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cypriathus · 2 months

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Here are my versions of Typhon/Abzu, Echidna/Tiamat, Ymir, and the Dagda!

WARNING: There are brief mentions of genitalia.

Telaphorszun/Abhejozur is fully capable of threatening serious harm and causing immense dread amongst those he comes across or witnesses him in person. He can be extremely annoying and shameful, which strangely makes him quite bold and startling. Despite his promiscuous nature, he’s very faithful, protective, and somewhat reliant on his mate, Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur. He occasionally shows his undue and excessive pride in his appearance, prowess, and personal achievements. He has a ravenous appetite, showing no fear in acting upon his violent greediness for food. Telaphorszun/Abhejozur lacks proper consideration for others that aren’t his friends and family, and he possesses a drive to acquire authoritative power. When he’s blinded by pure rage, he falls into unrestrained surrender to impulse without regard, behaving in an uncontrollable way. He’s strict, yet patient and caring towards his children, and he has fairly excellent intelligence and wisdom. His wisdom gives him a better advantage of dealing things with partial cautiousness and passionate diligence.

He’s immensely gargantuan that his head brushes against the stars, possessing the upper torso of a grotesquely muscular man made from freshwater. He has two coiled European ratsnakes in place of legs and his waist is covered in ten bull heads, ten boar heads, ten serpent heads, ten lion heads, and ten leopard heads. He possesses pointed ears, carnivorous teeth, two serpentine tongues, and eyes that flash orange fire with each heartbeat. He has four monza red eyes of wattle sclera, chateau green pupils, and vertical turquoise slits in the middle. Telaphorszun’s/Abhejozur’s four dew-covered massive wings have a gradient of elm, rock spray, and tussock. His filthy old brick hair is tied into five braids and his beard is shaped into deliberate, beautifully-organised curls in tightly-coiled pillars. He wears a rounded eastern blue cap with seven superimposed pairs of platinum ox-horns, gilt-brass armlets, and a golden shawl with fiery silver patterning on the edges and tassels.

His dark aura can generate devastating storms, and he can breath fire, vomit molten lava, and create volcanic rocks that are used to hurl at his enemies. His presence is able to strike fear in the hearts of those who witness him, causing them to flee instantly. The magnitude of his strength can easily cause Earth to tremble and he’s incredibly durable, only being harmed by lightning bolts and tridents. Telaphorszun/Abhejozur is also phenomenally agile and it allows him to dodge most projectiles, and he possesses nearly absolute reflexes, senses, speed, and stamina. He can manipulate avalanches, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, hydrological disasters, meteorological disasters, wildfires, violent thunderstorms, hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, and floods. He can spew large amounts of venom that can instantly poison two seas, quickly regenerate wounds, and shapeshift into madness-inducing forms. He’s able to use his wings to fly and his vocal chords to produce the sounds of any wild and domesticated animal. Telaphorszun/Abhejozur has the ability to create lakes, springs, rivers, wells, and other sources of freshwater by manipulating the primordial void.

FAMILY:

Unnamed chthonic and storm god or “Tartarus” (father)

Unnamed earth goddess or “Gaia” (mother)

Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur (wife)

Uysemogila (child)

Basmuzogen (daughter)

Kusevhorija (son)

Lahtezomu (son)

Uyrszegalo (daughter)

Uyrdozhema (daughter)

Girtablemu (son)

Oymdabretus (son)

Unnamed nine-headed swamp dragon or “Hydra”

Unnamed dragon that guards golden sheep or “Colchian Dragon”

Unnamed hundred-headed dragon that guards golden apples or “Ladon”

Unnamed fire-breathing she-monster or “Chimera”

Unnamed malevolent riddle-asker or “Sphinx”

Unnamed three-headed giant that owns flesh-eating cattle or “Geryon”

Unnamed monstrous female pig or “Crommyonian Sow”

Unnamed giant lion with skin that’s impervious to any weapon or “Nemean Lion”

Unnamed liver-devouring eagle or “Caucasian Eagle”

Kerabhonius (adoptive daughter)

Oyrthalenius (adoptive son)

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

Typhon

Abzu

The Cries of All Wild Beasts

Hurler of Kindled Rocks

Serpent of the Deep

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

His closest friend is Ymejahor (or Asgelomur)

He deeply hates Odersvani for killing Ymejahor and Ziesowa for being brutally forced out of his mountainous territory where Mount Olympus is.

He absolutely hates humanity and most members of The Phaethon.

As an Æylphitus, his name means “cyclone, hurricane or smoking one”. In regards to his second name, Abhejozur means “deep water”.

Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur is cunning with fierce manipulative tactics and a strong sense of prideful independence. She’s capable of showing fury and malignity in her actions, treating those who disrespect or annoy her and her brethren with savage cruelty. She prefers to viciously harm vile men and masculine entities as she views them as being inferior to their female counterparts. However, she possesses more tranquil, compassionate, and generous tendencies compared to her mate, Telaphorszun/Abhejozur. She has a fairly intense bloodlust and a desire for revenge against those who wronged virgin and pregnant women. She possesses a twisted enjoyment in seducing foolish and impressionable mortals, indulging in her unyielding libido. She experiences palpable mood swings from joyous and energetic to miserable and agitated, which somewhat makes her unpredictable and disorderly wild. Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur occasionally behaves in a noisy and rude manner during public meetings and parties, but it depends on her current mood and appetite.

Her beautiful mesomorphic body with a lack of breasts, four arms, and a rounded belly is covered in a thin layer of fetid feijoa slime. She has swamp green skin and a gumbo cow udder with greyish speckles and faint purple veins. She has glancing hibiscus eyes with emerald pupils and tacha sclera, a forked tongue, four pointed ears, black claws, and fair rosy cheeks. The upper row of yellowed omnivorous teeth has long fleshy fangs where her canines should be, which indicates that she has a venom sac. Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur possesses a thick, long mass of curly como hair with maroon flush sheen, and her human torso is protruding from a sea dragon. The sea dragon has the blue-green-white colouration of a Lake Kutubu rainbowfish and four shimmering avian luxor gold wings. Their forelegs and hind legs end in the talons of an eagle and their elongated, feathered necks match the hue of the wings. It also possesses ten snarling lioness heads with flesh-devouring, bone-crushing teeth, glowing purplish-red eyes, and upwards-pointed canine ears.

She has manipulative control over sea-scum, salt-marshes, and the corruptions of the earth in the form of rot, slime, polluted waters, illness, and disease. Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur is able to quickly conceive and give birth to a spawn of terrible monsters in less than nine months. She can produce a venom that has the power to induce madness, change her size, and use freshwater to create Oceanids and Naiads. She’s practically immortal and ageless, but giants and heifer blood could cause her a sufficient amount of bodily harm. She possesses total authority over all monstrous dragons and snakes, and the ability to quickly regenerate any inflicted wounds. By utilising her massive bird wings, she’s able to fly and deflect magical melee and ranged attacks. She can inflict mortals with any curse imaginable and create rifts in reality to travel across the multiverse. Her aura can distort and warp the weather, crush mountains, and boil seas, and her physical strength, agility, speed, reflexes, senses, and stamina are as good as her mate’s. Ækhodzinus/Tiamosjur is capable of unleashing chaos during times of upheaval and generating air, electricity, and water.

FAMILY:

Unnamed dangerous sea god or “Phorcys” (father)

Unnamed sea monster goddess or “Keto” (mother)

Telaphorszun/Abhejozur (husband)

Uysemogila (child)

Basmuzogen (daughter)

Kusevhorija (son)

Lahtezomu (son)

Uyrszegalo (daughter)

Uyrdozhema (daughter)

Girtablemu (son)

Oymdabretus (son)

Unnamed nine-headed swamp dragon or “Hydra”

Unnamed dragon that guards golden sheep or “Colchian Dragon”

Unnamed hundred-headed dragon that guards golden apples or “Ladon”

Unnamed fire-breathing she-monster or “Chimera”

Unnamed malevolent riddle-asker or “Sphinx”

Unnamed three-headed giant that owns flesh-eating cattle or “Geryon”

Unnamed monstrous female pig or “Crommyonian Sow”

Unnamed giant lion with skin that’s impervious to any weapon or “Nemean Lion”

Unnamed liver-devouring eagle or “Caucasian Eagle”

Kerabhonius (adoptive daughter)

Oyrthalenius (adoptive son)

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

Echidna

Tiamat

The Serpent Womb

The Glistening One

Eel of the Stormy Pit

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

Her husband often runs to her when he has been emotionally insulted or physically hurt.

Unlike her husband, she frankly doesn’t care much about her own children, but she does have a soft spot for Kerabhonius and Oyrthalenius.

As an Æylphitus, her name means “poisonous viper”. In regards to her second name, Tiamosjur means “sea”.

Ymejahor, born as Asgelomur, is motivated by purely animalistic instincts and is ruthlessly determined to get what they desire, uncaring to the plight of others. Due to being primarily moved by instinct, they often come off as disorderly wild and uncontrollable. They’re extremely cruel and violent towards a small portion of Æylphitus and all non-Æylphitus, finding sexual gratification in witnessing their torture, misery, and humiliation. They only act friendly, compassionate, and respectful towards their friends and family as they value their companionship.

They’re a hermaphroditic entity with a height slightly greater than Earth and a disturbingly mesomorphic body type that has a chiselled musculature and well-endowed breasts. They also have a partially rounded belly, a grotesque and spiky penis, and prominent thighs. Their porcelain skin has a hint of Columbia blue and jungle green with protruding red-violet veins on their neck, biceps, triceps, belly, and upper legs. They have icy blue ram horns and long straight, yet messy ghost white hair with streaks of platinum. They possess bloodshot heterochromia eyes, the right is a yellow-orange and the left is lavender with a sky blue pupil. Their crooked omnivorous teeth can crush bone and tree trunks, and their back is covered in snow-topped moss. They have razor-sharp claws and talons of unbreakable ice, a Fjäll cow tail, an aurochs skull necklace, and a loincloth of reindeer fur.

