#were the pyres already lit

[marcobodtlives]

Do you think Jean was the cadet who had to carry Marco’s body to the pyre?

[tenderleavesbob]

Link watched the pyre burn and felt numb. The war was over. Cia was defeated. Ganondorf was defeated. All the time-displaced warriors had gone home.

All that was left was the grieving. Link was too tired to even do that right.

Princess Zelda, soon to be Queen Zelda, had lit the fire. It was more ceremonial than anything. All of the bodies had already been handled. Letting them sit too long invited disease. Link was grateful that he had been able to spare Tune and Mask from this. He had watched Princess Zelda cut off a lock of her hair to offer it to the flames as soon as the pyre grew big enough. A symbolic sacrifice showing her mourning.

It was an old Sheikah practice, but between Princess Zelda and General Impa, it had grown popular during the war. It left Link's long warrior braid a little jagged, as he tended to furiously chop off pieces to offer to the flames. He always felt terrible afterwards. It messed up the look the noble hero was supposed to have. He couldn't bring himself to regret it, though.

One by one, with General Impa next in line, soldiers offered their hair to the blaze. Quiet moments of pain for those lost to Ganondorf.

Not to Cia. They had already done that. They had thought themselves victorious. They had thought they won. Link had allowed the light of victory to soothe his guilt at Cia's obsession. They were free and could start rebuilding.

Except pulling the Master Sword hadn't just taught him the price of pride: it had freed Ganondorf. It had unleashed Ganondorf onto his people.

This was his fault. This was all his fault.

Link was supposed to stand beside Princess Zelda and General Impa, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. He kept his head high and bearing steady, but he couldn't bring himself to look anyone in the eye.

This was all his fault.

It was past time for Link to offer his own lock of hair. He stepped forward, his sword, his old, plain sword, in his hand. He knew what he needed to do.

He heard everyone around him gasp but it didn't stop him: with one hand he held his sword, and with his other hand, Link held his warrior's braid. In one smooth motion, he chopped it off close to his hairline. His neck immediately felt chilled. He hadn't had it that short in years.

Link didn't look at anyone as he threw it into the fire. He watched his long braid burn and, despite being so close to the pyre, had to fight to not shiver with the sudden cold.

[themotherofblood]

mene payi taabahiyan | d.t x reader

part one | masterlist

synopsis; inspired by the song O bedardeya. The aftermath of Baelon being engaged to reader, you and Daemon battle through the fall out and the agony of it all

smut warning: unprotected, hate fuck (kinda? more like sad fuck) exhibitionism, against a tree.

There was no air left in the Throne Room, your hand clammy against Baelon’s hand clasped over yours. You were sure that if your hand had not rested against the larger palm of his - you would fall, face flat - a deer learning to walk again, your legs had begun to lose its function. How were you to bow with honour and nor could you look at your brother. Baelon pulled you down with him, as the static noise of applause finally filled your ears, the madness that was to follow lingered in your mind. Lords and Ladies took turns approaching both Targaryen princes, Daemon shuffled his way out of the Throne Room, leaving his new bride to be flushed and irked. Baelon received appraisals on your behalf as people simply put your blanked nervousness as you being overcome with emotions. 

Your own lack of breath might have left you looking maniacal, your brother Quentel followed you out, his larger legs easily catching up to your hasty steps, his palm yanking you back. While his own heart ached seeing your distraught face, your broken pleas finally graced your lips. “wh- why wasn’t I told?” your bottom lip quivering “I won’t fight this, but why?”

“It was always the deal, my children would have but my sons cannot, sweet sister,” he tucked a piece of your hair behind, “You will be Queen-” his eyes coated with concern “it would end the wars, once and for all,”

“I wanted Daemon, it was Daemon,” you nibbled at your lip to stop your tears, “I love, Daemon,” you pulled yourself away from him, finding no strength within yourself as you ran for the stables. Whisking past all attendants and guests, fleeing from the turmoil that wasn’t just the Red Keep but within you. The gown you wore pushed against your chest as you looked for Nysa, the stable boy looked startled as he knew no better than whether to help you or stop you. You raced past the gates, Nysa galloping with all her might as you tore through the streets of King’s Landing to its exit. 

Even with all the air whistling through your hair, your body found it lacking there of, all you knew was you couldn’t pretend to be shy nor accept congratulations for something that should have never happened to either of you. Baelon wanted no woman(very verbally), you  knew of this; why would he? If your devotions for Daemon were any testament, how would you find one to bring your skin ablaze like he did yours. For once, perhaps in the goodness of your heart you thought of Rhae Royce, Daemon would chew her apart if he acknowledged her presence in his bloodline at all. Your heart aching for all four of you, tied to a bargain that neither of you benefited from. All for the Realm, all for the King. All for peace. 

The moon’s milky light lit the damp leaves lining the woods, the darkness was no challenge nor fear to you than the turmoil you already were in. This time you wanted to run, truly run and yet you couldn’t ride Nysa all the way to Dorne, you couldn’t hide behind the viper’s nest if you wanted to. For all you know, it might ruin Dornish relations with the Realm for good, as each Prince or Princess made of hot Rhoynish blood would find something to squabble over. You could stop this once and for all, no more dragons blasting fire on your homeland, no more dead brothers on pyres. 

You stopped right at the edge of the Kingswood, shuffling off your saddle as you twisted Nysa’s reins on your palm. Leading a much confused animal to the dark forest, she an animal yet found herself aware of your sorrow. Smaller fireflies along with the moon gave you a sense of direction as you walked deeper in the darkness, your gown catching onto twigs that you paid no mind to, you wanted away from here, you wanted to go far away…with Daemon. Oh, Daemon

He might have beaten his hands bloody against a sparring dummy, which in truth he did. After weaning himself away from his new betrothed, he stomped down to the courtyard, screaming and shuffling off weapons to the ground as in rage he punched a dummy. The pain tearing through his knuckles. Much of his attention was occupied by brutalising a sack of leather and cloth, nothing mattered to him. You stood there, shoulder against his father and refusing to look at him as if you knew, perhaps you knew. If you didn’t, he knew you, your rage and your heart. You would have pulled away but you never did. 

You walked along him, you were no longer his, his lover, his princess. You were the princess royal now, you would be the Queen now. Sat below a man who swore to never touch another after Daemon's mother died, his mother. All the rules he broke yet he couldn’t understand what he did to deserve this, like air pulled from his own lungs - he knew not how to breathe, how he was without you. 

The sound of hastened anklets echoed past the halls, very distinct anklets, the only anklets in all of King’s Landing. You hurried fast, a blur of yellow silk hurtling past the dim walkway towards the stables, it took a while for Daemon to realise who it was but when he did. His eyebrows pulled to a tight frown as he found himself mindlessly following behind, you long gone until he mounted a brown mare of his own. Galloping towards the Dragonpit, hoping to catch a glimpse of you from the skies, no horse could ever outmatch the affliction for speed Nysa had. 

Caraxes swayed in the air like the Wyrm he was named, flying lower to find his rider’s lover. The shuffle of trees below, lining right under the green of the Kingswood, Caraxes landed himself right at the edge. Daemon lit a torch, you should have never ventured into these forests alone. Even in the pain, he couldn’t not worry, you were his responsibility until you said the words with his father at the Sept. You would always be his responsibility. Daemon waked into the dark, much aware that his dragon looked behind to prevent any harm coming to him, he knew where you would be. Where you’d always sit with your legs tucked together, only this time he wasn’t sure you were of yourself. 

You sat at the edge of the hill, tears coating your face. The silence in you had engulfed yourself and began to cause you more pain, so far lost in the relentless hammering of your heart against your chest you couldn’t pay mind to rustling in the woods. Perhaps it was a boar, waiting to have you pummelled to death so your physical body would be just as mangled as your mind was. Instead out poured the silver of your lover’s hair, eyes weary as he looked around to find you, and found he did. You waited for his eyes to soften like they always did when he saw you but they never did, the tight frown his eyebrows curled to never ease. Even in the darkness, the glow of his anger that glimmered within the purple of orbs was apparent, violent and unforgiving. 

The cries you wanted to form words now were long gone and the angered lecture Daemon was to present you with, too was long gone. With many stressors felt, not a word shared between the two of you. Such silence wasn’t comfortable, nor was it seductive. It was painful, like a white hot iron rod met human flesh, it stung and it stained. Daemon resorted to pacing as you turned back to the blackened scenery, rustles of his footsteps against the leaves and the night call of grasshoppers within the bushes only added to the comical misery of it all. 

“We refuse it, we refuse it and we wed each other at Dragonstone,” Daemon rambled, groaning the harder he thought “grandsire cannot wed us if we are already wed to one another, he won’t compromise his deal with the Seven.” He scoffed at the thought of it, it sounded bitter, resentful. 

“And have you, exiled? Much less my head on a spike,” you said, speaking only the truth of the matter for King Jaehereys had done much worse to his own blood for evading his orders. It was a fine thought yet a foolish one, to be wed and then be exiled away to Essos to live your lives as you see fit. Though you understood Daemon, if not his grandsire he would come to resent you for the pain of losing his family would eat at his wounds sooner than later. 

“What do you propose we do then, huh!” He yells, full throated, it echoed through the woods. His eyes wide and breath hot, his frustration bubbling to a tipping point. “Do you want to be Queen, forsake us for this…this farce?” 

“Do not yell at me Daemon!” You scolded him back, finger pointed hot at his face as you stood up to approach him. The Gods themselves would have found this argument rather entertaining, for their evil devices have now put you in this predicament: “this… marriage was a political arrangement, my brother gave his word!” 

“Oh fuck his word, you cannot mean it,” he groaned approaching you with much haste, his fingertips digging into your forearms “he is my father, father!” Even in the glow of the moon, gloss over the lilac of his eyes remained apparent. 

“Don’t you - I,” you rambled, yanking yourself away from his turmoil because to thicken the air around you “don’t you think I know that, I know that!” you shook your head, there wasn’t a way out of this. Not without hurting your family and by extension putting your House in jeopardy. “It would soften over many political troubles, Daemon truly.” 

“Just keep your mouth- you are mine, you are mine and I am yours,” his eyes furious and glaring, his already bleeding heart being gaped open of its wounds by your words “say it, damn it.” he reached forward once more to yank your head back, he couldn’t handle you not looking at him. Yet he regretted seeing the torn frown spreading on your face, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. There was a vicious sense of destruction covering the anger his sorrow was turning to. The words that fell after weren’t him, but perhaps the fires within him “we could let them talk, couldn’t we princess? Let them know the sweet Martell flower sullied with dragon seed? Hmm,”

“Who would want a soiled Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” his nostrils flared, his words rarely sounded sharp in his own head until a sharp slap rang down his ear, the sting radiating through his cheek. You pushed him away, on the verge of losing any last shred of composure holding your body on your feet. 

“Fuck you Daemon,” you scoffed, chest heaving as the two of stared each other down, the moments away filling both your souls with such harrowing empty, a punishment worse than the black cells of the Keep. You wouldn’t survive this, you couldn’t. This time you charged at him, fingers digging into his jaw as you stood on your feet. Pressing your agony onto him through your lips, his own weight directed you backwards to the bark of the tree behind you. 

Your lips never once left one another, the tasted of salted tears mixed with the taste of spiced wines on both your lips. Palms wet, as you pulled one another closer, not close enough - it wasn’t enough. That if you were to end this love, let it destroy you both once more. Daemon’s hands shuffled lower, skilled and hasty he felt the silks of your small clothes. His fingers swiped over your clothed core, perhaps your conscience swatted your moral back into you as you protested. You couldn’t, not her and not with the apt protection of lemon heads. 

