever. There are definitely parts of it that I liked. The humor was 10/10 for me, and I did like the costumes. There are things about the story I don’t like, but for the purpose of all of us not sitting here for the next two hours, I will stick with just Billy’s personality.

This post will probably have stated everything more eloquently than me lol:

Many Golden Age heroes were created/used to combat war trauma. To the kids who read those comics, it made them feel safe. To read about these people with fantastical abilities, who regularly fought Nazis, supervillains, and entire armies.

Captain Marvel was a little different, though. It wasn’t an adult who was doing the protecting. Or, it wasn’t JUST an adult. It was also Billy Batson. A kid, like all of the other kids reading these comics. And it was different from kid heroes like Robin because he was the hero. The main hero.

Before the New52 reboot, basically from the 40s-2000s, but I could be wrong, Billy was a homeless kid. His uncle Ebenezer threw him out after his parents died and stole his inheritance. He got a job at Whiz Radio and became a reporter, giving him enough money to get his own apartment.

In one continuity, his friend Dudley becomes his guardian. In the most famous interpretation, the Power of Shazam series from the 90s, he is, after some time, adopted by his twin sister Mary’s adoptive family the Bromfields, and Nora Bromfield happens to be their mother’s cousin.

The important thing to grasp from this is that Billy was independent. Responsible. And when he got his powers, he was also responsible with them. He has a few fumbles, but he was always able to keep them and do good with them.

His Captain Marvel persona was also like that. He led the Squadron of Justice, a team of Fawcett heroes. There are also instances of heroes like Batman and Superman praising him as a trustworthy hero, even knowing about his identity.

It’s also important to note that, while in some times the Captain character is childish, he is never stupid. He makes mistakes, is a little goofy, but he never does anything outright cringe worthy.

A prime example of a good interpretation is the JLU episode Clash. The whole JL really likes him. For some reason my tumblr is acting up today so I can’t put any videos without it not allowing me to type afterwords. But the series is on Netflix. Like holy heck, Bruce says they all like him because he’s sunny. Bruce!

There’s also comic examples, like Action comics #768, which is in the POV of Superman. I’m just gonna put everything Clark thinks as text.

“And then it happens.”

“Armed with the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Atlas, and the focus of Achilles, a teenage boy in the body of a man defends human kind to a frog goddess.”

“I can’t imagine anything more ludicrous. I can’t imagine anything more moving.”

“With unmatched eloquence, he explains humanity’s needs, our weaknesses, and our relationships with nature to a being as old as time.”

“She retorts. It’s not the act itself that enrages her, but the fact that her people are taken for granted.”

“Bred, butchered, wasted. Without appreciation for the contribution to the lifecycle.”

“He emphasizes. It is a horrible thing to be underestimated, unappreciated, forgotten.”

“His sincerity is a living thing. They speak for an eternity until Heqt has been heard and appeased.”

“Then, the war is over. Diplomacy and reason succeeds, where force…where I… simply would have failed.”

This is another example:

I mean the whole Captain Marvel-focused panel is Clark and Bruce arguing with Diana that Cap will be a great asset to the League, and how Bruce wants him on because he’s just GOOD. They all knew he was a kid, and they didn’t care because they trusted him that much!

Many 80s and 90s comic showed Cap as this beacon of hope, very akin to his Fawcett era, which is why so many of us liked it. He was still goofy at times, but it never overshadowed how much of a hero he was. Hell, the Fawcett heroes never gave a damn about him being a kid. All they saw was a person doing good, and they automatically began working with him.

He would get into friendly tussles with Superman, and him and Diana hugged one time, and she confided in him about how she might die. I can’t find the issue, but it’s drawn by Alex Ross, so that may narrow it for you.

Cap was genuinely respected. There are even some comics where Billy’s is interacting with the League as himself and they treat him like any other friend!

And Billy was chosen not because he was a last resort, but because the Wizard saw so much good and purity in him. He still made mistakes, but he was never not worthy.