They have incalculable physical and mental condition and the ability to generate ice, snow, poisonous gases, hot embers, and dark voids. They can manipulate air, earth, fire, and water, change their size, and shapeshift into aurochsen, reindeers, giants, humans, and Ufrajozlens. They have a chilling cold aura that can easily create hail storms and blizzards, and freeze living creatures who get close to them. They’re entirely insusceptible to cold and warmer climates, and capable of creating giants from their armpits and lower legs. Due to their insatiable hunger, they can easily consume every known indigestible and digestible substance.

FAMILY:

Unnamed primeval cow or “Auðumbla” (mother)

“Þrúðgelmir” (son)

“Bergelmir” (grandson)

Ysbedulona (descendent)

Oylwaphen (descendent)

Vafjethudnir (descendent)

Jurnesoxa (descendent)

Skojamur (descendent)

Mugnazori (descendent)

Orgezlusa (descendent)

Skudezorvija (descendent)

Ängrebodius (descendent)

Farneboluti (descendent)

Lokjafeni (descendent)

Narfezomuti (descendent)

Valeszowuji (descendent)

Slepzhamonir (descendent)

Huljatemo (descendent)

Fenjuzori (descendent)

Hameluti L’Hrodvatenius (descendent)

Skojazlen (descendent)

Jormeghandius (descendent)

Forszaleti (descendent)

Modjazeri (descendent)

Orsvezhan (descendent)

Unnamed female giant descendent

Galehoziut Farkletombius (descendent)

Galechornius (descendent)

Bolaphurine (descendent)

Hrosapjelf (descendent)

D’Grufhelona (descendent)

Billions of other descendents

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

Ymir

Aurgelmir

Brimir

Bláinn

Silent Progenitor

Sound of Clay

The Frost Giant

The Gravelly Scream

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

They’re described as the first living creature who was the ancestor of all giants, being born from a yeasty venom that dripped from an icy river.

Their flesh formed the earth of Pangaea, their blood purified into bodies of water, their bones became the mountains, their hair created the trees, their helped to shape the clouds, their skull was used as sturdy protection for the sky, and their eyebrows were transformed into leylines as well as mortal and spiritual boundaries. Their jaw and teeth were broken down into rocks and pebbles, their right eye became the Sun, and their left eye was changed into Earth’s moon.

It’s commonly believed by many that their flesh and blood aided in the creation of the dwarves.

As an Æylphitus, their name means “to whine, hermaphrodite or twin”. In regards to their second name, Asgelomur means “shouting clay, sand-bellower or gravel-roarer”.

Dagtezobius is slovenly lecherous and oafish, being a result of his fun-loving, mischievous, and combat-oriented attitude. As a result of his strong fatherly instincts, he’s often gentle, friendly, and compassionate to those he views as family and friends. He only flies into a fit of rage when they have been hurt or wrongly abused, annihilating the perpetrator that’s responsible for their anguish. Whenever he feels threatened or frustrated, he comes off as strangely serious and fearsome. He’s fairly versatile, allowing him to utilise a variety of personal skills and adjust to new conditions. He places genuine value on humility, honesty, faithfulness, independence, and wisdom, which he strictly applies to his life choices and relationships. Dagtezobius seems to be full of clever humour and skilled at gaining an advantage through deceit, having a very good understanding of situations and possibilities. He’s eager to help in a beneficial and advantageous way, and noticeably adventurous, willing to take risks and try new methods.

He’s as tall as the largest mountain, possessing a trapezoidal endomorphic body with robust limbs, chiselled pecs, broad shoulders, a prominent belly, a well-endowed penis, four arms, and Irish elk antlers. His shoulder-length, curly hair and long, unruly beard are a shimmering maroon oak with streaks of old brick. He even has thick, bushy eyebrows and curly pecto-sterno-infraclavicular and sagittal hair of the same hue. He has heterochromia eyes, the right is sky blue and the left is jade, and a fair complexion with reddish-brown freckles on his face, neck, and hands. He wears a woollen saffron-yellow cloak, an ill-fitting linen copper rust tunic, and Connemara pony fur boots. He dons a knee-length pleated goblin green kilt with black, white, hippie blue, and gold stripes. In order to hold Dagtezobius’ kilt in place, he has a cow leather belt with a golden buckle, a red fox tail, and a lucky rabbit’s foot. He carries a shepherd's crook named Lorg Mór, a mace of dual nature named Lorg Anfaid, and a richly ornamented harp of oak named Uaithne. Uaithne could place the seasons in proper order and even command the wills and emotions of sentient beings. The head of Lorg Anfaid can slay nine men in a single swing, while its handle could revive the slain through physical touch. He also has a bottomless cauldron that’s tied to his back named Coire Ansic, which produces a bountiful feast, never runs empty, and acts as a portal to other dimensions.

He manipulates size, fertility, agriculture, manliness, druidry, wisdom, war treaties, traditional music, life, death, the weather, crops, time, and the four seasons. As a result of his absolute charisma, he has the ability to command the respect and admiration from both Æylphitus and mortals alike. He possesses omnicompetence, absolute strength, and total knowledge of the earth and fire. Dagtezobius has a perfected mastery over agriculture, meteorology, alchemy, astrology, conjuration, divination, herbalism, necromancy, music, and the art of war. He can prevent the sun from setting by holding it in place for nine months and summon a drift of pigs and a herd of cows.

FAMILY:

Unnamed goddess of motherhood and agricultural prosperity or “Danu” (mother)

Kaleszochi Moraghuine (ex-wife)

Ayngezobius (son)

Brigedonus (daughter)

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

The Dagda

Fatherly Horseman

Striking Creator

Horned Man

The Fiery One

The Fertile One

Man of the Peak

Mighty Lord of Great Knowledge

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

His domain is an infinite series of Neolithic mounds, having an orchard that bore perennial sweet fruit and being aligned with the rising sun during winter solstice.

He has two pigs, one of which was always growing whilst the other was always roasting.

He also has a black-maned heifer that causes all cattle to graze by calling for its calf.

As an Æylphitus, his name means “good god”.

His sacred animal is a pig

A cauldron, mace, and harp are his sacred symbols.

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t-tomuras · 8 months

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˚*❋ ─── • 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Empyrean!Douma x F!reader

Warnings: Biting (sexually and nonsexually), noncon to dubcon, mention of breeding, creampie, (slight) cumplay

Wordcount: 5.4k

Notes: Reupload, heed the warnings.

The Upper Plane is boring, the other children of deities are never good company. They lack dimension in his eyes, so incredibly boring to spend time with. Hakuji is the only one that ever seems moderately entertaining but Douma always tires quickly of agitating him.

Pools of opal and the lush greenery of Elysium do little to quell his desire for stimulation, his realm is good— not overly restrictive but not untouched by the laws of chaos. There is hardly trouble here, petty squabbles among the celestials and their children yet they’re always handled and forgotten quickly. They’re untouched by the plight of man and know not of the strife they face but Douma is always curious.

“The Material Plane is full of mortals that would revere us,” he was told growing up, creatures so fragile that the sight of beings such as him always brought them to their knees in worship. It’s intriguing to say the least, perhaps it’ll satiate his desire for stimulation unlike everything else he does to occupy his time.

Though, when he visits your plane it’s hardly anything to look at. The water is clear but has no sparkle, like the bodies do in Elysium and the forests hold no whimsy. Beaten paths along the ground from treks he’ll never know lead him through a canopy of trees that are home to fauna that are well within their rights to want to avoid him. It’s quiet, save for the light breeze that rustles the leaves and scatters dirt at his feet, he thinks this world is drab.

The canopy opens up atop a hill overlooking a large village; old buildings of timber wood and wattle and daub that have weathered the test of time spread over the expanse he can see. He descends the hill, wandering through the main street that’s swarmed with people visiting the stalls that decorate the sides of the cobbled street. He sticks out like an ornately decorated sore thumb, to say the least. Douma is a swatch of brilliant crimson and mauve silk in a sea of muted, neutral tones of burlap and wool— every villager stopping to stare at his beauty and shocked into awe at the magnificent hue of his multi-colored irises.

He offers a wide smile when he takes notice of how the bustling streets come to a halt, eyes crinkling in a show of benevolence. It’s truly a scene out of your mortal religious texts, he’s only missing the angelic, glowing halo around the unique, shining silver colored hair on his head with his arms outstretched to the villagers that crowd around him. They murmur amongst themselves, reaching their hands up towards him with the desire to be touched by someone of such ethereal beauty and Douma is happy to oblige.

His smile is empty though, not that the commoners could tell, when his skin touches theirs. He feels nothing for this reverence, not even the smallest form of entertainment. If nothing else, the villagers are even more boring than those who dwell on the Upper Plane. The world is drab and the ones who inhabit here seem like they live in squalor (at least by comparison).

Douma has everyone’s attention, save for one head in the crowd that continues to flit about the stalls. He watches curiously, the figure he sees darting between the abandoned shops, woven basket in hand steadily filling with food they’ve swiped. They’re the only one that’s completely indifferent to Douma’s presence and it catches his own attention, curious.

He watches as the cloaked figure ducks into an alleyway when they’re done with their haul; the crowd parts when he steps forward, giving him his room to walk unhindered. They don’t follow him, transfixed where they stand until he disappears down the same path the figure took. Everything is shadowed, the sides of the building covered in moss and grime from lack of attention. Douma’s face is passive, fake smile faded while curiosity, the only thing he ever feels (besides boredom), mounts when he rounds the corner at the end of the alley.

You sit crouched with your basket, sharing some bread you poached with a stray cat, with your back to him. His form looms over you, standing on his toes to peek at everything you swiped. You look confused whenever the cat bolts suddenly, only to jolt forward whenever he speaks, “What are you doing?”

You look about as threatened and shocked as the cat did, body poised on the defensive and refusing to answer him. You look absolutely feral and he’s unbothered by your rigidity, offering a diffusing smile that you don’t fall for. He looks like every wealthy, pompous noble that’s ever strolled through your village; looking down their nose at you and the act he puts up won’t fool you.

