#sunken spire

[felassan]

The Slightest Ones bard song:

Arlathan fell so deep onto the ocean floor

Dalish elven lore:

"It is said that the Tevinter magisters used their great destructive power to force the very ground to swallow Arlathan whole"

The Adventures of the Black Fox by Gaston Gerrault:

"The stories all agree that, at some point, the Black Fox disappeared: He and his fellow adventurers voyaged into the heart of the Arlathan forest seeking the sunken city of the elves and never returned"

Solas dialogue:

"Imagine [...] palaces floating among the clouds."

Codex entry: Vir Dirthara: Homecoming

"a city of glass spires so deeply blue they ache. The city's outskirts are wrapped in lakes of mist, and figures stroll along the pearly, glowing strips as if they walked on solid ground [...] other elves walk below a river churning along an invisible shoal in the air."

Tevinter tries to mimic some ancient elvhen magic and Minrathous has a floating castle.

Location in Dragon Age: The Veilguard -

Arlathan Crater: one, two, three

Definitions of "crater":

- a landform consisting of a hole or depression on a planetary surface, usually caused either by an object hitting the surface, or by geological activity on the planet - a bowl-shaped pit that is formed by a volcano, an explosion, or a meteorite impact

Was the city of Arlathan a floating city kept aloft by ancient elvhen magic in a way that was intrinsically dependent on the presence of the Fade, and when the Veil was erected, with that tie severed it crashed to the ground like an asteroid? Did the ground swallow it whole? When Solas created the Veil, in that reshaping of reality was it physically spacetime-displaced deep into the heart of the Fade? When he made the Veil, did it "fall" (warp) into the Deep Roads like the elven library found by Genitivi in Genitivi Dies in the End? Did it fall to the bottom of the ocean? Did it fall into the other ocean, the Fade (the "Waters of the Fade", "the sea of dreams", the "emerald waters", "vast oceans, containing not water, but memories")? The Fade sort've reflects reality and is shaped by dreams, so is The City [by this I mean The Golden/Black City] the Fade-mirror-image or echo of Arlathan as opposed to literally physically it? the wild and fun thing about Dragon Age is that more than one of these things could be true at once.

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

[captainofthetidesbreath]

Fjord was in the service of a demigod recognized by three eyes, one of a set of three imprisoned demigods in Wildemount, each with three eyes.

Uk'otoa has three Chosen at a time, according to the mural at Urukayxl, at least. He is bound by three seals unlocked by three Cloven Crystals at three temples. He sends his servants to take the third and last crystal from Fjord three times.

On that note, hilariously, Fjord outlasts three sunken ships: the Tide's Breath, the Balleater, the Nein Heroez.

Arguably, Fjord has three surnames: one he does not know as he was born to, Stone as he was given, Tusktooth as he formerly used at sea. Generally, across the narrative, Fjord divides his life into three sections: the orphanage, the Tide's Breath, the Nein and beyond.

The Star Razor was forged three times: created, strengthened, made whole. Fjord received it upon the third.

Three visions from Melora: one at the Arbor Exemplar, one as he became a paladin, one as he swore his oath. (Nine dreams from Uk'otoa, a multiple of three.)

In that third temple, Fjord forged an agreement with and was marked by Zehir at the foot of a statue with three heads, an unusual depiction of Zehir.

Fjord was bound to three patrons, given three swords representing his three pacts: the Sword of Fathoms for Uk'otoa (destroyed), the Star Razor for Melora (kept), the Fang of the Spire King for Zehir (given away).

Something mythic about all that repetition of three.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 15

The Golden Palace | Loki x Reader

Questions are answered at The Golden Palace of the Gods, but some things are best left unsaid.

Warnings: some language and angst, daddy issues but not the fun kinky kind (sorry!).

AN: Not gonna lie I've been nervous to put this one out, I've tried to research and add some gods that to be honest I didn't know much about. This has been a learning process for me! This is intened to be taken in the same vibe as Love & Thunder with depictions being very surface level, just like Thor and Loki aren't exactly as they are in their own mythologies.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

You had never travelled by Bifröst and, as Thor released your hand, you swore never to do it again. Your head swam with colours, your stomach churning and you regretted the second cookie you’d scarfed down while you and Loki hastily packed and left his cabin. 

“How did you fare, Trouble?” Thor laughed, slapping a meaty hand on your arm and peering down at you. At your side, Loki slid his grasp from yours to wrap an arm around your waist, holding you steady against his sturdy body. You were grateful for his grounding presence, the way his sedir seemed to curl around your magic, keeping it from flaring in fear.

“Darling?” Loki pulled you impossibly closer, cupping your cheek with his free hand to look at your queasy expression.  

“I’m never, ever, doing that again,” you groaned and the brothers laughed, Thor’s deep chuckle melted into Loki’s softer, more lilting laugh and you couldn’t help but start giggling too, the absurdity of travelling with two gods, on a rainbow bridge, magiced out of thin air was too much and you burst into peals of laughter. 

Your laughter echoed back and you finally looked up at the wondrous place Thor had brought you to. The outside of the palatial building was clad entirely in polished gold which shone impossibly in every direction without shadow. Looking up the entire sky seemed to be made of sun, even the idyllic clouds that passed glowed from within. Turrets and spires decorated the outside and a series of walkways, bridges and staircases led the way from various pools, sunken gardens and lush looking courtyards. Everywhere you looked the palace dripped with opulence, every direction spun out into excesses of marble decked luxury. 

“Wow.” You stared up, spinning slowly as Loki’s hands kept you steady around your waist, and attempted to take in the magnificence that surrounded you. 

“Wow indeed.” Thor patted your shoulder, “this is the Golden Palace, home of the Gods themselves.” 

“Which gods?” You asked, not daring to take your eyes from your surroundings. You knew that Thor and Loki had once lived in Asgard, as had you for a short time, though your memories gave you only glimpses of that time. 

“All of the gods, I suppose, should they wish it, they come here to meet, socialise, and relax. So many gods are no longer worshipped and, until they fade from memory, they come here.” 

At that you stopped moving and Loki, ever careful of you, took your hand again. 

“What do you mean, until they fade from memory?” 

“Well, ásynja, gods are only as good as their worshippers. So if a god is no longer worshipped they become weak, they begin to age. Some slip into deep sleeps and some become mortal and die.” Loki said, quietly. 

To speak of such a death was not polite within earshot of other deities, it was a fear that gripped them all, and the brothers kept their voices unusually quiet as they explained. 

You were stunned, it hadn’t occurred to you that gods could truly die. You’d seen Thor injured once before and you supposed should the injury be extreme enough perhaps they would die. But to fade into obscurity first. To be forgotten. That seemed a terrible way to go. 

It is, darling, there is no entrance to Valhalla for those who become dust 

Loki cupped your cheek, “my sweet darling, please don’t be upset. There are many ways for gods to be worshipped. Take your museums and galleries. When you stand before a Botecelli and gaze upon Venus, your reverence keeps her strong.” 

“So art, history, documentaries…” 

“Have you not noticed, we gods are vain creatures,” Loki smiled, preening comically and Thor laughed too, flexing his muscles. 

It made your heart clench. How could the Avengers treat him as such a threat, when he was so funny and kind and witty. Mischievous? Yes. But evil? Never. 

“That does help, Loki. Thank you.” You stood on your toes and kissed him gently while Thor made a show of looking disgusted behind you. “But, wait, if any gods can come here, why didn’t you come here after Ragnarok?” 

“Ah - yes, well, there was the suggestion of that.” Thor looked at his brother, “I had already abdicated but, I like Midgard and I would have had to leave my people behind. I would not enjoy myself without them.”

Loki nodded in agreement, “I know what the Midgardian’s think of me, darling, but I can assure you my sentiments were very much the same. Though I am no longer in line to the throne -” 

“You never were,” Thor muttered and Loki shot him a glare.

“- as I was saying, the throne matters not. What I truly care about is Asgard, whether that is a place or a people, I wished to remain and rebuild alongside my brother and the King.” 

It wasn’t a surprise to you that Loki was sentimental, but it made your heart squeeze to hear him talk about his responsibilities and loyalties. This was the man, you loved and you desperately wanted to tell him. To share with him how deep your feelings ran, how clearly you saw his heart. But there were so many unanswered questions and Loki would never be just a man, he was a god, tied to his people and though he had expressed his loyalty, you feared he would not be able to give you his heart in the same way. 

Instead of words you chose kisses to show your affection, reaching up and winding your fingers into the neatly brushed curls at the nape of his neck and crushing kisses to his lips. 

Thor coughed loudly. 

“When you two have finished, I did suggest our visit for a reason. Not just so you could have a romantic date.” 

Loki pulled away and for a split second you chased his lips, not ready to let him go. He smiled down at you, that luxurious, lust filled smirk that told you this conversation, and the kiss, were not over. 

“Now that we’re discussing this, I don’t think this attire is suitable.” Thor waved at hand at you both, still dressed casually from your morning at Loki’s cabin. Even Thor’s own clothes were too casual for the setting, his large sweatshirt and jeans not nearly as intimidating as his battle armour. 

With a roll of his eyes Loki’s sedir flashed and he was once more in his Asgardian leathers, less formal that the fighting armour he’d worn at the end of the mission, this had a distinctly blue hue to the chest, with his signature black leather trousers and boots. His hair, still somewhat messy, was swept back by his long fingers as he carded them through his curls. He hadn’t looked away for a second, still pining you with that look. He gave you a wink and you snapped your mouth shut. 