Compare that with, not just the Shazam movies, but the DCAMU movies(JL War & Throne of Atlantis), and you get a whole other monster. I mean, he is just dumb, awful. He’s good when he’s Billy, a little snarky while also being a good person and comforting Cyborg(before taking his jersey, lol). But when he’s Shazam(his name in the DCAMU) every single thing that came out of his mouth was just… not it. If gets even worse in Throne of Atlantis. Literally almost everyone on the team hates him. The only reason Cyborg doesn’t is because he knows his identity.

In the 2019 Shazam movies, hes very similar. They made him a lot more jaded, which just ruined his character for me because Billy is the type of person who would rather die than talk down to other kids going through what he did. I’m cool with the rebelliousness, it’s just that that I’m worried about. It’s even worse in the 2013 shazam comic series because he’s actually way meaner there. Like jeez, why do you want me to hate this boy so much DC??

And as his Shazam self, he’s like ten times more goofy and irresponsible, which is such a backwards take it’s insane.

The character of Captain Marvel was beloved by so many children because it showed that they could be just like those other heroes. They could fight the monsters and get the job done, and no one would look down on them. They would be taken seriously. Seeing this kid bond with and interact with and be trusted by these seasoned adult heroes was EVERYTHING.

I may not have a grown up in the 40s/50s, but I did get introduced to him in JLU, and then Young Justice, and then obscure media, and then comics. And through that journey, the take I loved infinitely more was of Captain Marvel being this guy who made mistakes, but always tried to do the right thing.

Making him out to be this…immature dude who never knew what he was doing just stomped on all of us. It also really irks me because that is how some people will be introduced to him. As opposed to who he really is. And they won’t be interested because the face value is all they’ll see.

Heck, some people think he’s one of the weakest DC characters when he ranks in the top ten. He’s the Champion of Magic and guardian of the Rock of Eternity for Pete’s sake! He’s fought and almost won against the Specter himself! (Day of Vengeance comic series, it’s so good!)

It’s unclear why his character has been so diminished. Some people, including me, think DC is trying to lower his…everything in general so he can never measure up to the Man of Steel, which is so petty it’s ridiculous.

Hopefully he’ll get something in James Gunn’s new DCU, a movie or a show. Because I feel like there’s a chance to reintroduce the true Captain/Shazam to people.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my petty-fueled rant😅. Sorry for the angry spews. Anyway, there are some good reading lists for Shazam/Cap on tumblr. I really advise you to check those out. Though there are also a few articles on google listing all of his appearances, so if you wanna get detailed then those are where you should go.

We also have a Captain Marvel fan club! Go over to @im-not-buying-it-ether and ask for an invite for more content.

I hope you have a fulfilling journey!

[velvet-vox]

V and Doll; trauma, mental disorder, and low empathy.

(Warning: this post is slightly outdated and contains some incorrect medical terms that don't correspond to the modern classification of ASPD. You can still read it if you are curious, but don't take anything stated here as hard facts. They are not.)

Very recently on my notifications I received a reblog by @aroaceweirdos101 to a response I've made to a post talking about how Doll went through so much more pain than V, and it made me realise that the response in question was actually, like, really good.

I had genuinely forgotten and underestimated how good of an analysis of both V, Doll, mental health and societal stigma it really was.

Now, of course, I disagree with the sentiment that Doll suffered more than V and fully believe that out of the two V endured way more pain and trauma than Doll; yet, although the responses in the comments checked out with what I previously said, they felt... meaner?

Like, the answers went to the opposite extreme of the original comment and tried to downplay Doll's trauma in comparison to V's, almost implying that Doll was a b##ch (which she was) for snapping as hard as she did when V still managed to retain a sense of restraint; and I disagreed with that, so in response I wrote this:

*Look, I believe both Doll and V are interesting characters, and although I feel more sympathetic towards Doll, I definitely believe V went through so much more pain than Doll and had way more reasons to snap and be the way she is now, but I just really hate people who use that as an excuse to label Doll has the more evil of the two or "she was always just a psycho, she just needed an excuse to snap"; it's especially disheartening when people straight up interpret her as unreademable or pure evil, when V and N's body count is 10 times higher than Doll's.

