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#nimble goat
farm-paws · 3 months
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Hey! I'm planning to get a goat after I do all the proper research and preparation for it! But Google can only help so much so I was curious if you had any advice on new goat ownership ?
Please don’t get just one goat. I cannot stress this enough. Goats are highly social herd animals, and no matter how much time you spend with a singular goat, you cannot truly meet their social needs because you aren’t a goat. Having two goats is no harder than having a single goat. My goats are twins and they are never out of eyesight of one another or their sheep friend, it’s an integral part of their lives and wellbeing.
Goats are very very trainable so teaching them to come when called is a great skill to have. I trained mine by calling and shaking a bucket of their food and they soon caught on that calling = dinner. I also taught mine to be tied up so that they could mow for me when I want them to. I first got them used to wearing collars, and then to dragging a rope around on their collars. People also teach them to walk on halters and carry packs which I think is super cool.
Goats hate getting wet (I’m not joking they despise it) so make sure they have plenty of places to shelter and places to eat that won’t be in the rain. And give them things to climb and stand on. Don’t have anything they can climb on near the perimeter of their pen though because they will design a Mission Impossible level escape plan for fun. One of my goats can fit through any gap that his head fits through. Idk how.
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lilrainbowcloud · 2 months
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Pairing: Luke Castellan x Child of Apollo! Reader
Genre: Fluff and angst
Word count: 2.6k || masterlist
Warning: mention of blood
a/n: the pictures used does not potray the reader. the final part, annabeth was never there.
The two times you trusted him, and the one time he betrayed you.
i. Taking his hand to pull you through the protective barrier.
“Wake up, we’re almost there,”
Taking a deep breath as you regained your consciousness from a dreamless sleep, you straighten your back, arms stretching above your head as you readjust your focus to the satyr in front of you.
“What?”
“Camp Half Blood! We’re almost there!” exclaimed your friend, Caelum, excitedly pointing to the window with a wide smile adorning his face. Happy to be able to bring back a demigod safely to camp for a satyr his age. An achievement of his service.
Turning to the window yourself, the view of the forest and blue sky bordered by the sea filled your vision. The more the train moved forward, the longer the scenery in front of you unfold like a painter with a brush painting the environment for you as you go.
A soft gasp escaped your lips.
“How do you know where to go?” curious, you asked your guide as you dodge the protruding branches from scratching your skin, however when you looked in front of you, it was no problem for Caelum to navigate the forest as though he was water flowing through a river. His movement fluid, legs nimble. You watched as his little goat ears twitch as he moved.
“Trust me! I know this forest like the back of my hand!”
Feeling your movement was obstructed on your left foot, gravity pulled you down as you got caught on a root. You yelped as both of your hands braced you from the impact of the fall.
“Cael-“
“Shh!”
“Can you at least he-”
“SHH!”
Confusion and disbelief twisted your face as you looked up at him. How could he told you to shut up when you just fell? And not help you up. Wasn’t he supposed to be your protector? That was what he told you back at your mum’s house when they relayed to you the truth about your life. From wanting closure and understanding of your acentric self, you had accepted the reality of your being wholeheartedly. The least you knew you weren’t the one. It was comforting in a twisted way.
A second of you assessing his demeanor, ears flat on his head, eyes wide searching, you knew better than to make another sound. Instead, slowly you untangle your foot from the root and turned your body to look behind you.
The forest had gone deftly silent. No bird chirping, no leaves rustling. Something was definitely wrong.
A loud flap of wings could be heard, then there was a shadow moved on the ground, passing above you. What animal had that large of a wingspan? Nothing came to your mind but it filled your nerves with icy bites of fear. The hair on the back of your neck stood.
“Y/N, get up right now,” two arms hooking under your armpits, you didn’t hear Caelum ran to you as he hauled you up to your feet. Eyes looking through the trees above you, you nodded hastily and took his hand in yours as he quickly pulled you into a sprint.
“The camp is near! Once we get pass the barrier it can’t get to you!”
Failing to form any words, you only managed to squeeze his hand in confirmation that you understood him. Whatever barrier he meant and whatever was chasing you, you didn’t care. Only your life and safety mattered.
The loud screeching of the fury could be heard to anyone who was near the camp border. That anyone was none other than Luke himself. Momentarily distracted by the form of the winged monster emerging from the forest trees, the wooden sword of his sparring partner hit him on the shoulder causing his opponent to quickly apologize with concern. But it fell on deft ear as Luke held his hand up as an “Its fine” gesture, too focused on the flying monster diving back down into the thick foliage.
Gripping the wooden sword in his hand tighter as tough it was a real sharpened one, he and the other campers nearby halted their activities to stand ready too near the border. Weapons drawn in steady hands, they held their ground for a possible attack of an intruder or welcoming a demigod.
“There!” The sound of a voice shouting could be heard following the rustling of bushes as a satyr and a girl, frightened looking with their hands linked emerged into the few meters of clearing separating the camp and forest.
The winged figure rose again to the sky, Luke noticed its nose about to dive down on them again. Gasps and shouts of horror rose with the crowd.
Instinct took over his body. Turning to his right to a camper from the Apollo cabin, he snatched the bow and arrow off of his hands before running pass the protection of the barrier and into the clearing where he was joined with the pair in the middle.
“Go! Go!” encouraging them to move forward for the last few meters from the border, Luke aimed the bow upwards, landing a clumsy shot with unfocused aim to the fury. Not his best suited weapon but it was enough to direct the fury away from them as the three of them sprinted back to safety.
Sensing the fury closing in on them behind his back by the sound of its screeching loud in his ear, with less than two meters away from the border, Luke pushed his legs to run ahead of them and with a last surge of adrenaline, he pulled the girl’s arm, bodies colliding as he cushioned her fall with his figure.
A loud thud, followed by a screech echoed through the atmosphere. A second later the sound of wing flaps disappearing filled you with a sense of relief as you knew that whatever that creature was chasing you had retreated to the hell hole it came from.
Fear replaced with reality, your flight senses dissipating slowly made you aware of your surrounding again. Made you aware of the hard grip you had on the body of the person who had pulled you through the barrier.
With a jolt of surprise as if you had been shocked by an electric static, you released your grip from him, quickly standing up with an utter of Thank you for saving your life.
Turning back towards the forest, the sight of the monster was no longer there. You were only left with the many pair of eyes looking at you with interest as they welcome a new half-blood into the camp. Another pawn of the gods in their game of life. But you don’t know that yet.
“Welcome to Camp Half Blood.”
Facing the voice of your savior, it was the first time you get to appropriately assess him. His appearance of dark curly hair slightly matted on his forehead, tall stature, and kind smile as he extended his hand to you in greeting. As if what had happened moments ago was that nothing out of the ordinary.
“I’m Luke.”
ii. He taught you to sword fight.
Two summers had passed since your first day arriving at camp.
One bead of the day Apollo claimed you as his daughter a few weeks of your first stay after you had helped saved and healed a child of Demeter from a cut, he received from a river stone during capture the flag. The bright yellow glow of the sun symbol bathed the riverbank of the camp as cheers from your now half siblings roared through the air.
Another bead from your second summer at camp. The summer you had shared your confessions with Luke under the blanket of stars, illuminated by the bonfire as you both sat together with the melodious voice of your half siblings leading the song. It was a shared sentiment with each other as you both vowed to protect and be there by each other’s side through anything. A sanctuary in the form of trust bonding you to him, blinding the absurdity of your fates in the world even only for a while.
“Get up, Y/N,”
Huffing out an annoyed breath, you took his outstretched hand as he pulled you back on your feet. Being the child of Apollo, you had a natural talent with the bow and arrow. The curve of the finger pads, and the slender shape of the arrow knocked on the bow string molded so perfectly into you. It was a natural talent in your blood thanks to your father. But with a sword, it does not resonate with you. Therefore, this was the third summer that Luke, being the best swordsman in the camp offered to teach you.
So, here you are with a wooden sword, surrounded by the dense trees as the audience as the son of Hermes handed your ass to you.
“You know what, I think I’m improving enough for today don’t you think?” truthfully, you were just finding an excuse to stop the training session earlier than usual as you dusted the dead leaves off of your clothes.
“You did improve, and I’m proud of you.” Getting back to his starting stance, he aimed the point of the fake sword at you again, with a playful glint in his eyes.
In a swift movement of a trained warrior, he moved behind you with the tip of the wooden sword softly touching the back of your neck, “What if someone tries to back stab you?”
Even if he’s not in front of you, your mind’s eye can form the face he was making. Proud to have tricked his opponent in a moment of distraction. You slowly turned around, he tipped the sword to your chest.
“If someone stabs you from the back, then they’re a coward.”
Raising your own sword to push his away from your chest, you took a few steps back and continued your battle stance once more.
iii. Defending Percy from Luke.
Colourful sparkles of the fireworks filled the sky. Each boom heard comes with it a bloom of neon flower lighting up the camp’s sky as the camp went into celebration of the return of Percy from his quest. Cheers of the campers made your heart full as you made your way through the woods trying to find Luke to join you near the bonfire for the singalong.