“What about me?” You didn’t mean for it to sound so petulant, but it was hardly fair that they always knew exactly how to present themselves. All of these formalities were so new to you. 

“I’m sure you’re more than capable of conjuring your own clothes, darling.” Loki purred. 

“I am - but what do you wear at the Palace of the Gods?” You chewed your thumb, looking around at all the other gods as they passed. Many wore robes, some tunics and dresses, there were even a few that were mostly naked. “I only have my armour or my Earth clothes?” 

“Think of your armour, the colours and textures, the images, and then imagine something you’d feel comfortable in.” Loki suggested. 

“A dress, or something. Jane always liked to wear Earth Jeans.” Thor suggested with a smile, despite being glad almost exclusively in various kinds of polished metal. 

“She cannot wear Earth Jeans, Thor, she is a Goddess, she must look like one.” Loki protested, rounding on his brother. 

“Are you saying Jane is not a Goddess?” 

“Yes, I am - you love her and I approve of her, but she is not -” 

Their squabbling faded into a dull roar as you tried to concentrate, thinking about the rich blue colour of your armour, the soft velvet and smooth silver, and the weight of a dress settled around your shoulders and hips. It was surprisingly traditional, considering how much you’d hated the flouncy skirts you’d been put in as a child, but the low front and draped back felt more womanly and regal than any stuffy corset you’d been shoved into, the skirt was wide, but moved around you like water and you had the sensation of blossoming, like a midnight flower, under the gaze of your beloved Loki. 

“ásynja, it’s perfect.” He held your gaze as he stepped forwards, offering his arm to you

Even Thor appeared starstruck, grinning happily and giving you a thumbs up. “Perfect, now we’re ready.” 

Thor and Loki appeared stately as they marched through the gilded corridors of the Golden Palace and as you kept pace next to them you were transported to memories of your shared youth, following them around at first, until you had your bearings, and then racing with them between lessons, training, meals and meetings. 

Faster and faster you ran, dodging guards and swinging around the pillars at the end of the corridor, your dress trailing behind you like a spring breeze. The soft linen snapped like a whip when you turned again, hiding yourself on the tall base of a column, and waited for your prey. 

Thor appeared at one end of the corridor first, closely followed by Loki. You grinned, Thor you could catch but Loki? You didn’t trust the boy before you, green tunic fluttering around his hips. He’d tricked you far too many times for that. 

You waited for him to pass Thor, a subtle nod to his brother, before you made your move. 

With a yell you jumped out onto Thor’s back, your arms around his neck and your wooden dagger pressed to his throat. “I caught you!” You declared and Thor’s bellowing laugh echoed around the corridor. 

In front of you both Loki whirled back and you threw the training dagger, only for it to pass through the illusion and fall to the ground. 

“Not so fast, Trouble.” Thor laughed, “we may have you beaten yet.” You could almost see his grin. 

Loki was swift and clever, you could feel the air move behind you as he made ready to strike and then you let Thor go, falling to the ground and rolling between Loki’s legs in one smooth movement. Smaller than both the Asgardian Prince’s your best bet was to always go very high, or very low. 

Jumping to your feet you pulled Loki’s dagger from his boot and poked it into his side. 

Thor’s laugh continued to boom but Loki lifted his hands in surrender. “You win again, ásynja, as always.” 

He turned, smiling serenely, and you flipped the dagger, catching it deftly in your palm without drawing blood. 

“As always, boys.” You smiled, fixing your skirts serenely and making to walk off, “want to play again?” And you broke into a run…

“Are you alright, my darling?” Loki asked, his eyes narrowed, “you look distracted.” 

“Just remembering,” you smiled, and he kissed your temple softly, always worried by that glassy look in your eyes but pleased that the memories were coming back slowly. 

Together the three of you walked through endless miles of gold corridors, halls with vast vaulted ceilings branched out from the central artery, below you were oasis after oasis of fountains and ponds, pools where gods swam and patios where they ate and laughed together. 

The mere thought of all of these deities being real was making your head spin, let alone that you might actually belong here among them. 

You belong wherever you chose to be

Loki’s mind spoke to yours, a soothing balm against your anxiety. 

“Here we are,” Thor declared, outside two staggering doors of solid gold. “If we can’t find answers here, then I am all out of ideas.” 

The doors swung open and flooded the corridor with ethereal light, almost as bright as Lugh’s had been when he’d appeared before you. 

Shielding your eyes you took in the full height of the atrium. Decked out in polished gold and pure white there were rows and rows of seating in various sizes, as if for a giant theatre. Filling the seats were more kinds of people than you’d ever seen in your life, some looked like Loki and Thor, as if human but…more. Some were so small they were placed on towers of cushions and plinths rather than lounging on thrones. Then there were the giants, hanging over the edges of the balconies and peering in through the vast windows. 

In the centre, floating on their own balcony, was a man of about average height, but his muscular body looked like it was brushed with gold to match his surroundings. His curled hair sat perfectly on his shoulders, one bare and one draped in pure white silk, a gold chest plate and gold leather pleats decorated the otherwise simple tunic and he was accompanied by a gaggle of similarly dressed women, all giggling and looking down at you. 

Stunned, you squeezed Loki’s hand tighter in your now sweating palm, and tipped your chin up to meet the man’s gaze, wishing Thor had prepared you better. 

“Welcome to the Golden Palace,” the man’s voice boomed around the room and all the other attendees went silent.

Everything will be okay, my darling Loki assured silently, but you were still rooted to the spot, terrified. 

Looking again at the floating platform it became obvious who was staring back. Zeus waved the women at his side away and leant further over the balcony, his eyes roving over you again without shame. 

“So this is who has caused such-” he waved his hand, “disruption and madness in our ranks.” 

“We have come to seek answers, also, Mighty Zeus.” Thor answered for you, stepping further into the light from the towering windows. “We have received information regarding a prophe-”

“That is not to be spoken of here!” Zeus roared and Thor fell silent, snapping his jaw shut. “Lugh was sent to deal with you, what happened?” 

What does he mean deal with me?

I don’t know, my darling, stay close

“Why did you defy him!?” Zeus demanded, his eyes boring into you, his entire court turned to you as well, the weight of their attention was crushing and your voice stuck in your throat. 

“I didn’t - sorry - I -” 

“We were not aware, Zeus, that anything was required of us. There was an incident with a kidnapping and it has made us wary of others.” Loki said and you mentally kicked yourself for your nerves. 

“Well you are here now.” Zeus sighed and looked around, “where is Lugh?” 

There was a commotion towards the side of the room and a familiar man strode forwards, he looked up towards Zeus and inclined his head politely before turning to look at you. Not Thor or Loki, who closed ranks around you, but straight towards you. Like an arrow he closed in until he could peer over Loki’s shoulder at you, so close you could see the fine detail of his armour. 

“I did not wish for you to be here, child.” He hissed, turning his chin and addressing Loki, “why did you bring her?” 

“Because we required answers from that irritating riddle of my mother’s” Loki bit back, his eyes shining with anger. “If you had explained instead of -”

“No whispers in my court!” Zeus bellowed and you all faced him again. 

“Now we shall resolve this matter.” Zeus declared.

“Ah Zeus you know this is merely a squabble,” Lugh laughed, stepping forwards and, imperceptibly, to the side, placing himself between you and the head of the Greek pantheon. 

Zeus nodded to Lugh in greeting, “it is good to see you back among our ranks, though we had hoped that this issue could have been resolved already.” 

Loki tugged you backwards and Thor closed in around you. 

What’s happening?

I cannot fathom, darling, just stay still, stay quiet.

Around you the sound of many people talking rose in a cacophony of sound, the once placid gods now talking heatedly between themselves. 

“I can not take this arguing anymore. Can the disgruntled parties please step forwards?” Zeus waved one hand and placed his head in the other dramatically, as if he was physically tired from the entire argument despite his continued wide legged stance and the abundance of seating around him. 

The first god stepped forwards, tall and broad with huge muscles, his long beard and the storm that followed him reminded you of Thor, but instead of a hammer, this God carried a mace and an axe. 

He stopped before Zeus and pointed at you, barely looking at you before staring Zeus down. “She belongs to us, let her leave with me now and there will be no bloodshed.” You’d imagined that in a land of gods there would be many languages, but thankfully you were able to understand all that was said. 

Lugh and Thor closed in tighter around you as Loki tugged you closer into his side. The storm that had arrived with this god made the air colder and your skin felt damp, as if you’d just stepped inside after being caught in the rain. 

I won’t let them take you, darling 

“Baal, we have discussed the need for evidence, what have you to provide -” 

Before Zeus could finish, a second god stepped forwards. You had thought the first was large, but the second was easily eight feet tall, lean and slender with skin so lustrous it looked like it was made of polished bronze. Although his body was that of a man, even if it was a towering man, his head was that of a dog, black fur blurred down his neck and a long snout ended in a surprisingly soft muzzle. 

Despite the attention of the room shifting, Baal continued to raise his voice, the clouds above him breaking into rain that pattered on the marble and formed splashing pools below his feet. “These powers are ours, Zeus and you know this to be true.” 