“Eating,” you hiss, disdain for him dripping in your tone. Douma tilts his head at you animatedly, blinking slowly without a word. You take his silence personally, drawing the knife you’d stolen long ago that you keep fastened at your hip and press the tip into his throat. His eyes widen a fraction, but you mistake it for fear when it’s elation. His hand grips your wrist, so suddenly and with a greater deal of strength than you assumed; the pressure of the hold makes you yelp, dropping the blade and reaching with your other hand to try and wrench yourself from his grip.

Douma’s pupils dilate while he watches how you don’t plead to be freed, you fight and claw at his hand. “Interesting,” is all he utters before he lets you go, leaving your body to drop to your knees while you rub at where he held you. Douma crouches low, not at all threatened by how you could reach for your knife again and go for his throat; he’d only find you all the more intriguing if you could kill him, send his spirit back to his plain for him to be reanimated to try this all again.

He’d like it, too, “What’s your name?” He asks you, voice smooth and calm. You only offer more vitriol, spitting at him instead of offering any information about yourself. He doesn’t even blink, the smile never fades when he wipes away the liquid— he’s not even disgusted, isn’t enraged at all by your reaction to him. The opposite, he laughs, grabbing your wrist with much less force and dragging you along with him while you jerk in his grasp. Your feet scrape and scuff against the cobblestone, attempting to dig in and keep from being pulled wherever he’s taking you.

“Where do you live,” another question, this one you answer while clawing at his arm. You tell him you’re homeless, sleep where you can whenever because rich people like him made it impossible for you to pay for lodging. He turns to you, lips tugged into a confused frown. Rich? Were you completely clueless as to what he was? You look at him with agitated confusion, no longer attempting to wrench from his grasp.

Douma taps his long, manicured nail onto a merchant's shoulder, wiping his hand on his pants when he’s gained their attention, “This building, I want it.” It’s the only one he deems the least disgusting and rundown, the merchant looks confused but when Douma blinks a few times he realizes he means it; and, to your surprise, he makes himself scarce. He packs what he can quickly and loads it all up in a wagon on the other side of the building and bows repeatedly to the silver haired man.

He turns to you once more, gesturing with the hand not around your wrist to the building behind him, “It’s yours. Now you’re not homeless.”

It confounds him when you openly gape at him, he expects at least a little softening from you; some gratitude at the very least but he’s not sure he really dislikes the reaction you give him. He releases your hand when you move to peek inside your new dwelling, looking around like you’d never seen something like it before. He enters behind you, looking around at the quaint furnishings and can’t help but sneer.

You look completely out of your element though, touching the stove in the kitchen, poking at the vase with a wilting flower that sits on the surface of the worn wooden table. He’s the one of divinity but you’re a sight to behold despite the tattered clothing and dirt on your face. He follows behind you quietly as you explore. The stairs creak under the weight you both apply to them, your fingers tracing up the banister, following along the wall of the hallway. The bedroom is tiny, quaint with unmade bed sheets but it’s more than you’ve seen in some time, better than straw and dirt.

The bathroom is where your face lights up, something so beautiful it makes Douma’s eyebrows rise and his eyes widen a fraction. You look radiant, pleased with something he’s provided and it wells a feeling in his chest that he’s never experienced; something he can’t put words to.

You lean over the tub, dipping your hand into the water to test the warmth despite the steam that rolls off of it, “I didn’t think anyone in this village had baths in their homes.”

Those are the first words you’ve said that weren’t laced with venom, your voice is pleasant when you aren’t trying to be threatening. He realizes that you weren’t really talking to him, thinking out loud more than anything else. You shed your filthy cloak, reaching for the hem of your shirt when you turn to him with a glare, “pervert or something?”

Douma only laughs, a chuckle with actual mirth that leaves him covering his lips with his fingers. Your face is set tightly, and he excuses himself, even going so far as to close the door when he does so.

You’re something so very puzzling to him, someone that doesn’t react to the aura he emits. He stands on the other side of the closed door for a long moment, shoulders falling slack at the muffled sound of your sigh and the slosh of displaced water when you enter the tub. Something so simple changes your whole mood; he wants to see more of it.

He leaves your new home, entering the market once more and looking at clothing stalls. Everything is unimpressive to say the least, clothes that are affordable for the local villager but he doesn’t think they suit you until he finds a stand-alone wagon that nobody is visiting.

Fine velvet dresses of deep wine red and emerald green, embellished with gold and silver satin panels hang from the racks the vendor has set up. There’s cloaks to match with softer lace ware that Douma assumes is for informal lounging. He doesn’t really care, he cleans out the wagon of every article as another gift for you.

Douma returns to your home, all sorts of wares for whatever your mood. He opens your bathroom door, fixing himself with the polite smile he’s learned to do and sets down one of the less eloquent dresses for you to don. He takes the rags you wore to dispose of them, intended on ridding all evidence of the life you led after only a short period of knowing you.

He waits downstairs, rummaging through the kitchen cupboards at the meager selection of food and abismal quality of tableware that’s stored in them all when you finally descend the stairs in the gown he’s laid out.

It’s the second moment today that he’s been stricken with you, staring in awe at how differently you looked. Your hair still drips from excess water not dried properly and it blots at the shoulders of the crushed velvet gown but you look less like a wild animal and more domestic than when he met you.

The look you give him, however, is a stark contrast to what he feels. Your lip curls in a sneer, bunching up the expensive fabric at your thighs, “Did you bring this?” He nods in answer, pleased with how you look in attire he believes suits your beauty.

It doesn’t, not to you. What you wear is what the nobility that spat at you from atop their horseback and laughed at you because of how you dressed do. Douma moves to step toward you but you wind back but his eyes sparkle with mirth, “Alleycat.” The nickname seems fitting and he knows enough to not force an interaction lest he walk away with fresh wounds.

Your shoulders slack when he makes his way to the door, opening it and waving to you so familiarly when he leaves. Tension leaves your form as you stand in your new home, taking the time now to fully acquaint yourself with your surroundings. Your eyebrows furrow, though, pinching in confusion when you reach for the flower that sits on top of the table. When you got here you were sure it was wilting, fallen petals still lay around the vase as evidence; your fingers touching tentatively to the delicate leaves that sit around the bulb.

It’s bloomed.

ıllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllı banner ıllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllı

Douma comes to visit you frequently, much to your chagrin. He doesn’t react negatively to your harsh treatment and it confounds you. Most people bail by now, decide you’re more of a hassle with no real gain and this is no different. He has nothing to gain from knowing you; attempting to connect— it’s been made apparent by the fact he’s done nothing but give since you’ve met.

He brings fresh food, salted and dried meats, spreads of bread and cheese with sweet fruit to compliment the tang. You eat it heartily, savoring every bite like it will be the last meal you’ll eat in days; it makes him sad to see it. You ignore his company, but it’s something he’s used to, familiar with the fact that he’s usually the one filling silence with conversation only for the effort to not be reciprocated.

It stings a little more with you though, how you bristle when he stands closer, the deadpan look on your face when he compliments your hair or how you’re dressed. Douma can’t help but still want to be around you despite all of that, and you don’t tell him to leave— in so many words at least.

Your village seems brighter too, since his arrival and subsequent stay. The harvest has been more bountiful than in years passed, trees that haven’t flowered in ages now bore fresh fruits the village has had to import since their loss. Your village thrives and yet you still sneer and jilt the smiling faces you pass in the street; he wonders what they’ve done to deserve your scorn.

“Alleycat,” Douma starts, ignoring the usual call of ‘that’s not my name’ when he does so, “do you hate it here?”

“I’ve lived here all my life.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you ignore him though and he decides, surprisingly, not to press the matter further.

He wishes you would share with him more, give a little more instead of continuously taking what he’s offered.

ıllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllı banner ıllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllııllıllı

Villagers have begun to notice the change in fortune since Douma’s arrival, linking the lack of torrential rains that ruin their crops in the rainy season to how the sun shines brighter when he smiles.

“A deity from the Upper Planes,” and “he’s taken with them,” are the hushed whispers you hear while walking the streets. It irritates you how they talk about you so familiarly, like they have insight that you don’t and how they hush when you look their way.

If you thought the gifts he received before were copious, you’re at a loss of what to describe this as now. He is revered, given laurels of wildflowers by children and all of the finest things your poor home has to offer.

He cares for none of it, he gives a hollow smile unless it’s something he can gift to you. The villagers that looked at you with scorn now give you attention, brazenly commenting on how beautiful they consider you now like they hadn’t called you gutter trash months ago.

Your anger is misdirected to Douma, in your eyes it isn’t misdirected at all. It doesn’t matter to you if everything that’s happened were improvements, they’re ill begotten. Gifted, thrust into your lap without your asking.

It bubbles and feels like bile stings your throat when he walks with you through the streets, like you’re an accessory now. His face drops into a frown at your sour mood, making a small joke to break the ice and remedy the stifling air of silence.

You round on him, agitation evident in all your features, “why won’t you leave, what do you want?”

He blinks at you in confusion, not even taken aback by your tone. His silence isn’t the answer you wanted, getting closer to him and fixing him with a glare.

“The people in this backwater shithole say you’re like some god, this magical being that can make the clouds go away and for fields to bloom.”

Douma smiles at you, slightly elongated canines showing when he moves to respond to you but you aren’t finished monologuing, poking his chest when your temper flares.

“Y’some creep or somethin? One of those old gods that think if they give everything they can to someone they’ll spread their legs for you, that why you won’t leave me alone?”

Your words start to sting, little nicks in the cheery facade he gives to the public. The grin no longer graces his features, his peculiar eyes hold no warmth in them— now dim and stormy instead. Cumulonimbus swirl threateningly in the sky, blotting out the sun with the promise of its wrath. You register villagers ducking under shop awnings and cloth canopies for shelter once the weight of water is too heavy for the sky to bear.

The water is cold, seeping into the fabric of your clothes and soaking into your bone with its chill despite the season but your glower is unwavering. He’s crestfallen with an impassive look, all he offers you is affection and compassion only to receive scorn or ridicule. You’re cruel, so effortlessly so despite the many months he’s worked to make you happy.