Though the sky was lit, the ground was shrouded by the darkness of the night. The weigh of your quiver on your hip, and the golden bow, a gift from your father on your back gave you comfort as you trudge towards the place where you and Luke meet up for lessons.
After the sun sets, he vanished from your bearings which was odd since he had promised you to help with the preparation of the celebration later in the evening. Knowing him, it was one out of three places he could’ve gone to.
“Luke!” calling out to him, your voice was swallowed by the void, absorbed by nature. You didn’t get any reply back.
Venturing further, his name caught on the tip of your tongue as you heard the metal clash of swords. Stopping in your track for a moment, you heard voices mixing with the clinging.
Luke and Percy.
Worry surged you forward towards the ruckus.
Horror filled your chest as you witness Percy slashing riptide to Luke. A sound of hurt came from Luke meant Percy had hit him.
Anger took over as you danced a move you’ve practiced and even more perfected overtime, your arrow now knocked on the bow, feet sliding at the end of your halt in front of Luke, shielding him from Percy.
“Y/N?” Both of them gasping out of breath from their duel. One in disbelief and the other, confused.
“Percy, what are you doing?”
Never in your lifetime would you had imagined a day you would turn your weapon against someone who you considered as your friend despite the little amount of time you had spent together. But here you are, eyes squinting to see him better in the dark. Fingers ready to release the arrow.
“Are you with him too?” His grip on riptide loosened at his side, looking up at you with a betrayed face.
“What are you talk-”
“Are you working with Kronos too?!” Percy’s accusing tone caught you off guard, causing you to lower your bow. Tilting your head as you let out a confused huh?
“Percy, you’re not making sense here,” Luke’s name died on your lips as you felt the cold tip of backbiter against your exposed neck. Eyes wide, you captured Percy’s eyes with his reflecting the same emotion as you, alarmed.
Déjà vu.
In the same forest, in the same spot, with the same person but with a different weapon.
Coward.
What was he thinking? What was happening first and foremost. Why were they fighting? It did not look like a practice session.
“Luke, tell me what is happening. Right. Now.”
As much as you were frightened, the overwhelming feeling of betrayal weighed heavier.
You were frozen.
“He’s working with Kronos to bring him back. To start a war. He stole Zeus’ master bolt.”
In the last sentence Percy relayed to you, you could feel the shift of the sword. So, it’s true?
Percy would not lie to you. But so would Luke. Right?
“Is that true?” Broken were your voice as you muttered the question to the person you called your lover.
The grip of your bow and the arrow returned. The muscles of your body tensed, ready to resume position.
“Y/N, listen to me, go back-”
The sword tip shifted again.
Taking advantage of this, in one swift movement you positioned yourself in front of Percy, the knocked arrow now pointing towards Luke instead.
What are we now?
The fireworks continued. For the first time tonight, you could see his face, illuminated by the purple and blue hues from the sky.
Hurt was what you saw in his dark eyes. But so was yours.
“You’re trusting him more than me now?” He raised his sword, swinging it to point from you to Percy. Eyes hardened.
“Why would he lie to me?” Why would you lie to me?
A scowl graced his face as you claimed that. The scissors that cut the string from him to you passed through.
Sensing the rising tension, Percy shouted your name as he shoved you to the side.
Luke raised his sword to swing down.
As you hit the ground, your arrow flew from your fingers, grazing Luke’s shoulder.
A hiss of pain and everything paused.
With Percy by your side, you on your back on the ground, supported by your elbows, watched as Luke held his shoulder with force. Red bloomed where your arrow had hurt him, breaking his skin.
You hurt him. But he had hurt you too.
Was this fair?
“I’m sorry,” came out weak to your ear. You didn’t event know if it had reached Luke or not. But he looked at you with much hatred.
Did he betrayed you, or you betrayed him?
“I’m sorry,” lifting yourself up from the ground, “Luke, please,” Percy helped you to stand.
Shaking his head, completely at lost for word, Luke walked back a few steps away from you as though you were the villain.
Of course, you had hurt him after promising to protect each other. But he also raised his weapon at you with the intention to hurt. Or was it to daunt you? To get you to back off?
Without another word to you, Luke turned his back to the both of you and launched himself into the rip of air among the ruined stones.
Your feet didn’t move fast enough. Your instinct wasn’t fast enough to reach him.
He vanished with your voice shouting his name.
Emptiness was what you felt as your knees hit the ground.
Numbness took over when Percy called out your name repeatedly.
Was this really happening?
Will you ever see him again?
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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 7: Keep Quiet, Nothing Comes As Easy As You]
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A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading and loving this fic. 🥰 We are now officially halfway done with WTWICD, can you believe it?! I hope you enjoy Chapter 7. 💜
Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, the smallfolk having a bad time everywhere you look, Aemond being a menace, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), discussions of pregnancy/babies, dragons, murder, some new perspectives! 🥰
Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner” by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 6k.
Link to chapter list: HERE.
Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes
Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜
In the Eyrie, Rhaena is praying for one of the three dragon eggs in her keeping to hatch. In the shadowy ruins of Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are bathing in rooms thick with steam, while outside by the lakeshore Baela brings plump goats to Moondancer. In King’s Landing, Rhaenyra’s Master of Coin Bartimos Celtigar is levying heavy taxes on the smallfolk: taxes on wine, taxes on ale, taxes on inn beds and shop goods, even taxes on the bittersweet parody of love purchased in brothels, taxes on every possible distraction from the ceaseless bloodletting that has infected the world like plague. In the North, Cregan Stark is following the Kingsroad towards Moat Cailin and imagining what you will say to him when you are rescued from the clutches of the Usurper: Oh my love, my champion, my savior, my lord. But south in the Reach, Daeron is flying.
Tessarion’s scales are a blue sheen like light on the ocean; the flapping of her wings is a deafening, roaring wind. She is nimble in the air, lethally quick, banking seamlessly when Daeron asks her to turn towards the Hogs Head, an inn from which torrents of men and women run shrieking. They do not run fast enough. Tessarion’s flames are an electrifying cobalt blue like lightning. Flesh melts away, bones are charred black, screams evaporate as lungs are singed, consumed, destroyed. Daeron’s own lungs work perfectly fine; he is cackling, almost loud enough to hear over the wings and inferno of his dragon. After the inn, Tessarion burns the sept, the marketplace, the castle that is the seat of the disloyal House Caswell. There is a stone bridge, after which the town is named, traversing the Mander River. People are fleeing across it. There are children on the bridge, but this does not stop Daeron. Maelor was a child when these traitors ripped him apart with their bare hands. Jaehaerys was a child, and so is Jaehaera, who may be alive in Storm’s End or may be dead but in any case has suffered the decimation of her family, her brothers and her mother and her grandsire. Daeron is burning Bitterbridge for the Greens, yes. But he is also doing it for himself. And in the wake of Tessarion’s fire, Lord Ormund Hightower’s forces pour into the rubble of the town to seize whatever treasures it has left.
In the Riverlands, Aemond and Vhagar are setting fields of wheat ablaze and incinerating cattle, pigs, sheep, forests that can no longer be used by the Blacks and their supporters for timber. In the Citadel, white ravens are being sent out to the great houses of Westeros to proclaim the end of summer. And on Dragonstone, the Beggar King heals.
He spars with guards that Larys found, is tended by maesters that Larys recruited from the turncoat houses of the Crownlands, rules over a microcosm kingdom that Larys built for him. Aegon tires quickly, sleeps often, aches and collapses and bleeds, gets sunburned when he is outside too long on those rare clear days. But he always rises again. “Perpetual Resurrection,” he says, grinning through the pain when you caution him to be patient, to be careful. “I’m not dying. I’m becoming brand new.”
You hunt for softshell crabs together on the rocky shoreline, fill a basket with them, bring them to the cooks to serve the skeleton crew of the castle for supper. You walk through the gardens, a pine-smelling woodland of towering coniferous trees, thorny rose bushes, blood-red cranberries, indelicate creatures that can thrive in the thin, inhospitable earth here. You study the books of the castle library—an impossibly vast, ancient collection, safeguarding texts from Old Valyria—while Aegon swims in the ocean with Sunfyre, laughing and diving as the dragon glides around him in large, lazy circles. Sunfyre can fly, but only a very short distance at a time; he is ungainly when he walks on land with his improperly-healed right wing. But in the water, he and Aegon are both unbroken again. Soon they will be ready for battle. Soon they will have to leave this island, this mist-and-smoke haven, to rejoin the war effort; soon they will have to leave you.
You crave Aegon like some people need wine, rum, gin, gold, power, violence, milk of the poppy. He is ecstasy, he is consolation, he is a spell. He is your home; and any place you’ve ever mistaken for home was only an echo of the truth that you would one day find him. Even on that very first night, as the storm raged outside, you whispered to Aegon when you both woke long before sunrise: “I want you again.”
“You’ll be sore,” he warned, a warm murmur against your forehead. “We can wait. I can wait.” But already his hands were moving, and your thighs were opening, and he followed your body and your words when they told him yes, now, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the next day too.
You smile when Aegon calls you insatiable, but you know that’s not quite it.
You are acutely aware that nothing lasts forever, not even him, not even you.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Are the days getting shorter?” you ask, your bare feet ankle-deep in wet sand. Sunfyre is out in the waves eating dolphins; a slippery-looking grey tail hangs from his snaggletoothed jaw.