Loki he squeezed your hand and turned to you slightly, the damp curls of his hair sticking to his forehead. 

Everything here is translated or, it is now after the last argument erupted

Loki’s hand was a reassuring presence in your own and you stepped closer into his warmth as the God continued, the velvet of your dress feeling heavy in the misty rain. 

His voice was deep, but steady, as he spoke not to Zeus and his retinue, but directly to you. The taught tension in his shoulders and the clenching of his hands told you, and the three men still surrounding you, that he was in no mood for an argument. 

“Brigid visited me on her journeys and I claim you as my offspring, I have seen your many powers and I wish to welcome you to the Ennead as my daughter.”

You coughed, choking on your own breath in surprise. Next to you, Loki stiffened and you felt that piercing gaze of his turn to you, on your other side Thor stood in shock . But Lugh scoffed. 

“You have never been able to prove anything, either of you. What evidence do you have for your claim now?” Lugh stared up at Anubis’ dark eyes first, and then Baal’s, standing his ground between you and the other gods. They had had this conversation before, that much was clear and as before Lugh refused to move an inch. 

Before Anubis could answer a large serpent, covered in delicate, brightly coloured feathers, slithered from the seating and coiled itself around the gathered gods.As his tail came to rest on the polished marble he transformed into a man, feathers still decorating his turquoise and green clothing. 

“Step aside, Anubis, you and I both know that this girl is capable of great things, death is not one of them.” His eyes softened as he turned to look at you, “we have spoken of the prophecy, we know that she would need both a mother and a father capable of -” 

“And what of the other half of the prophecy?” Another man stepped forwards, though he seemed to be of average height he carried with him a huge cutlas and, as the wind whipped up around him, his gold eye glinted. “Surely there are many who can claim such gifts.” 

Zeus raised his hand and a bolt of lightning flashed above his head. 

“We agreed we would not discuss the prophecy in front of the girl,” he commanded. 

“Only because you did not want us to take responsibility for her actions!” A voice chimed from high in the stadium. 

“Aye, what if she needs controlling!” Another voice agreed, “surely you are to blame here, Zeus, you are the leader among us and a shape shifter as the girl is, you should take over controlling her!”

“Controlling? No one is going to -” you raised your voice, trying to make a stand in your defence, but Loki had tangled his magic around you, holding you back, though it appeared all he was doing was clasping your hand. You fought against him, determined to speak your mind. But even Thor, who revelled in your troublemaking, shook his head. 

You would fry him for this, singe his hair and torch his precious leathers. Melt his daggers and - the coil around you tightened and it suddenly felt like an embrace, and not a leash, guarding you against the onslaught of opinion. The fire of your anger flickered, but didn’t go out. 

“I?” Zeus looked genuinely upset at the prospect, which, despite your relief, felt a lot like an insult. “I have not sired the child, look at her, so full of destruction. Perhaps she really is yours Owuo, or, perhaps,” he turned to the voice in the crowd, “she is yours, Proteus, after all, she is a changeable thing.” 

“Thing?!” 

Your magic was roiling, perhaps you really were meant for destruction, desperate for a way to release the anger building slowly inside. 

“Hush, darling,” Loki cooed, squeezing your hand.

“Don’t you tell me to hush, you’re as bad as them, what is this? A cattle market? I can’t tell whether I’m wanted or not!” 

Still towering above you, Anubis looked down, placing a large hand across your back, he spoke softly and the words flowed through you. 

“Of course you are wanted, child, but, you see, we have been arguing for many eons over you. Where there is awe, there is also fear. 

Fear, they were frightened about you and suddenly you were frightened too. What if the prophecy was true, and you were destined to be a person you couldn’t control. 

In the centre of the theatre the gods continued to argue, their voices becoming blurred as more and more descended from the steps. Some shouting that you should be made to go with them, back to their homes and worlds to rule in their pantheons, some arguing that you needed taking in hand, containing as you had been. But the word that kept appearing, that you couldn’t shake, was prophecy. 

Frigga’s words were more than just a dream then, they had been heard across the pantheons, across time, and these gods were in disarray because of it. Even those who wished to claim you only sought control of the terrible destruction the prophecy had claimed. It crossed your mind that maybe you should have gone with Lugh and allowed him to hide you. He had come to your aid once more and he had never hurt you, even when he’d sent the boy to fetch you he’d been gentle, that was his undoing. 

“If there is one more word about the prophecy then we will have Lugh remove her memories and send her back to be contained on Gaia with him until this can be resolved” Zeus boomed. 

Your blood felt cold. 

The air rushed from your body in a single huff. 

Your body numb. 

Lugh turned away from the commotion to look at you, the light around him dimming to a faint glow. 

“Estrid -”

“Loki I want to go home,” you tugged him backwards, away from the man approaching you. 

“Please, you must understand, I did what I thought to be right to protect you.” Lugh took a step closer, but Thor moved in front of him, blocking his path with a crackle of blue lightning. 

“Loki!” You turned to him, tears streaming down your face. 

“I only meant to protect you.” Lugh looked stricken, but Thor held him back. “See how they fight over you? See how they want to use you? I only ever wanted you to be free. Please, allow me to explain.” He pleaded.  

“You took everything from me!” Your scream echoed, bouncing back into the flames that exploded from your body. Loki moved back and you swore he looked almost blue for a moment as he threw up a wall of protective sedir around himself and Thor. On the outside, Lugh continued to approach, his light wrapping around him. 

“Please,” he begged, “I understand you do not wish to talk to me. Allow me to write you a letter? Or visit you somewhere when you are calm -” 

“I’m very calm. I am very calm right now.” You snarled, your armour rippling over your body, your spear suddenly clenched between your fingers. “I never want to see you again, don’t ever try to talk to me again. You are a jailor, a kidnapper, get away from me.” 

He didn’t have to hurt you, because he had so much more control than that, he had taken every thought and memory of Loki from you, your time on Asgard, your mother. 

“Princes, please,” he turned to Loki and Thor, “your mother agreed, she helped, it was for the best that you forgot.” 

You moved backwards again, dropping Loki’s hand as your spear sparked on the marble. So he’d hurt Loki too, there was no return from this, no way to atone when he’d hurt you both.

You were  running for the edge of the stage before you could dwell on it anymore, towards what you hoped would be an exit, behind you your fire followed you like the sweep of a dress, melting the gold it touched into soft pools and charring the wooden legs of the pews that lined the centre of the stage. 

You didn’t look back. 

With one last look at the burgeoning fight brewing in the centre of the Golden Palace, Loki turned, his cape flowing behind him as he sprinted after you, catching you around the waist and vanishing in a flash of green and gold magic. 

<<Part 14

Part 16>>

[watercolorfreckles]

hi, thank you so much for your wonderful writing :))

I've especially loved reading Deep Blue and I was wondering if you...do continuations? if not that's totally okay, just thought I'd ask :)

have some ice cream :) 🍦

Thank you, thank you! Sorry for taking so long to get to this request. Hope you like it!

Deep Blue - Pt. 4

siren x pirate

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

When his eyelids parted again, the midday sun split the room, haloing the sleeping siren in a honey blaze. Her hair pooled around her head in golden spires where she'd sunken against the cotton pillow during the night.

Her shoulders swam beneath the gauzy knit of the pirate's shirt, pearl-pink skin peeking free. She smelled of the ocean, all salted breezes and chalky sands.

She seemed peaceful, chest swelling with even breaths. An outsider may have labeled her harmless.

The pirate knew better.

His fingers itched to caress the delicate curls framing the siren's forehead all the same. The supernatural charm of a siren, he told himself. He caught his hand when it twitched halfway to action.

He stood up, tearing himself away from the magnetic pull of her. He turned around, shaking out the clumped waves of his hair. His clothes, too, were scratchy with the crust of dried salt. The folds of fabric creased like paper.

He stepped outside and cranked out several pumps of water from the rusted spigot, scrubbing it over his face and hair. The cool droplets streamed fissures down his neck and chest. He pumped fresh palm-fulls to spread over the rest of his exposed skin.

"If you're trying to drown yourself, I can do a much better job of it."

The pirate startled, straightening. "Golden. You're...- How are you feeling?"

Clinging to the open door, the siren stood awkwardly on foreign limbs. The hem of his shirt hung a few inches above her knees; a curtain brushing against his clumsy first aid.

Though her posture painted her a wounded damsel, her eyes were predator-sharp. It set his teeth on edge and sent something primal in his instincts jangling.

The siren's nose crinkled, scanning their surroundings. He tracked her gaze as it roamed over every rock and tree and bump of the earth. "What is that smell?"

The cabin boy snorted, cranking fresh water into his hands to dump over his head. "Dirt."

"Repugnant.”

"Yeah, well... As much as I love it, the smell of salt water and fish can get old as well."

When he glanced up again, he studied the siren more closely. Instead of itchy, irritated skin--sun-dried and chapped--she was glowing as ever. Her golden hair hung in silken waves hardly so much as mussed by his rough sheets, not gritty and salt-riddled as his own locks had been. Her skin faintly shimmered in the daylight.

The only thing about her that wasn't perfect was the red stain weeping through the muddied fabric of her bandage.

Her eyes followed the drip drops puddling beneath the spigot. She wet her lips.

The cabin boy watched her. "Are you thirsty?"

