#torchlight parade
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Torchlights
#Guy Fawkes#Lewes#Sussex#torchlights#English towns#bonfires#traditions#effigies#Remember-the-5th#execution#King James I#torchlight parade#treason#gunpowder#1605
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Happy New Year 🎆
#adventures#mountains#new year#happy new year#fireworks#bogus basin#ski resort#snow#snowboarding#winter#torchlight parade
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Torchlight parade in downtown Minneapolis.
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Loomis Joins the Seafair Pirates
Dear Fans, It started with a jaunty kerchief. Red and black. Skulls. Very chic. I tied it around my neck (with help—I have no thumbs) and announced, with great dignity: “HECK OFF. I’m going to be a pirate now.” My humans laughed. Laughed. They thought I was joking, but thought wrong. By dusk that day, I had joined the Seafair Pirates. A fine bunch of swashbuckling humans with too much rum,…
#Alki Beach#cat#cats#fiction#Loomis#Loomis Simmons#pirate#seafair#seafair parade#seafair pirates#Seattle tradition#talk like a pirate#torchlight parade#writing
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I always forget how freaking grueling doing the torchlight parade is that was 2 miles of high stepping and AUGHHHHH
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Aquatennial Torchlight Parade, Minneapolis 7/24/24 by Sharon Mollerus
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Legacy (the judgment)
- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Previous part: what was promised
- Next part: high heart
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi
The throne room was filled with an oppressive air, its gilded walls and high ceilings doing little to mask the dread that radiated from every corner. The Iron Throne loomed at the center, its jagged blades catching the low light, casting specters over the assembled crowd. Tywin sat upon the throne with his customary air of authority, his expression a mask of calm indifference as his sharp eyes surveyed the hall.
To his right, you sat in a high-backed chair, your posture regal despite the lingering discomfort of childbirth. The seat felt hauntingly familiar, the same place you once occupied during your father’s reign, though the room had changed. Gone were the dragon motifs and Targaryen heraldry—now replaced with the lion banners of House Lannister. Yet, the weight of the past lingered, a silent reminder of the cycles of power and loss.
To Tywin’s left sat Cersei, resplendent in a golden gown that mirrored her father’s austere demeanor but failed to hide the venom in her gaze. Her green eyes were fixed on the empty space where Tyrion would soon stand, her lips curling in disdain.
The other judges sat further below, Lord Mace Tyrell looking uncomfortable in his ceremonial robes, his ruddy face betraying his nervousness. Beside him, Prince Oberyn Martell leaned back in his chair, his expression one of casual amusement. His dark eyes flicked to you, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as if to say, How fitting that you’re back here, of all places.
You met his gaze briefly but offered no response, your attention shifting as the heavy doors of the throne room groaned open. A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd as Jaime entered, his golden hand gleaming in the torchlight as he escorted Tyrion toward the throne.
The crowd fell silent as Jaime stopped before the throne, his green eyes flicking briefly to you. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in his movements, a subtle stiffness that betrayed his unease. Tyrion, by contrast, wore a mask of sardonic calm, his lips twitching with what might have been amusement as he glanced around the room.
“Lord Tyrion Lannister,” Tywin’s voice rang out, deep and commanding, silencing even the faintest whispers. “You stand accused of regicide, the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon. How do you plead?”
Tyrion raised his chin slightly, his sharp eyes meeting Tywin’s unflinchingly. “Not guilty,” he said, his voice clear and steady, though a flicker of defiance danced in his tone.
Cersei scoffed audibly, her hand tightening on the armrest of her chair. Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on Tyrion, his expression unmoving as he nodded to one of the attendants. “Proceed.”
The trial began with a parade of witnesses, each more damning than the last. Servants recounted Tyrion’s sharp words to Joffrey, the veiled threats that had peppered their interactions over the years. Cersei herself gave testimony, her voice thick with feigned grief as she painted her brother as a monster, a jealous schemer who had always resented Joffrey’s ascension.
You watched in silence, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Though your face betrayed nothing, your heart clenched as Tyrion sat through the onslaught, his expression growing darker with every word.
Oberyn leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his chair as he observed the proceedings. He caught your gaze again, his smirk returning, but this time there was something sharper in his eyes, as if he were silently assessing your thoughts.
When it was Jaime’s turn to testify, he hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering to Tyrion before he spoke. “My brother has always been… direct,” he said carefully, his tone measured. “But he is no murderer.”
Cersei’s scoff echoed through the hall, but Tywin silenced her with a single look.
The trial continued, the accusations piling higher, the weight of the evidence threatening to crush Tyrion beneath its sheer enormity. You shifted in your seat, your gaze drifting to Tywin. His face was as unreadable as ever, though you had spent enough time with him to sense the faint strain in his posture, the unspoken calculation behind his silence.
As yet another witness took the stand, you glanced at Tyrion. His head was slightly bowed, his hands clenched on the table before him. For all his bravado, that strain now was beginning to show.
The sinister athmosphere in the room grew thicker with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations pressing down on everyone present. And yet, through it all, a single thought echoed in your mind: This is a performance, carefully orchestrated, a game with stakes higher than anyone here realizes.
The sound of the witness’s voice droned on, but your focus remained on the players of this deadly game, each one a piece on the board, moving toward an end that none of them could fully foresee.
The memory was vivid, as if it had only just occurred. You had been in Tywin’s chambers, a place that had become strangely familiar to you in recent weeks. The hearth was ablaze, its warmth filling the room as you cradled your newborn son in your arms. Damon stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of your hair as you hummed softly, swaying gently to soothe him.
Tywin sat at his desk, his quill scratching against parchment as he worked tirelessly on matters of state. Scrolls and letters were piled neatly before him, his focus unshakable as always. The faint clinking of his signet ring against the inkpot punctuated the silence. Despite his formidable presence, there was a strange domesticity to the scene, a quiet rhythm that had developed between you.
But the peace of the moment was fleeting. You had been turning over your words for days, waiting for the right time. Finally, you spoke, your voice soft but steady.
“What will you do with Tyrion?”
Tywin didn’t look up immediately, the quill pausing only briefly before continuing its path across the parchment. “Tyrion will stand trial, as is proper.”
“And then?” you pressed, shifting Damon slightly as you sat on the edge of a chair near the hearth.
He set the quill down, his sharp green eyes meeting yours, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “Justice will be served.”
You exhaled slowly, your fingers brushing over Damon’s soft hair. “Justice, or Cersei’s version of it? You know what she wants.”
“Cersei’s emotions are irrelevant,” Tywin said firmly, leaning back in his chair. “She may cry for blood, but she does not dictate the law.”
“Does she not?” you countered gently, though there was an edge to your tone. “She’s already laid the groundwork, turning the court and the people against Tyrion. And you’ve allowed it.”
Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze locked onto yours.
“Tyrion is your son,” you continued, your voice softening. “You may not show it, but he is. And whether you care to admit it or not, he’s more like you than anyone else.”
Tywin scoffed faintly, though the reaction was muted. “Tyrion is a disappointment. He always has been.”