“I wanted to make you happy,” he’s eerily calm, tone almost imperceptible over the roar of falling rain.

“I never asked you to, just go back where you belong and leave me alone. I don’t need your pity,” your voice is raised over the thunder that claps after the lightning. You decide the argument is over, turning without another word to escape the downpour.

You’re drenched completely and freezing whenever you finally get home, shedding the sopping fabric to go take a warm bath to fight the chill. You soak away your agitation for who knows how long, long enough for water to get cold and the sound of rain to feel less menacing and foreboding.

Reluctantly, you exit the bath, dressing in one of the lighter dresses you’d been gifted and toweling your hair dry. You wander quietly through your home, the storm never lightening as you do so but it becomes a comforting white noise.

You wander downstairs in search of food, humming softly to yourself while you rummage through the cupboards without a care in the world; but when you turn you’re met with Douma’s unwavering gaze.

He’s had the time to change and dry off, staring at you with an unsettlingly calm smile. Annoyance bubbles in your chest again, stinging your cheeks while you approach him.

“Did you not understand me earlier? I said to leave not follow me home,” you go to poke his chest but he takes hold of your wrist, walking forward to force you backward.

“I understand well enough, you’re selfish,” you want to react, fire back at him for this but you’re startled when your back hits the wall. “You don’t respond to kindness so I’ll try something else instead.”

He corrals you too closely, body pinned against yours that leaves your hands at your sides. One palm rests at your lower back, the other behind your head; despite how rigid you are he pulls you against him.

“I’ve been nothing but giving, so patient with you for months now,” comes his whisper, petting your hair affectionately in contrast to the rest of his actions, “I’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

His hand slides down to your hip and further still until it’s grasping at your thigh, pulling it up to hook over his hip. He uses the leverage to grind his growing erection against your clothed cunt and it makes your heart race in all the wrong ways. Arousal pools involuntarily at the contact, you snarl at him when his lips touch at the corner of your jaw, tongue teasing at the skin while he groans.

It’s overwhelming, you want him to just back up and you’ve got no room to make it happen.

So you bite, hard, into the soft juncture of where his shoulder and throat meet. He makes a groaning sound but he doesn’t withdraw from you like you thought he would; instead his fingers and knotting into your hair and wrenching your head back. You yelp, met with a sinister glow to his multi-colored eyes and a look on his face that you can’t put words to.

“Haven’t you ever been taught,” he starts, wrenching your body so your back is pressed against his chest; lips pressed to the shell of your ear while he rumbles, “not to bite the hand that feeds you?”

His knee comes into contact with the back of your own, making them give so you crumple to the floor. He imposes his weight on you, draped over your body. His lips are attached to your throat with less gentleness this time, feeling the sharp pinch of his canines into the flesh with his tongue following after to collect the blood that leaks from the wound.

“Douma, please,” you whimper pathetically, harsh bite you always carry toward him no longer imbued in your words. He chuckles, tutting at you when he unlatches from your throat and tugs your thin dress upwards to pool around your waist.

“You wanted to act like a wild animal, I’ll fuck you like one,” said with a smile that no longer meets his eyes once again. He’s tugging his own pants down, pinning your legs down with his calves while you whine and writhe underneath him. Douma’s hard cock taps against your skin, causing your muscles to tense underneath him; making him laugh in your ear.

He adjusts both of your bodies, arching your back so your thighs spread slightly and he can slip the hand not tightly gripping one of your own to slide against your slit. You’re not wet, not enough anyway, but he fully intends for this to be enjoyable for the both of you; the meter doesn’t have to be equal though.

Douma moves the hand to snake around to the front of your body, pad of his index and middle finger rolling small circles onto your clit, making it throb with need and arousal to pool. You grit your teeth, refusing to let any pleasured noises escape you but whining whenever the tips of his nails scrape over your sensitive lips.

“Alleycat,” he coos sweetly into your ear, “you can bite back your mewls but I can feel you throb under my fingers.”

He aches to feel your warmth, pushing his pelvis against your backside so his cock slips between your thighs, groaning when you clench at the contact. He can feel the heat radiating from your cunt, his fingers swiping faster against your clit in his eagerness and rocking slightly into you.

Douma’s decided you’re ready enough for him now, grabbing his shaft and running the head through your folds to gather slick despite how you squeeze your thighs around him. He aligns with your hole, hips jerking forward to bully through the tight stretch. You make small protests while he sinks into you, cursing at him when his teeth dig into your shoulder.

He’s thick, and long, inch by inch throbbing inside of you until he’s flush against you and buried to the hilt. He lets out a rumbling groan, bleeding into a sigh of relief while he takes the moment to appreciate the velvet feel of your walls enveloping him.

The moment feels like agony for you, though, while his is euphoric. It doesn’t hurt, quite the opposite actually, it feels divine. You hug his girth so perfectly, like he fits just right for you and it leaves a bitter taste in your tongue.

You hate him, the epitome of everything you’ve always despised, perfection embodied when you look at him.

You’re pulled from your stewing when he decides to finally move, dragging himself out of you almost completely to slam back in with the lewd clap of skin on skin. It makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment, rolling your abused lower lip between your teeth once more to stop the moans from tumbling. Douma sets his pace, slow and determined to thoroughly enjoy your body and the pliancy you melt into.

Douma whispers his praises into your ear, your name like honey on his tongue while he drives into your sopping pussy; sweet and smooth. He starts to lose his patience, swimming in the pleasure that urges him to pick up the pace. He adjusts your body easily, pulling you into him to meet his hastened thrusts. His hips cant, tip of his dick reaching further and slamming into the patch of your walls that makes your body jolt, makes you moan uninhibited and Douma is nothing if not observant. He repeats the action, smiling when you try to stifle a pleased cry; he knows he has you then, setting himself to drive into it repeatedly.

He has you clawing at the floor now, his hand pressed into the dip of your pelvis to hold you against him. His pelvis slapping against the plump flesh of your ass, growling into your ear while you mewl. “So sweet, so soft, unlike how you’ve treated me. Feels so good, prefer you like this.”

You hate how good the slide of his cock feels, the way you feel empty when he drags almost completely out then gratifying you instantly with the quick drive back in. Your walls squeeze him so tightly, drawing him back in like he’s meant to be there. His nose is pressed behind your ear, inhaling the floral scent of soaps and perfumes he’s bought for you while he pants.

“You used them,” he says simply, not elaborating on what he’s talking about but you know what he means. He’s pleased, happy that he provides you comfort and wants to provide you with ecstasy as well; Douma knows he’s doing a good job at both when you reward him with soft whimpers. You push back against him slightly, subtly meeting his thrusts and it makes his heart soar.

He pulls your hair to one side, licking the shell of your ear and delighting in the shiver that racks your body, “You like it, Alleycat? Would breeding you make you softer, domesticate you a little?”

His words make you sink lower, pressing your cheek to the floor in embarrassment at the sensual coo and how it makes your clit throb. Douma laughs, but not with mockery; he feels flattered, feels like he made some sort of breakthrough with you.

Douma presses on the small of your back and slides his hand down the curve of your spine, arching you so your ass sticks higher up. His tenderness of his touch doesn’t reach below the waist, rutting into you with renewed vigor that fills the room with embarrassingly loud, wet slapping.

He’s overjoyed, now chasing euphoria, straightening his spine to be upright and moving his hands to your hips to pull you back to meet each one of his thrusts. You mewl and muffle moans into the crook of your arm, walls spasming around him every time he hits a specific patch inside you that makes it impossible not to groan obscenities the closer you get to release. The coil winds tightly, making your abdomen tense and your cunt to squeeze him enough to force out a surprised moan from him.

Douma is surprisingly quiet for someone that’s typically showy, he releases pleased sighs and some hushed groaning but nothing more. When you turn back to look at him, though, it’s obvious in more ways than one he’s close. His head is thrown back, jaw hanging slightly agape while his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. He’s lost in the snug warmth of your cunt but he chances a glance at you, smiling sincerely whenever you hold his gaze.

“Close?“ and he finds it incredibly cute how pathetically you nod, glassy eyes with unshed tears almost pleading to get you there. He lets out a breathless laugh, leaning forward and supporting his weight with one arm on the floor, face centimeters from yours. His free hand snakes its way to the front of your body, but his fingers only spread your lips touching everywhere except for where you want him until you whine.

“P-please,” you beg quietly, if he weren’t so close to you, he wouldn’t have heard it. His dazzling eyes linger on your lips, leaning forward until his nose touches yours.

“Kiss me, then,” his fingers cup your mound, intentionally avoiding touching you despite how you writhe. You groan petulantly, puckering your lips to accept his kiss only for him to tut at you. “Aht, aht, I said you kiss me. Give one thing before you take another.”

It makes him chuckle with how you war with yourself, resolution crumbling behind your frustrated, teary eyes. He’s taken off guard when you give him a quick kiss, eyebrows scrunched when you pull away that makes him laugh. It wasn’t much but it was enough, nimble fingers sliding forward to roll circles over your throbbing clit; rewarded with your satisfied moan instantly.

He takes the opportunity to give you a real kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth when you gasp at the touch. Your eyes are wide for a moment, tension melting into pliancy once again when you shyly reciprocate. Everything quickly becomes messy, his thrusts hastening along with how he rubs you, saliva sliding down your chin while you try to keep up with him. Douma ruts into you with abandon, jolts of electricity shooting up your spine until you’re moaning at a higher pitch when you finally cum.

You withdraw from his kiss, thin string of spit connecting you when your jaw drops. You lean down again, burning face buried in your arms while your walls spasm around his cock. He groans in appreciation, hips stuttering in rhythm until he’s tumbling over the edge right behind you. The warmth of him painting your walls white makes you whine, rocking back into him to ride out both of your highs. His fingers massage at your thighs, rolling his hips leisurely into you until he can’t anymore. He watches in lewd fascination how his cum starts to dribble out of you, using his fingers to collect and push it back into you; earning a few twitches and whines in protest at the prolonged stimulation.