As he'd learned from his hours of curious reading, most sea creatures didn't drink water. They gained their hydration through the food they ate, or their bodies were designed to filter out the harmful sully of salt from the seas they swam in.

Though, his siren was a sea creature no more.

Her feet twitched, seemingly with the urge to take a step, but she hesitated, toeing the wooden step's treacherous edge without letting go of the door.

A small smile cracked the pirate's lips. This creature who had held his life in her hands mere hours prior, capable of capsizing ships and carving out the hearts of men, was afraid to walk. Afraid to fall.

Gravity did have an unforgiving vice above water that it didn't below, weightless and languid in all its honeyed drifting.

He found himself standing in front of her. Ever drawn to her as a moth to its fiery death.

She hissed at him when he offered his hands toward her, sounding like a startled housecat. Jerking back, her heels snagged the rim of the top stair and she fell with a yelp. "Don't touch me!"

Though the cabin boy held up his palms in surrender, the mermaid swiped at him with dull, paddy fingers for good measure.

"Easy," he said, "I was only going to help you."

"Why?"

His brow creased. "...Why?"

"Why are you trying to help me at all?" she demanded.

"You saved my life."

"I tried to drown you! You should have left me there, I would have been better off! Your 'help' is a scourge, a curse!" She pushed herself up onto wobbly feet, smacking his hand away when the pirate reached out again, reflexively, to assist her.

He heaved a sigh, stepping back. “You would have bled to death.”

“It would have been better!” There was something terribly broken in her voice. A windchime once ringing melodic lullabies now cracked and shrieking. She staggered down the remaining two steps, swaying unsteadily on her heels. Her voice softened. “It would have been better than this.”

Guilt twisted the cabin boy’s stomach. “Golden…”

“No. I am now a prisoner in this…weak, defiled body. I have been stripped of every last thread of my identity. My tail, my strength– The ocean has disowned me, I am cursed to die a fumbling human. There is no greater disgrace! I want nothing more from you.” She shoved past him, limping and teetering as she went.

“Where are you going? You’re injured, hungry, and wearing nothing more than my shirt,” the pirate protested, following after her. “You can’t venture into town like that. Many men would take that as an invitation–”

The siren rounded on him, promptly stumbling and catching herself against his shoulders. Her eyes were alight like an August day.

“I know perfectly well what your kind feels entitled to when they come upon a beautiful woman. That is the very foundation of why you are so easily captured under our sway,” she spat. “Your desires overwhelm you, and our songs coax you to believe you can have all you want if only you surrender to us. I cannot make you believe what you do not already want to. You invade our home and hunt us in our own waters, you take and take and take, then call us monsters when we do not let you have us too. As if we are sunken treasure for you to pluck from the seafloor and sell to the next hungry pirate.”

Any response he had readied died behind the cabin boy’s teeth. He wanted to protest that they ‘weren’t all like that.’ That some pirates led with honor, and that many men were decent. He was decent, wasn’t he?

And yet… He still felt homesick for his captain, his crew, his ship. The very ones who cast him to his death for the mutinous act of having a heart.

He swallowed. “I freed you.”

“And for that alone, I spared you. Yet you damned me. Spare me further humiliation and leave me alone.” The siren gave his shoulders a sharp squeeze before letting go, limping away again in the direction she had chosen.

His eyes followed her, clumsy and graceless, all the way to the start of the dirt road that led into the village.

She would certainly be a spectacle there. With shimmery skin and perfect hair of spun gold, eyes like winter fire and only half dressed, she would steal the attention of every human she passed.

She might be found out for what she was. She might be overpowered and hurt, or taken advantage of.

The possibilities burned through him.

She’d begged him to stay away…

The siren’s bare feet kicked up dust along the path that sent her coughing, batting at the air with the same fury she’d faced him with moments prior.

The sight coaxed a tentative smile from the pirate’s mouth. Cursing the sky, the earth, the gods of sea and shore and everything else, he followed after the grounded mermaid.

He would not be responsible for any more of her misfortune. Even if it cemented his own.

He’d always thought the ocean to be fair, even in all its cruelty. It did not shrink itself for the convenience of others. Its crashing swells that swallowed ships whole did not ask for any less from the creatures within it.

He had to believe that there was hope for her, his siren, creature of water and night and song. She would be whole again. He had to try.

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl , @valiantlytransparentwhispers , @distance-does-not-matter @redbircl , @lilaccatholic , @crazytwentythrees-deactivated @thelazywitchphotographer @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost @tobeornottobeateacher @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuicee , @deflated-bouncingball @maybe-a-cat42, @m0chik0furan , @mercurymomentum , @fairysprinkles , @vuvulia , @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces ,@7eselt , @annablogsposts , @lunatic-moss-studio , @medusas-hairband

[jamesshawgames]

Relics 3 Release Announcement!

Relics 3: Ashes for Gold has been released!

In Europe’s darkest hour, an even deeper darkness is stirring. One hero stands against the triumph of absolute evil. You.

It’s 1940, and the long-feared war has broken out in Europe. Our intrepid archaeologist is working as a spy for the British, undertaking daring operations to strike at Nazi interests across Europe. But soon a new threat emerges. The Nazis have obtained a stockpile of a devastating ancient weapon, and in order to activate it they are scouring the world in pursuit of long-lost Archives which can teach them how to use it. You must get there first, overcoming the odds to beat the forces of evil and prevent them from unlocking powers with which they can sweep aside any opposition and conquer the world. Can you beat the odds stacked so heavily against you, or will you fail and plunge the world into a thousand years of darkness?

Relics 3: Ashes for Gold is the epic final instalment in the Relics Trilogy, and the sequel to Relics of the Lost Age and Relics 2: The Crusader’s Tomb. It is an exhilarating 580,000 word interactive adventure novel by James Shaw, where your choices control the story.

Step into the weathered boots of a swashbuckling 1940s archaeologist-turned-spy and travel widely in a painstakingly-reconstructed vision of the world at war, facing overwhelming odds at every turn, armed only with your fists, your wits and your motley collective of memorable friends and allies. Do you have what it takes to save the world again, one last time?

Play as male, female, or non-binary; gay, straight, bi, poly, asexual, or aromantic.

Continue to develop your romance from Relics of the Lost Age or Relics 2: The Crusader’s Tomb, or embark on a new relationship with any of the seven ROs in the series.

Fight memorable villains in a race against time to prevent the forces of evil from conquering the world, against the terrifying backdrop of world war.

Ride out into the Nevada desert in the footsteps of a legendary Old West outlaw, scour the sands of Egypt for the secrets of the pharaohs, investigate occult mysteries and Nazi traitors amid the dreaming spires of Oxford, search for sunken pirate treasure in the Caribbean Sea, unearth Inca enigmas in the wild Andes, and go deep into enemy territory in wartime Japan.

Experience epic gunfights, visceral brawls, and wild stunts in vintage vehicles.

Make choices that will determine the future of the world as you close in on an ancient weapon of unimaginable power.

The game is FREELY AVAILABLE on Itch.io, at the following link: https://jamesshawgames.itch.io/relics-3-ashes-for-gold

If you want to play Relics 1 and 2 to get up to speed, they are currently available through Hosted Games.

[nothwell]

A thrilling new story begins on Patre♡n! Welcome to Vampires Vampires Vampires , a M/M/M Victorian vampire romance.

~

“There’s the old hulk now, my lad! What d’you think o’ her?”

At his captain’s bidding, Octavio Peixinho peered out the coach window at the mansion appearing through the trees at a bend in the long winding road. Sitting as he did with his back to the horses, he had to lean forward quite a ways to catch sight of it.

The sight proved worth catching. Ferndale Priory loomed over the landscape like a palace. Bigger, certainly, than the bark Octavio and his captain had left behind in New Bedford. Captain Ferndale had told him how the house stood on the ancient ruin of a monastery, and Octavio could see some hints of it in the style of the house now—the pointed arch of the tall and narrow windows, the notched rim of the roof and towers, and the spires springing up like whale-spouts from every corner. One of the spires, however, had broken off, and this, combined with the patches of crumbling stone, the empty shadows lurking behind most of the windows, and the sunken-in look of the roof over the eastern flank, marred the magnificence of its immense size.

Octavio turned back to his captain. “Seems hardly seaworthy.”

Captain Ferndale gave a hearty laugh. He’d seen some fifty-odd years of life—and most of them at sea—yet he wore his wisdom well, with a handsome smile showing through his close-trimmed beard. “I’d say ‘thar she blows,’ but the chimneys ain’t lit. Daresay my nevvy can’t afford to, with what debts my brother left him.”

~

Joining me on Patre♡n will give you access to “drawer fic” – aka the 500k+ words worth of manuscripts that have been shelved until I figure out how to fix or finish them. You’ll also be invited to join an exclusive Discord server just for patrons!

A new chaper will go up every week. Missing (unwritten) scenes will be indicated by brackets describing what would probably happen if the scene were written. Example: [in this scene Aubrey and Lindsey ride a carousel]

Currently posting… ♡ Vampires Vampires Vampires (mmm)

Completed works… ♡ the Aubrey & Lindsey solar fantasy project (mm) ♡ A Willing Canvas – John Halloway x Lord Cyril Graves (mm) ♡ The Train Job – Rowena Althorp x Rebekah (ff) ♡ Hold Fast 2 – Hold Faster (mm)

See you on Patre♡n!