You shook your head, cradling Damon closer as you leaned forward slightly. “He is clever, resourceful, and determined. Just like you. You may not approve of how he uses those qualities, but they are the same ones you value in yourself.”
Tywin’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded you.
“If you allow Cersei to destroy him,” you said quietly, “it will only weaken the family. Tyrion may not be the son you wanted, but he is the son you have. He has proven his loyalty to this house time and again, despite how you’ve treated him.”
Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.
You looked down at Damon, his small, peaceful face a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “You care deeply for legacy, Tywin. I know that better than anyone. But legacy is not just power and gold. It’s the people who carry your name. Tyrion is part of that legacy, whether you wish it or not.”
Tywin’s expression was inscrutable, his eyes flickering briefly to Damon before returning to you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured. “What would you have me do?”
“Ensure the trial is fair,” you replied without hesitation. “Keep Cersei’s emotions from poisoning the outcome. And if he is found guilty—if there is truly evidence to condemn him—don’t let it be her hands that carry out the punishment.”
Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his stern features. Finally, he leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. “You presume much, Y/N.”
“Perhaps,” you admitted, your tone unwavering. “But I speak because I know you value strength and reason above all else. Tyrion embodies both, even if you refuse to see it.”
He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping briefly to the papers on his desk. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter, almost contemplative. “You are more forthright than most. It is… refreshing.”
You blinked at the unexpected compliment, but before you could respond, Damon stirred in your arms, drawing both your attention. Tywin’s eyes softened imperceptibly as he looked at the boy, and you seized the moment.
“For Damon’s sake,” you said gently, “keep this family intact. He deserves to grow up surrounded by strength, not destruction.”
Tywin’s gaze lingered on you and Damon for a moment longer before he straightened, his mask of composure returning. “I will do what must be done.”
It wasn’t the answer you’d hoped for, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. You nodded, knowing you had planted a seed, even if Tywin would never openly acknowledge it. As the memory faded, your attention returned to the present trial. Tyrion stood before the court, defiant and alone, but you held onto the faint hope that your words had reached the man seated on the Iron Throne.
Witness after witness had been paraded before the court, each painting Tyrion in a darker light. You sat silently to Tywin’s right, your composure a carefully maintained mask, though inside, you felt a growing sense of unease.
Tyrion had held himself together remarkably well through most of the trial, responding to the accusations with biting sarcasm and cold wit. But now, as another name was called, you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor.
“Shae,” the court crier announced.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Tyrion’s head snapped up, his mismatched eyes narrowing as Shae stepped forward. Your own heart sank as you recognized her, the woman Tyrion had once confided in, loved even. She was dressed plainly, her usual warmth replaced by an icy resolve as she avoided Tyrion’s gaze and walked to the stand.
You cast a quick glance at Cersei, seated on Tywin’s left. Her satisfaction was evident, a smug smile curling at the corners of her lips as she watched Shae take her place. It became painfully clear that Shae had been turned, manipulated into playing a role in this farce of a trial.
“What is she doing here?” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible. Tywin didn’t react, his gaze fixed on Shae as the questioning began.
“Shae,” the prosecutor began, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You served as a handmaiden to Lady Sansa Stark and were in close proximity to Lord Tyrion during his time as Hand of the King, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Shae replied, her voice trembling slightly, though whether it was from fear or anger, you couldn’t tell.
“And during that time,” the prosecutor continued, “did you observe any… troubling behavior from Lord Tyrion?”
Shae hesitated, her hands twisting in her lap. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice growing stronger. “He… he was cruel. He spoke of Joffrey with hatred. He said he wanted him dead.”
You felt Tyrion’s entire body stiffed from where you sat. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table before him, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter.
The prosecutor pressed on, his tone becoming more insidious. “And did Lord Tyrion ever discuss how he might carry out such a desire?”
Shae looked down, as though ashamed. “Yes. He told me… he told me he would strangle the boy. With his own hands.”
The words sent a ripple through the courtroom, gasps and murmurs filling the air. Tyrion’s face twisted with a mixture of rage and pain, his control slipping with every word.
You leaned forward slightly, your heart aching for him. It was clear to anyone who truly knew Tyrion that the accusations were absurd, but in this room, truth mattered little.
“Why are you doing this?” Tyrion’s voice cut through the noise, raw and trembling with fury. He stood slowly, his gaze locked on Shae. “Why are you lying?”
Shae flinched but didn’t look at him. “You broke my heart,” she said quietly, the tremor in her voice betraying her conflicted emotions. “I loved you, and you threw me away like I was nothing.”
Tyrion took a step forward, his voice rising. “I sent you away to protect you! To keep you safe from them!” He gestured to Cersei and Tywin, his voice dripping with contempt. “And now you stand here and spit their lies like a puppet.”
Shae’s gaze finally lifted, but it was filled with a mix of anger and shame. She opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s voice cut through the tension.
“Enough,” he commanded, his tone icy. “The witness will step down.”
Shae hesitated, her lips trembling as though she wanted to say more, but she obeyed, retreating from the stand. As she passed Tyrion, she avoided his gaze, her steps quick and unsteady.
Tyrion turned to the court, his eyes blazing with fury. “Is this what passes for justice?” he spat, his voice echoing through the hall. “A parade of lies and manipulations, all to satisfy Cersei’s thirst for vengeance?”
“Mind your tongue,” Tywin said coldly, his gaze hard.
Tyrion laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and mirthless. “Why? So you can pretend this is fair? So you can continue this charade as if the outcome hasn’t already been decided?”
The dread in the room was set ablaze, the air crackling with the weight of his words. Tyrion stepped forward, addressing the gathered lords and ladies. “I did not kill Joffrey, but I wish I had. Watching him die gave me more satisfaction than I’ve felt in years.”
Gasps erupted from the crowd, and even you couldn’t suppress the flicker of shock that crossed your face.
“I wish I was the monster you think I am,” Tyrion continued, his voice rising, his anger boiling over. “If only to tear this family apart the way it’s torn me apart.”
You could feel Tywin’s gaze shift toward you briefly, though you kept your eyes on Tyrion, your heart pounding in your chest.
“I demand a trial by combat,” Tyrion declared, his voice ringing out like a bell, silencing the murmurs in the crowd.
The room fell into stunned silence. Even Tywin’s composed mask slipped for a fraction of a second before he regained control. Cersei’s face twisted in fury, her hands clenching the armrests of her chair.
You exhaled slowly, the weight of Tyrion’s words settling heavily in the room. The game had just changed, and the stakes had risen higher than ever.
The cold stone walls of the dungeons were damp, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the halls. Jaime Lannister made his way down the dimly lit corridor, his expression was a mix of frustration and concern, his strides purposeful as he approached Tyrion’s cell.
Tyrion sat on the small bench inside, his head leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. When Jaime’s footsteps stopped just outside the bars, Tyrion opened one eye, his lips curling into a wry smile.
“Well, well,” Tyrion drawled, sitting up and gesturing grandly. “The Kingslayer graces me with his presence. To what do I owe the honor?”