“I think you just want the nights to be longer.” Aegon winks up at you. His head is in your lap, his arms linked around your waist. You are weaving his little braid for him. His hair is just above shoulder-length and as choppy as ever. He periodically takes his dagger to it and hacks away haphazardly, determined to never look like Aemond, Daeron, Daemon, his father. He burrows into the softness of your belly and shuts his eyes. “Perhaps winter is coming.”
In more ways than one, you think bleakly, picturing Cregan Stark on the Kingsroad with snow in his long dark hair and dirt on his hands. “We should ask Lord Larys if he’s heard anything.” As the Citadel—and most of the rest of Westeros—believes Dragonstone to be unoccupied, they would not have sent a white raven here. But several times each week Larys receives visitors from Eagle Harbor, and they bring him rumors in exchange for gold coins and promises that when Aegon once again sits the Iron Throne, their faithfulness will be generously rewarded.
Aegon hums agreeably; he is dozing. After a moment he says: “I keep dreaming of her.”
“Who?”
“Helaena,” Aegon says, his voice lethargic and eyes still closed. “She brings me things. Butterflies, crabs, snakes. Things that are reborn. She puts them in my hands or in my bed and won’t take them away when I ask her to. She keeps telling me: Don’t fall, don’t fall.”
You finish Aegon’s braid and comb his unruly hair back with your fingers, soothing him, listening to him. You try not to think of the way Helaena died, crushed and hemorrhaging on golden sandstone. Instead, you picture her living: strange yet gentle, tragic but kind. You see her children as well, white-haired and beautiful and doted on not by their parents but by Alicent and Otto and you…and Aemond. You remember Aemond’s quiet resentment, his simmering and dangerous envy. You recall Aegon’s half-flippant accusation: You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine. Targaryens have wed brothers to sisters since long before the Conquest, but that doesn’t mean they always got the combination quite right. “Aegon, was Aemond…was he in love with Helaena? Did he desire her?”
“No. Not like that. He cared for her, but I don’t believe he had any lust for Helaena. He just thought he would have been a better husband to her than I was. That he would have caused her less misery. That he was more worthy of carrying on the bloodline, of being the children’s father. And he was right, of course.”
“What happened to Helaena is not your fault,” you say. “And neither is what happened to Jaehaerys or Maelor.”
“I’m glad Daeron burned them all,” Aegon says quietly, meaning the people of Bitterbridge, a tale ferried to Larys from one of his numerous, nameless informants.
“I know you are, Aegon.” You can’t bring yourself to agree with him. Does one dead child bring back another? Does each swatch of flesh burned away from a supporter of Rhaenyra replace one that was sheared off the bones of a Green? No, of course not, but the wheel goes around and around and around.
In the sky, another sort of wheel: a sun that burns cool and muted behind a thicket of iron-colored clouds. High above where you and Aegon are entwined on the beach, something crosses in front of the shrouded sun, casting an impossibly large shadow. You gasp; at the sound, Aegon bolts upright onto his palms and knees and follows your gaze. There is a profound, archaic rumbling, something old and intractable like thunder, earthquakes, floodwaters rising.
A dragon, you know immediately. You try frantically to determine whether you recognize its voice. Too large to be Tessarion or Syrax, too deep a roar to be Caraxes. Sheepstealer?? Vermithor?? But no, you have heard this beast before after all, it’s—
“Vhagar!” Aegon shouts, and scrambles to his feet. As the massive swamp-green dragon disappears behind the castle, soaring rather sluggishly, Aegon sprints as fast as he can up the stone steps towards the entranceway. You follow Aegon into Dragonstone and there the visitor meets you both, sailing down a staircase with eerie lightness, his boots hardly making a sound, his long silver hair secured in a single thick braid. Larys arrives as well and stands in the dreary, torchlit chamber, appearing as he always does: face servile and tactfully intrigued, hands laced together overtop the handle of his cane, back stooped as if to make himself smaller, less threatening, more invisible.
“I got to thinking you might be here,” Aemond tells Aegon. He sounds pleasantly surprised. “You look better.” Then he notices you. “Oh. Perhaps that accounts for some of it.”
“Where’s Criston?” Aegon asks. Meanderingly, so it is sufficiently subtle, he takes several steps until he has placed himself between you and Aemond.
“Somewhere near Saltpans.”
“You left him?” Aegon is incredulous, furious.
“Temporarily,” Aemond says. “It is not the first time. Between battles Vhagar and I raze the farms and villages of the Riverlands. Criston and his men are more than capable of fending for themselves. I’ll be back in a day.”
“You’re supposed to stay with Criston,” Aegon insists, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a child who might have difficulty understanding. “You promised that you would. The war is on the battlefield, not on goddamn farms.”
“And what feeds Rhaenyra’s forces? Is it not grain and cattle? And so if I destroy their food supply—while our own soldiers are still receiving regular shipments from the Westerlands and the Reach—am I not inflicting catastrophic damage to the Blacks?”
“You’re burning…civilian property?” you say to Aemond. “You’re killing women and children and old people? You’re laying waste their homesteads?”
“It’s total war.” Aemond stares at you defiantly; there is no suggestion of self-doubt in his face. “It is a well-documented strategy employed across continents and centuries. We kill soldiers on the battlefield. We endanger their families back home. Many men will desert to return to their imperiled wives and children. Others will starve. All are broken. All are rendered ineffectual to our enemy’s cause. And thus we will triumph.”
You and Aegon gape at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what is right or wrong in a world where children are slaughtered and grown men murder with impunity. When will this war be over? How can we end it? Will any of our souls survive the choices we’ve made with our backs to the wall?
“My prince, you chose an excellent time to pay us a visit,” Larys offers diplomatically. “I have just received news that may be of interest to you. And you can bring it back to Sir Criston and his men when you return to the Riverlands tomorrow.”
“What news?” Aegon asks.
“Wait,” Aemond says; and he smiles, dark and hungry like a wolf, like a dragon. “I want to see the place where my ancestors made their war plans. I want to sit in Rhaenyra’s chair.”
On the top floor of the Stone Drum, the main keep of Dragonstone that booms and growls during storms, servants light the candles beneath the Painted Table and bring wine, ale, bread, cheese, honeycomb, jam, candied walnuts, red cherries and violet grapes. The map of Westeros, older than the Conquest, is striped with snakes of fiery luminance like lava. Aegon twists the gold dragon ring on his finger, its jade eyes sparkling. You gave it back to him the day after you arrived on Dragonstone; he says that when he wins the war, he will have a matching piece made for you, but with a crab in place of a dragon.
Larys cautions before he begins: “I cannot tell you the perfect truth. I can only tell you what I’ve heard from the whispers that make their way to me.”
“And what have you heard?” Aemond says. Aegon glances petulantly at him, as if debating whether to remind his brother that a prince regent is not quite a king.
“The Dragonseeds known as Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White—and with them, Vermithor and Silverwing—have officially declared for the Greens.”
“Yes!” Aegon beams and raises his wine cup. He refuses milk of the poppy, even on his worst days; he does not want to be senseless, he does not want to leave you unprotected. But he drinks red wine often and grows ill if he is without it for long. Aemond is laughing victoriously. The brothers are momentarily united.
“There was a battle at Tumbleton in the Reach,” Larys continues. “Lord Ormund Hightower was slain by Roddy the Ruin who, allegedly, managed the feat after one of his arms was severed clean from his body. These Northmen are formidable beasts, to be sure.”
Aegon looks at you, a fleeting, fearful look.
“The people of Tumbleton believed the battle to be over, but then Vermithor and Silverwing joined Tessarion in torching the city. All the Blacks’ commanders were killed, along with most of their soldiers. And the city was sacked. There are reports of looting and…well, all manner of indecencies being committed against the civilians of Tumbleton, mostly women and children. Even septas and silent sisters.”
Now an awkward silence settles over the Painted Table. Ruin, heartbreak, agony, death; but somebody else’s. It could have been yours instead. Perhaps tomorrow it will be. Perhaps there is no end to suffering, only a reallocation of it to people who you do not know, do not love. Perhaps the debt can never be satisfied but only passed to another.
Larys goes on: “The people of King’s Landing are petrified that the Greens and their dragons will descend upon them and subject the capital to the same atrocities that Tumbleton experienced. Rhaenyra had to order the gold cloaks to seal the city gates to keep her supposedly loyal subjects inside.”
“The smallfolk’s support for her continues to weaken?” Aemond says.
“It does more than weaken. Many people there detest her. Bartimos Celtigar has imposed heavy taxes upon the city. The smallfolk fear that Daemon has abandoned Rhaenyra, and therefore that they cannot expect protection from Caraxes and Sheepstealer. And…” Larys peers around the Painted Table apologetically.
“…And?” Aegon presses.
“Rhaenyra’s youngest son…Viserys…” Larys sighs, an anemic, perfunctory breed of sympathy. “He is dead. Of illness, it seems. The luckless lad.”
“He was always sickly,” you say, remembering his unwaveringly watery eyes and dripping nose. And you almost say Poor Rhaenyra, but then you remember how the Blacks celebrated Maelor’s death with cheers and rare, bloody boar meat.