“Please,” Daemon whimpered, whimpered. Something you had never heard, when you pulled away you realised it was not just your own tears you had tasted. His forehead rested against your own, his breath hot against your lips. 

You rested your head back on the bark, stroking the back of Daemon’s head. “Take me, take me Daemon,” you said, what other consequences were left to suffer than the fate you now had to face. You pulled at your skirts, bunching them at your hips as Daemon returned to lay his salacious affections upon your neck, letting his fingers yank down your small clothes as your fingers did his trousers.

You upper back nearly rubbed raw as you indulged into the arms of your lover, his head buried in your shoulder with your legs wrapped around his hips. The sweet sensitive tingling between your legs only made you cry harder as you pressed your lips against his temple “I’ll never love again,” you weeped, choking on your words as another moan ripped through your body. 

“I’ll never live for anyone but you again.” he groaned, rutting his hips harder against yours as he chased his completion. His fingers rubbing tight circles upon your pearl, hoping to perhaps feel your cunny clench him empty one last time. The small yelps of pleasure echoed through the woods, the rustling of the leaves in the wind shielding this moment, frozen and intimate. You were sure search parties would be sent out to find you in no time. Your teeth sunk into the velvet pad upon Daemon shoulder, muffling the pleasure moans mixed with your tears as he snapped his hips to completion. 

For the days to come, you succumbed to the orders of courts. Picking flowers and fabrics, being told what you liked, in which Baelon visited once to agree upon the fabrics of his doublet for the wedding. His late wife’s signet ring still adorning his little finger, you weren’t sure how any of this might take place. Were you to kiss at the altar and never see each other again? Baelon spoke of having you sailed to Dragonstone, said you might find comfort there but not once did he speak to you. 

You had been summoned to the Small Council chambers once, to discuss a sensitive matter, one that wouldn’t have come to pass had the Old King not been so incessant about the number of heirs he had, with merely four left on the roster, your duty had only just begun as the Council demanded of a bedding ceremony. Their words had been far more colourful, painting all the reason why a room full of men should witness the deflowering of a young princess. Your body was rigid, there was nothing to deflower, you were no maiden and they would know. Baelon protested, palms slamming into the Council table with his fingers pointed at his father. This ordeal, painful as it is, he defended you, spoke of your honour and yet refused to let his soon to be wife suffer such humiliation in the name of customs. 

You supposed the temper Daemon inherited had been apparent in that moment, as the proper Prince Baelon, spewed tinted words of his abilities to couple and create a child. The discussion dwindled to this, they wouldn't watch but remain in the chambers to ensure the deed was done and inspect the sheets. There wasn’t going to be a fight about this. You monotone motions as you followed your routine of lacing your arm with his as if you were to entertain together. You stopped him and he still escorted you to your chambers, you couldn’t look at him. They would find nothing. 

“Daemon and I,” you began with a stutter, pulling yourself closer to step away from any onlookers “we -“ you shook you head, willing the words onto your lips “they won’t find blood.” 

“They will,” Baelon’s voice stern yet understanding, you opened your mouth and closed it yet again. His silence willing you to believe whatever he might have devised to save your shame. “I have yet to apologise to you,” he hung his head. 

“And I you,” you said moving away from the doorway of your chambers, Baelon looked to you confused. “It is no easy thing, you are forsaking much for the Realm,”

“You are wise darling,” he patted your palm rested on your knee. “I’ve watched you grow in these halls, you will be my wife in name, yes. You needn’t be afraid of me,” he gave you a tight lipped smile, a broken giggle tore through you and perhaps in weeks someone finally saw the pain you were in. After your night in the woods, Daemon drank himself silly in the tavern’s of Flea Bottom, with a fortnight he earned the title of the Prince of Flea Bottom. 

Daemon’s wedding was to resume first, while his bride to be still seemed aloof to the tensions around her, Jaehereys had the City Watch contained to keep his grandson from running away, though hidden somewhere deep in the city. Daemon returned the night before his wedding, only to tear apart his chambers in a drunken rage, refusing to marry Rhea Royce still, how you often wished you were a Prince or Lord, then even you could exclaim you distaste in such a manner. Baelon tried to contain his son, rumours swirled that one could hear the proud Prince weep to his father, the reason unknown and many speculated that Rhea was too old for Daemon's tastes. How you wished it were true, that age is what kept Daemon so curt to his betrothed.

The night before the wedding, you couldn’t sleep as you paced or lounged staring at a wall the entire night, you were willing him to come to you. He never did, having fled to the brothels once again, you picked apart the embroidery on your shift the entire night. The sun peaked through when you realised sleep hadn’t visited you once. Your handmaidens took much care in dressing you, the hems of gowns dropped, more conservative. You looked at yourself and you couldn’t find yourself, merely the shell of the lady you were meant to be, the Queen. 

The procession had gathered in the Iron Throne, parts of the court divided between the Throne Room and the Grand Sept where Daemon should have been an hour ago, the people of King’s Landing flocked to the streets to witness yet another royal wedding. Perhaps catch a glimpse of the bride to be or their notorious Prince. The halls called to you as you ventured towards Daemon's apartments, your own betrothed away from the feasts and sure to be barking sense into his son. The thrashes and sound of darkened protests could be heard from three floors below. 

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Daemon bellowed, jangles of armour followed after as he screamed and fought. Jaehaerys too had been in his rooms, the King ordering his grandson be hauled to Grand Sept. You hid behind a seated section, watching as the King slowly descended the steps. How could a man cause such strife within his family and continue on? 

For much love that you adorned each other with, instead of earning each other’s names, destruction came knocking down your door. You regretted it, the second the image of Daemon’s face reddened with anger graced you, the urge of running away creeped up with bile around your throat. Jaehaerys already departed for his wheelhouse, leaving just you, Daemon and Baelon in the corridors. The small interruption of your figure popping from behind the curtains allowed Daemon to truly yank himself off the Kingsguard men. 

It felt merciless, far too merciless as you stood in front of him. Bound to duty instead of him, yet you wanted him still. Daemon had wanted to hate you, for nights since your last encounter in the woods. You were deceitful, you were merciless in your decision. Fucking away any memory of you on painted whores and yet he couldnt, noting was soft enough, nothing was you. His lover, his cruel lover, you were subjecting him to this misery while you quietly lingered on your own. Heart of stone behind the yellow of your dress but your eyes still wet, he didn't need your pity as he shook his head, praying that seeing him in his maroon doublet would fill you with sense, mayhaps flee why you still had the chance. Even at six and ten, for you? He would cut through his grandsire’s Kingsgayrd like meat. You approached him, cautious and stiff, your arms engulfing him once more, just once more. 

“Please go Daemon, without anymore quarrel,” you whispered in his ear, squeezing him harder. Even in the warmth of your embrace, his heart shattered, scattering to a million tiny pieces. Taking the final honour, he never expected you to, he expected you to fight for him, fight for your love and here you twist the knife harder in his green wounds. He went rigid, he lifted his head from your shoulder. Purple eyes, lifeless purple eyes looking over your face with one sorrowful smile. He pressed his lips to your forehead pulling away, the Kingsgaurd stood ready once more to drag Daemon to the Sept but this time he walked, his princely stride thudding down the steps without a second look to you, his tyrannical lover with your black heart. A decision of much political gravitas, your loyalty to your house, earned you nothing but the carnage of black burning bodies of what was you and Daemon. 

Having witnessed the worst of it, the words Rhea and Daemon shared, their hands wrapped together, the gold and red woven cloak of House Targaryen upon her shoulders, the kiss that sealed their union in front of the eyes of the Seven, “cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder” the High Septon had said, could your future be anymore cursed then it already was? What was the next worst thing, your death? Mayhaps his? The feasting said and done, Daemon not once made any efforts to dance with his bride as he revelled in his cups, Rhea, the poor lady made an offer and attempts to perhaps ease the scowl settled on her husband’s face to no avail. His daggered eyes steadily remained on your figure, conversing and laughing, laughing with other ladies of the court. Many of whom flocked around you to perhaps make your roster of ladies in waiting. 

The worst of it was Daemon resuming to his bedchambers to find Rhea, dressed in her corsage, dressed to stir his loins. A good bride awaiting to be bed by her noble husband, he didn’t mean to be curt but all he could do was scoff at her, a beautiful maiden and all he could think of was you. He couldn’t bed his new wife with the same indelicate manner he did with the whores of Silk Street. As he turned to leave, Rhea, annoyed by right, held onto his forearm “please, it is improper not consummate- we have to,” she urged him, feeling the brunt of what she had shrugged off for weeks. Her husband did not want her. 

“I don’t have to do anything,’ Daemon yanked his hand free before leaving Rhea alone to sleep through her wedding night. 

The days after followed the same, ships loaded in for the royal wedding for every inch of Known World. Your gown finished and resting in your receiving chambers, you too rested under the loopy haze of Nightshade prescribed by the Maesters, the misery apparently resulted in you forgetting to eat, or even having much water or wine. Your head pounded for days as you were thrusted up like a doll in front of the mirror, your gown being altered, the veiled being fitted and the gowns for formal receptions after. As ladies in your bedchambers giggled and gossiped, feasting on candied lemon cakes, your mind so heavily focused on the lace across your waist. You fell, gasps and attendants rushing to your aid as you laid unconscious on the stone floor. 

Baelon was the first to be informed about his bride to be’s condition, your brother Quentel there after, when Daemon finally returned from the brothels, stinking of ale and far more salacious than when he left. As Daemon heard of your fall, his feet were quick towards your chambers. The curtains pulled to shield away the light of day, you laid rested against a mount of pillows. Aemma sat next to you, a book comically rested against the hard swell of her belly as her other hand caressed your head.  Daemon curled his lips inot his mouth as he approached your sleeping frame. 

When Aemma spotted him, she gave him a sympathetic smile as she kept stroking your head. Even in your sleep a frown framed your angelic face, Daemon wanted nothing more than to soothe it away but his heart still held its resentments. He looked up to his good sister, opening his mouth to speak but she knowing all too well of his queries, filled him in. 

“I hadn’t realised she was hurting so,” Daemon whispered, your palm clutched in his hands as he stared up at your face, the frown, the darkening under your eyes. He should have seen the agony but in his own selfish ideations he didn’t. “We don’t have much liberty in these matters Daemon, she cannot whore or break things as you do,” Aemma lectured Daemon, tutting at him as he shuffled a little too hard.  

“I was so consumed by her decision, I didn’t see why she made it,” he said sadly, still rubbing circles onto your palm. Aemma lightly chuckled. 

“Us women never have a choice, it was already made for her she had to adhere to it with a stiff lip,” Aemma said, looking down at you with melancholy. 

Daemon returned to his own bedchambers that night, still lingering in the thoughts of the conversation he had with his good sister, a woman learned and wise that lectured some sense into the prince. “Us women never have a choice,” any other prince of reason would respect the predicament their lover had put themselves in but Daemon was going to make a choice for you. A choice maligned by all the laws of Westeros, his name forbade him to do so, but he wouldn’t be his mother”s son if he didn’t. He dressed himself in armour and armed himself with Dark Sister. A boy, making the choice of a man as he pushed open the passage door from his bedchamber and made hasty steps towards yours.

Your sleeping form, just as warm and dazed as he left your moments before. This time he bent down down to kiss away the frown on your face before wrapping the black blanket over your body and scoping you up. A darkened bundle of bones and flesh in his hand, his love, his heart he smuggled through the walls of the Red Keep. His heart hammering against his chest, as skirted past the watchful eyes of the night guard. He walked with you in his arms, a hood pulled over his head to shield away the glaring blonde of his hair. 