Also, I'm sorry but I really can't stomach the possibility of Liam redeeming the genocidal war machine and not the broken orphan created by said psycho, it literally would be the fictional pinnacle of "since these are the protagonists, they can get away with as much as they want and are always in the right"; I'm fine with the way Doll died because it was done by Cyn and there wasn't any moral lesson to be gained from our protagonists about it, but if it was done by N, Uzi, or worst of all V again, it should have played out like "we have reasons to do the things we do, and you have yours, unfortunately we're on opposite sides and you are hurting us so we must kill you now".

The human (worker drone) mind is extremely fragile, and some people, due to a probably inherited and undiagnosed mental illness or a particular personality type, are more at risk of snapping then other people, yet instead of being understanding towards those who are born with more issues than others (especially women, look up Azula or Ashley Graves) we tend to isolate, demonize and then kill them because they were incapable of fitting into the larger societal standard of acceptable social behaviour, even when said society never did anything to help them meet its unreachable standards because it required too much work from society's side to give you the special attention you needed in order to make you work and fit in.

V was a quiet kid because she was shy, Doll was a quiet kid because she was introverted. Those are two very different types of people and one of them (Doll) was inherently more at risk of developing mental health issues than the other due to their personality type and how it's stigmatized.*

Here's also the original post made by an anonymous user on @md-confessions

Also, here's the link to another post still talking about V and Doll. I made two comments in response, but neither of them is particularly well thought out and since you can't correct them I left them as they were.

Now, back to the highlighted part:

I want to use this response as a springboard to talk about the main differences between Doll and V when it comes to their different handling of their decaying mental health and why it's unfair to say that one of them was worse than the other based on their actions and attitude towards the problem.

(Also, all of the Murder Drones characters are extremely complex, and the fact that the show doesn't have filler makes it harder to get a good grip on one's particular mindset, so if it seems like I'm talking more about Doll than I am about V, it is because V is the most complicated character in the cast and I'm not as confident to talk about her as I am with Doll; it took one entire year to finally understand Doll as well as I do now, so V is a touchy subject for me that's why I might not do her justice).

First of all, it has to be said: Doll is a sociopath, V isn't, despite appearing like one. And that's ok.

When I say that I feel more sympathy towards Doll than I do for V, this is what I mean: I don't sympathise with Doll heartlessness more than I do with V jackassery; rather I understand and relate with Doll's low empathy since I also have low empathy as well, and it is quite common for people like us to be misunderstood for uncaring individuals.

It's the same reason why I and many others tend to like villains and sympathise with them more than we do with the heroes (Lord Shen from Kung Fu Panda 2 is the perfect example for this); it's quite common for villains to be written as individuals with low empathy, as an highly empathetic individual tends to be harder for the audience to buy as an antagonist, since you need to justify why someone this caring is committing all this heinous and terrible stuff, but if that person is already unemphatetic by nature, than it's just a matter of establishing their goals and motivations. These people also tend to be ostracized by their environment and go through a gruesome and violent death because it's socially acceptable to let these despicable individuals find comeuppance through death since they lack the traits that make a person traditionally good.

So, when people use the "So what? She's got dead parents. Many others do, including Uzi, who's also infected with the Absolute Solver, yet they have not become cannibalistic serial killers obsessed with revenge" as a slight against Doll it's not entirely fair because from what we've gathered in the show the other worker drones don't suffer from sadistic impulses and sociopathy like Doll does, even if they (Rebecca) are pretty uncaring. (Side note, Uzi also suffers from sadism/sadistic impulses, but not from sociopathy, hence the main difference between the two).

V, on the other hand, despite what her introduction and psycho girl persona might trick you into believing, was never a sociopath nor did she struggle with low empathy, she was, instead, a pretty timid maid who suffered through unspeakable physical and psychological trauma that led her to adopt this fake identity to cope for the atrocities that she was now committing for the company (Absolute Solver) and the safety of N; V cared about N in a pretty normal person kind of way: she kept N at arms length and hid the truth from him so that he wouldn't get hurt, all while detaching herself from the actions she was now committing, not saying Doll wouldn't or didn't commit any of these actions, but V did them in a way that better aligns with someone who doesn't suffer from sociopathic disorder.