“Yes,” Larys concurs. “That is what the people believe, that he perished due to natural causes.”
Aemond is watching the Master of Whisperers closely. “What does Rhaenyra think caused it?”
“She suspects poison,” Larys tells him. “She is convinced of poison, I should say. She raved and she threatened and she spewed accusations. She executed a dozen people, none of whom could be connected to the death of the boy with any certainty. The smallfolk feel she has gone mad. And there is one more crime the people have branded her with.” Larys turns to you.
Your heard pounds wildly, hot blood thuds in your ears. “Has something happened to Everett—?”
“Not him. The Celtigars themselves are safe from her wrath. Bartimos is too near to the throne, and Rhaenyra trusts him. But the servant girl—Autumn, you called her—she went into labor a month early and was delivered of a boy.” Now Larys’ eyes flick to Aegon, whose face goes pale and panicked. “A boy with blue eyes and silver hair.”
Aemond rocks back in his chair and shakes his head.
“Oh,” Aegon moans. “Oh.” He clutches his chest with one hand and looks to you. He says weakly: “I’m so sorry, Angel. It didn’t mean anything. The child…it…it will never really be mine—”
“It won’t be anyone’s,” Larys says. “Rhaenyra had him run through with a sword.”
“What?!” Aemond exclaims. “A baby? An infant? In her own castle, in the Red Keep?”
You are horrified. “Did Autumn witness this?”
“I’m not certain, my lady,” Larys replies. “What I have heard is that Rhaenyra proclaimed it vengeance for agents of the Greens murdering her youngest son. She declared all bastards of the Usurper to be enemies of the realm and thus sentenced to death. She has offered rewards for anyone who brings a white-haired child to her for execution. And the smallfolk are absolutely, viciously appalled by her. The Street of Silk in particular is rife with people plotting the so-called queen’s downfall. She is surrounded by enemies. And she has only two male heirs left.”
“Two more than Aegon,” Aemond mutters.
“Is Autumn alright?” you ask Larys. “Did Rhaenyra harm her?”
“Your brother Everett attempted to advocate for Autumn and the child. He was ignored; your father and eldest brother were vehemently in support of the murder. Shortly after the baby was killed, Autumn disappeared from King’s Landing. I’m sure Everett facilitated this escape. No one knows her present whereabouts.”
“She’s just gone? No signs whatsoever?”
“Nobody ever knows anything.” Aemond waves at Aegon. “They think he’s in Dorne.”
“Seven hells,” Aegon whispers, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Rhaenyra is destroying herself,” you say. “She is doing the work for us. If you try to take King’s Landing with dragonfire raining down on Green supporters who are effectively held captive, there will be ill-will against you in the capital that will last for generations. But if they overthrow Rhaenyra on their own, you can reclaim the city bloodlessly.”
Larys taps his fingers meditatively against the Painted Table. “I do wonder if Daemon would intervene to support her. His present motivations are…somewhat nebulous. To Blacks and Greens alike. But he controls their most powerful assets.”
“You haven’t crossed paths with Caraxes and Sheepstealer in Riverlands, I assume?” Aegon asks Aemond.
“No. We are locked in a dance of sorts. I’m not certain that Vhagar can win against two dragons of that size; they must know that it is almost certain that at least one of them would be killed in the struggle even if they defeated me. This Nettles girl’s dragon riding skills are unclear. Perhaps Daemon is training her, perhaps he is now sufficiently attached that he does not want her in combat. So we avoid each other. But when the girl is gone—when Daemon tires of her, or when Rhaenyra sends assassins to murder her, or when she is removed from the board by some other means—I will meet Daemon in battle and end him.”
“Your priority is protecting Criston,” Aegon orders; but there is trepidation in his large, ocean-blue eyes, there is defenseless worry there. “Wherever Criston goes, you go with him. I’ll be ready to fight again soon. I’ll be able to help you.”
“Daemon is mine. I want to face him alone.”
“I am the king!” Aegon thunders, and you can see the strength leaving him like birds taking flight from cold, bare winter trees. “You will not behave recklessly. You will not abandon Criston. We are winning in the Reach, and we are winning in King’s Landing without even being there, and we will win in the Riverlands too if you don’t sabotage us with your relentless fucking pride.”
You and Larys study Aemond. He examines the flame-colored light of the Painted Table, tracing the etchings of rivers and mountains with his fingertips. “Fine,” he concedes, very quietly.
“And one more thing,” Aegon tells his brother.
With great reluctance, Aemond meets his gaze. “Yes?”
“If you have the opportunity to burn Cregan Stark, take it.”
~~~~~~~~~~
When Aegon collapses into the bed you share, you curl up against his scarred chest, listen to his heartbeat, breathe in heat and rose oil and the salt of the ocean. He does not ask you what is wrong. He does not speak of Autumn or her child, his child, no matter how indifferent or remorseful he might have been. He holds you knowing that there is nothing he can say to make the world whole again. He can only rest until he is well enough to fly into battle, where he might be further maimed or taken captive or murdered. And what then? What was this all for?
“Somewhere there are people just living,” you marvel. “They’re reading books, they’re having supper, they’re getting married, they’re tending to their crops and their animals. And none of them are thinking about war or massacres or dragonfire.”
“Yes,” Aegon says simply, pulling you in closer, one palm pressed to the small of your back and the other brushing your hair away from your face so he can kiss you, soft and slow. “But they’re not us.”
When Aegon is on the edge of sleep, you tell him that you love him, as you do each day. He has not heard it enough in his life; you are trying to remedy that now. And as always, Aegon does not say it back. Instead, he murmurs something in High Valyrian that you cannot understand. Now you commit it to memory, repeating it silently to yourself again and again until Aegon is sleeping deeply and you can rise from the bed without disturbing him. You go to your writing desk and scribble it down on a small piece of parchment: the way this word sounds in the letters of the Common Tongue. You have no way to translate it. There are books written in High Valyrian in the castle library, but you do not know the alphabet of the language, and you have yet to find a text that can teach it to you. When you ask Aegon for lessons, he demurs and says that he doesn’t know High Valyrian well enough to teach you. You think he just wants a way to say things you won’t be able to comprehend. You squirrel the parchment away in the pocket of your gown and slip out of the bedchamber you share with Aegon.
It is far too early for your mind to stop racing, only sunset. You wander down halls of shifting shadows and iron dragons, fantastically high ceilings and narrow slits of windows. Questions fill your skull like rushing blood in the chambers of a heart: Where is Autumn? Is she alright? Is she safe? Is Everett, is Jaehaera, is Alicent? Are Criston and Daeron? Are any of us?
When you cross through the doorway and onto a balcony that overlooks the ocean, Aemond is to your left. He is nursing a cup of wine and leaning over the stone wall that separates you from a long, treacherous fall onto black rocks that jut out of the sea like the hilts of daggers from a corpse’s back. You whirl away from him and towards the craggy staircase that leads down to the beach.
“Now you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me?” Aemond calls out.
You halt mid-step, consider it, then return to him. “You’re just so undistinguished in appearance. So easy to miss.”
He gives you one of his enigmatic, teasing smirks. His hair blows in the breeze that tastes like salt and sulfur and mist. He wears a dark, lush green. Then he peers avoidantly down into his wine. “I…I don’t think I ever adequately apologized for what transpired regarding the brothel. The Pink Pearl.”
“You didn’t.”
“It is a place…” Aemond pauses. He chooses his words cautiously, like handling something that could easily break, a glass goblet, an egg, a butterfly in an open palm. “It is a place that I associate with great unpleasantness. I made assumptions about where your loyalties lied. I felt that you had hurt me, that you had caused me to suffer. And I wanted you to suffer in return.”
“It was a horrific thing to do,” you say pitilessly. “It was cruel. It was evil.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that now. That’s why I’m apologizing.”
“Then do it properly.”
“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. It takes some effort. “I was wrong.”
“You were.”
“And I’m glad Aegon was able to haul himself out of bed to rescue you. It’s not often that he gets to be the noble brother, the gallant one.”
“It happens more often than you’d think.”
Aemond raises his eyebrow. Beneath his eyepatch, you know, is a winter-cold sapphire in a bed of mangled flesh, a treasure steeped in corruption. “How long have you been here?”
“Two months.” No, more than that. “Two and a half, or thereabouts.”
“And I assume there has been no shortage of…horizontal activities with my brother.”
“Not exclusively horizontal,” you snap, to make him regret being so forward, to make him uncomfortable. “We are more inventive than that.”
It works; Aemond flushes a gory mottled pink. Still he manages: “And you have not yet conceived?”
You glare at him, ice and fire at once. “No.”
“Why do you think that is?”
You shrug, exasperated, dismissive. “Aegon has been through so much physical trauma, perhaps he is no longer capable of having children. Perhaps I never was. Perhaps it will happen in a month or six months or a year. Perhaps it is not meant for us. Only the gods know.”
“You aren’t at all concerned?”
In truth, no; you are so consumed by whether Aegon will survive the war with any vestige of humanity intact that anything beyond this seems hopelessly distant, a constellation, a shadow on the moon, the silvery gleam of a comet. “It’s not something I spend much time thinking about.”