“Ñuha dãrilaros?” the dragonkeeper questioned as he looked at Daemon with you covered in black blanket, he would question some more until Daemon glared at him 

“If you do not wish to be fed to Caraxes, get the fuck out of my way,” he sternly whispered, though the strong effects of nightshade kept you under, he didn’t want to test his luck any further to night. With much care, Daemon bundled you closer to him as he fasten you to his saddle, and tightened the blanket around his waist “sovetes,”

Come morning, the private council called was a rage,a missing prince and princess. Daemon, though finding comical responsibility, left a note. Jaehearys in his old age coughed orders of bounties, as Baelon read over the written note by Daemon, one written with haste and yet with perfected penmanship. “Forgive me father,” Baelon began to chuckle, putting away the parchment as he couldn’t process the hilarity of the situation. All he could think of was Alyssa, Daemon was her son, through and through, defiant, fiery. A dragon. Jaehaereys began to bark at Baelon over the fit he had been in, “come now, father,” he coughed to halt his laughter “what did you think would have happened?”

Jaehaerys near the end of his life might have passed right there, having felt the rage he did with Saerra he never understood why his kin must always go beyond his orders, always. “My son has become more a man than I am, there throw a feast,” 

“He has a wife, he must return!”

“Unless you wish to outlive Viserys and I, this is one crime you must let go unpunished!” this time Baelon raised his voice, “for once, think about my boy and not about the Realm,”

Daemon had not planned where he would head, but Westeros wasn’t his home for now. You were, just as you always would be. 

[maniculum]

An Excerpt from the Aberdeen Bestiary

I've started preparing the bestiaryposting, and have encountered one entry that doesn't really fit into what we're doing. Not only is it one of the longest entries, but instead of "let me tell you about this animal", it's taking more of a "we all already know about this animal, so I'm going to share some stories about specific ones" approach. But out of a sense of completionism, I can't just not post it, so here you go.

Dog

The Latin name for the dog, canis, seems to have a Greek origin. For in Greek it is called cenos, although some think that it is called after the musical sound, canor, of its barking, because when it howls, it is also said to sing, canere. No creature is more intelligent than the dog, for dogs have more understanding than other animals; they alone recognise their names and love their masters.

There are many kinds of dogs: some track down the wild beasts of the forests to catch them; others by their vigilance guard flocks of sheep from the attacks of wolves; others as watch-dogs in the home guard the property of their masters lest it be stolen by thieves at night and sacrifice their lives for their master; they willingly go after game with their master; they guard his body even when he is dead and do not leave it. Finally, their nature is that they cannot exist without man.

Also of the nature of dogs

We read that dogs have such great love for their masters, as when King Garamentes was caught by his enemies and taken into captivity, two hundred dogs went in formation through enemy lines and led him back from exile, fighting off those who resisted them. When Jason [Licio] was killed, his dog rejected food and died of starvation. The dog of King Lysimachus threw itself in the flame when its master's funeral pyre was lit and was consumed by fire along with him. When Apius and Junius Pictinius were consuls, a dog that could not be driven away from its master, who had been condemned, accompanied him to prison; when, soon afterwards, he was executed, it followed him, howling. When the people of Rome, out of pity, caused it to be fed, it carried the food to its dead master's mouth. Finally, when its master's corpse was thrown into the Tiber, the dog swam to it and tried to keep it from sinking.

When a dog picks up the track of a hare or a deer and comes to a place where the trail divides or to a junction splitting into several directions, it goes to the beginning of each path and silently reasons with itself, as if by syllogism, on the basis of its keen sense of smell. 'Either the animal went off in this direction,' it says,'or that, or certainly it took this turning.’

Again on the nature of dogs

Often, also, when a murder has been committed, dogs have produced clear evidence of the guilt of the accused, with the result that their unspoken testimony is for the most part believed. They say that at Antioch, in a distant quarter of the city at dusk, a man was murdered, who had his dog with him on a lead. A soldier had been the perpetrator of the deed, with robbery as his motive. Undercover of the growing darkness, he fled elsewhere. The corpse lay unburied; the crowd of onlookers was large; the dog stayed at its master's side, howling over his sad fate. It happened that the man who had committed the crime, acting confidently in order to convince people of his innocence - such is the cunning way in which men think- joined the circle of onlookers and, feigning grief, approached the corpse. Then the dog, briefly abandoning its doleful lament, took up the arms of vengeance, seized the man and held him, and, softly singing a pitiful song, as in the epilogue of a tragedy, moved everyone to tears; and the fact that the dog held that man alone, of the many that were there, and did not let him go, lent weight to its case. In the end, the murderer was at a loss because the evidence in the case was so plain; he could not clear himself by objecting that he was the victim of anyone's hate, enmity, envy or spite, and he could no longer rebut the charge. Because it was very difficult for him, he suffered punishment, because he could offer no defence.

A dog's tongue, licking a wound, heals it. A dog's way of life is said to be wholly temperate. A puppy's tongue is generally a cure for internal injuries. It is characteristic of a dog that it returns to its vomit and eats it again. If a dog swims across a river carrying a piece of meat or anything of that sort in its mouth, and sees its shadow, it opens its mouth and in hastening to seize the other piece of meat, it loses the one it was carrying.

In some ways preachers are like dogs: by their admonitions and righteous ways they are always driving off the ambushes laid by the Devil, lest he seize and carry off God's treasure - Christian souls. As the dog's tongue, licking a wound, heals it, the wounds of sinners, laid bare in confession, are cleansed by the correction of the priest. As the dog's tongue heals man's internal wounds, the secrets of his heart are often purified by the deeds and discourse of the Church's teachers. As the dog is said to be temperate in its ways, the man who is set over others diligently studies wisdom and must avoid drunkenness and gluttony in every way, for Sodom perished in a surfeit of food. Indeed, there is no quicker way for the Devil, his enemy, to take possession of man than through his greedy gullet. The dog returning to its vomit signifies those who, after making their confession, heedlessly return to wrongdoing. The dog leaving its meat behind in the river, out of desire for its shadow, signifies foolish men who often forsake what is theirs by right out of desire for some unknown object; with the result that, while they are unable to obtain the object of their desire, they needlessly lose what they have given up.

Some dogs are called licisici, wolf-hounds, because they are born of wolves and dogs, when by chance these mate. In India bitches are tethered at night in the forests to breed with wild tigers, by whom they are mounted, producing very fierce dogs, so strong that with their grip they can pull down lions.

[krookodyke]

thinking of how all the yellowjackets are cursed in one way or another. not even just the obvious ones, but all of them.

shauna is cursed to remain as a haunted house forever— she’s been grieving a girl for longer than the girl herself was even alive. most of shauna’s existence was already built on guilt even pre-crash but with jackie and shauna being directly responsible for it knowing that jackie had felt so cut-off from the group and yet she let jackie storm outside and didn’t fetch her at any time during the night, it’s that much more harrowing. she’s always going to be trailed by jackie’s ghost for the rest of her days. and even when she dies, she’ll be old and weathered and broken from all she’s done and jackie will still be the 17 year old teenage girl she’s always been and will always be.

taissa is cursed with a rot she was born with that she’ll never escape— her nana saw the man with no eyes and now she does, too. it was inevitable, even as tai, stubborn as she is, denies it and pushes it off. above all else, she’s pragmatic and a realist, and to be constantly watched by something inherited from her nana doesn’t make sense. she can’t be watched by something that doesn’t exist. that doesn’t make sense. she can’t let sleepwalking interfere with her life, she didn’t plan it that way. even as the rot festers and gets worse she still continues because she still wants to maintain this sense of Normality and this idea of Success she’s had in her mind since she planned her whole life out when she was a kid. she’s ignored the mold in her lungs for so long that she doesn’t even notice until she’s choking on it.

nat is cursed with a constant, pulsating sense of brokenness— her curse may be the most grounded and realistic, and yet it’s also not. she lives in a trailer park, she inadvertently killed her father, the other girls give her shit for filling the emptiness within her with alcohol or drugs or otherwise. and yet, 25 years later, she’s the same— in and out of rehab, occasionally making sure her mom isn’t dead. would it have been the same if the crash didn’t happen? we can’t say for certain, because she already had it the worst pre-crash. you were born broken. that’s your birthright. nat can snort, shoot up, smoke, take whatever she wants. it won’t erase her past and it won’t erase what’s in her blood.

misty is cursed with the all-consuming desire to be liked and loved and yet is so batshit in her desire to for such it never comes— misty wasn’t unpopular because she was weird, but rather because she’s insane. drugging coach ben and acting as his nurse, crystal dying with her worst secret, when misty reveals what’s closest to her real self everything crumbles. because while she could’ve fit in with the weird kids at high school, she didn’t because she has something much darker within her. because ultimately, she wants control over the narrative— that’s why she’s a nurse to senior citizens in present day. but no matter how many old people or vulnerable people or whoever else she plays with, she’ll never have the control she wants, and as such she’ll never get the love she’s been begging for all her life. after all, her life is a tragedy, not a comedy.

van is cursed with being unable to die— she doesn’t want to get up, but something always brings her to anyways. there was no explanation as to how she wiggled out of the plane set ablaze, there was no explanation as to how her face was torn asunder and she was only knocked unconscious, there was no explanation as to how she was lit on a funeral pyre and then came to, bloodied and beaten but alive. she doesn’t want to fight, but it’s the only thing she knows, and death refuses to claim her. rejected by her mother, rejected by her peers, rejected by death herself, even. she will always endure being on the edge of death, feeling all the pain and mercilessness of it, and yet is forced to live through it.

lottie is cursed with the package deal of hallucinations from her mental illness and real psychic visions— she could never tell which is which, and how was she supposed to? and yet, she’s crowned the leader, the all-knowing, the prophet. but she doesn’t even know, does she? when they put all the pressure on her initially there’s the stark reminder that she’s just a deeply traumatized kid. she’s both not psychic and simply severely mentally ill and yet also psychic and not mentally ill. but the horror of it lies in the fact she’s both— there are real visions there, but she has to endure scorching tricks of the mind to get there. she can’t be one without the other, and yet she doesn’t know which is which, what’s real, what’s fake, and she never will.

[darksaiyangoku]

RWBY x Garo: Into the Fire

Where there is light, shadows lurk and fear reigns. Yet by the blade of the knights, Mankind was given hope.

A crowd booed and jeered, pelting Jaune with stones, dirty clothes and rotten fruits and vegetables. He could do nothing but grit his teeth and bare the pain as he was dragged across the streets by the inquisitors of Vale. Small tears were forming in his eyes and his face tensed from trying to supress his sadness. He felt like a failure. It was only his second mission and he had already made a mess of things. His "trial", if you could even call it that, didn't allow for him to defend himself. Every lord and lady threw accusations of witchcraft against him, for which he could not rebuff thanks to the sways of the young priest, Cardin Winchester.

The inquisitors stopped in the middle of the city and dragged Jaune up to the pyre, bounding him up tight. Walking towards him with Cardin, dressed in a wine red robe and a a golden emblem of the cardinal bird on his back.

Cardin: *smiles sinisterly* Good people of Vale, we have gathered here today to witness justice! *points to Jaune* What we have here is a witch! A heretic servant of the Grimm sent here to uproot our peaceful lives and bring damnation upon us!

The boos of the crowd grew louder. Jaune hung his head, not wanting to face the humiliation.

Cardin: Thanks to our fine inquisitors, we have captured the witch and now, we shall send him back to the depths of hell where he belongs! *turns to Jaune* Do you have any last words to say before we cleanse you?