He lets out a chuckle, rising enough to tuck himself back into his pants and fix your dress, all the tenderness he’s ever shown you present once more. He pulls you into wobbly legs, holding you against him while he fixes your hair; surprised when you don’t protest to it or the pecks he lays to your forehead and cheeks. His knuckle pushes hair from your face, staring at your tired features with a softened gaze.

“If that was all you needed to be sweeter, I would’ve done so sooner. Precious little Alleycat, you just needed to be taught some manners,” his face is soft and sweet but the tone he uses is condescending, rude even.

You roll your eyes, lip curling up into a sneer at his comments. You don’t want to give him the justification of a response so you’ll push on his chest, turning away from him despite how you still need the support to not fall over. You lean against your table instead, clutching to the wood for stabilization when you glance out the window for the first time since you’d gotten home.

It was no longer blackened by the storm clouds, beams of sunlight cascading in again when you feel him press against you; inhaling the scent of your hair once again with a content sigh.

#vixen writes #hiatus: on queue

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limerental · 1 year

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ficletober 2022 day 30

Years after a devastating loss, Geralt manages to find someone important to him again.

content warning for suspected MCD

The cottage sank in a swathe of meadow, grass swaying along the stone path and up over the green roof. The gardens were hedged by wattle fencing and boasted a wild tangle of flowers and herbs, and a bevy of chickens pushed at one another in the dirt.

A white cat stole under the fence, back legs stretched out and curled tail twitching as it yawned, but then, it caught sight of the stranger on the path and hissed a warning, running off puffed up twice its size.

A witch lived here, the locals said, but their voices had not held the usual vitriol toward strange magicks and aloof sorcerers. This was a friendly hedge witch, a local healer and problem solver, and in a few years, when public sentiment toward magic users grew steadily more negative, they would call her an herbalist and a medicine woman and overlook the thrum of sorcery that hung about her cottage.

The amulet on Geralt's chest buzzed with it, and he saw the little tells of folk magic everywhere. Iron nails and horseshoes and twigs tied together in auspicious shapes.

He'd come to the right place, he knew, had followed all the directions perfectly, but now that he was here, his feet refused to move the last span of distance across the stone path. The air felt too warm, too fragrant. The leather collar of his worn coat rubbed against his neck, and the amulet hummed in a way that tickled his throat.

"This is stupid," he said to a chicken that scratched closer to him, and it tilted its head, shook its red waddle, and tutted in consideration of his boots. "There's no reason to hesitate. She's only an old witch. She's only–"

She was more than that. Of course she was.

He forced himself to approach the cottage and rapped at the weathered front door. There was a crescent moon peephole carved into the wood, but no eye appeared there, the cottage too shadowed to see anything within. Carved bones and feathers and beads hung on leather cords in the eaves above his head, clanking together in a soft breeze, but the crafter of those wards did not appear.

Geralt was in the midst of considering whether breaking down the cottage door to investigate further would leave him with magical boils in unfortunate places, when he heard someone humming in the garden.

He passed through a handmade gate with a pulley system that would have clattered shut behind him if he did not grab and still it, and beyond a four foot high mound of squash vines and several trellises of beans, he found an old woman hunched in the dirt.

As she hummed a haunting tune, a large slug inched toward her, eyestalks trembling, and as it drew near enough, she snatched it and added it to a nearly-filled jar at her feet. Several more slugs oozed toward her leaving glistening trails, all held rapt by her soft humming, all meeting the same fate as the others.

The woman had long, heavily, curled silver hair that fell to her lower back, portions of it tied away from her face in looped braids, and she was barefoot as she kneeled, the upturned pads of her feet calloused and dark brown with earth.

Geralt cleared his throat, but the woman did not startle or pause in her work, just kept calling to the slimy garden pests until her jar was full. He waited, arms fallen still at his sides. Finally, she capped her jar, grabbed up her walling stick, and struggled up off her knees to turn to him. She stood hunched forward, braced on her staff, long hair spilling over her shoulders, and her face was lined and marked with liver spots around her temples, her jowls sagging.

Her eyes were violet, shrewd and angry.

"I could curse the eyebrows off that old bat for telling you where I am," Yennefer swore. "Margarita was under clear instructions not to–"

"It was Triss actually," said Geralt.

"Oh, she won't be so pretty without eyebrows or teeth," the old woman spat. She shook her head and visibly aged further before his eyes, her wrinkles deepening and eyes drooping. "And what do you think of me then, Witcher? Still as beautiful? Everything you were hoping for?"

"Yen," he said and could say nothing else. He had not heard her voice in years, had not thought he would ever hear it again. "Yen, I… Yennefer."

He lifted a hand, cautious, but she let him reach to touch the pads of his fingers to her wrinkled cheek. It was easy to draw close, and she let him, easy to tip her chin up and duck low to kiss her.

It was a familiar kiss, like coming home. Honeybees hummed above their heads, and chickens pecked at their feet.

He held the kiss for a long inward breath, and when he drew away, her violet eyes blinked glassy with tears. Beneath the cup of his palm, her cheek melted back into the face of a less aged woman, dark hair lightly streaked with silver and only a little wrinkle of crow's feet to show for her great age.

She remained hunched, spine curved down and jaw crooked under his hand.

"I did it," she said, voice wavering. "I managed it. Undid what was done when I was a girl. But I… it didn't change anything. Not really. All I can do now is hide from all of it. Pretend it happened to someone else."

It had been cripplingly difficult, the grief nearly insurmountable, after the disastrous events following the Thanned coup decades ago had stolen Ciri from them. They had searched for years, separately and together, and found no trace of her, no miracle. At last, they had been forced to admit that the explosion of Tor Lara had either turned their daughter's body to vapor or that the ruined portal had spit her out somewhere inhospitable to life.

Ciri was dead.

Their love had soured in those years, could not survive it. Geralt buried himself in mindless work, endless hunts, and Yennefer disappeared like smoke.

Tracking her here to this cottage had taken him a very long time and no small amount of luck. Even after he had learned Triss still visited her and wheedled the information out of her, Geralt had waited to seek her out, uncertain he would be welcomed, unsure if he even wanted to find her, if they still belonged in each other's lives without Ciri.

But the world was desperately empty without Yennefer. His daily life was arduous and meaningless. Ciri's memory grew more and more distant, the father he had been someone separate from the aimless beast he became. The man who had loved the both of them disappearing the same way Yennefer had.

Geralt pressed his forehead to Yennefer's, breathed in her familiar scent.

"Missed you, Yen," he said simply. "It's good to see you."

"You won't drag me back with you, Geralt," she said. "This is my life now. I'm not the same as I was. I can't be."

"I know," said Geralt. "Me neither."

He barely recognized himself some days. That man was long dead, the one who had loved a little girl and sworn to protect her and failed horribly. He did not quite recognize this stooped and domestic Yennefer, who had laughed at his distant dreams of building a simple home for them, raising livestock, playing house.

"It can't go back to how it was before," said Yennefer, shaking her head. She adjusted her grip on her curved staff and rolled her aching shoulders. "It's impossible. I won't go with you."

"I know," he repeated and asked instead, "can I stay?"

The little white cat had crept up while they were speaking and sat a short distance away, blinking at her mistress and the ugly stranger with the unnerving emanations. Deciding something, she stalked over with her tail raised, meowing, and wove between the stranger's legs. When he stooped to pet her, she politely ignored the tingling of his mutated fingers and rubbed her head against his gloved palm.

The witch and the stranger went into the cottage and prepared for dinner.

Geralt mumbled that he hoped the jar of slugs wasn't on the menu, and Yennefer threatened to dump it down the back of his shirt. They baked a meat pie with chicken and potatoes and flakey crust and ate a misshapen cake for dessert.

Then, they turned in together and made love the way they used to, except slower now and quiet, with no artifice and no fumbling. When they finally slept, the white cat curled on the quilt at the foot of their bed and trod on their faces to wake them in the morning.

Their life was simple. Some moments were heavy and weary and pained, but in time, they spoke about her freely, their daughter, and honored her memory and lived on as they were now. Different, changed, but no less able to keep going and find joy and feel whole again.

And one day, a visitor leading a black horse came up the stone path toward the cottage, and a little white cat ran, purring, to greet her.

#my fic #the witcher #:)))))#no it's fine i promise #yenralt

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flittermousing · 2 years

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I love you Vampire Bats I love you Townsend's Big-eared Bats I love you Gould's Wattled Bats I love you Bumblebee Bats I love you Hoary Bats I love you Wrinkle-faced Bats I love you Eastern Red Bats I love you Silver-haired Bats I love you Fringe-lipped Bats I love you Pallid Bats I love you Spotted Bats I love you Hammer-headed Bats I love you Proboscis Bats I love you Brown Bats I love you Mexican Free-tailed Bats I love you Canyon Bats I love you ALL bats

#ok to reblog #bat fun

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amiablesummer · 11 months

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romantisised asks challenge

hello to everyone, but particularly @stingrayextraordinaire who tagged me in this big but interesting challenge. Thank you so much! here we go…

1. if you were to have Hanahaki disease, what flowers would you cough up?

i'm gonna say blue hydrangeas

2. if someone were to catch Hanahaki disease for you, what flowers would they cough up?

pink roses or camellias

3. if you were any historic trope, what would you be? (i.e., the knight, the town baker, the witch of the forest, etc.)

I think I'd be the scribe writing down what heroic or ordinary deeds everyone else does. Ink on my hands, messy scribble, that's very me. Shut up in a room writing the past down, probably killed by the Vikings - at least i'd be remembered by the future readers of the scroll.

4. tell us about your ideal battle outfit.

i would definitely be wearing trousers. some cosy fitting armour, too, like Zoya’s dragon scale armour in Rule of Wolves that’s more like a second skin. nice and silver so it can catch the light. also with a cool cape like Eowyn’s in the Return of the King, an earthy tone, good for camaflaging.

5. what would you be a goddess of and what would people sacrifice to you?

I would be a goddess of memory and nostalgia because that’s a big muse to me. People would probably sacrifice their childhood toys or clothes they don’t need to keep anymore. or maybe particularly bad memories.