Speaking of N, since he has been mentioned, I'll say that while Uzi suffers from sadism but not low empathy (she has shown to be pretty empathetic many times), N doesn't suffer from sadism but from low empathy; as better explained by a section of this post made by @melissa-titanium :

N x Doll

Don't believe me? Then maybe you should rewatch the series again because N's unemphateticness is his own can of worms to delve into.

But back to Doll, it's time to dissolve (😏) one of the oldest misconceptions surrounding her character:

Doll reached out for help. A lot. She just didn't have any luck with it.

Call me crazy, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the fandom wide spread belief that Doll rejected all the help that was handed to her to be a massive lie, and in fact, Doll actually tried to reach out way more than you thought, arguably, even more than Uzi:

The impact that Yeva's education has had on Doll's life can only be noticed in this way: Yeva extended her hand to Nori and she accepted it, thus, it is fair to assume that Yeva taught Doll to be pretty open to others and to give a hand to someone in need (the show was rewritten after the pilot, so ignore the incongruences with Doll's initial characterization), and in fact, after enduring the trauma of watching her parents die, she opened up to Lizzie for help and support, unfortunately, Lizzie wasn't exactly the right person to talk about these things (no offence to her, all of Uzi's classmates suck for one reason or another, including Uzi herself, I guess that's what happens when you are stuck inside a bunker your whole life), after all, Doll was still killing and cannibalising her classmates.

Then, before she went back to gain her revenge, she tried to get Uzi on her side, which wasn't an attempt to open up, but she was still willing to connect, even if for the wrong reasons. Finally, once she discovers that Uzi also has the Absolute Solver, she promises to help her out, and at this point, Doll wishes to talk it out with Uzi, but because she is surrounded by the Disassembly Drones (V), she can't.

And now, for the most interesting discussion, there's this brief and frankly weird moment in episode 5 where Doll compliments Khan for raising Uzi, and while Khan laughs it off immediately, since he is a dumbass, this could have been a perfect opportunity for him to reach out to Doll and reason with her, since she's clearly putting aside whatever her objective actually is to talk to him, but he doesn't catch on, and this leads Doll to immediately closing herself off again and returning to the mission, and like, maybe we all kind of underestimated how much significance this moment carried, but consider this:

Doll, at this point in time, has been living out in the cold for what... a month? Six months? A YEAR? If we exclude J and Cyn from the equation, this is probably the only social interaction she ever had since The Promening, yet, because of Khan's lack of touch, she immediately reminds herself of the massive disconnection between her and the other workers (eh ehm sociopath) and thus storms off rapidly; this moment is actually quite painful when you look at it from this perspective, yet it's also, the only interpretation that makes sense? Otherwise how do you explain the existence of this moment when Murder Drones is a show infamous for his high plotting and lack of filler? They had to go out of their way to animate this, so why did they play it off in this way?

Tessa is a meanie

Penultimately, and again, I want to bring up a post by @capnsaltsquid since that's where I got the inspiration to write this paragraph off, Doll opened up to J and Tessa to get the answers she was seeking, yet not only Tessa shot her in the face for s###s and giggles, but then proceeded to fraternise with her parents murderers, and at this point, she closes herself off enough to realise that she might have to unintentionally kill Uzi and leave everyone in the dust if she wants to get anything at all.

But unfortunately, that is not the case, she dies of a lonely, meaningless, gruesome death, and at this point, she still tries and finally succeeds in reaching out to Uzi, and yet, like all of her previous tries, this is unsuccessful, as Uzi has other things in mind right now.

To wrap things up nicely, both V and Doll went through severe amounts of trauma and handled said trauma in a similar yet also different way, since they are different individuals who process emotions and love differently, thus the actions they took made sense for the person they were and should only be judged in the context of their writing and characterization.

Want more?