Jaune glared at Cardin, his eyes bloodshot with anger. Cardin simply smirked and lit the pyre with a torch. Jaune heard the cheers of the crowd as sweat began dripping from his skin and the heat was becoming intense. His lungs were filled with the toxic smoke and he coughed violently. It was pitiful. Jaune couldn't believe that he was dying like this. Suddenly, the cries of a horse alerted the crowd and a woman riding on horseback leapt into the town square. She quickly dismounted and, using only her fists, started to beat down the inquisitors one by one. Cardin drew his knife and tried to attack, only to be disarmed and knocked down. She turned to the pyre and raised her hands, splitting it so that it wouldn't crawl to Jaune. Walking up to him, she cut open the binds and caught him as he fell into her arms. With a sharp whistle, she called her stallion and jumped into him, riding off with Jaune in toe.

They rode for an hour until they stopped at the woods. The mysterious stranger dismounted again and let go of Jaune, who was still in shock at the whole ordeal.

Jaune: Um, thank you mademoiselle. Not many people would've raised their arms to save someone like me.

Stranger: Well unlike them, I actually have a heart. Watching an innocent die like that is sickening and the fact that they have the nerve to cheer about it. *clenches fist*

Jaune: I am truly grateful. *bows* May I ask your name?

The mysterious woman unhooded herself, revealing light tanned skin, luscious golden blonde hair and bright eyes that resembled the lilac flower. Jaune immediately stood back, in awe at her stunning beauty. She gave him a warm smile and reached out to touch his hand.

Yang: My name is Yang Xiao Long. You could say I'm a kindred spirit of sorts. *shows Jaune a necklace*

Jaune: *eyes wide* T-That's a necklace from the Makai Order. Y-You're a Makai Knight?

Yang: *nods head*That I am. From now on, your life is mine and my life is yours. *touches his hand*

Jaune felt a warm sensation course through his body. Not one of hatred and death like the fires from the t,ial. but a soft and gentle warmth that reminded him of his role as a protector of mankind. From her pockets, Yang handed him another necklace. It was a golden yellow pendant in the shape of a burning heart. Jaune smiled and held the pendant to his chest. His will to fight had returned.

[totally-not-here-for-the-smut]

This stuff is LONG and complex, and I’m not a native speaker. Which means, it’s hell, WHY BRAIN GOT NO RIGHT WORDS DAMMIT, but it’s also cool bc I can’t really understand HOW bad it actually is, so I’m less self-demanding about the actual style quality than in my own stupidly demanding language. Let’s get to the content then. I’m so very sorry for my children’s book language-level.

Pls believe that I am, in fact, not a child.

Tw:death, sickness, angst

and this is-

Loved & Lost

A The Arcana prequel fanfic - part 1

When the plague came, it started robbing you right away- it took your aunt and, before eventually claiming your own life, your love.

The wise woman who had been your magic mentor was one of the first to fall ill, as if the pestilence were trying to thin out the ranks of those who could stop it. She felt right away this was not a normal illness. The sickness got slowly the best of her body, as if it wanted to seep unnoticed into the city. Your aunt's body withered a little bit each day, her skin slowly tinging red by the engorged veins, but it never managed to steal her wits until the very end. When she was at last bedridden, she had Asra call for you.

You didn't recall where you were at that time. Your magical training was long completed, and you were travelling the world, scavenging for rare spell components, old scrolls and lost magic to bring home to her and to her new apprentice. You got home just in time.

The woman who was a little sore as you kissed her goodbye all those weeks ago now seemed barely more tangible than a ghost - pale and trembling, her clothes hanging empty from her once proud and graceful shoulder. But her eyes, although now tinted in red, were sharp and stern as they had always been.

You did not show any pity for her -she would never have allowed you to-, but when she took you hand in hers her gentle touch unveiled her deepest nature.

"I'm leaving, child", she told you. "But I need the two of you to stay as much as you can".

She called Asra by her side with a nod.

"I have lived a long life. The time I gave it back has long passed, but now death is catching up to me. Spare your tears and magic for the victims to come" she turn her head to face your friend. His purple eyes were veiled in tears.

"Asra, you're a mage now, your training is almost done. In fact, my nephew took my place as your master some time ago already. She'll be more than capable to fill in the gaps in your knowledge. Soon, you'll be a mage, but" - her eyes went narrow- "I want you to remember that you were took from the streets. Someone cared for you, listened to you, taught you everyone you know. You will have to pass your care on to whoever will need it. This is why I taught you magic". Asra couldn't do anything but nod. His lips parted, pronouncing a promise so feeble you couldn't hear -but your aunt did, and a faint smile showed on her chapped lips.

"Believe me, soon many will need it. But I know you'll both live up the cause. Now leave, I need to rest".

You didn't even take your travelling clothes off - you threw yourself into Asra's arms -now your apprentice's arms- to hold each other through the sorrowful night.

She died shortly after. Many vesuvian would have come to salute her, but you and Asra decided to do hold a more private gathering - you, him, and Faust. The snake was so torn that even her scales seemed to grey. She squeezed one last time your aunt's familiar, a pitch black crane called Hermes, who took flight as soon as the mage's funeral pyre was lit.

You kept your head high and your eyes on the flames, resisting the urge to bury your face on Asra's chest and cry your heart out. Instead, you held his hand tight, grounding yourself into the two things that mattered in that moment: Asra's love, and the promise you both made her - to stay and care for the city.

So, when the plague erupted in Vesuvia and Asra began insisting to leave, your fights became vicious.

✧

I want to really thank @wilson-artisan and @lovely-dove69 for their help as proofreaders. They un-dorked my writing a lot.

I feel that I must pay credit to various writers as well who inspired me: check bakuliwriter's "Hurt", that set ablaze my drama thirst. I can totally see it in the same timeline as this thing.

The other parts will be in te reblogs!

Navigate it from my masterlist

[sulky-valkyrie]

writing prompt: A plaque denoting the Hero of Ferelden’s birthplace

Happy Friday! for @dadrunkwriting

Anora wouldn’t shut up.  Wouldn't stop blathering on about Alistair this, Alistair that, like she hadn't been ready to throw him to the wolves just weeks ago.

Tabris sat straight-backed in her chair, dry-eyed and stone-faced.  These shem wouldn't see her cry.

When she finally wound down, the grand cleric nodded at two servants.  Elves, Ris noted bitterly.

"We send you to the Maker's side."  At her words, the pyre was lit.  They had to treat bodies with something to make them so . . .combustible.  Alistair's body caught instantly, and the smoke stung her eyes.

The rest of the mourners started filing out of the courtyard, but she stayed put, hoping the attendants would leave too, just so she could have a moment alone with him once more.

"Warden Tabris."  The queen was approaching.

She didn't move to stand.  Didn’t even flick an ear.  

Anora smiled thinly.  "I know you and my husband's brother were . . .close."

Fuck you.  Ris just nodded.  She might have power now, but it wouldn't last, even if she had put this bitch on the throne.  "And?"

"Is there anything he'd want?"

To be alive.  She shook her head.  "Nothing you can give."  It wasn't a politically savvy answer and she didn't care.

Anora sniffed delicately.  "I know what it's like to -"

"Go away, your majesty."  She pointedly turned back to the pyre.  Alistair was already ash and she'd never been able to say goodbye.

She didn't go away, but she did finally stop talking.  Ris ignored her as she watched the ash blow away.  Her eyes burned with tears, but she wouldn't cry.  Not in front of her of all people.

Only when the fire died down and the last few attendants started to sweep up what was left of him did she stand, still not acknowledging Anora.  The bitch followed her as she walked out.  "Warden, would you walk with me?"

She bit back the Do I have a choice? and just nodded again.

Ris followed her through the winding corridors of the palace.  Anora collected a few more guards as they continued out the front gates.  They headed toward the alienage.  Years of practice kept her face neutral, but nothing about this felt right.  What is she playing at?

The vhenadahl looked the same: sickly, but trying.  Just like the alienage itself.  Shianni was talking with Alarith nearby, and headed toward her as they approached.

"Your majesty," she said, nodding respectfully, before falling in next to Ris.  "I told them not to," she muttered, so softly only an elf could hear it.

Before Ris could ask what Shianni meant, Anora clapped her hands.  There was a sudden cacophony of trumpets, and only Shianni's hand on her elbow stopped Ris from drawing her blades and falling into a defensive crouch.

"We've gathered here to honor one of our own: an elf from Denerim, who saved us all!  The greatest elf since Garahel"  Anora'a voice was resplendent and insincere.  A politician's voice.  "She saved us from certain doom, stopped the Blight in barely a year!  How should we thank her?"

Leave me alone, Ris wanted to scream.  Wanted to, but didn't.  Not when confronted by all that fucking hope on the faces of the gathered onlookers.  This was what heroes did, she supposed.  Fought and died by inches, giving others a chance to keep going.  She didn't even recoil when Anora grabbed her hand and hoisted it to the sky.  "Behold, our Hero of Fereldan!"

The crowd cheered.

She held her tongue and smiled.  Anora nodded at her, like she could see through it, like she knew Ris was fantasizing about cutting her throat.  "We'll build you a statue later, but this is all we can do for the moment."  She let go of Ris' hand and pointed at the vhenadahl.

Ris followed her gesture with her eyes, despair turning into horror.

It was a gold plaque.  Nailed to the tree.

Birthplace of Kallian Tabris, Hero of Ferelden, 9:10.

They'd poisoned the only thing that mattered in the alienage to honor her.  Her gaze swung to Shianni, begging her mutely to tell her this wasn’t happening.  Her cousin only shrugged, then low under her breath, mumbled, "Fucking shem."

Fucking shem indeed.  To the void with appearances.  Ris fled.

[jimblejamblewritings]

snow falls hot | part 8.

Summary: (Y/N) Snow isn’t a Snow at all. She’s a Targaryen— Rhaegar’s child. Taken in by the Starks, she leads her life as another on of Ned’s bastards. Will she be able to live in Westeros comfortably? More importantly, does she have any ambition to see herself one day on the Iron Throne?

Warnings: it’s game of thrones…

Pairing: gendry x reader

Word Count: 3.0k

Previous Part | (Series Masterlist)

Crows pecked at the ground around a pyre. You were seated far away, on the steps of one of the buildings, watching. The crows pecked for food and paid no mind to the man tied up on the pyre. As if by magic, the pyre lit itself. The man screamed as he burned— the crows still paying him no mind. One crow raised their head and flew up, striking their beak against the man’s chest. He stopped screaming in an instant and the crow seemed satisfied to have put the man out of his misery.

You awoke before Eddard, a luxury you were afforded sometimes now that he was no longer a newborn. He would be fine for a few moments while you washed up and emptied the chamber pot in the bathroom. Like suspected, when you entered the room again little Eddard was sound asleep. You finished getting dressed before gently picking him up.

He started to stir and eventually opened his eyes to greet you with a string of babbles. You rubbed at his hair, black with a noticeable white streak at the front on one side. The two of you made your way out of the farmhouse and to the back of it. Kneeling you down, you scratched behind Grey Wind’s ear— the dire wolf waking up immediately. He stood up and, with a nod of your head, stalked towards the forest to hunt.

Shadow arrived mere moments later, bigger than ever. You weren’t sure if she was still growing or not. Not that it mattered much anymore— she was clearly big enough to ride now. Although you weren’t sure if you were ready to try just yet. Eddard reached out to pet the large creature. You brought him even closer until his tiny hands could touch Shadow’s snout. You patted Shadow as well.

“Go, not too far. And return to the woods before it is night.”

A puff of smoke blew from her nose and she took flight. Your neck craned back as you watched until the dragon was no longer in your sight. Satisfied that both your animals were taken care of, you and Eddard headed back inside where the rest of the farm family was now awake. Fryda already had bowls of porridge out— everyone eating. Kylis played with Eddard who sat in your lap as you all ate. She insisted that she could eat and feed him at the same time so you let her.

“Does the market nearby sell clothing dye?” you asked.

Fryda and Waylar looked from their bowls. Fryda finished swallowing her bite to speak.