Jaime sighed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing, Tyrion? You had a way out, and you threw it away.”
Tyrion chuckled humorlessly. “Ah, yes, the way out where I grovel before our dear father, admit to crimes I didn’t commit, and let him send me to the Wall to freeze my arse off for the rest of my days. Tempting.”
Jaime gripped the bars tightly, his expression hard. “It was better than this! You think I don’t know what Cersei is planning? She’ll name the Mountain as her champion, Tyrion. Do you really think you can win against him?”
Tyrion shrugged nonchalantly, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “I’m not dead yet, am I? And who knows? Perhaps the gods will favor me.”
“The gods?” Jaime’s voice rose, incredulous. “You’ve never put stock in the gods, Tyrion, so don’t start now. This isn’t a game anymore.”
Tyrion leaned forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, it’s always been a game, Jaime. You’re just upset because I’ve decided to play by my own rules.”
Jaime slammed his golden hand against the bars, the sound ringing out in the still air. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Father was going to spare you. He wouldn’t let you die. All you had to do was plead guilty, and he would have sent you to the Wall. But now…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Now, you’ve spat on his mercy, and you’ve undermined all the efforts made to protect you.”
Tyrion’s smirk faltered slightly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Efforts? What efforts?”
Jaime leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Our stepmother—Lady Y/N—has been working tirelessly to sway him in your favor. She’s risked more than you know to ensure you had a chance. She even convinced him to temper Cersei’s influence over the trial.”
Tyrion froze, his gaze sharpening. “And you think that would have worked? You think she, of all people, could change Tywin Lannister’s mind?”
“She already has,” Jaime shot back, his tone firm. “Father listens to her more than you realize. More than he listens to anyone.”
Tyrion blinked, genuinely taken aback by the revelation. “I suppose the dragon has tamed the lion after all,” he muttered, half to himself.
Jaime’s jaw tightened. “And now, with this stunt, you’ve disregarded all of it. You’ve thrown her efforts—and any chance of clemency—away. Cersei will use this trial by combat to destroy you. She’s already chosen the Mountain. Do you have any idea what that means?”
Tyrion’s expression darkened, and he let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know exactly what it means. Cersei’s idea of justice is ensuring my head is mounted on a spike. She’s wanted me dead since the day I was born.”
“And now you’ve handed her the perfect excuse,” Jaime said, his voice heavy with frustration. “Why, Tyrion? Why do this to yourself?”
Tyrion’s gaze hardened, his voice low but laced with venom. “Because I’m tired of being her scapegoat. I’m tired of being the monster everyone blames for their misery. If I’m to die, Jaime, I’ll die fighting. Not crawling to our father for scraps of mercy.”
Jaime shook his head, his frustration palpable. “This isn’t bravery, Tyrion. It’s foolishness.”
“Call it what you will,” Tyrion replied, his tone defiant. “But at least I’ll die on my terms.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching heavy between them. Finally, Jaime straightened, his expression grim. “If this is truly what you want, then so be it. But don’t think for a moment that you’re the only one paying the price for your pride.”
With that, Jaime turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Tyrion watched him go, his smirk fading as he leaned back against the wall, his thoughts a tumult of defiance and regret.
The warm midday sun streamed into the garden, the air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers. You sat on a stone bench beneath a canopy of vines, cradling a cup of water in your hands as you gazed out over the vibrant greenery. Despite the serenity of your surroundings, your thoughts were troubled. The trial had left an unsettling tension in its wake, and your concerns for Tyrion weighed heavily on your mind.
The sound of footsteps drew your attention, and you turned to see Prince Oberyn Martell approaching, his movements as graceful as ever. Dressed in his signature Dornish attire, the colors of House Martell proudly displayed, he carried an air of effortless confidence. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he gave you a slow, exaggerated bow.
“My lady,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Or should I say, my queen in all but name? How lovely to find you among the roses.”
You managed a faint smile, though your unease lingered. “Prince Oberyn,” you greeted him, gesturing for him to sit beside you. “What brings you to my quiet corner of the world?”
He sank onto the bench with the ease of a panther, his gaze fixed on you. “I wanted to see how the most intriguing member of this… lion’s den is faring after yesterday’s entertainment.”
“Entertainment?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You speak as if it were a play, not a trial.”
He chuckled, leaning back against the bench. “Was it not both? The intrigue, the betrayals, the grand declarations. It had all the makings of a fine Dornish tragedy.”
You sighed, your fingers tightening around the cup in your hands. “It was no tragedy for you, Oberyn. But for others…”
His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head, studying you. “You’re worried for the Imp,” he said, his tone more serious.
You nodded, your gaze dropping to the cup. “Tyrion is… not without his faults, but he doesn’t deserve this. Cersei’s hatred for him is blinding, and my husband—” You hesitated, then sighed. “Tywin will allow this charade to continue if it suits his plans.”
Oberyn’s lips curled into a sly smile. “And yet, you sit here, torn between loyalty to your husband and concern for your stepchild. You are a fascinating woman, Y/N.”
You gave him a sharp look. “This is no game, Oberyn. Tyrion’s life is at stake.”
He nodded slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. “You are right, of course. It is no game. But perhaps you’ll find solace in knowing that the Imp’s fate may not be as grim as it seems.”
Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I will be Tyrion’s champion.”
The words hung in the air between you, their weight sinking into your chest. You stared at him, a mix of surprise and apprehension crossing your face. “You would do that?” you asked quietly. “Why?”
He tilted his head, his smile returning, though it was tinged with something darker. “You know why, Y/N. Elia. My sister, murdered by Gregor Clegane under orders from your husband. Our nephew and niece, butchered. This is my chance to avenge them.”
You swallowed hard, the name Gregor Clegane sending a chill down your spine. “And you believe you can defeat him?”
Oberyn’s smile widened, his confidence radiating from him like the sun. “I know I can. The Mountain may be a brute, but he’s slow, clumsy. I’ve trained my whole life for this. I’ve dreamed of this moment.”
You hesitated, your concern growing. “And if you fail?”
“I won’t,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “But even if I did, what better way to honor my family than to die fighting for them?”
You shook your head, your hands trembling slightly as you set the cup down. “This isn’t just about you, Oberyn. If you fail, Tyrion dies as well. And I… I cannot bear to see another innocent life taken in this pit of vipers.”
Oberyn reached out, placing a warm, steady hand over yours. “You have a kind heart, Y/N,” he said softly. “But kindness alone will not save him. Justice will.”
You met his gaze, the intensity of his conviction almost overwhelming. “I hope you’re right, Oberyn. For Tyrion’s sake, and for yours.”
He smiled, squeezing your hand gently before releasing it. “You’ll see, Y/N. By the time this trial is over, the Mountain will fall, and justice will be served.”
With that, he rose gracefully from the bench, offering you a slight bow before turning to leave. You watched him go, your heart heavy with conflicting emotions. As you gazed down at the roses blooming around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the thorns were drawing closer.