“It should be,” Aemond insists. “If the Greens expect men to go to war for us, for women to give up their husbands and sons to us, we should have a stable succession to offer them in return. Jaehaerys and Maelor are gone. Jaehaera is a girl and cannot inherit even if she is alive and well in Storm’s End. Aegon needs an heir.”
“Aren’t you next in line for the throne, Aemond?” you say cuttingly. “And isn’t that the role you believe yourself best suited for? Being king? Proving how worthy you were all along?”
He is uneasy, perhaps ashamed, evading your eyes. “Regrettably, I cannot begin trying for my own sons until the war is over and I marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter, as I pledged to in return for his support for our side. Daeron will not be able to marry for several years. In the meantime, there is this…disquieting lack of certainty. To complicate matters, Aegon has bastards in King’s Landing, I’m sure. The red-haired girl was far from the first whore to lie with him. If he does not have a trueborn son, claimants will appear to challenge mine or Daeron’s for the throne.”
You search yourself—unspoken longing and ancient cobwebbed fears—for any desire for a child of your own. You cannot find it. You are fond of children, you find fulfillment in caring for them, but the need to carry and deliver one yourself? It is not something you can remember ever yearning for. It always felt like yet another way in which your body would be used to further some man’s legacy, to give him pleasure at your expense. “Can you tell me what this means?” you ask, handing Aemond the folded piece of parchment that you’d tucked into the pocket of your gown. He takes it with one long, lithe hand. “I’ve probably spelled it wrong. I’ve never seen it written, only heard it spoken aloud.”
Aemond opens the parchment. His river-blue eye narrows; thoughtful creases appear in his brow. “Aegon has said this? To you?”
“More than once.”
“What prompted it?”
“Does your translation depend upon the context?”
“Hm.” Aemond skates his thumbprint over the dried black ink. Then he looks at you. “It means: To your misfortune.”
The alarm must show on your face.
“Not like a threat,” Aemond clarifies. “It is a common expression. It suggests that someone has entrusted something of value to the undeserving. It implies naivety. Unwise benevolence. But it is certainly not malicious. It is usually said fondly, like a backhanded compliment.” He returns the parchment to you. You rip it over and over again until it is only scraps that vanish in the wind, Aegon’s voice speaking to you: I ruin causes. I ruin people.
“Why did you kill Luke?” you ask Aemond, not accusingly but with hushed, weary wonder. “There was very little strategic advantage in it. There was great peril as a result. Rhaenyra will never surrender, never negotiate. You will forever be known as a kinslayer. You could have taken him captive. You could have humiliated him, you could have shown the world how weak he was. Why did you have to kill him?”
Aemond says nothing for a long time. He stares out over the ocean where the sun is setting, dolphin fins cut in swift arcs through the surf, Sunfyre dozes on wet sand, the sky glows dream-lavender and blood orange. He sips his wine and contemplates things that are mysteries to you. Aemond keeps his thoughts like untrustworthy animals: in cages, in darkness, turning fierce and feral, snapping jaws and rattling chains. At last he says: “They’re all dead anyway. They were from the moment Aegon was born and my father refused to name him the heir. It’s all of them or all of us. You think there is any scenario in which Aegon reigns as king while Rhaenyra’s children survive? No, no. Someone will always be willing to fight and die for them. Just like Green loyalists would have been willing to fight for Jaehaerys and Maelor.” Something shifts in his face like the breaking of a wave, and for a second you can glimpse the deep well of dark, helpless misery inside him, filling up drop by drop since he was a boy. Then Aemond is steely again. “Luke had to die. So did Jace and Rhaenys and that eternally sniffling toddler Viserys. And all the other Blacks will follow. Unless you care to see Aegon’s blood spilled. And mine, and Daeron’s.”
“No,” you say softly, an agonized little whisper that understands, that surrenders. “No, that cannot happen.”
Aemond takes another swallow of his wine and drums his fingertips restlessly against the cup. “Any heir our side puts forth must have undisputed parentage and Valyrian features. Aegon’s wife is dead. He can marry you. You are a Celtigar, you share our blood, you carry the memories of silver hair and rare magic in the marrow of your bones. These attributes are dormant in you, yet could be passed on to a child. A son of yours could secure the succession and one day inherit the Iron Throne. But the father has to be a Targaryen.”
You turn to Aemond, perplexed and wary. His wording is strange. “Well, it has to be Aegon.”
Aemond is impatient, irritated. You have not been keeping up. He says, his eye on the darkening horizon: “There are other Targaryens.”
You stare at him. You don’t understand, you don’t understand, and then suddenly you do. “What?”
This is not the reaction Aemond had hoped for. He gulps down the last of his wine, leaves the cup on the stone wall, storms down the staircase to reunite with Vhagar and resume burning the noncombatants of the Riverlands to ash.
~~~~~~~~~~
He finds her at the shore of the Gods Eye, rippling blue like a vast mirror. The Isle of Faces—forbidden, undiscoverable—is a faint mirage in the distance. Moondancer is circling overhead. Baela is perched on a large rock by the water’s edge and fishing; she is intrigued by tales of the strange creatures that dwell here, the hungry currents, the way this corner of the world has only a translucent, threadbare veil between our world and the realm of spirits, ghosts, demons. She has always been curious and bold by nature. She has always been his most beloved child.
“You found your way out of Nettles’ bed,” Baela pitches, a jest but not a judgment. She is already developing an appetite of her own that renders monogamy woefully lacking. She mourns Jace, but not the woman she would have had to pretend to be for him. “I’m shocked.”
Daemon smirks, tilting his head to the side like a wolf does as it’s listening. “You know how sheets have a way of getting tangled. Around ankles, around wrists…sometimes it is difficult to free oneself.”
“You were fighting hard, I’m sure.”
“Yes, all morning.”
Baela chuckles, reels in her fishing line, recasts it. She cares deeply for Rhaenyra and is loyal to her still, but Baela shares her father’s pathological aversion to weakness. She feels that Rhaenyra has driven Daemon away with her moodiness, her melancholy, her unmooring from the fearless, ardent woman she once was. Daemon says that being with Nettles is like being with a young Rhaenyra again. It would not be just to condemn him for seeking out what Rhaenyra took from him and has no intention of returning.
Daemon says: “I want you to go to Dragonstone.”
Baela is aghast, betrayed. “You are getting rid of me?”
“I am entrusting you with a vital enterprise.”
Now she is intrigued. Now she is considering it.
“Moondancer is too small to fight Vhagar, Tessarion, Vermithor, or Silverwing,” Daemon says. “If Caraxes and Sheepstealer meet Vhagar in battle, you cannot go with us. Nor should we leave you here unprotected. And I know you have been impatient for an opportunity to play a more…consequential role in the war.”
“I long to be useful,” Baela agrees. “More than anything.”
“Go to Dragonstone,” Daemon says. “It is vacant, it is safe. But it must remain under the Blacks’ control. Patrol it and ensure the Greens do not try to take the island and find riders for Grey Ghost or the Cannibal. Rhaenyra will return to Dragonstone if she is ever forced out of King’s Landing. I have tasked you with making it ready for her.”
“And I have permission to execute any traitors who might appear there?”
“Yes. You may swing the sword yourself. Or feed them to Moondancer, whichever you prefer.”
Baela smiles, a slow, toothy grin that spreads across her face like plague, like fire. “When can I leave?”
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elbdot · 11 months
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Here comes another fakemon line! SPLIT EVO once again because I'm a sucker for those :DD I've gotta be honest - I'm not much of a fan of Galarian Rapidash, I was hoping for something a bit more mystical-feeling, but I also didn't feel like doing a redesign of the regionals…so I decided to make my own Unicorns instead!
MOOMBLE (Moon/Nimble) - Fairy/Normal type STELLAROG (Stella = Star / Jednorog = Unicorn) - Fairy/Steel type CLIIMOROG (Climb/Jednorog) - Rock/Fairy type
Stellarog and Climorog are supposed to showcase the past and the present takes on Unicorns, while still both bearing common traditional traits such as the cloven hooves in their design. Climorog is inspired by medieval goat-like depictions of Unicorns while Stellarog is inspired by our modern picture of Unicorns! Moomble's name is also a bit of an homage to the Moomins, as its face reminded me a lot of the Moomin trolls :D
Here's the family alltogether!
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This post was available early on Patreon Thanks for your support!!
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Dragon Humanoid: Asahi [NSFW]
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Odel is getting a part 2 shortly! Just thought I’d write a small little thing to keep me going and not be driven into madness lol.
CW/Tags: breeding, praise kink, slight nipple play, slight clit play, dirty talk. Reader is a faun.
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“Are you going to join me?”
You watched from the edge, aware of the golden, heated and intense eyes staring back up at you. At that very moment, the tiny towel wrapped around you didn’t seem to be helping in keeping you exposed.
It reached your upper thighs, not keeping much from a sudden breeze lifting the towel and showing everything to the emperor awaiting your decision.
“Isn’t it very inappropriate?” You inquired, eyes gazing from the bare chest of the humanoid dragon to the waters below. The winter chill was the only thing that stopped you from freezing over, thankful the thick wool around your legs was keeping you warm, your upper body not so much. “I shouldn’t be sharing the waters with an emperor.”