“Not this one but the next one over, not much longer of a ride. What do you need dye for, Your Grace?”

“Please, I am not a queen, simply (Y/N). I’m going to dye my hair once more.”

“But it is such a lovely color.”

“It marks me a Targaryen and puts you all in danger if I am spotted. It is safer if I am a Stark… a Snow. I spent my childhood that way, it is time to return to that once again. For you all and for Eddard.”

Darren stood from the table, announcing that he would ride out at once to bring you the dye before the night came around. The table was silent. Ever since you revealed Shadow to them, they noticed a change.

You didn’t leave the farm or want Eddard to go very far from your sights with one of them. You hadn’t tried on Robb’s cloak since it was presented to you. Touching his sword or your bow and arrows wasn’t even a thought that had crossed your mind. It didn’t occur to them until the words left your mouth that everything you did was to protect them. Because you were right. In the current state of Westeros, Snow was the safest thing you could be.

“What story do you want to hear?” you asked Eddard.

“Da-da,” the baby babbled. “Ma-ma.”

“Which one?”

Eddard babbled the same two words. You laughed and lifted your baby in the air.

“Both? A story about both of us… Robb was my first kiss. Not at his army camp, at Winterfell in the crypts. We were ten perhaps, eleven? Well, I don’t think we were much older than Bran before we left for King’s Landing.”

You set Eddard down on the bed and let him crawl around. Pulling out a sewing kit, you began to mend your dresses as well as the dresses of Kylis and Rosyn. Laughing, you continued the story as you pulled the needle through the fabric.

“Catelyn and Ned would have had a fit if they had found out. It’s improper, you know. You’ll learn all about the rules of lords and ladies when you’re older but it was improper. He dragged me down there to see the statue of his aunt and ask me about my father without anyone overhearing. It was a small kiss and then I ran. The whole memory was rather ridiculous!”

As you finished sewing, Darren came back with the bottle of dye. It looked to be the same used in Winterfell— good enough to cover your hair. You soaked the curls until an ounce of white couldn’t be seen. Half of you wanted to color the streak on Eddard’s head, the other half couldn’t fathom erasing the Targaryen side of him. In the end, safety or maybe your own cowardice won out and you covered the streak until you both had black hair.

Grey Wind scratched at the house to let you know he was back. The wolf settled and you warged into Shadow, seeing she had made it back as well. That was the routine. Wake up, let your animals go, tend to small tasks, teach Eddard, make sure your animals are safe, and fall asleep. Now with black hair, you were able to accompany the family on small trips to the market. No one paid you any mind, a few looks lingered on your skin until they assumed you were originally Dornish and moved on. You and Darren were riding back from selling the last of the produce harvested from the farm.

“The days will be free now,” Darren muttered. “Lady Snow?”

You had stopped keeping conversation, looking out at the land before you. Suddenly, you turned the horse around. Darren quickly pulled on the reins of his horse and rode up next to you. You pointed down the path, the young man squinted but could see nothing. He only could see hills.

“What are we looking at?”

“This path is the Kingsroad, just follow the long trail and you’d be in King’s Landing. Past that, Dorne, of course you have to go through Highgarden first. If you sail from either Dorne or take the Narrow Sea from King’s Landing, you reach old Valyria.”

“Where your ancestors are from? Isn’t it ruined? I heard a colony of stonemen live there now.”

“In the ruins closer to the ground. High up in the mountains, you need a dragon to reach. Or perhaps be an expert climber. That is where Eddard and I are going.”

“What?” Darren looked at you but you were still staring out at the landscape. “Lady Snow—”

“The people in the marketplace starve. Your family barely makes enough to coin to survive and winter is coming. False kings fight and for what? Claim to a chair and rule over people they do not take care of. The bastard Tommen and his mother Cersei, the traitorous Freys and Boltons, the emboldened Greyjoys, the false king Joffrey, the usurper Robert Baratheon and his want to be usurper brother Stannis. What do they all have in common, Darren?”

The young man thought for a minute. “They just want power? They’ve never been common?”

You smiled at his answers.

“They are not worthy to rule, sitting on a pile of lies that make them think they have a birthright. Aegon Targaryen created the realm that they fight to rule so hard. If anyone was to challenge him it would be the brave Starks or the Martells of Dorne, the only houses to bow down through marriage.”

“Isn’t your mother of Dorne?”

“And my child a Stark. I was raised by one, married to another. The birthright, all of them, lay with me and little Eddard. I had a dream last night, Darren. Two more usurpers will come. One living that will claim to be a prince promised, three rulers fighting amongst themselves for the Iron Throne.”

You breathed in the air around you.

“What of the other?” Darren asked.

“Winter is coming.”

“The cold?”

“The dead. Men made of ice and magic lead them. A Night King at the helm.”

“The dead?”

“The Night King wants us to join his army but the world of the living is not his. Fake sovereigns who want nothing more than to sit on an uncomfortable throne will let him win. I will not watch the Seven Kingdoms be handed to such an evil.”

“But then why would you leave the Seven Kingdoms?”

“To learn. I know how to talk like a ruler but I don’t know how to fight like one. I do not yet command… I told Robb once, the reason he was accepted as King in the North was because he inspired, commanded trust and fear. I have love from those that remember, like you. But I don’t have trust and I don’t have fear. These men are not afraid that I will enforce justice and they cannot put their faith in me to keep them safe from the dead. So I will learn.”

“How? You said Valyria was ruined.”

“Magic still lives there, ghosts walk amongst the city and the great conquerors have ways I must learn. I’m taking Eddard and we are going to Old Valyria and when I return I will take my rightful place and end this Night King.”

You commanded the horse to head back to the farm. Your first follower, Darren, smiling as he rode behind you. You warged into Shadow and called her to the field, the dragon already ready when you arrived. The family all stood outside, waiting for you and Darren. Fryda handed you a large sack filled with supplies. You took the reins from around the horse and used it to tie the sack to Shadow’s leg. You looked in the sack to see Robb’s cloak. Pulling it out, you refolded it and handed it to little Rosyn.

“It’s hot where I’m going. Will you hold onto that until I get back?”

Rosyn nodded and you gave her a hug. Your arrows and bow were in the sack but Robb’s sword was tied around your waist. With great care, you swaddled Eddard. You wrapped more cloth around yourself to make a cradle for him and keep him wrapped to your chest. You checked over and over that he was secure— not willing to risk anything.

You climbed onto Shadow. Unlike Grey Wind, there was no fur and that frightened you a bit as you grabbed onto her horns. Shadow rose into the air, not terribly high but just barely off of the ground. With some reluctance from the dire wolf, Grey Wind allowed himself to be scooped up in Shadow back claws. You bent your head to the family on the ground.

“I will see you again,” you promised.

“We will be waiting, Lady Snow,” Waylar said.

You smiled and patted Shadow. “Sorves.”

With that, the dragon was off. It took miles before you could open your eyes, used to the wind. You looked down to see Eddard asleep, a little spit of drool left his mouth. It made you laugh. He was of Targaryen blood alright, finding comfort in the clouds.

“Grey Wind!”

A short bark barely reached your ear due to the wind from Shadow’s wings. But you heard the wolf and that was all you needed to make sure he was okay. Even for a dragon, it was impossible to make it to Old Valyria in a single day. When the light of the sun could no longer be seen, Shadow stopped. Gently flapping above the ground so as to let Grey Wind drop into the sand, Shadow had made it to Dragonstone.

As soon as you untied the sack from her leg, the dragon took off again. You knew she would be back. She was just hunting for something to eat for her and Grey Wind. The dire wolf probably would have gone with her, but after spending more time off the ground than he ever thought he would Grey Wind was tired and his legs had gone a bit numb.

You took Eddard out of the wrap, still holding onto him. The old castle of the Targaryens was dusty, quite a shock for you considering Stannis had been camping there before moving. You thought it would have a bit more life to it. Honestly it looked like it hadn’t been touched since your ancestors first left the island for King’s Landing. Once inside, you set Eddard down and let him crawl around.

Dragonstone was your home but it didn’t feel as such. You didn’t realize how much the North had affected you. King’s Landing was a decent place to live and Winterfell was the most comfortable. The Targaryens established King’s Landing because it was the most central place but still south enough to be warm. You considered potentially leaving it when you came to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Winterfell wasn’t that far away with a dragon. Weeks would turn into days and you could easily be there for your people. But the same argument could be said for why you should stay in King’s Landing. You could quickly visit Winterfell.

Shadow came back with dinner for her and Grey Wind. You guys didn’t go far into the castle, staying in the foyer. The four of you were a tangle, Eddard safe in your arms. It was warm between the dragon and the dire wolf. You and Eddard were content to sleep.

~~

A snarling dog stalked towards a girl with red hair. The girl seemed frightened. You weren’t sure, only being able to see her from the back. But she was shaking and pleading. The girl backed up but was pushed towards the dog by a large presence— the only thing you could make out on the figure was a silver sparrow pin.

The dog kneeled like it would be passive but the girl’s hand was still shaking as she reached out to it. Before more could happen, the figures faded to black and you were suddenly standing in the courtyard of Castle Black. The pyre was back and a stag walked across it, leaving ash behind wherever its hooves touched.

“Lord Crow!” someone called.

You turned to see Jon in furs of black, a shining sword at his side. Jon smiled before frowning as the man, a tall and round man you had never seen before, approached.

“Maester Aemon is near death.”

Jon nodded and walked away with the man. Fire was left behind with each step he took as they entered the door to the room that Maester Aemon was being held in. Aemon turned his head and you could have sworn his eyes, despite being blind, were focused right on you. Jon turned his head as well and the entire room burst in flames before going dark.

You held your head as you woke up. Aemon Targaryen was dead or dying, the last of your kin. Almost the last but you still didn’t know who the mysterious Targaryen in Essos was. Or if they were even in Essos. That was an assumption from your first dream when you were still bad at interpreting them.

After Robb’s death— one that you still blamed yourself for— you had determined yourself to understand what the premonitions meant. Whether you were correct or not was still to be seen but you no longer ignored your dreams. Even if there was nothing you could do about them, lately most dreams seemed to be about others far away, you still paid attention to every dream.

Shadow, Grey Wind, and Eddard woke up slowly. Eddard was the only one who needed breakfast. You fished around the sack and found a tiny burlap bag of fruit as well as some wooden utensils. Getting up from the floor, you walked further into the foyer until you found a rock the size of your hand. You took the rock and returned to where Grey Wind and Shadow were— choosing to lean against the large dragon.

Eddard giggled as you repeatedly hit the burlap bag with the rock. When it felt like mush, you opened the bag and fished some out with the wooden spoon. Eddard gladly ate the mushed up fruit. He was burped and cleaned in the water around the island— the bag of fruit was washed out as well. When Eddard’s needs were met, it was time to finish the journey.

Riding Shadow was more comfortable the second time. You already felt less afraid— the same couldn’t be said for poor Grey Wind who would need longer to adjust. The dragon continued to fly until the strangely familiar ruins of Valyria appeared in the distance. You had dreamed it accurately despite never seeing it until today.

To Grey Wind’s luck, there was forestry. Not nearly as expansive as on Westeros but a semblance of home for the dire wolf. You landed in what could easily be identified as Valyria’s citadel. It appeared to be connected to the palace ruins by a rickety bridge. Shadow would be used to get around most of the palace just for safety reasons.

The citadel appeared to be the least ruined place, probably because it was the shortest building. You assumed all the taller towers got hit first by the Doom and the citadel received the backend of damage. You decided it would be the place you stayed. Shadow and Grey Wind left to explore— Grey Wind checking the tiny forest and Shadow flying to who knows where. You removed your son from the wrap and propped him up on your hip, walking towards the hole that once held the door to the citadel.