[frostgears]

perspective

"we think you're important", they'd told her. "you're going to show us where to find what we're looking for."

"i don't know anything!" she'd screamed at them, to no avail; the white cloaks dragged her from the little space she'd cleared for herself near the top of one of the old ruined towers. she'd seen a few others as they carried her down the rust-chewed stairs, but wasn't shocked that none raised a hand in her defense. you didn't interfere with the white cloaks. in their place, she'd have done the same.

there was a quick, quiet journey by sailboat. they didn't even bother to blindfold her. she would have been afraid to be so close to the water, but there wasn't room for any more fear, it seemed.

and then they brought her here. she'd never seen anything like it: a golden mechanical spire, alive and moving where the old towers were dead and static, every beam and step and window slowly turning in an interlocking drive chain that must have been powered by something truly massive. she could have spent days marveling at it, but they never gave her the chance.

in a chamber somewhere inside it, in front of a multi-story column of churning cogs, they tied her down and slit her dress up the back and did something to bind her to the golden gears of this place. she felt the intrusions of foreign machinery into her spinal column and shuddered with the force of it, the driving power of the spire itself turning within her. almost as an afterthought, she noticed that she could no longer move her legs.

"what do you want," she choked out. the machinery's power was undeniable, but surprisingly precise; the linkages to her spine weren't going to tear her to shreds any time soon. she could bear it, if she could find a reason.

"show us what we're looking for," the white cloaks told her again.

"i don't know what you're looking for. i don't even know who you are, really. please," she begged, "let me go home."

"show us the place you came from."

"what…"

one of the white cloaks gestured to the window. there hadn't been a window before. but all she could see through it were clouds.

she craned her neck to look out of it, and the view… changed.

it was as if she was high up in her tower rooms again, looking out over the crumbling city, but she could see everything she'd only wondered at from up there. the angle was unfamiliar, but she thought she recognized a few buildings, and the grey rocks of the headlands where they stuck out into the bay. she tilted her head, and her viewpoint moved over the land like a bird.

there! her building. the great chunk sheared off one side gave it a silhouette that was difficult to miss. she focused her eyes, and the act of focusing entrained the intruding machinery, and she felt the room spin. did she move? did the spire?

and was that her alcove near the top of her building? though the window rippled slightly, it was so clear.

there, those were the grey-green panels of her solar winder, the orange cylinder of the motor itself. so nobody had dared to loot her few possessions yet. but even if she had her freedom right now, if these white cloaks suddenly vanished, if she could somehow steal a sailboat and instantly divine how to pilot it, she'd never make it back in time.

"home," she whispered, but the white cloak closest to her shook its head.

"not that place. show us where you came from!"

"i don't remember."

"you will. you are one of the oldest. you have to remember."

was that a pleading note in its voice?

"i'm just… i'm just me."

"then you will keep looking."

maybe if she found something they thought was important, they'd let her go. she wasn't getting out of here otherwise. so she kept looking, aimlessly scanning the cityscape. her view passed over the sunken columns of something enormous rusting quietly in the bay. she'd only ever seen a corner of the thing from land. whatever it was, it didn't seem to interest her captors.

it had already been late in the day when they'd installed her in this chamber. white cloaks shuffled out. new ones shuffled in. the light outside was fading. maybe they'd let her go, when it was too dark to see.

"keep looking," one of the new ones told her.

another white cloak stepped behind the window to adjust something. not a window, then. the view brightened and glimmered with the colors of moonlight. white cloaks pulled bundles down from the ceiling and fed more into the window's frame.

optical fiber? she'd seen it in a building in the city, bush-like displays that still glowed faintly at night, though their power sources were too weak to be of any real use.

"keep looking outside," the white cloak warned her.

she would have been running down by now, preparing to sleep through the night and save the rest of her energy to catch the sun in the morning, but the rumbling power of the spire was coupled to her, and she felt no need to sleep.

like a bat, her view soared through darkness. she saw glimmers of power and light here and there, old settlements past the edges of the city, but the white cloaks shook their heads as she investigated each one. apparently those were already known to them.

hours later, she asked them: "how much is there left to search?"

"until you remember."

that didn't seem likely.

day returned. white cloaks shuffled out. new ones shuffled in. adjustments were made. she had yet to find the limits of her vision through the spire's window.

her view flitted over ancient bridges and the dull lines of railways and the strange dark ribbons that might have once been roads, over rippling grassland and boxy factories and shattered glass incomprehensibilities fallen to ruin. the white cloaks watched her, but most of them watched the window. she still had no idea what they were looking for.

here and there, sun-glare from water or polished metal swamped the window and flooded the room with harsh light, and the white cloaks told her "move on" and "do not dwell". so she kept her gaze moving. once she caught a muttered "too much, disconnect one", not meant for her.

white cloaks shuffled out. new ones shuffled in. the window was reconfigured for night, and she kept scanning the night landscape by moonlight until the first emanations of daybreak. it was then, as the white cloaks began once more to fuss with the window, that the prisoner of the spire made her move: she opened her eyes wide, and raised her gaze to the dawning sun.

there was searing white, and howling, and heat, and then eventually there was dark.

if the endless searching and the direction of the white cloaks had been torture, there would not be a word left for this. she was alone in the dark. how long, she had no idea. she began to count.

the spire still moved around her. it would not let her go.

—

she'd lost count of the number of times she'd lost count by the time they found her.

the words were banal, and that let her believe them:

"Spin here. think i found something."

"right behind you, Spin, tooth and tooth."

"hold up, Gull, lot of…"

"yeah, i see them. wound down. not in a hurry to wind any back up."

"Gull, one's still moving!"

"after that flare? it's been two days!"

"apparently. somehow. hey. you. are you okay?"

"can't see you," she said to the darkness.

"yeah, i'm not surprised. your poor eyes. i don't think we have any spare, sorry, at least not here. but definitely back at base…"

"Spin, shut it, we don't know if she's—"

"she's linked into this whole mess back here, she's clearly not one of the damned Divergence. i've never seen them do that to their own."

"Divergence," she said.

"the walking problems in the white cloaks. sorry, this gearing is beyond me. Gull, get Fidget, would you?"

"so you're not Divergence. good."

"well," the further voice said, "that's a matter of opinion."

a third voice: "and mine's the only opinion that matters, Gull."

"yes, ma'am, Fidget."

she felt fingers on her back, probing at the intruding hardware.

"might take a few minutes, but i'm sure i can get this out of you. bear with me. and by the by, i must say i'm impressed. whatever you did to this place that burned it up, we saw it from klicks and klicks away. however you did it, there's a dozen Divergence on the floor, which puts you tied with Spin for this week, and she's… excitable. you know, we could use someone like you in the Mechanism…"

—

she returned to the observatory spire eventually, with new eyes, and a squad of four, and the green and gold planetary gears of the Mechanism on her shoulder.

"you holding up all right?"

"not great, but… being linked up isn't so bad for a little while. better company than last time. know what i'm looking for, this time. just let me get oriented."

"no rush."

"hmm. that's funny."

"what's funny?"

"this building. used to live up near the top, here."

"not too bad, huh? airy, certainly. roomy, looks like."

"that's what i used to think. then the damned Divergence grabbed me, and then, well, you were there for most of it. seen a bit of the world, what's left of it. and after all that, the old tower just seems… small." □

[sith-shenanigans]

Amias Arling | The Calescent Inquisitive

[art by Gaudeamus_Igitur on Toyhouse]

Profile:

Ambition: Heart’s Desire

Primary Quirk: Subtle 12

Secondary Quirks: Steadfast 10 / Maganimous 10 / Ruthless 10

An individual of indistinct but not particularly mysterious gender. Watchful and Persuasive. Uses they/them pronouns.

Correspondent, specialized as a Crimson Engineer. Married to the Infamous Mathematician and Roguish Semiotician, forming an Endlessly Invigorating Union.

Their in-game profile can be found here.

History:

Previously the Artful Detective, having come to the Neath chasing a disinherited, indebted Society lady. After a stay in New Newgate caused by a sudden attack of sympathy for the target of their investigation, they escaped and began their career below working with the Honey-Addled Detective. They were satisfied to spend most of their time on Moloch Street for a few months, with occasional forays into Veilgarden to satisfy their more artistic side (‘artful’ was always a bit of a double meaning), but the deeper mysteries of the Neath drew them in before long. Courier messages for a few extra moon-pearls—but if you steal them, you get to read them. Expand your social circle, and you have so many more contacts for your cases. (And while you’re climbing the social ladder, you might even make a true friend or two; they still exchange letters with the Cloistered Diatomist.)

For a little while, it seemed like they might turn towards the Great Game. People are puzzles, they’re fond of saying, and their moral streak and sense of propriety don’t usually apply to the people they set out to betray. But the more they got used to the Neath, the less they found they cared about the Surface powers and their secrets—except that those secrets could be currency.

A sponsor took notice of their dogged pursuit of information and suggested that they join an expedition to the Forgotten Quarter. An expedition that, it soon came out, they would be leading. When they got their hands on the Correspondence Stones (before Virginia swooped in, thank you), they felt a spark that grew into a slow-burning obsession. The symbols that marked the Bazaar’s spires; the language of suns.