The dragon emperor, Asahi was every part beautiful to look at: the Golden – he was called – majestic and radiating raw power. Ram-like horns curved upwards like a crown on his head, glittering gold as coins when they caught the light, his skin a radiant glow of gold and bronze. His long dark hair was as curly as the ringlets of your wool.
He was a general and warrior, every ladies’ dream in a husband. Thousands of lesser lords tried to set betrothals with their daughters to him, and for every single one, they were rejected. It was odd for an emperor to not want to be married off, but it had been rather confusing why he had seemed to of taken interest in someone like you. You were a minor lord’s daughter, handmaiden to his mother, the former Empress, surrounded by the gold and jewels of the emerald Imperial Palace.
“Nonsense,” he dismissed it languidly, his voice a soft and deep timbre. “Everyone is welcome to join. High or low. It is a chillier winter this year after all. I would rather you didn’t catch a chill.”
You stared back down to the waters, your hoof gingerly testing the waters. Warm, warm enough that it would keep you comforted. Staring back to meet Asahi’s generous gaze, you could feel the warm build-up in your chest, nervousness brooding.
“Is it okay if you turn round?”
It didn’t take a reason for Asahi to ask, nodding with a gentle smile on his face, turning through the waters, his muscular back facing you.
The waters enveloped you the further you waded through once you took the time to for bravery. A goat for the slaughter. The towel was discarded to the ground, and the wool of your legs grew heavy as the water soaked through, making you feel as if you were sinking the more you walked in.
Crouching your legs, you waded in, awaiting the emperor to turn back to face you. Your chest was covered by the opaque liquid, enveloping you with some protection against your virtue being ruined.
Asahi turned to face you, observing you. “You are most beautiful.”
You blushed heavily. “Thank you, my emperor.”
“Asahi,” he corrected amicably. “Asahi when we’re alone. Now,” a clawed finger traced your jawline with a thoughtful stroke along your skin, uttering a shudder to spread down your spine. “don’t be shy, I won’t bite.”
You treaded further to sit beside him, carefully soaking your body in the waters. Your body appreciated the warmth against the elements, the chill in the night was not helping in the slightest, but what was also helping was the pure heat rising off of the scaled body next to you.
“Hmm,” he purred, earning his head back against the panels behind him, eyes peeled to stare back at you curiously. “This is nice.”
You copied his movements, albeit not as graceful as him. For a dragon humanoid like himself, he was large, larger than most humans and those of his kind, carrying himself with both authority and nimbleness.
There was a silence that filled the openness of the outdoor area, followed by the sounds of crickets hidden in the bushes. Steam rolled off your body as the two of you lay in a comfortable tranquillity.
It was enough to gather your thoughts and try and still your beating heart, scared it would take off and leave you frozen dead on the spot. The emperor seemed to know what he was doing: moving closer to you, a hand coming round your waist, pulling you suddenly towards his chest.
You caught yourself before you fell face-first into the water, staring up at him in dreaded horror. Did you displease him? Did he wish for you to be out of his sight?-
“Now, now, you’re quivering like a leaf. I’m not that scary, am I?”
He brought the thoughts to subside, remembering whose presence you were in, before you tried awkwardly trying to excuse yourself, leaning back to no avail, Asahi’s hold on you was noticeably not letting you go any further from him.
“You’re such a small little thing.” He observed in a gentle tone, his hand around your waist squeezed at your rump unexpectantly, earning a yelp to fall from your open lips. “Such a cute, little goat.”
“My emperor!-“
“Asahi, or must I remind you, hmm?” He gave your rump a gentle squeeze once more, his entire hand enveloped around you with ease, and it did not seem to stop your heart from erupting from your chest due to the closeness, the way he held onto you. You bit your bottom lip, trying to stop the feeling from settling in your lower stomach, thoughts filling your mind no lady should’ve been thinking. “Sorry… Asahi.”
“That’s a good girl.”
His praises were sudden yet a pleasant sensation, sending pleasure to run down your spine, straight between your legs. You shifted uncomfortably in your spot, spotted by the dragon emperor. “Here, let’s get you more comfortable.”
“That won’t be necessary-“
He was quick with his hands around you, pulling you to his lap, immediately feeling his groin against your lower back, something twitching beneath the waters that made you yelp as if running your skin against something you shouldn’t have in the sea. “My lord!”
“That’s better.” He groaned, snuggling into your back, pressing himself further into you, aware that his cock was growing in size and hardness, twitching and moving with a mind of its own. “You are most warm.”
You didn’t want to move, to feel this enjoyment when you knew what he was doing to you. It was unbearable: feeling the heat rise in your stomach and between your legs, slick building. You wished for him to just turn you over and fuck you senselessly out of your wits, but you tried to keep your cool.
The emperor smiled into your hairline, kissing it sweetly despite where his hands were travelling to. “You are so cute when you make those noises.” A hand moved against your inner thigh, “May I hear more?”
You whined, not daring to speak as his fingers found their way further up between your legs, finding your clit between the wool of your legs, pinching and running his finger along it, inciting noises that had you flushed uncontrollably.
“Let me hear your voice, dear. You sound so beautiful.” He encouraged you further, and you did not want to fail him.
His endless teasing never seemed to end, until you finally turned to look back behind you, staring up at him through lidded eyelids. He did not need to say anything further, but when you felt the length of his cock press against your inner thigh, you knew he was thinking the same thing.
-
“That’s it, ride my cock.”
You gasped and shuddered, water rippling along with your body, bouncing above the dragon with the might to match thunder. Your breasts bounced in time to the way you rode him, thighs clenched around his, stomach coiling with his length alone, moving in and out of you, reaching incredible depths inside you.
Asahi held you around your hip with a clawed hand, guiding you lazily, yet his eyes were aflame with ardent passion. “You’re such a slut, aren’t you? Riding my cock-- your emperor’s cock like some harlot.” He hissed.
“Y-Yes—oh, yes I am,” you whined, focusing on your orgasm approaching once more. The heat of the water and from him and brought sweat to you, spreading across your body the more you fucked yourself on him.
“Look at you, fucking yourself senselessly on me,” Asahi rumbled a chuckle, eyes lit with enjoyment. “You’ve fucked yourself dumb on me.”
Your head was turning to mush, your body aching, and the need to come was coiling and twisting, making your chest do flips. Asahi was all very amused by this: tweaking one of your nipples idly as he observed.
“Go on, cum again, my beloved. Cum on my cock like the good girl you are.”
You didn’t need to be told twice, as the orgasm was ripped from you with the force that had you shuddering. You clutched onto the dragon with desperation as you rode it out, the forceful thrusts didn’t seem to falter as they took you through a ride. In fact, you coming seemed to spur him on further.
“That’s it,” he growled through gritted teeth, “you’re mine. All mine. Mine for the fucking—gonna breed you—”
He howled, hips stilling, holding you down above him as he came inside you, his hips stuttering as he gave a cry into the night, thrusting his remaining cum inside your aching used hole.
Your breaths steamed into the night, conjoining together as one, and when the dragon embraced you lovingly, all pain, and worries seemed to melt away.
You thought it was all done, before you could even register his thick, rigged cock was twitching once more, still rock hard.
“I’m not done with you just yet,” he murmured lovingly, his hips giving a low thrust to make you moan aloud again. “The night is still young, and I’m in need of warmth.”
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awritersname · 16 days
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of fire and stone . second preview
here is the second glimpse into my multi-chapter aemond series currently in the works!
| aemond x fem!strong!oc | aemond x alys rivers |
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WORD COUNT: 1,026
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Beside him, Aegon's sword danced through the air in a series of swings, four or five in quick succession, before his attention was ensnared by the sight of maids crossing the yard. In their eyes, I discerned a wariness, as if he were a beast rather than a prince, while he offered them naught but a lascivious smile, his gaze heavy with unspoken desires.
"Aegon," Ser Criston's voice cut through the yard, an attempt to reel the young prince's wandering mind back to the task at hand.
"I have bested my first challenger, Ser Criston," the Prince proclaimed with a prideful simper, "He has begged for my mercy."
"Then it seems you are in need of a worthier opponent, my Lord of the Straw. Let us test your mettle against mine. You and your brother," Ser Criston challenged, his gaze piercing through the veil of arrogance that shrouded the young prince.
From my vantage, I couldn't help but smirk at my father, confident in the outcome, "They stand no chance against him."
From the sidelines, Ser Harwin observed, not alone in his vigil. The queen’s progeny assailed Ser Criston with fervor, yet, the knight parried their assaults with a grace that bordered on the effortless, at one juncture nearly casting Aegon into Aemond’s path.
"You must push yourselves harder than this," he taunted, a nimble dodge paired with a playful tap of his sword against Aegon's rear, a rebuke as light as a feather.
"Weapons up, boys." Ser Harwin's voice boomed from the sidelines, directed at Jace and Luke, who had thus far remained observers. "Give your enemies no quarter."
Ser Criston, upon hearing this, ceased his movements and turned towards my father with a stiffness in his demeanor. A shadow passed over his face as his eyes, narrowed to mere slits, fixed upon my father.