“Come on Little Lord Stark, we have a lot of work to do.”

(Part 9)...

[alittlebitofmuse]

“I am Safie” the drow spoke to the muscular tiefling woman once she stopped her spontaneous combustion. “This is Lae’zel-” she continued the introduction, motioning to the sneering Githyanki with a modicum of respect. Her competence has earned it. 

“...-Shadowheart.” the raven-haired Half-elf earned herself only a lazy gesture of the head, not helped by the name she went by. Safie did not experience motherhood yet, but ever since their mutual introduction she was sure that this was how maternal disappointment felt. 

“And this is our male.” She finished curtly, sparing only a glance to Astarion, if only to make sure he was actually there.

When the tiefling woman lit up like a pyre, Astarion had conveniently drifted to the back of the group. She had already looked like she could snap him in half before she erupted into flames. He liked his odds better from back here.

And then they were on to introductions. Sometimes Astarion lamented a lost opportunity for wanton bloodshed, but he could acknowledge the relief he felt at not having to battle it out with this one.

Safie made it known she was not one for flourished speech as she made brief introductions -- but at his own, Astarion prickled.

" Um, excuse you-- " he cut in sharply, " I won't be reduced to my gender, thank you very much. "

[swampstew]

A Bloody Nightmare

A compilation of short stories and character building for my OC fic "What's the Magic Word?" Basically, bonus stories to build up my fic. They include stories within the time-skip period, leading up to the current manga timeline, and even in the distant distant distant future.

Summary: Kid didn't have a clue what being a Witch meant but he's about to find out. Also, discovers he does not like Ayahuasca.

Word count: 3.7K CW: Mostly SFW, Witch lore and practice/drinking/psychedelic drug use, blood imagery and usage, OC background tied to main book. Minors do not interact with my posts or blog.

Eustass Kid was no stranger to blood or gore, he was quite familiar with it, comfortable even. Seeing Rowena covered head to toe in it as she was now, was a little…unsettling.

If it was in the heat of battle Kid would find it hot; had found it erotic enough in the past to initiate intimacy while still disheveled from said battle. Hell, he’s even found it kind of sexy when she was experiencing her period. Not even that could frighten him away from seeking her out to quell the lustful need he had for her; loved seeing it on them both during those moments.

Rowena’s hair was soaked in a slain buck’s blood, dripping thick red liquid to the dusty ground by her bare feet. Her tube top and short tulle skirt were coated in it too, her limbs and body marked with bloody streaks and rune symbols she had drawn on herself from the collection bucket. The smell of burning fur and flesh filled the air as the sacrificial pyre was lit, courtesy of Heat. With a final swipe of her thumb coating her lips in blood, she laid the digit on her tongue and sucked the iron taste off her flesh.

Kid still wasn’t entirely sure he got what was going to happen, but he begrudgingly followed Rowena’s plea to not interfere. Said fuck no to her request to have him and the crew stay on the ship while she conducted the ceremony. The others had already begun eating and drinking the mead she speed made with the help of her magic. A separate brew in a black boiling pot had begun to bubble and emit smoke that curled over the pot lip and spilled to the ground, creating a thick mist.

Rowena ladled a cup for herself and turned to the crew, “Thank you all – sincerely, for allowing me the opportunity to do this. It’s been…a long ass time since I’ve been able to freely practice my rituals. My uh emotions might run high, my magic might also get a little weird, don’t worry nothing will harm any of you. It’s like a soft rite of magic task. To show I’m worthy of possessing my natural gifts and show my faith to the natural order of the world, that balance I’m always talking about.”

She took a long sip of her drink, taking a long-suffering sigh from the taste. “Never liked this brew. Anyways, please enjoy the food, the music, and the drinks. Don’t drink this stuff though, it can be compared to Ayahuasca and if you’re familiar with that, you’ll know it’s not something that should be taken lightly.”

“We’re not pussies, Witch!” Wire yelled from the food table.

Rowena cracked a smirk at that, “That’s fair. You’re all the scariest motherfuckers I know. Ok take at your own risk. Whatever your drink of choice is, no matter how little or much you indulge, please be aware of your surroundings. If you find yourself in any kind of…state where you think something sounds too good to be true, or you find yourself unknowingly wanting to commit to something, politely decline.”

Everyone stared at her in confusion.

She let out another long-suffering sigh, “It’s not been known to happen often. In fact, I’d never seen this happen even when my coven was intact. But these rituals are intended as worship to the Master of Nature – the very essence of Chaos. Different people call Him different things, I believe some of you call Him the Sea Devil.”

EVERYONE stared at her in disbelief.

“Yeah, He’s allegedly real. I’ve never seen Him though. It was said that He used to visit these ceremonies in abundance. Approving blessings, giving them out Himself. Engaging with Witches…who He considers His daughters on the Earthly plane.”

She winced when they all kept staring at her incredulously. No matter how comfortable she felt with the Straw Hats, the Kid Pirates, Killer, Kid even – she always felt so fucking…freakish. So different.

“He hasn’t been seen in ages so there is no reason to think this time will be any different. For a single, insignificant Witch,” she dug her nails into her hand. Rowena’s ears pricked up at the sound of Kid getting upset, making his way towards her. No confidence at all, she drained her mug.

“Nevertheless, don’t make any promises or agreements of any kind tonight, or with each other either. Got it?!”

The crew and Killer nodded respectfully before resuming their activities, more warily than before. Rowena turned and grabbed another cup of her brew before Kid’s hand grabbed her wrist and forced her to drop the mug.

“Does the same apply to you?” he asked gruffly.

“I should take my own advice, yes,” she bit her tongue.

“Will you?”

She was almost afraid to meet his glare. She did and it was intense, his eyes shimmering in the reflection of the fire, making them almost look like they were fire.

Rowena gulped, “I’m just supposed to accept His grace if He gives it.”

“Why?”

“To show I’m devoted to my own power and survival. The survival of His line.”

“What would happen if you didn’t?”

Rowena scoffed at him, “I don’t know! No ones done it before and I don’t think it’d be wise to start NOW, Kid.” His grip on her wrist tightened. “Whatever you think is going to happen during this, get it out of your head right now. You told me to not hold myself back and that you’d help me be my best self.”

Kid regarded her coolly before sharply nodding, releasing his grip, and taking a step back.

“I did. Fine. Do your ritual and I swear on everything that—”

“No! Don’t make any swears, promises, nothing tonight! I just said that!”

“BUT!”

“NO!”

“FINE!” He angrily swore. “Then tomorrow morning then. And don’t you interrupt me then or I’ll kick your ass.”

Rowena tiredly nodded. So jealous.

Kid ducked his head and kissed her, licking her lips and nipping her flesh before kneeling to grab her fallen rose gold cup. He ladled himself a cup of brew and finished it in one sitting.

“Tastes terrible.”

“Oh I know it.”

Rowena pulled back from the music transponder snail as it began to play her requested songs. The electro pop tune and synth overtones was a popular song heard across the seas, a song the Kid Pirates were familiar with. Rowena walked towards the raging bonfire as the enchanting melody flowed, and she began dancing. She nodded her head and swung her hips to the beat, her eyes closed as she let go of her inhibitions in front of the others. She didn’t see the crew sprinkle in to join and dance alongside her at first. Feeling their energy buzzing with her own, hearing them sing along to the song, she cracked a smile before opening her eyes in delight. Joining them in singing the chorus as they drunkenly laughed and partied.

Kid sat on a bench, watching everyone else dance as he drank mead with a smirk on his face with his eyes transfixed on Rowena as she transitioned from anxiously awkward to freely happy. Seeing her hair whip in the air as she danced, bopping her head with a smile on her face. It made his own wretched heart feel lighter.

He figured the potion brew had finally taken effect during the next song. Rowena was tapping her heel to the drum as the lyrics queued up and he swore her entire being was enshrouded with a glowing aura that trailed after her as she swayed. As the chorus peaked she began to skip and twirl, the glowing aura raced after her, moving both in slow motion and much too fast, creating rainbow-like streaks that chased her. His neck twisted as he continued observing her and he couldn’t help but feel that she seemed so right that way. She’d never looked so magical before.

Kid wondered if the others could see what he was seeing.

He briefly hoped they couldn’t, feeling the scene was only right for his viewing.

The outro started playing and she was buzzing, light refracting off her like a firecracker as the thrum of the rock guitar sped up and she kicked her feet keeping up with the music. She looked so perfect.

‘Hmmm. Keeping thinking like that Boy, and you may yet be worthy of her,’ a low, sibilant voice rasped in Kid’s ear.

A chill fell down Kid’s spine as he turned his head and came to face to face…with himself.

Only it wasn’t quite him. This version of him had creepy eyes. An extra halo around the blood red irises. It’s posture and demeanor held a certain madness that Kid only wished he possessed. And he was already a psychotic fucking bastard!

Kid’s eyes sought out Killer to see if he noticed the mysterious figure, and saw that Killer was dancing between Rowena and Quincy, very much not paying him any attention. Kid was on his own.

‘Yes but it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Orphan…’

Kid glared at the mirrored version of himself, “What is this?”

‘You mean you don’t recognize yourself? I am you. Your chaotic nature.’

Kid’s shaved brow raised as a weird and intense pulsing agitated his stomach. “I am chaotic, so who the fuck are you?”

The mirrored version laughed, grabbing a glass of mead for itself but not drinking it.

‘You ate one of my fruits. Always claiming things for yourself that you’re not worthy of hmm?’

“I paid a price for the fucking fruit.”

‘And what price did you pay for my Witch?’ it hissed.

“None, I don’t claim her. I chose her and she chose me back. Loophole – in your face.”

The mirrored Eustass Kid blinked, not expecting that response. Then it gave a sharp tooth filled grin.

‘You are an interesting one Eustass Kid, Son of Captain John. His soul is in hell if you cared to know.’

“I don’t.”

‘Not even if I told you he’s apologetic?’

“He’s dead yeah? His words and feelings should stay dead too.”

‘Your spirit is very much your mother’s,’ mirrored Kid let out a hoarse whisper. Kid felt his heart drop to his ass. ‘She’s in the other place, the nicer one…’

“…Thanks,” Kid wanted an antacid so fucking badly.

‘As I was saying. Your entire existence was enveloped in violence, poverty, and anger. You turned it to power and ambition. And your rage!! It’s delicious. And yet, not one demon can permeate you. It’s really such a miracle. A perfect vessel like you would do wonders but you’re simply put…unbreakable. Your sheer will is a force. A joy. I want it,’ mirrored Kid growled.

‘If you were to…bend the knee to me…I could provide you with a clear channel of raw power that you could ever hope to obtain. It would guarantee your crews’ survival with the…trials you’ll be facing. I could extend that security to her as well,’ it hissed almost sweetly.

Kid eyed the mirrored devil in shock, considering the words spoken to his mind while he sat alone on the bench while the party went on.

Another electro pop rock song played through the snail and Rowena threw her hands in the air, lazily waving them as she let her mind float as the lyrics rolled as easily as the wind in her hair. Her glassy eyes watched through half closed lids at the scene before her. The Kid Pirates celebrating her culture, dancing with her.

She could see Kid hunched over himself in worry. She could see a dark aura hovering near him.

Rowena straightened up and began to run. Her arms swung as she tried to reach him but she felt like she was running in place as the air around her whipped quickly, flushing her face with harsh snaps.

‘Leaving your own party so soon little Witch?’ a hand gripped her shoulder, digging sharp claws into her skin drawing fresh blood. ‘Best not to interrupt a private conversation.’

Rowena’s head swiveled as she realized a few pirates had dark auras trailing after them.

“No! They’re not offerings!”

‘I know that.’

“Then why??!”

‘It’s my nature.’