6. name five iconic quotes that make you feel things.

“It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer.” - Sam in the Two Towers movie

“The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.” - Doctor Who, Vincent and the Doctor

"...We become like that on which our hearts are fixed. Whenever you go out of doors, draw the chin in, carry the crown of the head high. We are gods in the chrysalis.” — Elbert Hubbard, quoted in How To Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

"In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” - Albert Camus

7. scythe, battle axe, broad sword, spear, or trident?

broad sword

8. what combination of natural scents would you use as perfume?

rosewood, gardenia and musk

9. ancient scrolls or leather-bound books?

Leather-bound books

10. describe yourself as if you were a storm.

a summery storm, the kind that’s not loud but just consistent, rumbling across the sky all day and night as you lie comfortable in bed, romanticising it from a distance. the kind of storm that brings the enlivening, miracle rain that makes the crops grow and people smile. if you’re right in the centre of it, you know it best, and you can see the warm light shining on the rain out your window.

11. what type of flower (other than a rose) would you offer someone you were trying to court?

baby’s breath are beautiful, paired with golden wattle.

12. honey in milk or cinnamon in tea?

cinnamon in tea

13. cabin in the woods, apartment in the city, or mansion in the suburbs?

i wouldn't mind a mansion for a day, but cabin the woods sounds the most cosy. i don't much like cities.

14. curtains of beads or lace?

nice white lace

15. vocal or instrumental music?

instrumental while writing and reading, vocal for chores and travelling.

16. describe your ideal fantasy outfit.

i like dressing up in 1850s style middle-class skirts, with pantaloons and boots, that you can pick up the edges of and it trails behind you. with a pretty blouse and a hooded cloak, I would run around doing cottagecore errands all day.

17. of all the fantasy races to ever exist, which one would you be?

whatever race that talking cats are part of, i’d like to be one of those. or quite possibly a hobbit.

18. hard candy, fruit preserves, or spice cake?

hard candy, i have a sweet tooth

19. show us a picture of your ideal crown.

20. tying your hair up using ribbon, yay or nay?

yes. channeling Zoya Nazyalensky with a dark blue velvet ribbon. However i seem to always need a hairtie underneath it to hold my hair.

21. an evening in the forest with elves, a night in the caves with vampires, or a morning in the garden with fae?

An evening in the forest with elves, like in the Fellowship of the Ring.

22. tell us, in detail, about a curse a witch would put on you.

It would be a curse of being separated from others. Loss is my worst fear. being invisible, perhaps, from the people in my life, or stuck in a tower alone. I do not like isolation. it would make me have to face the parts of myself that I don’t like, and i would have to be independent, not having someone to lean on or able to live in the background of their life. I would have to make my own life, and that terrifies me. it would hopefully make me end up much more confident, if a little insane.

23. talking with sylphs or singing with nymphs?

Singing with nymphs. singing is fun

24. mint, rosemary, basil, or sage?

I love rosemary. mint tastes nice. Basil is good in bolognese, and sage is a pretty colour. But rosemary is the best.

25. favorite childhood story? (doesn’t have to be a fairy tale)

A lot!! As a little girl my favourite fairy tales were Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty (aka the Disney movies). But my absolute favourite story was Robin Hood. I used to pretend to be him with a hat and everything, being the fox in the movie. I was haunted by The Nutcracker from seven years old. I cried over The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Anderson. I also remember loving Dick Wittington and His Cat. My dad used to read me the Rainbow Magic books, and Milly-Molly-Mandy. As an older kid my favourites were Harry Potter, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

26. tell us about an experience you’ve had that seemed unreal or supernatural. (doesn’t have to be scary)

when i was a kid there was this book i was really scared of, about kids who go into one of those big water tanks and feel something in there in the dark that is uncanny. When I remembered the book, I kept seeing the water tank that's in my town - Every time I looked at the horizon there it was. Not scary as much as haunting. I found the book recently when I was at a spooky read-in at my cousin’s school. The weird thing was I had just been saying that we should read it. It turns up right when I’m thinking of it, that deep dark water. I have nightmares about the water too.

27. would you rather have poison or healing ointment in your traveling pack?

I’d say healing ointment because I like to think I’m a good person, but also because there’s other ways you could harm people whereas there's not many that you could heal them with.

28. tell us three sayings that you live by.

just take one step at a time.

where there's life, there's hope.

knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom. (Aristotle)

29. vials or mason jars?

Mason jars because they can fit a lot of useful things in them.

30. describe your ideal masquerade ball outfit (mask included).

It would have to be red… I don’t get to wear red often. Long flowy sleeves that I could swish around when holding the mask stick up - it would be a mask with pointy edges and feathers. Maybe embroidered with animal designs. The skirt would have those sewn on too, with dark red undertones, almost purple. It would have lots of sequins, but not too heavy, and big enough to twirl in. I’d curl my hair and have jewels in it too. I’d like to be classy.

31. splashing around in a river with mermaids or flying through the sky with harpies?

Splashing in a river with mermaids

32. what would you end up in the dungeon for?

Not doing things on time, or forgetting something important; i am chronically late. Or going against the status quo, if this is a totalitarian society - I hate following the masses.

33. if you were a fairy, what color would your wings be?

i do love pink and green, but some gold in there would look lovely too. and pale blue.

34. if you could have any magical item, what would it be?

This is really hard, but I’ve always wanted a bag like Mary Poppins’ or Hermione’s which is bigger on the inside. An actual TARDIS would be cool, but I like the thought of being able to fit a library and an art gallery into a portable thing. I do also want a time machine though. Or a portal. Or a fortune-telling mirror/bowl.

35. what song would the bards sing about you when you passed by?

A mixture of the vibes of Bleeding Heart by Regina Spektor, Hand in my Pocket by Alanis Morisette, and These Days by Powderfinger. that's super specific, so otherwise just something about hopeless romanticism...

36. would you rather be a pirate or a king/queen?

If you’re Nikolai Lantsov, you can do both. As for me, a pirate because it would be much more fun - I’m not one for politics. I’d have to be less squeamish though.

37. would you spend more time in the field of flowers, the tavern, the docks, or the marketplace?

I would lie in the field of flowers drawing all day. If I had to work, I’d choose the marketplace. And the docks for an evening stroll.

38. would you have a painting of yourself?

yes if it was very particularly done, like in an impressionist style or something really personal.

39. what skill are you famous for?

Remembering dates, like birthdays, details from things that happened a long time ago, and random fun facts.

40. if you could live any fairy tale, which one would you?

The best aesthetic goes to “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” but I would also like to be friends with Puss-in-Boots.

41. stained glass windows or fairy lights?

Stained glass windows

42. what kind of snow globe would you live inside?

One with one of those pretty Christmas cabins and a big tree, and snow on the ground, maybe with some animals like a deer, a fox or some bunnies, and a bonfire (with snow on it...)

43. what animal would you be reincarnated as?

A domestic cat who sleeps in the sun all day, preferably in a bookshop.

44. lost at sea or lost in space?

lost at sea, but with a boat. I’m scared of the sea, but space is so much worse - at least someone could come rescue you in the sea.

45. if you could have a scar in any shape, what would it be?

i think a heart shape would be very cute.

46. what celestial body would you write a hymn to?

The Moon has that celestial elegance, and I would give anything to be able to go there for a day or two. It has that lonely, feminine, mystery about it... But also Saturn because I have always admired its rings.

47. describe a potion you would brew, complete with ingredients and desired effect.

i would want to make a potion to create calmness that could help anxiety, so I would use some lemon balm, some lavender which would also make it smell nice, and chamomile. to be a real fantasy potion brewer i’d probably add some rose petals and moondust and mix it together with cocoa powder because it’s tasty and, of course, vanilla essence. that probably makes no sense but hey, i made it up.

48. flying ship or underwater home?

flying ship. i like flying and i think someone totally needs to invent a boat-like cruise airship that’s not as dangerous as a blimp, for me to relax in. and the sky isn’t as scary as the ocean.

49. if you were a nature spirit, what season would you dwell in?

Summer, as per my url. I would sleep outside and walk on the beach, and blow the cool change breeze in the evening. very nostalgic.

50. if you could haunt any place as a ghost, what would it be?

I want to be amusing and say my old school, since it is very ghost-populated. it would be fun to turn the lights off every so often. But I would have to choose the old but pretty cafe that I live near, which used to be the gatehouse for the cemetery. It has a really lovely feel to it and it could do with an eerie presence, since it is in the cemetery.

i don't know if anyone else loves fantasy but if anyone wants to do some or all of these questions please go ahead <3 <3 <3 @anouri @mourningintodancing @peachtreesinblossom @tunisian @l0velyjewel @unhingedballad

#tag challenge #fantasy #this was actually so fun #i love the questions #yall get to know about me now lol

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waitingforwinterwinds · 1 year

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A Clash of Kings - 11 THEON I (pages 149-169)

Theon returns to his childhood home to find some things familiar but more which are not. His uncle and father prove to be not part of a safe and healthy family life, and Theon's plans come crashing down around his ears in the face of his father's own.

There was no safe anchorage at Pyke, but Theon Greyjoy wished to look on his father's castle from the sea, to see it as he had seen it last, ten years before, when Robert Baratheon's war galley had borne him away to be a ward of Eddard Stark. ... Obedient to his wishes, the Myraham beat her way past the point with her sails snapping ans her captain cursing the wind and his crew and the follies of highborn lordlings. Theon drew the hood of his cloak up against the spray, and looked for home.

My second thought on this is "my gosh Theon, don't endanger the crew for nostalgia" but also I get it, to see the island return the way he saw it taken, part of him, subconsciously, is probably thinking it will somehow undo what happened, give it back somehow. Like yes, he's back home, but there's still those ten years that he won't ever get back, but to see a loss in reverse might make you think it could be.

My first thought is: Oh hey, remember how Theon was taken from his family and not in a 'someone called social services way' but in a 'this child is a political hostage' kind of way.

She looked rather stupid when she smiled, if truth be told, but he had never required a woman to be clever.