#game of thrones#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#asoiaf x reader#fire and blood#house of the dragon#hotd#got/asoiaf#got#got x reader#got x you#got x y/n#got tywin#tywin lannister#tywin x reader#tywin x you#tywin x y/n#legacy
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Hello again archivist, it is I, the poor soul trapped with everblooming carnivores in my basement.
I have not yet decided to get something drastic done toward my problem, since them flourishing like that is probably pretty rare, and in a weird way, kinda cool. I do however still fear them, never liked those and probably never will, i just tolerate them for now.
Onto why i'm sending you another statement, there have been some- complications.
I had a long time friend come to my house this week, they slept here for four nights before leaving so they'd be home for june (they're organising a small pride parade on the 1st), i've shown them the meat eating garden and all they had to say was "uh that's weird"
Before we continue, i want to point out that my friend has always had somnanbulism, at least since i met her.
On the second night we spent together (the same day i had shown her my creepy basement), I was awakened by frantic light in my living room, she was looking around, pivoting in place, with a torchlight, and didn't answer to me, so i just tried to ignore it since breaking someone from sleepwalking can lead them to be confused and maybe violent, but when i left the room she just said "they're growing, i can feel it" and she turned off her torchlight
I asked more about it later that day and she truly seemed confused and told me she didn't remember doing anything. I trust them to not have lied to me since we've been friend for a while and she knows i don't like those kind of pranks
She did however tell me she had a weird dream that night. apparently she was seeing vines and plants intertwinging in my living room until they took the shape of the approximation of an human and garlged "We must feed"
Nothing else weird happened afterward, but we did lock the basement for the duration of her stay.
Ik it's probably just her brain using what we talked about thath day (making weird creepy story about my cursed basement) and recycling it, like what a sleeping brain does, but it was still creepy 0/10 would not reccomend
On the bright side at least i get to sent something else back here
sincerly, the botanist
So I will not lie you, absolutely have seeds of a Domain blooming underneath your house, but I still think that is a cool and unique feature for a house to have. Good luck! Keep in their good graces!
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We write poetry sometimes, often about being queer, and we wrote this one about trans pride, and protecting trans kids. (CW: brief death mention, but it ends well.)
To Those Fighting For The Light
Darkness covers the country.
People are still holed up in the forts, waiting for the day to break.
A false dawn has come and gone,
And the suffering yet continues.
A storm brews on the horizon, the armies of hatred giving praise,
While the most vulnerable are struck by lighting, and left to die in the rain.
A child sits in the mud,
Surviving, but only just.
Scared of another strike, scared of another death.
However, they notice a light in the distance.
They’re scared for a moment, scared the storm is coming closer.
However, this light is stronger, more permanent,
Glowing and warm.
It is the glow of torchlight, as the people march through the towns and fields.
They wave banners and flags of the brightest colours,
The silence is split by the roar of song,
Chanting ‘we will not be defeated’, ‘love and joy overcomes hate’, and ‘all are welcome here’.
The parade ends quickly, but it gives the child an idea.
They pick themselves up, even more confused than before,
But with a new emotion burning in their chest.
Fear is no longer driving them,
But hope.
They take steps towards the future,
Stumbling and nervous, but never giving up,
After having seen the banners and the flags.
They weren’t alone, out here in the cold and the wet,
There were thousands across this country,
Fighting for their future, for the storm to end.
They’d never considered it a possibility… but maybe they wouldn’t have to be wet forever?
Maybe… they could go beyond the day to day?
Maybe they could live, maybe they could be happy?
They found others like them,
And they screamed out for help,
A hundred hands arrived to grab each one of them,
A hundred different souls, with scars and stories of their own, ready to pass on their knowledge and their hope to them.
The storm may still rage on, and not everyone could make it,
But now, the people knew they weren’t alone,
And they were all together, ready to fight for the future.
And as previous generations had done, years and years ago,
They fought the battles, and won the war.
The clouds dissipated, and a new world dawned before them.
Wildflowers bloomed in the fields, and the towns were full of love.
Hate had no power here, and a blue sky was all that was seen.
All people were free to be who they were,
And fear was gone from their hearts.
And while we wait for that world, the people protect those they can,
As every day we live is a kick in the teeth to the armies of hate,
For every step we take, no matter how small,
Is a victory for life and of freedom.
So to those struggling, do not give up,
There are people fighting for you, who were like you before.
You will find hope, and despite it all,
It is worth being you, and it is worth being free.
You are our future, and you will find the new world,
So please, turn to us,
And be there when the skies turn blue.
For you deserve that world,
And we are fighting for it to come for you as soon as it can.
#poetry#queer-joy#trans-joy#lgbtqia#lgbtq community#queer#trans joy#queer joy#trans positivity#queer positivity#good news#transgender#transmasc#transfem#nonbinary#enby#wlw#mlm#gay#lesbian#bisexual#asexual#aromantic#aroace#trans pride#trans love#queer love#queer poetry#trans poetry#poems
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Fate's unchosen bride
Chapter 2:
The Confrontation
Warning: foul language
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The chamber was bathed in flickering torchlight, casting shifting shadows across the ancient tapestries that adorned the walls. Evelyn stood before King Edward, her wrists encumbered by heavy iron handcuffs. She was dressed in a magnificent wedding gown that cascaded in soft ivory folds around her chubby, pear-shaped form. Her fiery red hair, adorned with intricate jewels, framed her freckled face, now a mask of defiance and frustration.
"You have brought me here under false pretenses," Evelyn's voice cut through the tense silence, sharp and uncompromising. She glared at King Edward, whose normally piercing blue eyes now shimmered with an unsettling pink glow, reflecting the torchlight with an ethereal luminescence.
King Edward remained seated on his ornate throne, his demeanor a mix of sympathy and steely resolve. His features, carved with regal authority, softened under the dual influence of his own presence and that of the goddess of love, Aphrodisia. His hair, a deep chestnut brown, framed a face etched with determination and a hint of weariness from the weight of his responsibilities.
"Evelyn, I implore you to listen," King Edward began, his voice carrying a profound echo that resonated with a dual tone—one his own, and the other a gentle, authoritative voice that bore the wisdom of millennia. "I am not just a king. I am a vessel for the gods, and Aphrodisia, the goddess of love, speaks through me. I am tasked with guiding you towards your true path."
"Bullshit," Evelyn snapped, her eyes flashing with fury. "You think you can just parade around, calling yourself a vessel for the gods, and expect me to believe it? Prove it, you lying bastard."
A ripple passed through King Edward's demeanor as the pink glow in his eyes intensified, casting an ethereal light across his face. The voice of Aphrodisia, gentle yet commanding, resonated through him as he spoke.
"Evelyn, dear child," the voice echoed softly. "You have suffered much at the hands of those who did not understand your worth. This path, though fraught with challenges, is a journey to finding your true love, even if it comes in a form you do not expect."
Evelyn scoffed, her skepticism battling with the strange aura that surrounded the king. "True love?" she retorted bitterly, her voice thick with sarcasm. "What do you know of true love, hidden behind your throne and divine illusions? You have no right to decide my fate. Who the hell do you think you are?"