Rowena’s head snapped behind her and her sun-tanned face drained of color. She was looking at herself but a much more unsettling version of herself. Her stomach clenched. She knew this face, knew those double halo eyes. She knew this feeling.

‘I just can’t help it. I’m chaos, sue me.’

Alter-Rowena forcefully guided Rowena away from the fire and everyone else. ‘It’s been so long since you’ve reached out to me Rowena. You really hurt my feelings. Don’t you have any love for me anymore? You used to adore me when you were a child. You wanted to marry me, it was so cute.’

Rowena flushed at the memory that flashed through her mind. She was six, wearing a crown of thorns as the others prepared her for the signing. Where she would bloody her thumb to memorialize her vow in the Book of Names. Her devotion to Him. Rowena’s childish mind took the ceremony to be more romanticized like the fairytale stories her sisters would tell her. She thought this would be a marriage ceremony, and she remembered the faces of adoration her Coven made at her when she declared it so.

“I-I couldn’t. There was a massacre and I was enslaved for years. I couldn’t do anything like this! It is by the miracle of pirates that I have been freed and able to use my magic once more. To honor You again.”

It tsked at her. ‘I’m aware. You didn’t have to wait until the Yule to reach out. You could have done a rebirth ritual. A cleansing ritual. Either of those would have reached Me. Guess I’m feeling so starved of worship. What will you do to rebuild the Coven?’

“I was…afraid. That if I only found silence I would have felt abandoned by You too and been truly alone. I do not know. I am only just relearning my craft and pushing myself to be at the appropriate level of a Witch my age.”

Alter-Rowena gave her an irritated look, ‘I will never understand why your Coven decided to stop The Rite once you began your first menstrual cycle. It was a year of experimentation and training, and it ALWAYS yielded excellent results. You have pathetic influence over Fire and you don’t have a familiar! Do you even fly?’

“I suspect it had to do with our dwindling numbers and low mortality rate outside our island. I do not,” Rowena answered through grit teeth. The idea of forming a pact of servitude with a demon hidden in the flesh of an animal did not fill her with any comfort. It made her feel gross even before experiencing enslavement herself.

‘Tch. Ever since the War of the Witches you silly girls were scared beyond any common sense. Diluted your line by isolating yourselves from the world. Disallowing the participation of males even!’

Rowena tilted her head at that, “What War of the Witches? I’ve not been told this history.”

Alter-Rowena matched her tilt with a bewildered look. ‘The war that happened 870 years ago, of course.’

The longest awkward pause settled over them before Rowena keeled over and threw up.

Fucking brew.

Alter-Rowena pulled Rowena back by the hair and Rowena flipped backwards, falling to the ground. Her back did not meet the Earth, instead her body began to levitate in the air. Sharp claws dragged along her back tattoo as Alter-Rowena began to walk with Rowena hovering over her like a balloon.

‘I think a family meeting is in order. Use the Cornu Ignus and follow the Amaru to the Spirit World. Do not forget your first duty before your…career…in piracy is to Me. To the Natural Chaos that makes this stupid little world spin. I made you and every Witch before you to lay out My influence in the world. For every tip in the scale, Witches have been there to righten it and advance My agency. Do not fail Me, child.’

Alter-Rowena threw Rowena across the sky to the edge of the bonfire. Rowena landed and stumbled, squealing as she jumped back from the flames licking at her face.

‘You are a Witch, you should not fear Fire you should merge with it! Stick your hand in the flames and pull out a wisp.’

Rowena hesitated.

‘Do. Not. Fear. It. It is life just as much as it is death.’

Rowena shakily reached for the fire, took a deep breath, and put all her faith in the Sea Devil’s words. You are me and I am you, we are one and the same, she chanted to herself and at the fire for confidence.

With a steely gaze, Rowena thrust her hand into the blazing heat and was shocked when she didn’t feel her hand burn to a crisp. The temperature surrounding her hand climbed significantly but it did not harm her any worse than a bright sunny day on the deck of the Victoria Punk did. Just as quickly Rowena yanked her hand out and there in her hand sat a sizable flame, pulsing excitedly, matching Rowena’s own excitement.

‘Gooooooooooooood,’ Alter-Rowena purred. ‘Now. Eat it.’

“HUUHHH?!”

‘You rely on outside sources too much instead of mastering the elements. You need to imbed them into your being if you ever hope to use them more efficiently. Think of how easy it is to master air once you begin using the air in your own lungs. Did you know when you’re channeling your water magic you’re working the blood and water stored in your own body first?’

Rowena nodded her head.

‘Then eat it. All Fire born Witches are exempt from doing this because the sparks are born inside them. All other Witches must earn Fire’s respect to reside in their hearts to use.’

Rowena condensed the flame into a small ball of fire, the size of a gumball. She popped it in her mouth and swallowed. It was like swallowing a spoonful of Killer’s soup right off the stove. She felt an intense wave hit her body that settled over her chest. Like a terrible bout of heartburn. After several minutes it petered out.

‘Now blow a stream.’

Rowena turned to the bonfire and gathered as much air in her lungs as she could. She felt it heat up inside her lungs. She let out a long and flush roar of fire above the bonfire.

The crew began cheering at her with Heat following up with his own stream of fire.

‘Ahhhh look at that. He has a spark of magic, naturally gifted. What an anomaly.’

“He said he ate a pepper.”

‘False, the pepper was a catalyst. The power within him all along. He’s not one of Mine but that’s magic.’

Alter-Rowena began to fade out, coming into focus one last time, ‘I approve of your choice in husband, by the way. You have my blessing for union. Create a new generation of Witches.’ Then He was gone.

Rowena glanced around her and could see the dark aura had disappeared from everyone except Heat and Kid. She started towards the redhead. The dark aura vanished before she reached him.

“Thanks, but I don’t need Your help. I got this far without You.”

‘Tsk, foolish Boy. If you won’t accept My offer than I’ll leave you with My blessing over your coupling. Your children will be endowed with great power and abilities, and that’s even before My Grace comes into play.’

“What do you mean?”

‘You’re committing yourself to a Witch. You will bear Witch offspring. That’s how it works. You’ve not seen the last of Me. I can already feel it, they’ll be the strongest in a new era of Magic.’

Kid had not thought that far ahead when he proposed to Rowena. He knew children were on the table in the distant future but somehow he just forgot that they’d likely have some type of power from their mother passed down. Kid shrugged.

“That may be so but they’ll be mine and hers. Not Yours – not ever.”

His mirrored version glared at Kid before it faded and vanished. Rowena took the seat his mirrored version had occupied.

“Hey how are you doing?”

“Got a bit of heartburn. You too I gather from that flame you shot out! My little dragon,” he pulled Rowena into his lap.

She giggled before turning serious, “I thought I sensed something over here with you.”

“Nope, just me and my addled thoughts. This brew is fucking me up though.”

“I’m sorry! Let’s eat to soak it up and sleep it off.”

The rest of the night faded into obscurity as exhaustion took hold of the couple.

When they woke in the morning, curled on the ground and only covered by Kid’s fur coat, they took note that not one pirate made it back to the ship. Everyone was passed out on the ground. Some were even cuddling together. Killer’s hair was tangled up in Heat’s blue locs as the two spooned each other. Wire only a few feet from them and holding himself tightly as he snored. His signature cape was gone, found a few feet away where a few of the women crew members used it as a blanket.

Kid tightened his hold on Rowena, turning his tired amber eyes to her lavender ones.

“Like I was saying last night. I swear on everything I hold dear, that if that Fuck tries to make you do anything that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll rip His damn tail off and shove it down His throat.”

Rowena smiled at Kid and nuzzled into his embrace. “We’re good on that front.” She stilled for a moment before daring to ask, “Were you…visited by anything last night?”

Kid regarded her calmly before sighing, “Nope, pretty boring on my end. The brew fucked me up though, never drinking that shit again.”

They laughed quietly together while the crew lightly stirred as the sunrise began to break through the cloudy, overcast sky.

“Told you it wasn’t meant to be taken lightly.”

“I ain’t a bitch!”

“Hmm, no you’re not. You’re anything but, Eustass Kid.”

Kid leaned down to kiss her, nosing her cheek before softly whispering, “That’s fucking right, honey.”

[manicpixie-tieflingboyfriend]

Tav felt the cool grass on his back, as the moonlight embraced his naked body. Though soon it was eclipsed by his lover. Above him for the first time over a tenday. As the older man began gently rubbing Tav’s hips, Tav knew what was next. He had been aching for Zevlor’s touch and it was too long since they had been apart. He eased into the massage and spread his legs wide for his lover. Zevlor was already hard, and teased his leaking tip against Tav’s needy cunt. Tav winced and bit his lip. The waiting was too much, he had waited enough when they were apart. But even Zevlor knew that. Soon, Zevlor closed the space between their two bodies and held Tav close as his cock parted the folds of Tav’s labia and slid slowly into his wet, twitching hole. Zevlor kissed Tav deeply, and Tav moaned into it as he felt ridge after ridge enter his touch-starved body. Tav was a man of many desires, but in Zevlor’s arms be became the desired. The object of gentle and knowing affections. The pyre lit aflame by the older man’s lust. Zevlor brought a clawed hand down to just above where his and his lover’s bodies met and stimulated Tav externally and Tav’s insides only squirmed more. Tav felt like he was going to burst into flames from the heat, pleasure, and passion around him, on him, inside of him. He couldn’t take it anymore. He clung to Zevlor and moaned out Zevlor’s name as he came. Tav’s cunt squirted and dripped around Zevlor’s thick cock, only to be overstimulated all over again as he felt Zevlor’s warm seed fill him deep inside. This is what it means to be together again.

LIVE MIEV REACTION IM FUCKING DEAD. HOW DARE YOU. I'M NEVER GONNA RECOVER.

[fallen-urls]

Welcome, traveler, to the fields of the fallen.

Within these trenches lie the wasted, the missing, the lost, the quality URLs taken in the latest waves of the war against the bots of Tumblr. Though they are blocked now, their sacrifices will not be forgotten. Here's a toast to the fallen URLs.

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Hey folks! After a few weeks of the latest rounds of bots we just couldn't take it anymore, seeing URLs of all walks that were just too "Tumblr" to lie blocked and forgotten.

So! We've (I've, with prodding) opened a submission blog here for you to share with the world the lost URLs that are too good to let languish in your blocked list. Whether unfathomably funny, or hilariously ironic, or a name you cannot believe isn't a blog already, or something that gives you that terrible horrible moment of "Oh, that can only be Tumblr content," you can submit your screenshots here and we'll share them to the world!

We at the Fallen URLs Fields hope that all URLs lost within the trenches may one day be brought to life again through the processing of spam/bot block reports. Onward!

The Guideline Gist: - Submissions will be queued, asks are open, and I'll be running checks on this once a day or so. You may submit anonymously! - Default applied tags will be as follows: "Submission", "Shareable", "Tumblr bot invasion", and "Fallen-URLs" - Right now, available optional tags include: Humorous, Ironic, Why isn't this a blog yet, A toast to the fallen - Occasionally you may see "Mod Tested Mod Approved" awarded to particularly excellent bot names! - Submission contents will be labeled appropriately. Some of these names have been bordering on content warning! This is a safety precaution more than anything. - We reserve the right to reject submissions that may contain explicit imagery (aka the blog profile photos).

Pinned post will be updated as we get this rolling! (Non queue'd posts are mine or are passed to me by friends.)

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[In the distance, the Honorable Kazoo Chorus begins to play My Heart Will Go On. The sacrificial pyre is lit and the longboat cast off its moorings, bound for eternal patrol.]

Here's a toast, boys. May the URL sacrifice not be in vain. o7

[foreverrogers]

Hii Hayes!!!