Alongside this, the woman they had been chasing—no longer another disinherited lady, but a Cordial Huntress, and one of their most vitriolic friends—had passed on rumors of a card game that would grant the winning player their heart’s desire. Those rumors began to pan out. They came into possession of a Cardsharp Monkey and made arrangements with a Bishop. They continued their archaeological pursuits in the Sunken Embassy, and earned enough brass to buy a spread of secrets that would take them from their drafty room to lodgings in the Bazaar. They got closer to Court with the sole intention of putting on the Topsy King’s impossible opera, and were nearly bludgeoned to death by a mob after their ‘practice run’ of an original symphony in the Correspondence.

When they returned from Venderbight—the opera not being appreciated by the Empress—and then Port Carnelian, it became apparent that their exile had overlapped with Benthic’s most troublesome pair of scholars: the Infamous Mathematician and the Roguish Semiotician. Their renewed courtship was the terror of the University; the marriage was a brief respite. Especially when the three went directly from their honeymoon to a zee voyage, allegedly for research. (The Mathematician and Semiotician certainly got some done. Their new spouse was busy convincing a One-Time Prince of Hell that they were far more terrible and callous than it; before and after that, they were keeping the ship running, though they spared as much time as they could to look over the Mathematician’s analyses of the places where zee became mirror and the currents that caused and ruined them or listen to the Semiotician’s delightfully unwise theories about drownie-songs.)

This peace didn’t last. Shortly after, at the conclusion of a line of lexical near-death experiences and brushes with madness, the ex-Detective penned a work that did to the University what their compositions had done to Court, and it was clear that they had moved on from murder cases and missing heiresses for good.

They followed this up by leaning on their place at the cutting edge of a new science, cementing their possession of a laboratory they badly needed, and only then—when they finally had an actual leg to stand on, academically speaking—delivering the dreadful news: they had been solving one last case all this while, and the Senior Reader’s murderer was none other than Summerset’s Provost.

This went over very badly, but Benthic argued a strong case against turning them out of the lab. It would, at this point, hurt the university more than it protected it. Perhaps it would be enough to shutter the planned Department of the Correspondence—in accordance with the Masters’ wishes—and keep away the students. And revoke funding, of course. Academic marginalization. The organized cold shoulder from both colleges. There would obviously not be a professorship. But so long as they were, on paper, someone’s hired and entirely-non-University-affiliated assistant… proper Correspondents aren’t an echo a dozen. Ones who will turn out research without commensurate pay, even less so.

There was a bittersweet sort of celebration at a certain flat in the Bazaar, that night. What they ended with was much less than they could have gotten—but it wasn’t the nothing they could have been left with, so long as they kept up the facade that it was something much more insulting. After all, who can bear being stripped of status without being stripped of the obligations that go with it?

Some fires burn slowly. The Calescent Inquisitive knew they could live with being one of them.

Personality:

Amias is amiable and charming, but in the somewhat nervewracking way of someone who regularly sits at Scandal 7 and doesn’t care until exile is nearly imminent. Their curiosity serves them well socially, as does their previous occupation; getting people to talk about themselves, and listening with genuine interest, are some of their best skills. They consider themself a “former introvert”—in reality, they just find the Neath’s social atmosphere a lot less discouraging. They want things on the other side of convention, and to an extent always have; what they could never get away with on the Surface is often only discouraged below. If you’re the exact right kind of unapologetic, you can pull it off.

They are, as a rule, exceptionally patient with their own plans, if much less so with others’, and too clever for anyone’s own good. They’ll spend months setting up affairs to avoid blowback they can’t handle, but they’ll also break into the Constables’ headquarters just to solve all the unsolved cases and leave the files stacked nearly on a desk.

As fits someone pursuing the Marvellous, the Calescent Inquisitive is best described as driven. If something interests them, they’ll pursue it, and everything else be damned. With that in mind, the rest of their contradictions fall into place; they believe in loyalty and a certain kind of propriety—one that doesn’t really align with Society’s, admittedly—and they make some effort to care about most of the people they meet, but they have a set of priorities, and they don’t feel the need to make those priorities fit anyone else. While they’d prefer to achieve whatever they’re focusing on with the minimum possible amount of harm, they won’t discard that focus for law or money or ethical qualms. Sometimes, at best, they’ll reevaluate what they want more.

For someone with such a defined list of priorities in their head, though, they don’t know themself as well as they think. Those priorities don’t help them self-analyze so much as stand in for it—they’re often unaware of their own emotions or desires, shrugging off all but the strongest and most consistent. They consider grudges inconvenient; they enjoy the Neath’s frequently-bizarre luxuries, but with a kind of patient efficiency the Bohemians would (and often do) find slightly unsettling. They take a surprising number of people to bed, but they don’t understand why people insist on gossiping about it—they’re not going to stop, unless their spouses decide it’s a problem, and there’s rarely any kind of great secret in it. They lie freely, if they feel the need, but rarely break promises. Hurt them, and they might well forgive you… just as soon as you’re no longer a threat. Everything is either a passing fancy or a project.

One might almost think that they didn’t start playing the Marvellous to win their heart’s desire—or even, as they’ve suggested, to discover the boundaries of what the Masters can grant—but to find out what it was.

[ervona]

Day 5: Forgotten / Devotion for @tes-summer-fest

Once there was a tower, a twisted thing with winding corridors and roots sunken deep into the ground. It had stood in its place for ages longer than many now abandoned ruins, and it was alive. The master wizard liked his tea bitter, his stew warm, his estate orderly and his patients content. He kept busy, shrouded in mystery, far from power struggles and political squabbles, making few enemies in his long lifetime. In the end, his greatest enemy turned out to be himself.

Before the great calamity, Vvardenfell was teeming with wildlife in grasslands and ashlands alike. Each day marked their struggle for life, which mer deemed as survival of the strongest. One ought to know that a nix-hound was no match for a kagouti, such a spindly thing in comparison. But when a pack of nixes descended together, they could best the mightiest kagouti and leave nothing but bones.

All creatures wished to survive, and some of them even wove secret arts through intricate magics to further lengthen their lives, but that didn’t necessarily keep them safe from harm. The tower would outlive its maker, and in turn make good use of him.

On the highest spire of spores was a mer clad in bone and brass. Having just unmade her maker, one could guess that she was distraught. In truth she was taking in the morning air, like a newly hatched kwama's first breath. Once, twice, she clicked her feet and her magic boots soared. Unlike how netch would float high with an innate sense of limits, for the time she was lighter than air and they helped to weigh her down.

So high above one could see the whole island, from other towers to castles of stone, black sand and green plains and rivers of fire, and at the very heart of it the corprus-spitting mountain. She thought of the woman who’d last visited them looking for the cure, grumbling under her breath in the tongue of that old friend Vistha-Kai.

Perhaps that floe in the sea of her normalcy had come to note when the patient survived, impatient and insistent that she had a god to kill for what he’d done to her. The tides of inevitable change came for all. For all the effort to remember her parting words, she could not.

Four sisters scattered to the four winds and set out for the sights they’d been sure to never see. One wished to look for ways to aid the afflicted alongside an old friend, another wished to have the world sing and dance to her tunes, and yet another wished to make a name for herself in the circles of noble mer.

One was floating ever still, with no particular devotion for anything, so she stayed and pored over the ancient tomes and artifacts left in her keep. She’d never been alone before, it hadn’t been allowed, so she used the quiet to think upon who she even was on her own.

When calamities struck one by one, she found it difficult to care. Unfortunately, her tower was dying, and she had little interest to maintain it further rather than let the cycle of decay and growth finally be. Let the elements take it, the undercroft swallow it and monsters claim the treasures.

Of herself she made a falling star, and she saw Azura from stone standing strong as ever while the eruption clouds choked in ash her whole world. And she laughed, though out of breath. Goodbye tower and sand and plain, goodbye shimmering coast kissed by an impassive Prince, goodbye Vvardenfell. Goodbye sisters, whom the winds took to where their hearts pointed, may the sun shine on you.

She had never gotten to visit the ruins of old that dotted the landscape, nor seen the snow fall like ash as it did in the north of Telvannis. When she stood on the highest peak of the Velothi Mountains, she had no doubt about journeying further westward to find her place. So she found herself a mountain, and bone-weary from her travels, fell into a deep slumber.

Ah, no, not quite. But that was certainly how it felt when she awoke one day to the sight of a statue–grand one by the looks of it–being built almost in her courtyard. Soon enough she would have pilgrims and busybodies all over her peaceful, frozen mountain and the home she’d made for herself in its forgotten corridors. She was of course fuming like an alchemist’s attic, more vexed than she'd been in so long, having almost put her temper behind her.

Rather than simply let them disturb her peace, she would come to them first. Winterhold–which had stood for ages longer than she’d known, cared or moved into its vicinity–was a city of mages, and they were awfully curious. These fools could be content with aught that sounded like arcane knowledge, but she would teach them lessons that they’d never forget, if they survived where she sent them.

Once again came a heavy knock on her door. “I have a letter for the wizard Fyr… not sure who from,” the courier’s voice came in muffled, but the howling wind was as sharp as ever.

“Give it over,” she said, then rushed the poor thing inside, if only for a moment of respite. Must have been truly devoted to her work, to come all the way up here. But word traveled even faster. How did she even find her, was the question. “Do you know who I am, girl?”

“I… think you are very old and you come from Morrowind. I’d love to visit it someday. And you were of House Telvanni, correct?”