"It appears the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention Ser Criston." my father observed, his voice bearing the lightest touch of steel, a challenge thrown as deftly as any gauntlet.
“You question my method of instruction, Ser?” the Knight pressed, his voice a low rumble of gathering storm clouds, his jaw set so fiercely that the muscles twitched with the strain of his ire.
"All I suggest is that you extend your guidance to all your charges," my father retorted smoothly, his words drawing from me a smirk of amusement, a silent witness to the clash of wills before me.
"Very well," conceded Ser Criston. With deliberate strides, he approached the dark-haired princes. "Jacaerys," he bellowed, his voice a tempest that gave no quarter. Without affording the boy the slightest chance for reprieve, he grasped him — not gently, but with the harshness of iron clenching iron — and dragged him across the yard as if he were no more than a sack of grain. "You are to spar with Aegon."
From where I stood, a silent observer cloaked in my own thoughts, I watched as Aegon and Aemond shared a glance, their eyes alight with the mischief of those who have never known defeat. They regarded Jace as one might regard a curiously bold mouse, daring to challenge the cat — an amusement, akin to the goat meant for Vermax's maw in the Dragonpit. A mere jest, a distraction.
“Oh, spare me,” the eldest prince lamented, his gaze flitting from the brooding figure of Jace to rest upon me. “I’d find greater challenge in crossing swords with Ro. She, at least, wields her blade with skill."
Before I could interject, Ser Criston rebuffed the notion, his gaze fleetingly crossing mine, a glance that conveyed a belief in his own benevolence toward Aegon—convincing himself that pitting him against Jace was a mercy. "Eldest son, against eldest son.“
"Fine," Aegon sighed, his resignation as palpable as the dawn's dew, yet he advanced to the heart of the yard with the weight of inevitability.
"Hardly a fair contest," murmured Harwin, his voice a soft wind circling the boundaries of our makeshift arena.
"You, who have never tasted the bitter draught of true warfare, speak of fairness," Criston retorted, his tone laced with disdain as sharp as the edge of a blade. "When steel sings and blood is drawn, notions of fairness is a fool’s expectation."
My father, bound by honor and duty, held his peace, for what words could bridge the chasm that lay between the ideals of the training yard and the grim realities of the battlefield? Yet, I found my voice, "Whether on the battlefield or not, Ser Criston, this is a training ground, not war. A modicum of chivalry and fairness would not go amiss here."
A chuckle, dark and devoid of mirth, escaped Criston's lips, stirring the air. "Victory does not favor the fair, Lady. It is the handmaiden of strategy and ruthlessness," he paused, his gaze piercing the air to settle upon my father. "Surely, your father has imparted such wisdom upon you."
"My father is well acquainted with the art of war, Ser," I replied, my voice steady despite the provocation.
"Words are but wind, Lady Rowena," he scoffed, his laughter echoing hollow across the yard.
“And yet, ‘knight’ too is a word,” I countered, the words slipping out before I could tether them.
“Rowena,” came my father’s admonition, heavy like a storm yet to break, yet I met his gaze with a pretense of naivety, "All I imply, father, is that it is our honor and chivalry that distinguish us from the savages."
Ser Criston's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a sneer, "If chivalry so enchants you, Lady, perhaps you ought to forsake the blade for needlework within the confines of your ivory tower."
"Mind your words when addressing my daughter, Cole," my father interjected, the air around him taut with unspoken threats.
The tension swelled, a storm poised on the horizon. Ser Criston, steadfast in his resolve, met my father's gaze, unflinching.
"Your daughter has yet to earn such reverence."
A collective gasp rippled through the gathering, the princes exchanging uneasy glances as the confrontation between the Commander of the City Watch and the Knight of the Kingsguard reached a crescendo.
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wataksampingan · 1 month
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The seventh day of the new year in Chinese mythology is celebrated as the day humans were created.
So for you on your birthday, a wish:
O Rat, be shrewd, be light, may you find the way forward
O Ox, be resilient, be patient, may you remain kind to all
O Tiger, be bold, be strong, may you run fast to bring courage
O Rabbit, be graceful, be nimble, may you jump over each obstacle
O Dragon, be powerful, be generous, may you fly free to give life
O Snake, be wily, be flexible, may you move in ways unexpected
O Horse, be swift, be undaunted, may you rise up every time
O Goat, be gracious, be merciful, may you make all warm and welcome
O Monkey, be clever, be resourceful, may you find everything needed
O Rooster, be bright, be alert, may you herald each new beginning
O Dog, be spirited, be playful, may your joy multiply and overflow
O Pig, be full, be peaceful, may you show all how life should be
Happy birthday, everyone.
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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 10 months
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I’m hereeeeee 😍
Could I please request Skade training/mentoring another seer with sex in the woods?
Thank you ❤️❤️
Hi my Fae Bae! I hope you enjoy this. I had a lot of fun writing it.
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Warnings: Mentions of death, minor injury, blink and you'll miss it blood play, oral (f receiving, duh), mention of weapons. Word count: ~1100
“It is no use!” You groan in frustration, throwing the sword to the ground and kicking dirt over the sigils you’d carved into the earth. “I don’t see anything!”
“But you will.” Skade urges. Her fingers card playfully through the ends of your hair. “Destiny brought you to me, you and I will do great things together. I’ve seen it.”
You sigh, taking her hand and pressing soft kisses to her knuckles. Your eyes soften as you stare into the intense blue of hers. “I am not as powerful as you, if I have any power at all…”
Skade grasps you by the front of your cloak, pulling you to her with a smirk. “It was you that removed the Nithstong from the outside of my cell, you that helped to free me, you that plagues my visions.”
She isn’t wrong. Since you had arrived in Alton, Wessex alongside Uhtred’s men and seen the carnage left in Skade’s wake, it was like an invisible string had pulled the two of you together. Her eyes never once left yours as Sihtric bound her wrists together.
It mattered not to you that she had slaughtered the priests, or cursed Uhtred. The coarse language that spilled forth from her lips served only to stoke the fire within you, burning with white hot intensity for her. She claimed to be a seer and you wondered if perhaps it was a bewitchment that caused your heart to race whenever you were in her presence.
Dread gnawed at your gut when you reached Dunholm and Skade was imprisoned. You knew that Brida and the others meant to do her harm, and now that she was a part of your life you were not prepared to be without her.
Come nightfall, you’d carefully lifted the keys from Jackdaw and snuck to her cell. Ripping the goat’s head that had been staked outside it from the ground and tossing it to the side, you’d made short work of unlocking the barred door, pleading with Skade to be quiet as she’d laughed and urged you on.
You had only intended to take her as far as the treeline and then let her go, yet were unable to resist when she’d asked that you come with her. You’d agreed on the condition that she lifted whatever affliction she’d placed upon Uhtred. His state was weakening rapidly and although you were intending to leave the company of him and his men, you had no wish to see him die.
Since then your days had been spent attempting to harness the power that she claimed you possessed, under her watchful guidance. Your nights were spent under the stars, between each other's thighs. Skade was unpredictable and utterly chaotic, but it excited you. You were a moth to her shining light.
It frustrated you how slowly your abilities were developing. You could feel something there, bubbling just beneath the surface, yet it was just beyond your reach. You secretly worried that, given time, Skade would tire of your lack of ability and desert you. When you grew angry at not being able to manifest your visions or get your incantations to take, it came from a place of fear; fear of losing her.
“What if you are wrong about me?” You ask, your brows pinching together in concern.
“I am never wrong.” She tells you confidently, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, which you chase eagerly. “There is a reason I told the men not to gaze upon me in Bloodhair’s camp, it is because the only person worthy of looking upon me is you.”
You gasp as she scratches at your neck, the sharp sting quickly soothed by the lave of her tongue across the broken flesh.
“I can taste your power.” She whispers.
You thread your fingers into her long flaxen hair, kissing her hungrily, backing her up against the trunk of a tree.
She moans, her nimble fingers dancing along your sides as you break away from her mouth to press your lips against her neck and collarbones. Her scent is rich, a mixture of earth and spice which is heady and intoxicating.
You lower yourself to your knees, ignoring the way that the twigs and stones of the woodland floor bite into the flesh of them through your skirt. Carefully, your fingertips push Skade’s dress upwards, pressing soft kisses to every inch of flesh that’s revealed to you as you make your ascent up the path of her legs.
She shivers under your touch, hands clawing at your shoulder blades, and you suck in a shaky breath as you are met with the sight of her cunt, wet and wanting as it always is.
Burying your face between her thighs, you lap at her enthusiastically, delighting in the way she squirms and cries out above you. The taste of her against your tongue is sharp, though not unpleasant. You have tasted stone fruit that isn’t as fine as what’s nestled between this seeress’ legs.
“Your mouth is magic…” She moans out, as you circle her bud precisely with the tip of your tongue, watching her eyes become hooded with lust as her mouth falls open.
Your grip on the tops of her legs tightens, holding her open to you as you alternate between licking stripes through her folds and suckling at her pearl.
Her cries of pleasure increase in cadence and she tenses, trembling slightly. You know she is close, the pink that dusts the apples of her cheeks always seems to signal when she is about to reach her peak.