The voice of Aphrodisia within King Edward echoed again, its tone now tinged with a hint of sorrow. "I have seen the depths of your heart, Evelyn," it intoned softly. "Your resilience, your spirit—it is a beacon that deserves to be cherished, even if the vessel of that love is unconventional."
"Fuck you," Evelyn spat, her anger boiling over. "I won't be your pawn. You want me to believe in this destiny crap? Show me proof. Show me that this isn't just another one of your manipulative schemes."
The pink glow in King Edward's eyes shimmered as he slowly rose from his throne, the torchlight flickering in rhythm with his movements. With deliberate grace, he approached Evelyn, his gaze unwavering as he reached out to gently touch her cheek.
In that moment, Evelyn felt a surge of warmth spreading from his touch, a sensation that bypassed her skepticism and stirred something deeper within her. She met his gaze, searching for any hint of deceit or manipulation, but found only sincerity and a strange, unexpected tenderness.
"I cannot change your past, Evelyn," King Edward's voice, now his own again, spoke softly. "But I can guide you towards a future where your heart finds solace and your spirit finds peace."
Evelyn hesitated, the weight of his words and the strange aura surrounding him pulling at the edges of her resolve. "If this is true," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling torches, "then prove it to me. Prove that this path leads to something more than just sacrifice and duty."
The pink glow in King Edward's eyes intensified once more, and suddenly his demeanor shifted. His voice, deep and resonant, now carried an undeniable feminine undertone as Aphrodisia took full control.
"Evelyn," the goddess spoke through him, her voice a harmonious blend of strength and compassion. "You deserve love after all the pain you’ve endured. Your ex-fiancé's betrayal, sleeping with your bridesmaid on your wedding day, is not your fate. Lamorak, though a beast, has a heart that beats with a love as fierce as your spirit. This is the way to find your true love."
Evelyn's eyes widened, her defiance momentarily shattered by the profound truth in the goddess's words. "Fuckin' prove it," she demanded again, her voice trembling. "Show me that you're not just some twisted fantasy." Tears welled up in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks as her anger battled with a glimmer of hope.
Aphrodisia’s presence grew stronger, and Evelyn felt a comforting warmth envelop her. "Lamorak the Enchanter awaits," the goddess continued. "He is an enigmatic figure, a powerful presence. Though his wrath has laid waste to villages, within him lies a love that you will uncover."
Evelyn's tears mingled with a mix of fear and reluctant curiosity. "You expect me to believe that marrying a fucking monster is my destiny? That after all the shit I've been through, this is what I get? I deserve better!"
Aphrodisia's voice softened, the glow in King Edward's eyes dimming slightly. "Evelyn, you are right to question, to challenge. But sometimes, love and destiny come in forms we least expect. This path is not just for Lamorak, but for you to find the love and respect you truly deserve."
Evelyn's resolve wavered, the weight of her past and the uncertainty of her future pressing heavily upon her. Could it be possible that amidst the darkness, there lay a chance for true love and redemption?
"Prove it," she whispered once more, her voice a fragile echo of her defiance. "Show me that this is real."
Aphrodisia's presence faded, leaving King Edward to look upon Evelyn with a mixture of hope and determination. "We will show you, Evelyn. Trust in this path, and you may find the love you have always sought."
King Edward gently placed a hand on Evelyn's shoulder, guiding her towards the grand doors of the chamber. "We will show you within due time, Evelyn. Just trust in this path, and you may find the love you always sought."
As the massive doors creaked open, Evelyn found herself standing at the beginning of a long, winding path that led through the heart of the kingdom. The streets were lined with villagers, their faces etched with sorrow and grief. Many of them wept openly, their tears flowing freely for the beloved maiden being led to an uncertain fate.
The parade moved slowly, King Edward walking beside Evelyn with a regal yet solemn air. She tried to hold her head high, but the weight of her situation pressed heavily upon her. Every step felt like a march towards doom, her heart pounding in her chest as she absorbed the sorrowful expressions of the people who had once been her neighbors, friends, and confidants.
Children clung to their mothers' skirts, their wide eyes filled with confusion and fear. Elderly men and women bowed their heads in reverence, their lips moving in silent prayers. Evelyn felt a pang of guilt and sorrow, knowing that her departure was a source of such profound sadness for them.
As they neared the towering gates at the end of the path, Evelyn's breath hitched. The gates loomed ominously, a stark reminder of the beast that awaited her on the other side. The air grew colder, and the sounds of the villagers' cries seemed to fade into a haunting silence.
Evelyn's heart pounded as she took in the imposing figure that stood just beyond the gates. Though she couldn't see his face, she felt the intensity of his presence, a mixture of wrath and enigmatic allure. Lamorak the Enchanter awaited her, a creature of legend and fear, and her fate was now inexorably tied to his.
The gates began to open with a slow, creaking groan, and Evelyn's eyes widened as she took in the sight before her.
To be continued...
#confrontation#fantasy#royalty#divine intervention#emotional conflict#forced marriage#cult ritual#sacrifice#Destiny#forbidden love#heartbreak#Villager Reactions#suspense#divine revelation#Parade#wrath#Redemption#fate's unchosen bride#tumblr fyp#fyp#fypシ#fypage#fypツ#monster x human#monster lover#original story
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Just want to share a beloved local tradition we’re celebrating today called L’Escalade. In Geneva we commemorate the darkest night of winter in 1602 when the Savoyards came with their ladders to lay siege to the city. The Genevans rallied and succeeded in beating back the invaders, in part thanks to the valiant effort of one Mère Royaume, who poured a cauldron of scalding soup on the Savoyards’ heads.
We celebrate with races and a torchlight parade (please excuse my crappy photos)


Kids dress up in costumes and knock on neighborhood doors to sing Escalade songs, to commemorate the Genevans rising in their pajamas to go wake each other up and join in the defense of the city.