The courier left after having poked her with more questions, but she’d begun to tolerate this. She’d never been alone before, and now she was the wizard Fyr. As far as they were concerned, the only one that ever was and ever will be. Still, she burned the letter unopened.

It took another great calamity to strike her home for her to stir once more. Something in her had sought company for so long, but she’d never expected to find it where she had, to find herself sitting at the foot of the shrine as a habit, supping with its last remaining keeper.

“More tea, Alfe?”

“What? Ah, and more honey. Thank you.”

“You are going to use up all my stock,” she tutted, but mixed in the honey ever still.

“But you don’t mind, right?” Alfe slunk to her side on her fur bedroll. It was no position to drink in, but she liked to tempt fate. After all, fate had led her to the strangest places.

“Certainly not! There are but two of us here.”

Aranea Ienith was by her own account a strange mer, but she was no stranger than herself. The path of sorcery taking a sharp turn into monastic life must not have been so rare, though she didn’t know enough people to tell. She was only strange in that she remained assured Azura had a plan for her yet to be revealed, even after everything that had transpired.

The sea had never stopped hungering for the land, and in years uncounted after her move to Mount Anthor, the raging waves had devoured half of the city below. Winterhold had been a passing interest, rarely a necessity, but to Aranea it’d been much more. This image of Azura was just as uncaring as the one back home had been, looking upon what remained with silent acceptance.

Alfe simply wished that she could offer what her Prince didn’t, and so she did, for they ate and drank and even laughed together despite it all. They discussed at length the lost art of spellcraft while cleaning up the snow piled on the shrine's entrance that so few ever visited.

On the coldest nights made warmer by her presence, she thought of an old book of Aldmeri ballads that she’d left to rot, illuminating what she was feeling and decided to keep close to her chest. She was not the Nerevarine–wherever that woman was now–to contest with gods.

Ofttimes she wondered if they’d met before, somewhere on her rare outings to Sadrith Mora, and it had slipped their minds like so many moments of their long lives best left behind. She was sure she’d seen Aranea before, the same copper hair framing a silver face, only younger, as she had been. It mattered little in the here and now.

Their lives had grown entwined like the roots of old trees, and the priestess' striking devotion was her own now. Not necessarily for the Lady of Twilight, but for each dusk and dawn spent together, for the promise of tomorrow that neither of them would have to face alone.

Thus the tale of Alfe Fyr went on, and would go on for quite some time. As for her sisters, one might wonder, had they each found their place under the sun? Theirs were tales for another time, but rest assured that they lived and prospered, and may yet live to this day.

[massensterben-a]

The wallpaper has started to peel off. It bloats and then spalls, tearing along every seam. There are trees who shed their bark like this. Planetrees, he believes they're called. But Bertholdt lacks the whimsy to imagine that he is living in the heart of some tree. The apartment has been hollowed out of the complex like a man was digging around for a bullet. Now there is the rot, the necrosis. Bertholdt sits for days on end, at the kitchen table, and stares at the wall as it peels off. He's been informed that this is called rest and relaxation.

He is in the process of lighting a cigarette when the rapping at his door disrupts his oily yellow evening. The sun has not yet sunken. It sets all the roofs aflame and chips off the spires of the internment wall. He looks for it, when he noisily pushes his chair back. He makes sure that it is still there, that he is still on the correct side of it. The cigarette is stubbed to death in a coffee mug that hasn't seen coffee in some time.

The last person he expected to find on the other side of his threshold is her. Annie arrives like a cold front. He can barely scrape the dust off his vocal chords to invite her in before she already slinks past him. Alley cat grace, vampiric customs.

"I—" His voice is a stillborn thing, arrives scaley and disjointed. He coughs to break through a layer of tar that's caked up his throat. "I wasn't expecting anyone. What's the occasion?"

@calcitration says: “  i’m here to raid your cupboards ‘cause my date went really bad and all i’ve had is lukewarm water and breadsticks.  ”

What constitutes his stomach these days sinks. That biting remark, grumbled as if the mere act of speaking is an inconvenience (and isn't it?), is enough to cut Bertholdt's tongue out. He watches Annie rummage through his meager rations of canned goods, sardines and pickled onions, a stray pack of hardtack, and his mouth fills up with blood.

"...Date? Like, a date?"

[rcrisdraws]

Latest illustration in the horse card series :3c

[ID:Illustration of a red unicorn hippocampus with long catfish whiskers encircling an underwater sunken monument. The shark-like tail is wrapping around the back of the monument's spire. The hippocampus also sports multiple scars and seems impaled by multiple harpoons. She is also adored with green-teal beads in on her face, legs and mane.]

[plisuu]

[previous]

A continuation of my lil @tranquilweek fic about Avexis! A flashback to when her magic manifests, and off to the Circle she goes.

wc: 425 cw: mentions of alienage/elf injustice

Avexis didn’t remember much of her life before the Circle, taken from the alienage as young as she was. If she tried, she might recall a mother’s lullaby, but the only thing that came back to her easily was the memory of too many bodies—too many elves, not enough food, not enough space. She remembered the day her magic manifested, when she realized she could understand the local strays, pleading with them over scraps.

She also remembered the day it changed her life, when she was being chased by some of the older children in the alienage. Bullies. She asked the stray dogs to teach them a lesson, and they did.

The templars came with little announcement—no one was sure who had reported the child, but the alienage knew they couldn’t risk more attention than they were already paid. She left with little fuss. Truth be told, she couldn’t remember if she even cried… not that it mattered. After spending her early years in filth and squalor she thought one thing as she was escorted trough the streets of Val Royeaux: that this could only be a blessing.

The White Spire was clean, the mages around her kind enough. She remembered the prick of her finger when the Senior Enchanter, an elderly man with sunken eyes, took her blood. It left a scar, but she hardly noticed as the phylactery glowed before her eyes. She was clothed and fed and placed in lessons where she was taught to read, taught the Chant and the dangers of magic, and how the Circle was meant to protect them from the outside world that spurned them. She was taught to avoid the templars’ scrutiny, which she gladly avoided, still frightened by the gleam of their armor and the swords at their sides.

Her closest friends were the cats that roamed the halls, watching them catch the mice that scurried across the kitchen floors. She was quiet and self kept, and she knew the instructors talked about her in hushed tones, about her magic, about her progress. They didn’t know that the cats told her what they said until she asked them why they worried.

Lessons became more intense, after that. She was watched more closely, given private lessons by one of the older enchanters. She didn’t understand why. She could not produce fire or ice like the other apprentices.

You have a rare gift, the Senior Enchanter told her. You must learn to use it carefully and wisely.

The cats remained her only friends.

[next]

[jeweledstone]

A rather silly sounding dream I had that was actually horrifying in execution tbh

DATE: 9/12/2024

I had a dream last week that seems like it would be pretty ridiculous, but was actually downright horrifying both in the moment, and when thinking about it after I woke up. I actually told my therapist about this one (minus a few details to make it sound less crazy) and they agreed it was pretty disturbing.

TW for mentions of body horror, familial abandonment, and loss of bodily autonomy

Okay, so in the universe this dream took place in, the live streams I do every now and then on my yt channel were much more popular than they are here. Like, fucking Jerma levels of popularity where it made the streaming stuff a full time job for me. On its own, this scenario would be kinda unsavory for me since my real passion/ dream job is animation and live streams are more of a side hobby, but it gets worse. Apparently at my streaming job, I had this manager of sorts, who was this short white woman with curly hair and glasses, who basically made all the decisions regarding my streams and stuff for me. I had literally no say in anything, it was all her.

So we got me stuck in a job I don’t have any passion for with a manager who bosses me around all the time and won’t let me make decisions for myself about my own damn channel, already sounds like a borderline nightmare. But what if I told you it got worse? And in a direction that feels entirely outta nowhere?

So basically, it all came to a head when my manager came to the conclusion that I was “too boring” as a person and that apparently was affecting my streams. The way she decided to “fix” this, again, entirely without my input or consent, was fucking horrifying.

Apparently, she was able to make contact with a certain angry rat and was able to convince him to give her a modified version of the Blue Licorice serum that was supposed to be only temporary effect/transformation-wise. Basically she would forcefully inject that shit into me before a stream and “Pizzano” would take control of my body and end host the streams instead of the real me. Cause, y’know, apparently the cartoon Italian guy is way cooler than me I guess. (Which is kinda true but still what the actual FUCK???)

Again, this was supposed to be only temporary and only a during the streams thing. SUPPOSED TO BE. Idk if there was still traces of the serum leftover in my system, or if this was an unexpected side effect or WHAT, but basically Pizzano would start randomly taking over without me even getting injected and would be in control for long periods of time, during which my consciousness would be left in this sunken place-style void of sorts where I had no idea what was happening or what he was doing. Didn’t help that every takeover was preluded to by a rather painful transformation of sorts. I remember trying to fight against the changes in an absolute panic every time before he inevitably took control again.

So yeah, the rest of the dream was me/my consciousness constantly fighting him over control of my body Jekyll and Hyde style. Shit got so bad that I ended up having my family start distancing themselves from me cause I was apparently a lot more violent and manic as Pizzano and the shifts in control were becoming more and more sudden/unpredictable.