Real classy Theon. (Sarcasm.)

Her mouth was as wet and sweet as her cunt, -

"Cunt" = 🥛 (This makes 2 so far in the series, if I've counted correctly. We're almost catching up to a single conversation in the show!)

The captain's daughter had not been turned over for his use, but she had come to his bed willingly enough all the same. A cup of wine, a few whispers, and there she was. ... "I can't stay here now." He laced up his breeches. "Why not?" "My father," she told him. "Once you're gone, he'll punish me, milord. He'll call me names and hit me." Theon swept his cloak off its peg and over his shoulders. "Fathers are like that," he admitted, as he pinned the folds with a silver clasp.

First of all, fathers shouldn't be 'like that,' second of all: I'm not convince 'willingly enough' means 'she chose on her own initiative.' POV bias means we don't know for sure, but it sounds like Theon got her tipsy and coerced her into it while her reasoning was impaired, and she only went back to his bed because she knew being any kind of bride or concubine for Theon was now safer for her than facing her father's wrath. Theon even comments that she's weirdly old for a virgin. Of course it is possible that she deliberately seduced him hoping for a way off her father's boat, but between the vagaries and Theon's attitude toward her, he's on thin ice at the moment.

He saw the castle first, the stronghold of the Botleys. When he was a boy it had been timber and wattle, but Robert Baratheon had razed the structure to the ground.

So I know that GRRM likely (100% certainly) meant the ancient construction material made of woven-wood panels when he says wattle, but every time someone (in any work) uses the word to describe a building, every single time, my brain pictures the tiny little yellow pompom looking flowers native to Australia. Every. Time.

The buildings are never as floraly as I picture them.

Uncle Aeron's a bit... intense. Nice of him to pick Theon up from the port though. Saves him from accidental incest groping.

... hang on, trying to remember the show's timeline, because we already had Osha, did they change Asha to Yara because they thought we'd get confused? Is that also why several Walder Freys were cut from the show?

Theon: *opens his mouth to say literally anything* Aeron: Old news, unimportant, you basic bitch, you're reverse adopted and your parents don't even love you, you're irrelevant, get gud scrub, oh wait I forgot you can't, landlubber.

Mmmm, some great vibes in this place (Sarcasm intensifies.)

This is terrible for Theon's mental health, and is only going to give him issues re: his personal and cultural identity, never mind an inferiority complex (bigger than that one he's already rocking).

"And who are you?" "Helya, who keep sthe castle for your lord father." "Sylas was steward here. They called him Sourmouth." (...) "Dead these five years, m'lord." "And what of Maester Qalen, where is he?" "He sleeps in the sea. Wendamyr keeps the ravens now." It is as if I were a stranger here, Theon thought. Nothing has changed, and yet everything is changed."

"It must be difficult, being in a strange place." "This is my home, it is the people who are strange."

His father slid his fingers under the necklace and gave it a yank so hard it was like to take Theon's head off, had the chain not snapped first. "My daughter has taken an axe for a lover," Lord Balon said. "I will not have my son bedeck himself like a whore."

...maybe Theon should have been taken away from his father in a 'someone call social services' kind of way. Wow, Balon just really wants to be in the running for Worst Father in Westeros.

Theon edged backwards, away from the sudden fury in his father's tone. "Take it then," he spat, cheek still tingling. "Call yourself King of the Iron Islands, no one will care... until the wars are over, and the victor looks about and spies an old fool perched off his shore with an iron crown on his head."

Yeah! You tell him Theon!

"- No. I hunger for a different plum... not so juicy sweet, to be sure, yet it hangs there ripe and undefended." Where? Theon might have asked, but by then he knew.

No, bad Balon. Naughty!

#a clash of kings #a song of ice and fire #theon greyjoy #a chapter a day reading #acok #asoiaf

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amandakespohl · 1 year

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A Rose for Lady Amell 🌹

Chapter One: Sympathy for the Bedeviled

(Scenes 1 and 2)

Midsummer looked good on Denerim. Three years after the Blight had rolled through, spewing fire and chaos, tearing the nice parts of town to rubble and reducing the shady bits to ash, she was almost completely rebuilt. Her weathered face renewed, her stones freshly mined, her daub and wattle houses freshly daubed and wattled, she beamed under the cloudless blue sky like a stately lady instead of the half-maiden, half-crone she’d been before.

She would seldom look as fair as she did on a parade day. Garlands of red and yellow flowers bedecked every shop and dwelling, no matter how humble. Gold and silver streamers twinkled from the fences. And the parade route was marked by banners bearing the king’s crest—a pair of mabari rearing towards one another. The hounds were supposed to look fierce. But King Alistair fancied that they were playing with each other, about to pounce and roll through the grass, yipping happily. That would certainly represent him better than snarling beasts. He was not much of a snarler. Although, it had been ages since he’d last yipped.

He stood on the ramparts of the royal palace. The stretch of road that unfurled ahead of him teemed with people, a rippling, colorful mass waving flags and throwing flowers. And down the center of that sea of adulation, his true love bobbed towards him on the back of her shining black horse. She was a fine sight in her ceremonial armor—the polished silver contrasted nicely with the rich gold of her hair, which had been twisted up on her head to spill back down her shoulders like the plume on a knight’s helmet. Those locks swept here and there as she gazed around in amusement. She always looked surprised by the reception she received in Denerim. As if she hadn’t killed an archdemon three years ago and saved the world. Not to mention spending the years that followed rebuilding the Grey Wardens and driving the remaining Darkspawn back into the shadowy recesses of the earth. But then, she was a mage. People seldom cheered for mages. There was usually more whispering about abominations and waving holy symbols at them when they weren’t looking. Oh, and locking them up in stone towers to be chopped down by Templars at the slightest provocation. So perhaps her surprise was understandable.

This little display was to celebrate her latest campaign. His advisors told him that it was good to keep her in the public eye. To remind the people of his own heroics by association: the king who once fought side-by-side with the Hero of Ferelden. People devoured the story of their adventures. And they sighed and swooned over their romance. Nothing moved the masses quite like forbidden love.

Himself, he thought forbidden love was overrated. But no one ever asked him. Probably because he got grumpy when people talked about those stories in front of him. As if he and Renara were characters in a ballad, and not people who’d been rewarded for saving the world by losing the one thing they’d wanted the most. He didn’t feel bad about his resulting snarkiness. That kind of thing would make anyone grumpy.

Renara drew nearer to the shadow cast by the palace. She was close enough now that he could make out the sweet curve of her cheek and the blue of her eyes. Someone threw her a rose. She caught it deftly. A smile played across her lips as she sniffed it. Then, as if she could feel the weight of his eyes on her, she looked up at him. Smiling, she tucked the rose in her hair and gave him a wave. He waved back. The red rose looked lovely in her hair. And it broke his heart a little to look at it. He wished she hadn’t done that.

He went downstairs to meet her.

The Hero of Ferelden was paraded through the royal palace with the same pomp as she had been through the streets. People bowed as she passed. It was like wading through a prairie when the wind blew—all the tall stately grass swooping down in one’s direction. She wondered if the ones who’d never met her before were disappointed. They’d probably been picturing some imposing, lightning-eyed mage. And then here came Renara, all five-foot-six of her, clinking along in ceremonial armor like a bean in a flagon. It was all she could do not to laugh.

Into the throne room they went. Here is where the armor would help. Not so much in the dread battlefield of the parade, where it only shielded her tender body from thrown petals. But it was best in this room that as much of her was hidden as possible.

She threw on her brightest smile as she approached the throne. The king stood before it, stone-faced. Paying no mind to anyone else, she swept him a florid bow. “Your Majesty.”

“Please don’t ever do that again,” he said in a dry undertone. As she straightened, his honey brown eyes were fixed on her like hound noses on a deer trail. Her smile stayed in place. Another kind of armor.

He raised his voice to the assemblage. “Ladies and gentlemen. Honored banns. We have come together to celebrate the exploits of the Hero of Ferelden. Already, she’s done so much for this kingdom. Slain an archdemon and chased the Darkspawn from the city, for instance. And I could spend longer than you wish to listen describing her adventures since as she works tirelessly to keep Ferelden—and the world—safe. Instead, I shall simply say that she has my gratitude for her successful campaign to drive the Darkspawn from the Hinterlands, and I’m sure, all of yours. So let us eat, drink, and dance in her honor, and you can tell her so, yourselves!”

Under the cheering of the assemblage—less raucous than the cheering outside, but still enthusiastic—Renara murmured, “That was good. Did someone write it for you?”

He shot her a narrow glance. “I wrote it myself. I have had three years to work on this king thing, you know.”

“My mistake. I’m sure you’ve become stunningly regal since last I saw you.” She resisted the urge to tweak the end of his slightly pointy nose as she said it. Old habits die hard.

He offered her his arm. “I believe I’m meant to walk you out in true courtly fashion.”

Oh, good. Touching. That would be fun for both of them. She set her fingertips lightly on the inside of his elbow. “And your queen? She’s not here today to witness my glory?”

“Ah, she thought it might be more diplomatic if she tended to business elsewhere.”

Renara snorted. “Can’t stand the sight of me, can she?”

“Probably not for the reasons you think.” His lips quirked. He clearly wanted to give her that wry grin of his, but it wasn’t kingly. “She doesn’t begrudge you our shared past. After all, she and I are far from madly in love. We respect one another, and we no longer actively hate each other. But that’s the extent of it. No, it’s more that you had the crown of Ferelden in your hands and you passed it to me. And once again, she feels that all the glory of the throne goes to her husband and not herself, despite her brilliance. So as far as she’s concerned, you can die in Andraste’s pyre.”

“Oh, ouch.” Renara winced. “Well, you can’t please everyone. If I learned anything during our travels, it was that. Anything I did that you, Lelianna, and Wynne liked, Morrigan and Sten hated. And Zevran never seemed to care about anything until he suddenly, passionately did. Everybody’s a critic.”