You focus your attention entirely on the bundle of nerves that sits at the apex of her, and let out a groan of satisfaction when she finally falls apart, tasting the warm wetness of her arousal in your mouth.
You gaze up at her, a pleased smile on your face as you take in her satisfied, blissed out expression. Rising to your feet, you pull her against you, your heart swelling at the way she immediately relaxes into your body.
Your eyebrows raise in surprise when, after a few moments, she produces a blade from her sleeve.
She pulls back from you a little, staring intently at you as she presses the sharpened edge to her palm, and the words she speaks next quell all fears of her ever leaving.
“Bind yourself to me.”
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planetzoos · 4 months
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A shot of the takin from the upcoming Eurasia Pack. I'd never heard of these animals before (which rarely happens!), so I looked them up.
They're most closely related to sheep, although they have traits in common wih sheep, goats, and antelope. They live in the Himalayas and are nimble climbers, although they generally spend more time in forested areas.
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gogciety · 5 months
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CLEAR THE SEARCHES
GEORGE GOAT
GEORGE NIMBLE
GEORGE BETTER THAN EVERYONE
GEORGE ON TOP
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mosneakers · 8 months
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To begin his day, Erwin steps out of the Old Penelope Bunker and secures the lock on the door on his way out.
Coni: Erwin! Hey!
Erwin: Huh? What's all this? Coni gestures for him to come here.
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Coni: So there was a dispute between my parents and my Mema and I. So I've cut off communication with them for the rest of their miserable lives and so now Ratatouille has to come live here, so I built her a last-minute makeshift enclosure. What do you think? Erwin: Err- Last minute? I mean it's impressive, but-
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Coni: Oh mod. I guess this isn't very discreet for a bunker, is it? I should've ask first. I'm sorry Erwin. Things with my family have just been really rocky lately. Erwin: Nah, it's cool, Con. But what... what happened? Is everything okay? Coni: Yeah, it's a pretty long story. Anyway! Where were you heading? Erwin: Oh, me? Well, reluctantly, I've decided it's about time to get my braces off. I was on my way to the dentist.
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Coni nimbly hops over the fence and meets Erwin with a smile. Coni: The dentist? You mean Big Dental? That doesn't sound like you... Erwin: I know. I hate the idea. Didn't want to do it, but I've had these braces too long and they're long overdue to be removed now. It's not just something I can "go to a guy I know" for.
Coni: Well let me go with you. You shouldn't have to do it alone, at the very least. I'll make sure they don't steal your identity or steal your teeth and replace them with rocks, or whatever it is you conspiracy theorists are afraid of.
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Erwin: No, that's okay. It's sweet of you to offer, but your goat probably needs you more right now. I'll be fine. Coni: Oh my mod, shut up. I'm just finishing up, and she's very self-sufficient, I'll have you know. So she'll be fine while we're away. I'm coming with you. You need a friend, and that's what I am. No arguing. Let's go.
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Congratulations to Erwin and his new braces-free smile!
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farm-paws · 11 months
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She is round and cranky
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🦄 for maglor!
thank you for the ask @spiritofwhitefire!! unusual maglor physical appearance headcanons...
lots of freckles and moles.
lost a couple of teeth in alqualonde (harpoons, you know how it goes). they grow back very, very sharp, and too white. draw blood from his cheeks and lips a little too easily; he often has to wipe it away with the back of his hand, terrible on the cufflinks.
looks as unremarkable as nerdanel, with míriel's dimples (and míriel's quick, easy speech). not pretty, exactly.
a wide, wide guy. solid rider type. chest depth pavarotti would envy. very, very strong and nimble.
not short for an elf.
able to walk silently whenever he pleases, and very loudly, too, when he wants to. generally maintains a very strong sense of acoustic control around his surroundings with his voice, will and gestures.
silence, too, can be a weapon. great at thrall-catching; he can make them speak just by the force of not speaking, parsing out in the silence all the words half-willed into speech.
eye bags. lots of them. purple and dramatic.
wounded after the bragollach, loses eyesight in one eye, and is badly burnt on one side after being trapped under dragonfire.
everyone keeps going for his fingers. why do they all go for his fingers? the bones grow back stronger every time, and the skin gets though. he takes great care, with honey and goat milk and possibly the blood of some animals, to make certain the skin remains supple.
does a great deal of physical therapy and stretching even in valinor, as all singers and musicians do. guy who will start improv rehearsal exercises whenever.
gap-style tattoos.
strongly attached to his old layered surcoat of mail and silk (enchanted not to catch fire, enough mesh to keep out arrows and spears) (the fraying brocade leaves damning red thread wherever he passes).
furry hats aplenty. no armour. on account that if you wear armour around a wyrm, that's not your head, that's some wyrm's roasted dinner in a plate.
very curly hair as a prince, perfumed and often decorated with chains and headdresses. stiff braids bound with chains of gold coins as a regent and lord; goes half-wavy and half-straight with stress. fully pin-straight after the 3rd kinslaying. braids fall apart and off, sometimes, in ratty strands, once the salt eats at them enough.
on the other hand, his thick eyelashes and eyebrows remain very striking through his wanderings! so there's that.
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slimesaysthings · 7 months
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"Like a billy goat I hop, still nimble as ever! Even though my youth is long behind me." - Goatcicle
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tobiasdrake · 2 months
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I am not okay.
Alright. One last ride. How do we do this?
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Information that the Elder Mist probably could have just given us himself. Garl got it from a vision that Elder Mist's spring gave him. But if Elder Mist told us, then there wouldn't be a reason for Garl to use Borrowed Time.
The prophecy isn't for achieving the goal. It's for us. It's using him as a superfluous exposition vessel so that we can have one last ride with our bestie. T-T
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Of course, Serai still has portals galore and we just established that she can use them to cross the globe; Between that and the Torment portal, there doesn't seem to be much limiting her in terms of size, distance, or duration. But we'll ignore that.
Maybe it's personal. For a whatever she is, asking to use her portal could be like asking someone to take their pants off. It might be a more intimate request than it seems. Who knows?
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What, again? We were already so far behind on figuring this shit out that the Oracle of Tides made fun of us for it.
*sigh* We really are the remedial course of legendary super-warriors, aren't we?
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Yeah, the Sky Bridge or Sky Shrine or something. I found it while I was faffing about but there wasn't anything to do there. If up is where we need to go, then that seems like our best ticket to the sky.
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Is there a bridge? Is there a lever on the other side that can send over a bridge? Because one of us can portal and hit the lever, if there is. Or one of us can turn into a huge bird and hit the lever. Either way, we have options to send individual members of the group across; We's just lacking a way to get the whole group over there.
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My prophecy did say I can make paths across water. That's been bugging me, since all I did was take a swing at Fleshy, then turn into a glow-ball and fly. Both satisfying experiences but neither really counts as "making paths across water".
But maybe this is my time.
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The Versus community is going to lose their fucking minds.
Well, actually, they've probably already calc'd me at Solar System level via a disingenuous estimate of me moving the moon around, as if I were doing that with my bare hands.
Point is, I'm really cool and we should all shower me with praise. That's the point. I am ready to accept your praise.
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Yes. Yeees. Feed the ego.
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That is definitely a teleporter. We must be getting close because you don't enter the Kingdom of Zeal until the last third of the game.
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I wonder what keeps these chunks of earth aloft. Is it the spiral pattern? I bet it's the spiral pattern. There's probably some kind of... inherent mysticism in....
That's stupid. I'll just ask Teaks when I get a chance.
In any case, I guess we're here to get somebody's permission to cross the Sea of Stars. Let's get to work.
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I did, yes. I'm not 100% sure that Luana reincarnated into me but I'm willing to create that as dogma. Or, like, maybe I'm a timeline variant of her. I don't know, but I am eager to get that rumor started.
Also, you are way too huge. Could you. Like. Be less huge? These platforms must be tiny for a person of your size. Y'all must have incredible nimbleness to be comfortable walking around on these tiny little stepping stones.
Like mountain goats.
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This inn is like a closet for you. How do you people live like this?
You have a Wheels table. How do you even see the dials? Your ridiculous size is so incongruent to the layout of your city! How did this happen!?
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Alright, team. Here's the plan:
Garl's in charge. He's making the plans. I've got nothing. I barely even know what we're doing here.
The important thing is that we stay on-task so that Garl's enchantment doesn't wear off. But also that we take our sweet time carrying out our task so that we can maximize the amount of time we have left with our dear friend.
Think of this like a contract assignment with an hourly wage. As long as we're working on the job, we keep getting paid until the moment it's done. But there's no clear deadline for when that has to be, so sandbag it.
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nymphsupremacy · 2 years
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Some Zeus lore. I believe I mentioned before that Kronos captured Zeus at some point and he royally traumatizes him by flexing his time powers. He did that so that Zeus would be convinced to just give up and not put up a fight against him anymore and it almost worked. One of the things he showed was making him relieve the day Amalthea (his goat mama) died. That was the first truly traumatic experience he had. On that particular day, a 10-11 year old Zeus went for a walk with her, Amalthea wasn’t as nimble as she once was so they decided to take a break and took a nap. By the time Zeus woke up, she was already dead. Being unable to properly regulate his power and emotions, he ended up burning a large part of the forest until his guardians came looking for him.
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