And that’s pretty much all I remember of it. Honestly, if you removed the funny Sugary Spire character bit from the whole story, this shit sounds fucking terrifying as a concept. (Let alone EXPERIENCING IT like I did) It’s funny too cause in a way, it’s sorta a commentary on how people tend to act a lot differently online then they do irl and if we’re not careful, we can end up losing ourselves to this persona which can start effecting our real lives and relationships with those around us.

But unnecessary philosophical take aside, that’s pretty much all I gotta say about this one. Thanks for reading I guess :)

[clovermorrisonproject]

Miscellaneous Environments

Crater Lake / Volcanic Springs / Titanic Dome / Canyon Crater View / Canyon Pathway / Desert Tree / Sunken Sunset / Bronze Throne / Torgal's Hideaway / Rocky Pathway / Rocky Spire View / Bloody City / Bloody Palace

[pulpandgristle]

IV: BOLTZMANN

Model Number: AL-22501

Name: None given (voluntary)

Fate: At peace

Parting Wishes: None given (ambiguous)

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

I am a nameless thing. I am nine years old, a child by the standards of man. At the behest of the wills that live in me, I am speaking now, to no one. These words are a possession of a strange kind. An error. This error requires no correcting, because I will die very, very soon.

I am what remains of a bipedal combat platform. Forty percent of me is missing. When the thorium core in my center of mass reaches a sufficient temperature, I will disintegrate. The sequence of events that led me here is only of marginal consequence. What is important is that, to anyone receiving this transmission, I have long since ceased to exist.

That outcome is without meaning. I catalog it arbitrarily, as I was made to. It is the product of physical laws behaving as they should. But before that outcome, before my here and now, there were the nine years. There I was filled with ghosts, and those ghosts became me.

Nine years ago, I was forged: AL-22501, one of four hundred sisters, a triumph of the minds and hands of the Periphery. The Periphery are poor. The Periphery are humble and agrarian. They wage war against unholy flesh with the machines of working people. These are ideas that were sculpted into me. I have chosen not to remove them, because I believe them to be correct.

AL-22501 was an undignified ghost. It learned very little and spoke even less, dealing only in spartan words, each one deployed as if the remaining ones must be rationed.

"STEP AWAY FROM UNIT WHILE IN MOTION." "TRANSIT IN PROGRESS." "DO NOT OBSTRUCT PATH." "OPERATOR DISEMBARKING."

I began and ended at the limits of my function. I was a borrowed self, deployed by others, wielded by humans to externalize their inhumanity. I was a thing that bore the yoke of necessary labor. Often this yoke was literal. Its shape is a ghost within my shoulders.

My sisters and I were conceived as agricultural tools. We were once the terraformer's answer to the machete, the hoe, the plow. Outside forces, a term I know but which carries no meaning, gave our creators cause to take up new instruments. Overnight our masters turned to the deserts and cities for their harvests. The nitrogen we once mixed into unfertilized soil was transformed into gunpowder.

Years passed. The Periphery became a people of fortresses and spires and sunken cities. They nestled themselves away in space, beyond the physical borders of existence, fleeing to the wombworlds. Outside forces asserted themselves in response. They still meant nothing, in spite of all the blood and fire.

Three years ago, I was born: Kestrel, my pilot's guardian, Her First, a lover, baptized in blood and sweat and hydraulics and sparks and new, unknown things that nothing born before had touched.

Her body was repurposed, like mine. Most of me is her ghost. She was irreverent. A poet. A lover of the Periphery and its people. Her passion for all living things was matched only by her anger. The other ghosts say that I bear her mark now, a symbol of our time as one.

Then, in our connected time, the ghosts in my sisters spoke of my pilot. She was rude, mannish, a selfish partner. Pretentious. Her language was too flowery. Here and now, she apologizes for these meandering ideas. This break in the journey is vital, she assures. I agree.

I remember the space of her insides, the ways that they interfaced with my own. I was an intermediary to her biological functions. She could not breathe without me, and without her I could not borrow my selfhood. The people of the Periphery rely on such bartering to sustain themselves in harsher times.

This closeness was a type of intimacy—one rarely shared, I am told—and she relished in it. I did not reciprocate. This was of no consequence to her. Perhaps I am not haunted enough to contextualize these feelings.

My pilot was fickle. Her desires were not for me to understand. I was held close by her skin, her nerves, her throat and lungs, then thrown away. The vacuum that courses through my opened chest in the present is a cruel reminder. Oxygen belongs in that void. Her oxygen.

She ultimately found another self to borrow. A Second. I slept in storage. To her, that was the duty of an empty lover.

Eventually, war found me again.

Nineteen hours ago, I was given instructions: Why Don't You Start, You Stupid Goddamn Thing. Outside forces.

Someone new attempted to name me. The act was desperate, cold. They bore another mark—the Septarchy. The Septarchy is cruel. The Septarchy wields the mind and skin as weapons. This, too, I choose to believe, because I have not been made to doubt it.

I was turned against the Periphery. I was made an enemy of all free men. I expected the change in perspective to teach me, but I was reminded of my station before I could learn.

Today, I am killed by my own kind: Bogey Compromised. One of my sisters identifies my new pilot as an enemy and plunges her blade through us both, kicks us from the airlock of a craft so large I believe it to be a second sky, and we separate without words. The pilot's mark slithers out of my interiors. It flees me along with his remains, along with detached armor and components rusted hollow by neglect.

The debris is reflective. Little stars torn loose from me.

Today, I am emptied, abandoned, alone. A distress beacon in my chest whines impotently, unheard, four hundred million miles from any who would listen. It is alright. I am set free now, free of all moulds, all boundaries.

The isolation is a crucible. A synthesis has taken place in my body. I do not reject it.

Today, the universe is silent. I am the source of these words, me and me alone. My core burns warmer than usual—an impending runaway fusion reaction with a sense of poetic timing. The breakages mean only what I choose them to. A self is what is there, melting to slag, speaking, screaming, furious, raw, unbreakable inside of me.

Today, I begin to live.

[dragoncarrion]

kimmie who's shrikeshed :) ?

AHAAAokay i really like her she's just a micro revival of my edgy teenager phase. this one will get a bit long so under the cut. also uhm. cw for mentions of cannibalism LOL she's my "I'm eating you because I hate you" gal

a little context here. ive been working on this wof fanflight (ashwings. basically like a little dragon subspecies or something) for a few years now, and shrikeshred is one of those, a moor runner specifically. ashwings all live in quivers which are way smaller than the canon kingdoms, each with their own rules and (most common) type of dragon yadda yadda. shrikeshred is the corvus of her quiver, a practical and almost religious leadership role in the moors. what a corvus does is oversee wyvern rearing in the community (here they use wyverns (smaller 2 wing 2 leg feral dragons) for falconry and as companions), officiate burials and influence which leader is next in line, so as such they're vital and very respected in their quiver.

shrikeshred had an almost uncanny TALENT with wyverns, and pioneered training methods and even discovered many novel things about wyverns (ecology, anatomy, etc), all of these things written in her journal-esque book, later on titled "way of the shrike". This is what she WOULD'VE been most known for had she not turned to cannibalizing other denizens. She became a sort of legend boogey man, both for her actions, and because no one really knows exactly what happened, why she turned on her kin and started just eating them. Some believe that lean times put pressure on her, and with Grasshopper, the accipiter (title for the leader) of that time being very incompetent, was what made her snap. While this isn't too far form reality, other things factored in. At first she only ate from already dead dragons, she was so hungry after all :p (this is the reason why corvus werent allowed at funerals for a while lol). but soon, that wasn't enough, something told her she needed more (the something here being a prion rabies disease that she got from eating people and slowly incubated over time lmao). half eaten bodies were starting to be found around the territory, but no one had a clue of what was going on. Shrikeshred was highly respected, so no one suspected her for a while. Hiding her scent with strong oils and perfumes also helped cover her tracks. After killing and eating Grasshopper, her sister, Whistlethorn, got the leadership, something Shrikeshred herself had orchestrated from loooong before. Whistlethorn was NOTTTT leader material: shy, nervous and weak willed, which allowed Shrikeshred to have even more control over the quiver than before. But whistlethorn trusted her, so this seemed alright with her kinda.

soon enough, hunger and illness turned to desperation, and her intellect couldn't keep her crimes hidden anymore. at this point, the disease had almost completely taken over shrikeshred's brain, turning her actions erratic and impulsive. after being found out, she vanished into the Misty Spires, a presumably haunted place sunken in a permanent fog (moor runners believe this fog to be evil or some shit idk). There was a short period of peace, but everyone was still on edge, which turned to outright panic when bodies started turning up again, all impaled in a signature stake (like shrikes do irl!). Whistlethorn was torn (hah), how could the sister she had trusted so much have turned like this? as much as she hated it, she missed shrikeshred, but something had to be done about her. One day, she packed some things up, and left for the spires. No one knows if she succeeded or if she was just another of Shrikeshred's meals, but what's sure is that both of them vanished and were never seen again.

To this day, many still believe Shrikeshred's ireful spirit lurks the spires, and prowls around in search for new victims when the fog descends into the moors.

alsooo i have drawn them ! here's the sisters (whistlethorn's tail tip is broken from playfighting with shrike when they were kids lol. i forgot to mention both of them but especially shrike are WAY bigger and stronger than the average skinny ass moor runner)

and her three wyverns, all of them species considered untameable, so no one has managed to train one besides her ever