“At least Oghren was mostly just drunk,” Alistair added. They entered the relative quiet of the hall behind the throne room.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I have Oghren with me. He’s a Warden now, did you know? And yes, he is drunk. He started ‘celebrating’ about five miles from the city gates.”

“Ah, I was hoping to test the capacity of the palace urns for holding dwarf vomit.”

“And this way, you’ll get that service for free!” She laughed. Then she noticed how his eyes kept fixing on her hair. He’d always been fascinated with it. Back in the day, the first thing he did during “tent time” was take it down so that he could run his fingers through it. But he didn’t look like he was itching to loosen her locks this time. Sadness lurked in the brightness of his eyes.

Oh. The rose. Shit. She hadn’t thought . . . Well, it’s not like every rose she saw didn’t remind her of the rose he’d given her from Lothering. The one he’d said made him marvel over how such beauty could exist among such ugliness, and how he thought the same thing when he looked at her. Those words were carved into her soul. But she’d been a little distracted during the parade. And it had smelled nice.

There wasn’t really a diplomatic way to remove it and chuck it in one of the aforementioned urns. What was the diplomatic approach? She wasn’t prone to diplomacy. She was a blurter. She blurted out her thoughts like a whacked lamb baaing. It was her greatest weakness. And just now, she wanted to blurt an apology. To let him know that it wasn’t meant to be some kind of bitter dig at him for breaking with her after he became king. Even though he’d spent the year before that telling her he never wanted to live without her. But that was all in the past.

When in doubt, make a joke. She grinned at him. “So, am I excused to go wash off the horse smell or am I to be bathed only in honor?”

“Oh. Yes. Right. And you’ll probably want to change. You look very intimidating in your arcane armor, but I know you feel like a bean rattling in a flagon.”

Why did he always seem to read her mind? After three years, he should have forgotten some of the things she used to say. Although, she hadn’t forgotten much of what he had. Part of her was dying to ask how he liked “licking lampposts in winter” with his new wife. But again, not diplomatic. Or any of her business.

He handed her off to a servant, who led her towards the guest wing. As soon as she was out of sight, she whipped the rose from her hair and tossed it into an urn. It hit the side and bounced in with a metallic clang. The servant peered over her shoulder curiously. Renara smiled at her and spread her hands. Let the woman believe that Renara was so chock full of magical energy that it was ringing around inside her armor. It only helped the legend. Maker knew nothing else about her did.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I update this on my AO3 account as well, where I post as LotheringRose

#alistair theirin #grey warden #hero of ferelden #dragon age #dragon age origins #the warden #alistair romance #dragon age romances #dragon age fandom #dragon age fanfiction #bann teagan #oghren #a rose for lady amell

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whatdoesshedotothem · 1 year

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Saturday 8.. March 1840

4 50/..

11 55/..

and we are to be off again in 3 hours (at 5 a.m.) – vid Schnitzler vol. 1 p. 691 his mention of the Carte de Mr. Lapie of Russia good – lay down on my mattresses in my chalat (having taken off my gown and handkerchiefs) at 2 50/.. expecting to be called at 4 ½ - so much bit under my chin, that was sometime before I could fall asleep but I think I slept about an hour+ till A- called me and I jumped up at 4 50/.. – no water – no anything .:. ready in 10 minutes and waited impatiently – at last by ding of pother got us off from Wiazowskayaand its cockroaches at 5 ½ - gave the woman a 30kop. silver piece = 1/05 with which she seemed very well satisfied –

5 ½ to 9 10/.. Wiazowskaya to Staritskaya 25

9 27/.. to 11 40/.. S- to Tschernoy Jars (gorod) 21

tho’ we had only 25v. to go, it took us 3 40/.. hour snowing all the way, and cold wind driving the snow about us, and in at the top of the kibitka on the off (A-‘s) side – very cold – R-12° dehors said Gross iin the courtyard on the snow on leaving W- but it was sheltered from the cold wind, and lying under the buildings – great deal of snow on our road already a little drifted in places so that we could seldom go out of foots’ pace – Staritskaya a village – the cottages thickly covered with snow – very wintry picturesque – Station house a good cottage of 2 rooms one (left) nice little warm room with oven-stove, and, bright live embers in it, and looking very comfortable – our courier had left his cap and shube there .:. I withdrew and all our people and soon took possession – wattled farm-yards and sheds and the loghouses (some neat good little cottages) plastered up with mud in the seams of the loss – did not see a church – 8 minutes in trotting till we got out of the village and yet we seemed to leave a still further length of street to our left – wrote the above notes as we drove off – very cold work writing

my fingers’ ends ached with the cold (being obliged to take off my little fir mittens to enable me to hold my pen) – R-11 ½° lying on the in-driven snow in the corner of the kibitka in the draught from the off (A-‘s – west) side – never had R- so low before in our kibitka – our hands and feet were very cold when we reached Tchernoy Jar Tchernoï Jar (bord nord.) (Black bord, rive, or bank vid. Schnitzler i. p. 602) we had had hardly met or passed one person on the road, and the snow falling made the atmosphere so thick we could scarce see a 12 yards before us – on alighting George said the courier de poste had gone 2v. forwards and then returned – so thick he could not find his way – no road – all snowed up and very few guide – or road-posts this way – A- and I had tasted nothing since last night – glad of breakfast but 1 ¼ hour before we could get the Semovar to boil – our little room the least we have ever been in – about 3 yards square and about 2ft. to 2ft. 6in. of one side taken up by stove and bedstead – the woman raked up the braise, in the stove – but still R stood at only 8 ½° of heat, and the little door opposite the single wind (single glass) opening into the little anteroom exactly opposite the outdoor, made our little room cold – tho’ the little door like all the inner doors (and outer doors, too, of cottages) hereabouts is low shutting against a threshold 7 or 8in. or more above the floor, like ancient doors with us – the reason is plain – to keep out the draught of cold air from under the door along the bottom of the room – Had George in to know if we could go one – he said the weather was no clearer outside the town (nice little village-like town – see no church) but the [?] (drivers) would go if I liked – the next stage 30v. thought they could get there by midnight – but then we must go 31v. farther for Goatschewskay a mere village – nothing but isbas – it would be difficult for us to sleep there – but a good government station at Vetlaninskaya a 2nd stage from here – It was now after 2 – no use in being 8 or 9 house sin going 30v. and then being obliged to go 31v. farther – stay all night here – off to look at a good house near where travellers usually go to sleep – the house empty – the people were at dinner in a smaller house the kitchen-house on the other side the courtyard – went there 6 good looking better sort of peasants and the lady of the house and her 2 women cooking dinner and serving the plats from the stove oven in the little place (kitchen) adjoining – carême – (lent) manger maigre – fish tchee (soup – cabbage and fish instead of cabbage and meat soup) – some cold salted salmon and lastly blinis (blēēnys) the sort of little thickish wheat flour pancake the size of the inside of common English dinner plate – sat down for a minute or [2] and tasted all [?] to their great amusement – agree for one good room at 1/. per day – dinner at ./50 each – and came kibitkas and all settled here at 3 1/3 – heated by 2 poches, 3 doors, 3 windows, single glass as very general of late – one room about 5 ½ yards square – the board-walls painted a yellowish darkish green with a festoon of flowers over each door, and 3 scripture pictures St. John Baptists

SH:7/ML/E/24/0037

head on a tray-table a young man holding it (left hand) by the hair, and right leaning on a long large broad sword with cap and fur-lined handsome shube on (meant for Herod?), and 2nd angel and [?] Abraham going to slay his son – and 3rd Daniel in the lions’ den (8 lions – an angel over man (like Daniel himself) with book (bible) in his hand in the clouds – and from top of wall the king and 2 turbaned [?] looking down upon Daniel) – the ceiling an 8tagon of a lightish blueish green with a medallion in the middle (a woman feeding 2 swans a circular medallion surrounded by garland of roses, marigolds, panseys [pansies], forget-me-nots, and something else – the medallions a tree in full leaf with [nosegays] of flowers lying by – a tree full of white apples – a tree in full leaf with vines with [ripe] blue grapes by it, and a parcel of naked small trunks of trees – sundry garlands on the pannels round the skirting board 2ft. high – the doors same light green as 8tagon of ceiling, and the ogee bevils of the 3 tier of door pannels red – 2 tables and 6 chairs – offered to bring canapés for us to sleep on – but we declined them – used to put our mattresses on the floor – ‘tis now 5 10/.. – slumbered and [?] our 1st stage this morning and the 2nd Read Russian grammar and Schnitzler 1. from p. 121 to 145 till 11 ½ - the post courier has been delayed here the last 3 nights if I rightly understood our courier – we to be off at 6 a.m. tomorrow if possible – but cela depend – if more snow falls in the night we shall have enough of it – no Volga –no na Volga – since Sarepta – would rather be here than there – may live less well, but shall be warmer – the single windows there and German stove that got quite cold during the night were starvation – R10 ¾ on my table now at 5 20/.. p.m. Reading Schnitzler and looking at maps till dinner – tea and cotelettes de passion, and Blinnys (the pancakes) over at 8 20/.. – then read article Tchernoï Jar in the Geography dictionary de la Russie – inquired if the fortifications were still kept up – yes! still standing but not much attended to – very few soldiers – shall pass the Kremlin tomorrow morning – to stop a minute en passant – the lesser salt lake 40 versts from here 1 little town 20v. from here en route and a little village close upon the lake – Lac Yelton perhaps 100 from here - then reading till now 9 55/.. – when at Tzaritzine should have tried to see the site of the ancient Bulgarian city Soumerkente, and on the island formed by the Achtouba on the other side the Volga interesting remains of Saraie city and palace of Batou [Batu] Khan – vid. these 2 articles in the Geography Dictionary of Russia –

Battle of the Calca (Chalka government of Nijegorod?) which delivered Russia into the hands of the Tartars, 1226. vid. Geog. Dict. ii. 263. article Tchernigof and see article Calmouks – la famoux [?]-Khan was grandson of Batou [Batu] Khan had just written so far at 10 35/.. snowy windy cold day – fair towards evening – found my cousin gently come at breakfast lay down at last night at 11 55/.. A- and I-

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