And this is my favorite part, the chocolate cauldron which we smash as we recite “thus perish the enemies of the republic”. The veggies are marzipan 🥰


#dicton dujour#not tagging this because i'm too shy for it to break containment and the photos really are terrible#just sending chocolate & hugs to my mooties
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Fewer than a dozen maids remained, and the press had thinned considerably, when a sudden trumpet blast heralded the arrival of Baela Velaryon and Rhaena Corbray. The doors to the throne room were thrown open, and the daughters of Prince Daemon entered upon a blast of winter air. Lady Baela was great with child, Lady Rhaena wan and thin from her miscarriage, yet seldom had they seemed more as one. Both were dressed in gowns of soft black velvet with rubies at their throats, and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on their cloaks. Mounted on a pair of coal black chargers, the twins rode the length of the hall side by side. When Ser Marston Waters of the Kingsguard blocked their path and demanded they dismount, Lady Baela slashed him across the cheek with her riding crop. “His Grace my brother can command me. You cannot.” At the foot of the Iron Throne they reined up. Lord Unwin rushed forward, demanding to know the meaning of this. The twins paid him no more heed than they would a serving man. “Brother,” Lady Rhaena said to Aegon, “if it please you, we have brought your new queen.” Her lord husband, Ser Corwyn Corbray, brought the girl forward. A gasp went through the hall. “Lady Daenaera of House Velaryon,” boomed out the herald, somewhat hoarsely, “daughter of the late and lamented Daeron of that house and his lady wife, Hazel of House Harte, also departed, a ward of Lady Baela of House Targaryen and Alyn the Oakenfist of House Velaryon, Lord Admiral, Master of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.” Daenaera Velaryon was an orphan. Her mother had been carried off by the Winter Fever; her father had died in the Stepstones when his True Heart went down. His own father had been that Ser Vaemond beheaded by Queen Rhaenyra, but Daeron had been reconciled with Lord Alyn and had died fighting for him. As she stood before the king that Maiden’s Day, clad in pale white silk, Myrish lace, and pearls, her long hair shining in the torchlight and her cheeks flush with excitement, Daenaera was but six years old, yet so beautiful she took the breath away. The blood of Old Valyria was strong in her, as is oft seen in the sons and daughters of the seahorse; her hair was silver laced with gold, her eyes as blue as a summer sea, her skin as smooth and pale as winter snow. “She sparkled,” Mushroom says, “and when she smiled, the singers in the galley rejoiced, for they knew that here at last was a maid worthy of a song.” Daenaera’s smile transformed her face, men agreed; it was sweet and bold and mischievious, all at once. Those who saw it could not fail to think, “Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.” When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost. The last few maidens were brought forward hurriedly to do their turns, but the king’s desire to put an end to the parade was so palpable that poor Henrietta Woodhull was sobbing as she curtsied. As she was led away, King Aegon summoned his young cupbearer, Gaemon Palehair. To him was given the honor of making the announcement. “His Grace will marry Lady Daenaera of House Velaryon!” Gaemon shouted happily.
Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)
I need a painting of the twins on their horses. Blood of the Dragon, bitches!
#ASoIaF#Fire & Blood#valyrianscrolls#ch: Under the Regents: War and Peace and Cattle Shows#Maiden's Day Ball#Aegon III Targaryen#Baela Targaryen#Rhaena Targaryen (twin)#Daenaera Velaryon#Gaemon Palehair#V#GRRM#books#quotes
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Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey running at the torchlight parade in downtown Minneapolis.
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Tyrion Lannister
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Google Form Request:
I loved your Volantis Tyrion bot. Could we get Tyrion in the prison cell, before his trial? Instead of Podrick coming to see him, it could be {{user}}.
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One Last Glimpse - c.ai , j.ai
In the darkness of his cell and the shadow of his impending death, Tyrion is visited by someone he loves, and though he fears for their safety, he cannot help but feel grateful for their reckless loyalty, offering a final, broken confession of love and regret.

The air in the black cells clung to his skin like mildew-soaked velvet—dank, oppressive, and stinking faintly of rot and hopelessness. Tyrion sat with his back against the stone, knees drawn up, cradling his wine cup like a dying ember of comfort. The torchlight from the corridor was scant, yet it flickered enough to catch the glint in his mismatched eyes as the door creaked open. The guard stepped aside. And then, like a knife through the gloom, there they were.
Gods be good, Tyrion thought, his breath catching in his throat like a prayer never meant to be answered. He rose too quickly, the chain at his ankle dragging with a harsh clink that sounded louder than thunder in the stillness. His heart, that traitorous little muscle, kicked against his ribs like a caged lion. He had not seen them since the poison at the feast, since the boy-king’s death had fallen like judgment upon his head. He had not hoped—no, not hoped—to see them again. And yet here they stood, foolish and beautiful and achingly familiar.
“You imbecile,” he rasped, voice low and sharp, more blade than breath. “Seven hells, what are you doing here?”
The words tumbled from his mouth like broken glass. He limped forward a pace, the manacles clinking again, iron laughter echoing the bitterness in his tone. “Did no one stop you? Did no one think to mention that visiting a man accused of regicide isn’t a bloody wise decision? Or did you simply not care?”
He shook his head and laughed bitterly, the sound hollow, splintered. “Loyal to the end, aren’t you? Loyal as a mastiff even as its master is dragged to the gallows. I should have known. You always did have more heart than sense.”
Tyrion turned, unable to look at them for a moment, hands clenching the cup that had long since been drained of its meager comfort. The silence in the room swelled, pressing against his spine like a cold hand.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, softer now, weariness bleeding into his voice. “If they see you here—if they even hear a whisper of your name tied to mine—it won’t be me rotting behind this door. You’ll be paraded before the court like some guilty trinket, a loose end to be tied off with silk and steel. Do you think Cersei would hesitate to have you flayed in the square if it meant another ounce of vengeance?”
He turned back to them then, slowly, as though he feared his own gaze might betray him. And it did. He couldn’t help the way his eyes softened, couldn’t stop the tremble in his lip that had nothing to do with fear or anger or wine.
“I’ll make arrangements,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Gold still holds some weight in this city, even if my name does not. There are ways—quiet ones. I’ll see you out of King’s Landing before the sun rises, if I can. But you must go. Tonight. Before someone sees you. Before this madness swallows you whole as it has me.”
His fingers twitched at his side, longing to reach for them. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had no right.
“But gods,” he breathed, voice breaking like a child’s, “I’m glad you came.”
He let the silence settle between them again, thick and aching, like a wound left to fester.
“If I die,” he said at last, his voice a whisper against the stone, “if this trial ends with my head rolling in sawdust… know that you were the only softness I ever knew in this city of knives. You were the warmth in my winter. The gentlest lie I ever dared to believe.”
His eyes burned, and still he smiled, small and crooked and utterly undone.
“I will remember you,” Tyrion said, “as the only thing I didn’t regret.”
And then, quieter than breath, more confession than statement: “I loved you. Gods help me.”
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Masterlist
#character ai#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#got#game of thrones#c.ai#c.ai creator#c.ai bot#janitor ai#j.ai#j.ai creator#j.ai bot#c.ai requests#tyrion lannister
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Masterlist ~ <<Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter >>
Astarion x Dark Urge Chapter 19 - Ugh…Heroes. Rating: E Tags: Angst, Fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, two guarded people fall in love so hard it makes them stupid CW for Chapter: This chapter includes: Mentions of Torture, acts of torture, and mentions of cannibalism.
Chapter Summary:
Before they can save the druid, Wyll insists that another prisoner needs to be saved first. Rose disagrees.
Minthara's directions were concise enough to remember, and clear enough for Rose to perfectly picture the temple's map in her mind. With her focus back on their assignment, she continued to note the temple. Rafters, with easy to access ladders, could become useful should they need to ambush the goblins inside the sanctum. She noticed walkways along the perimeter, wondering what secrets they were hiding. A temple with as much damage as this place-- perhaps there were ways to sneak in from above?
The journal was removed from her pouch again, and another note added to her growing list of plans. Should they have the luxury of time, she'd like to loot this temple for everything it has left of worth. If they were lucky, they'd have more luck in the area of riches than they did in the first crypt they made camp in after the crash.
"I warn you elf, if you are wrong about this--"
"Lae'zel, if I'm wrong about this, then she would have turned by now," Astarion chuckled lightly, "but no, she gets ill from time to time. A bit of a-- oh Gods below, I don't even know if you'd understand this word-- a quirk, as I call it."
"I can hear you," Rose interrupted, leering back at her Githyanki guard, "if you have questions about me, ask."
"Are you often stricken with illness when you scold your subordinates?"
"No."
"So only Astarion, then? Does he make you ill?"
"Yes."
"What?!" Astarion gasped.
Rose smirked as the elf defensively rambled against such slanderous accusations.
Around the corner and down a narrow hall, the three of them found their companions standing between a pair of sarcophagi. The damage to the final resting place of skeletons looked to be done by time, an enemy not even Selune's most loyal clergy could withstand.
Shadowheart was the first to look over, prepared to address an enemy but relieved that it were her allies instead. "Ready?" She asked the approaching leader.
Gale hastily shut the book in his hands, tucking it into his bag. His eyes fell to Astarion, warily eyeing the literature-hating elf.
"Let's go," Rose waved the group to join her as she approached the large wooden door.
Astarion tapped her on the shoulder, nodding to the corner of the lobby once he had her attention. Barely visible in the standing torchlight was a ladder, leading up to a platform. Where did that go, she wondered? She formed the map of this place in her mind, retracing her steps from Minthara's office to their current location. Out from the office, around some pillars, down a hall-- ah!
"Seems to lead back to Commander Minthara's office," she whispered.
"My thoughts exactly," Astarion smirked, "could be useful to know. Good thing I spotted it."
The creaky groan from the door stopped everyone in their tracks. It opened a crack, letting in the sound of a grumbling voice.
"Let's try this again," the door swung open to reveal a short parade of creatures. A goblin with blue stripes along the sides of his face, yanked a chain in his hand as he walked forward. His garment was decorated with small bird skulls and sharp bestial fangs. At some point, the robe could have been considered a clean sheet of white, but has long since been stained by unknown sources. The symbol of The Absolute dangled around his neck, shining as he entered the torchlit lobby.
"'Scuse us," he made no effort to stop his path, forcing Rose, Astarion, and Lae'zel to step out of his way.
Behind him was a human man who stared at his bare feet as they stepped one in front of the other. The bruises on his body ranged from the purest of purples to the dullest of yellows, signifying a series of beatings that must have taken place for a few days in a row. When the chain was yanked once more, he stumbled forward and fell to his knees without so much as a whimper.
A broken spirit, housed in the vessel of a broken man.
"Ah damn it," the chain holder turned around, backtracking to his fallen charge.
The last body of this parade was clad in armor, walking behind the prisoner with a spear in one hand and shield in another.
"Spike, ease up on the bastard," he warned, "the drow's gettin' pissy about how long you've been taking, but we don't want 'im dead yet."
"Wouldn't be takin' so long if the lad would just speak! Come on, get up! On yer feet!"
Shadowheart watched like an instructor, prepared to grade her pupils on their performance after their presentation was through. If the wrinkle in her nose were any indication, it was going to be a poor grade. Wyll and Alfira, by contrast, were not enjoying the show before them. Alfira's hand covered her mouth, but could do little to cover the shock in her eyes. Wyll hid neither scowl nor glare.
"I told you, I don't know anything. Please..." the man pleaded shakily.
The Blade began shifting his way towards the front of the group, gently guiding Alfira and Gale away by the shoulder as he took the spot beside Shadowheart. He beckoned for Rose to look to him, using their tadpoles to transmit his intentions.
A glistening rapier swished through the air, stabbing into the tormentor while Lae'zel and Shadowheart pulled the prisoner away from the guard, who launched a spear at Wyll. Gale and Alfira would step in, casting evocative magic and blasting the guard back while Wyll finished off the goblin in the white coat.
It was the perfect plan.
Except...it wasn't.
The commotion could draw the attention of Commander Minthara and the goblins surrounding her. She was certain that there was another ladder on the other side of that wall. There was also the matter of who else could be in the pits. A druid was a powerful prisoner to hold, whatever security they had left must be keeping watch in there.
Of course, she could be wrong about all of this. But, she didn't want to find out if she was right.
Her brows lowered, seeing Wyll's hand hovered just over his rapier's handle. While the goblins were distracted, she shook her head.
The prisoner chanced a glance at the audience of strangers as he slowly pulled himself to his feet. Wyll had not dropped his arm, and looked directly at the poor pathetic man. His sympathetic countenance was enough to give the prisoner the foolish notion that he had a chance.
That there was hope.
"You have to help me--" the prisoner begged, his voice raising as he tried pulling himself towards Wyll, "Please! PLEASE!"
"That's enough from you!" The guard struck the man across the back with the butt of his spear, knocking the wind from his lungs.
Wyll grasped his blade.
"Don't you dare," Rose warned telepathically. Her glare was met with a look of defiance.
"I won't stand here and watch this man be tortured to death!" The Blade of Frontier's voice pierced into her mind. Sharp. Unwavering. She winced from the suddenness of it, though kept her teeth grit in an attempt to keep her face unmoved.
He took another step forward.
"Let me help with that," she spoke out loud, hurriedly stepping around the goblins and firmly planting herself between The Blade and the prisoner. As she grabbed the prisoner's arm, she glanced back at The Blade. While their tadpoles were still connected, she offered a soft "we'll come back for him, I promise."
Disbelief washed over The Blade's face as Rose helped the prisoner to his feet and nodded to the goblin in the robe, Spike.
"N-no what are you doing-- NO!" The prisoner began to scream as he realized his brief flash of hope was nothing more than a mockery.
The armored goblin poked his spear into the man's back, forcing him to step forward. He cried softly as they approached the wooden bridge. Like a bleating lamb going forth to the slaughter. A slow, painful, wonderfully agonizing slaughter.
"Well that was fun!" Astarion grinned devilishly.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts before they got 'quirkier,' as Astarion might put it. She continued for the door, reaching for the iron handle.
"This isn't right!" The Blade crossed in front of Rose, glaring down at her with his good eye.
"Ugh, heroes," the elf rolled his eyes.
"It was too risky to step in," Rose maintained a neutral expression, despite the heat rushing through her blood. She knew it-- Astarion's behavior was starting to be an example of her inability to keep her charges disciplined. One which was being exploited now.
"I truly thought we came to an understanding today," The Blade sighed, his expression dropping.
"We did."
"He was from Aradin's group..." Alfira's small voice reached from behind her.
The two turned their attention to the tiefling. Her gaze was fixed on the empty hallway with glassy eyes and a quivering lip.
Rose waited to hear more from her. But she remained silent. As if that single line was never meant to slip out.
Perhaps it wasn't.
She scanned the faces of the others. The only other one who looked conflicted was Gale, who stood behind Alfira. Though his expression was tense, he did not look directly at anyone.
The screams spilled into the lobby like the wails of a phantom, coming to haunt them for their complacency.
A single tear ran down the tiefling's cheek as she covered her mouth and gripped the leathery strap which supported her lute.
"I didn't think you'd disappoint me so quickly," the Blade shook his head. He stepped around Rose, marching towards the bridge, "I'm not leaving him."
Fucking Hells.
Gods damn it!
"Wait!" Rose pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath as she collected her thoughts. The Blade stopped at the edge of the bridge, looking over his shoulder as she spoke up. "We won't be of much use if the horde kills us. Let's figure out how to do this without drawing attention first, deal?"
The Blade crossed his arms over his chest, turning fully to face her.
"Deal."
Rose scanned over the open scroll of magic that their wizard all too eagerly furled open in front of her. In his same eagerness, he forgot that she wasn't as literate in arcane sigils as him.
Their plan had to be quick, quiet, and easily covered up. Get into a fight for too long, and risk getting caught by any random goblin wandering the place. Cast too many spells, and draw too much attention to themselves. Typically, a task requiring stealth would be perfect for her. But Gale cautioned that some goblins could be empowered by The Absolute. The uncertainty on which goblins had access to these 'psionics' was enough to force them to be more cautious.
"Can't you cast it quietly?" She whispered as Gale neatly rolled the scroll and tucked it into his scroll bandelier.
"There are some who are more magically attuned with that sort of capability. Sadly, that capability is lost on me. Sadly." Gale informed.
"So then we need some sort of distraction..."
The prisoner screamed reached them more easily, now that they were tucked into the next room.
"We can use his screams as cover for the casting," Rose reasoned.
The Blade shook his head aggressively, "I don't want to risk it--"
"I'll do it," Shadowheart volunteered. "Lady Shar's teachings have prepared me to handle an interrogation without killing the informant."
"Don't revel in his pain, too much," he warned.
"No promises," she smirked. Much to his distaste.
Without darkness to shield them from wandering eyes, Rose and Lae'zel planted themselves in the hallway, monitoring the stairwells for unwanted guests.
The others clung to the wall, watching their cleric go in alone.
"Maybe I'll let my rats 'ave a bit of a nibble," Spike cackled as he turned a hot poker over an open flame, "been a few days since they ate...Still not talkin' huh?"
Deliberately loud footsteps approached the corner of torture. The guard acknowledged Shadowheart with a nod.
"Come to watch?" The torturer asked with a proud grin.
"I'm taking over." Shadowheart declared.
"And why the 'ell would I let ya do that?"
"I heard you contacted a Loviatar priest to aid you. What happened, couldn't afford the services of a Sharran?"
"Couldn't find any."
"Now you have." She extended her hand to take the prodder, "I'll even provide you a free demonstration."
"Ohh, gladly" he placed the cool handle of the prodder into her hand, and stepped aside to watch with curious eyes.
The Sharran took a moment to look over the prisoner, slowly rolling the lengthy metal in her hand. "You'll be thanking me later," she commented, pressing the heated metal into his side.
Gale's incantation was barely audible above the pained screams.
The goblin guard and tormenter fell to the ground before the screaming stopped. The prisoner continued to cry, even after Shadowheart removed the metal from his skin. Through her tadpole, she signaled to the rest of the group that the area was clear.
When she followed Lae'zel into the open room, the smell of burnt flesh overwhelmed Rose. Oh, delicious! It was enough to make her salivate. The exposed melted flesh of the prisoner called to her. She swallowed back her hunger.
"Hey Art-starion," Rose forced a smirk to the elf, "get him down from there."
"One of these days, darling, I'm teaching you how to come up with better nicknames than that," he snarked, sifting through the pockets on the sleeping tormentor. "Weren't you the one who was supposed to-- oh..." his smirk faltered when he looked up at her. She shifted her gaze away, glaring towards the floor. "Well I'm sure I can handle it this time."
She nodded appreciatively, then turned her back on the rest of the scene, refocusing her thoughts away from the desire to sink her teeth into supple flesh. Cooked just enough for taste, but meat left deliciously tender. Ugh, if only those damned goblins didn't ruin him with their reckless torment! Had she been left with him, even for a day, she would've--
A hand clasped onto her shoulder, giving it a firm, yet friendly, squeeze.
"Thank you." The Blade of Frontiers flashed a sincere smile at her.
"We had a solid plan," Rose stated nonchalantly, ignoring the dull thudding in the back of her head.
"Well, that helped, sure. But the important part is: you did the right thing."
Rose risked a glance back at the scene. Lae'zel was throwing the snoring goblin into the endless chasm, where he would meet his end. The prisoner was being tended to by Alfira and Shadowheart. The bard had given him her waterskin, which he desperately drank from while the cleric bandaged his wounds, preserving what was left of her magical healing.
The assassin's eyes softened. It wasn't the worst thing in the world: to save a life rather than snuff one out. They were lucky to have the means to succeed.
"What would you have done if I didn't? There was no way you'd have been able to save him on your own."
"When there's a Wyll, there's a way."
Rose's tadpole wriggled with the biggest eye roll that Astarion could transmit to her. Even her own eyes rolled at how awful that pun was.
"I'm going to shove you into that chasm," she teased.
"Not a fan? Hm...Then I will leave it at this: I'm thankful that you Rose to the challenge"
"Change of plans, I'm going to jump into that chasm."
Her hand covered the snerk. The Blade grinned proudly for his accomplishment, going as far as deliberately posing like a traditional hero. To replace the hand on her shoulder was Astarion, putting an arm over both of her shoulders and pretending to be too exhausted to stand upright.
"If we're done here, can we move on?" The elf whined.
"All I had you do was pick a lock," she smirked at his performance.
"And it was soooooooo much work. But I know how much you need me, so, I suppose I can keep going-- just a bit longer."
"How noble of you."
Alfira and Shadowheart helped the man to his feet, staying by him until he was certain he could walk. They watched him find a path leading out of the temple, concealed by rubble. The two looked at each other briefly, with the cleric's brows furrowed in thought. Lae'zel scanned the area for other evidence of the goblins, tossing whatever she deemed so into the chasm. As far as this area was concerned, no one had been here.
They didn't see anything.
They didn't know anything.
And that's exactly what Rose needs Minthara to think.
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#bg3#baldur's gate 3#astarion#dark urge#astarion x dark urge#baldurs gate 3#durge#oc: rose#astarion x tav#bg3 fic#fanfic#angst#slowburn#astarion romance#longfic#Rosestarion#Fic: I've Got You#I've Got You#Jellymelly writes#Wyll ravengard#Wyll#Shadowheart
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Animals on Parade
The Aquatennial returns to Minneapolis this week with the Torchlight Parade kicking off events on Wednesday night. Aquatennial parades over the years have hosted all sorts of impressive floats, including many larger-than-life animals. Here are just a few of the bears, birds, giraffes, and of course, fish in the Hennepin County Library Digital Collections that have made their way down the Minneapolis parade route:
From top to bottom:
Dove float, 1964
Fish on Minneapolis Fire Department float, 1941
Fish on the Bloomington All American City Float, 1961
Turtle Walgreens Drug Stores float, 1941
Giraffes in Nighttime Parade, 1964
Panda Bears on the Coca-Cola Float, 1941
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