Congrats on 1.5k!! 🥰🥳 Very well deserved indeed. I love your work ❤️

I'm here to ask for some austen if you feel up for it. I was out of ideas for quotes so I went into my notes app and I found this from The Cruel Prince by Holly Black:

It turns out that having kissed someone, the possibility of kissing hangs over everything, no matter how terrible an idea it was the first time.

I was wondering if you could write something on it with Jeb Pyre (or any of your other characters I love them all).

Love ❤️🥰

thank you thank you hun!!! i don't think I've ever written a blurb so fast, this quote is so perfect!

cw: post utboh, smoking, drunken kissing, allusions to loss of faith, very brief mention of hitting knuckles as a punishment {1.5k}

austen - the queen of romance. send me a favourite quote of yours (can be anything! books, poetry, plays, songs) and I'll make it the theme of a little blurb/dialogue

he had been drunk. the first time, at least. he still wasn't used to being drunk, had spent so many years being told it was a sin.

maybe it was a sin, but he didn't care anymore.

wanting you felt a little bit like that, too. like it was wrong, like you were something out of bounds he should feel bad indulging in, made him feel like a child sneaking treats out of the pantry when nobody was looking, waiting for somebody to come scold him, hit his knuckles until they couldn't reach anymore.

it didn't help that you were younger than him, not much but just enough for it to make everything feel a little scandalous, the pretty young thing at the front desk who had caught his eye on day one.

he had felt worse about it, then, when you had first met, about seeing you and immediately wondering what you felt like, what you smelt like, what you tasted like.

he got to find out all those things, eventually, in the alley of a cop bar at midnight during a retirement party. he had watched you slip out of the back door, finds you lit by the dim, flickering yellow of the street lights and the faint glow of your cigarette. god, you were bad. bad for him. a bad idea. reaching, knuckles waiting to be hit.

you smile at him when you see him approaching, all wide and warm, red painted lips curving deliciously.

he smiles back, smaller, a little less sure. he might be drunk, but he wasn't far gone enough to not realise he was encroaching on dangerous territory just by being here with you, alone in the dark. he still wasn't even sure if you thought about him like that, the way he thought about you, takes all the half glances he had caught over the past couple of months and calls them circumstantial evidence at best.

there's no greeting as he slides next to you, back pressed to the steady brick wall. all you do is offer him your cigarette, already burned halfway down and stained lightly with your lipstick.

"i don't smoke, but thank you, though."

you don't relent, keep your hands stretched between you, ash swaying slowly to the ground. "can you be tempted?" by more than a cigarette, yes.

he looks from the cigarette to you, watches the flutter of your lashes and those doe eyes looking up at him and thinks you must be doing this on purpose, putting on a show to draw him in, doesn't think anybody could look this beautiful without trying.

he takes the nub between his fingers without looking away from you, brings it to his lips with a long, steady inhale.

you start to grin at him, at some point in the seconds of his inhale, giddy realisation that he's done this before.

so maybe he had smoked, just a little, a few puffs behind the station when things got especially stressful, enough to take the edge off but not enough to come home smelling like smoke. you wouldn't mind, he thinks, if it was you he was coming home to.

"thought you said you didn't smoke."

jeb exhales, unwavering, relaxes against the building, proves to calm the hot anxiety spreading through his veins at this new proximity to you. "it can be our secret."

your smile softens, and you study his face so intently it makes his throat close up a little.

"needed a break?" he asks, just so he can change the subject, so he can break you out of whatever puzzle of him you were putting together in your mind. "from in there?"

he offers you the cigarette, and you accept it with a hum of agreement. "i don't think the wives like me very much," you mutter, look away to breathe in one last drag before snubbing it out against the brick. "don't trust me. think all i am is a skirt and a smile to distract their husbands."

jeb doesn't know what to say, and so he doesn't say anything.

there's nothing to do now, with the cigarette gone, has to give you his whole attention when you meet his eyes again. "do you find me distracting, jeb?"

there's silence, long and heavy.

jeb doesn't know what to say, and so he kisses you.

there's no delay, no surprise. you kiss him back like you had been expecting it all along, hooking your fingers into his loosened tie and pulling him to you until he's pressing you against the wall.

you're soft, like he knew you would be, soft where his hand comes up to cup your cheek and his arm moves to wrap around your waist. you taste like smoke and liquor and sugar and you smell the same, too, the sweet cut of your perfume and your lip gloss.

jeb doesn't remember the last time he kissed someone, but he sure as hell knows he's never kissed anyone like this, hot and hot and hot, molten honey dripping from your tongue.

the heavy back door opens with a screech, and by the time the two drunken officers stumble out of the bar jeb's already sprung to the opposite side of the alley.

they both fall past without noticing you, or the thick tension they walk right through, tripping over their own feet and into the deserted main road.

jeb's not sure if he's blanched or if he's blushing, but either way he's glad you can't tell under the dim lights.

he knows by the way you watch him as he walks into the station the next morning that you remember everything clear as day. jeb can, too, does more than just remembers it, can still feel you all over him like a haunting reminder of his indiscretions.

if he thought you were distracting before, he was unprepared for how distracting you were when you were trying. and you were really trying, always coming up with new ways to corner him, to get him alone in the copy room or the break room or even just walk past him in the corridor, brush arms without catching his eye.

every time he would try not to look at you, and every time he would fail, would find your eyes already lingering and the quirk of a smile on your lips. he tries not to watch the curl of those lips, tries not to think about kissing you again.

he gets the overwhelming feeling that you're playing with him, a dangerous game of cat and mouse he's certain he's losing, on the precipice of getting eaten alive.

it's a deserted night, a sunday, and with no one to go home to jeb stays at work long after the sun has set over the mountains.

when he walks into the car park you're leaning against the hood of his car. you smile at him, like you had in the alley. you're even wearing the same lipstick. "i was starting to think you might be living at your desk."

"just, uh..." jeb furrows his brows at you, steps slowing until he pauses a safe distance away, taken aback, undeniably confused. "had a lot of paperwork to catch up on... are you... okay?"

"yeah, 'course i am," you're still smiling, sickly sweet, tone almost too innocent, the type of innocence that only exists to hide something wicked underneath. "i just didn't really feel like going home by myself, so i was wondering if you wanted to... do something tonight."

he almost misses it. by myself. "... together?"

your smile brightens, amusement in your eyes now, and you breathe a gentle laugh as you tilt your head. "yes?"

jeb has to clear his throat, tries not to draw too much attention to the way he loosens his tie a little, an attempt to remember how to breathe again. "uh, what did you have in mind?"

"i don't know, anything, really. dinner? movie?" and, after a few beats, "or you could just take me home, if you'd like."

jeb gapes at you, just slightly, the lightest purse of his lips, and he doesn't mean to but he also can't seem to stop.

"don't look so scared," you smile, back to playing that faux innocence. it's sheer now, though, jeb can see exactly what's underneath, and it takes a lot more restraint than he's willing to admit to not give into it immediately. you take a slow step forward, and then another, soft clack of your heels against the concrete ringing in his ears. "i don't bite, promise."

jeb still hasn't closed his mouth, and now you're close enough that he thinks you might actually act upon it when you look at his lips. he speaks, only because if he kisses you again he's not sure he'll be able to stop. "dinner sounds nice."

come join my 1.5k sleepover!

[rikki-roses]

Fluffy February Day 6: Fire

SWTOR

Time Period: Jedi Consular storyline, right before Quesh

Location: Tython

Bit of bittersweet fluff for this prompt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Setra watched as the flames of the funeral pyre climbed higher.

She knew this day would come; Master Yuon had done her best to prepare her.

While she had eliminated the plague after redeeming Parkanas months before, returning Yuon's health to her (and returning Setra herself to her full power, no longer having to shield anyone), the damage to Yuon had already been done.

After Setra's mission on Balmorra concluded, Setra and her crew took Yuon on her last archaeological dig, doing their best to make the trip and subsequent dig as comfortable as possible for her.

The return trip to Tython was harder than the trip out.

As Yuon's oldest friend, Qyzen kept unusually close to Setra; while she was able to commune with the Force and meditate to come to terms with her Master's death, the Trandoshan didn't have the luxury; the funeral pyre was more for him than anyone.

Thankfully, once Setra had explained their wishes to the Council, Setra and her crew had been granted space on the Temple grounds for Qyzen and Setra to do what they needed; they took the time to weave together both of their cultures' funeral customs in order to honor Yuon.

They had expected it to just be the two of them plus Zenith and Tharan, but most of the council (including Syo Bakarn, to Setra's relief) joined them, offering condolences.

Setra and Qyzen kept watch throughout the night, long after everyone else left. Qyzen made for bed wordlessly once the pyre was low, but Setra stayed, meditating in quiet vigil.

Just before sumrise, the pyre down to its coals, Setra felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and a thermos of tea pressed into her hands. Master Syo rejoined her, wordlessly kneeling next to her in the grass. They meditated together for a quiet moment, before Syo lit a pipe. They took turns with it, enjoying the quiet companionship.

"She was proud of you, I hope you realize. Even when you were traveling, she would always speak of you and the digs you were able to go on. She wanted to part her legacy onto you, and you succeeded beyond what she could ever hope for."

"It still wasn't enough; I should have done more. Faster."

Syo reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Do not blame yourself, child. You wend above and beyond what anyone could ask of you, and you gave her over a year still. The damage from the plague would have been too much for anyone; it was the Force's will that she join it."

Setra nodded, her throat tight.

She heard Nadia calling across the temple grounds; she had started joining Setra in her morning routines, and was looking for her to begin. Setra caught the slight, knowing smirk on Syo's face.

"Don't give me that look, I'm too young to take on a Padawan. Besides, her father has been vocally against it."

"I know you, little one; you have Yuon's spirit and stubbornness. How long before you start training her anyways?"

Setra's nose flared, but she returned the slight smile. "Just as soon as I stop psyching myself out. And can find a way to either convince her father or keep him from finding out."

They both chuckled and finished the pipe, and parted ways to start their morning.

[anerdquemoraaolado]

Grains of Sand by the Shore

Chapter 8

---

Shuri's steps were slow and delicate, yet purposeful, she let her ears fill with the singing of the women, the clicking of their tongues in cheers, the sound of drums. They were proud of her, apparently, even though she was marrying the man who had taken her loved ones. She hoped, in that final moment, that her people would understand her heart's intent.

She then turned towards the front, waiting for Namor to get there. Shuri spotted it then, with what a foreign guest would wear in Wakanda. Namor, in turn, surrendered to the customs of the surface temporarily, respecting the customs of the land that was allied with him.

His usually exposed chest, sporting only his jewels, was covered in a river-tribe green robe and cloak, as close to the sea as he would find there. He walked like a humble servant, remembering that he owed his life to the woman who would become his wife. That she was technically already married to him.

Words were chanted by the priests, separately and together, sung and recited. Namor didn't know exactly what each one of them was, but he knew their meaning, since Shuri had explained what would happen before. A series of blessings and requests for luck and fortune, a flame was lit under the pyre in front of them, symbolizing that they would be together eternally from that moment on.

The head priest touched Shuri's head and then Namor's, with arms crossed, eyes closed and a moment of silence.

It was hard to look at each other, there was embarrassment and fear at first, but then genuine fascination. There was beauty and mystery in the shades of brown in their eyes. Shuri couldn't help noticing her husband's features, a strong chin, a sharp nose, tender, admiring eyes.

Namor noticed in his wife a gleam in her eyes, small but ready to grow, a noble hauteur, with her chin even trembling lifted upwards, proud, without lowering her head. The little curls that fell out of the lilac scarf on her head, gracing her forehead. He noticed her earrings, gifts from him. Seeing that she was wearing them made him happy.

They woke up from their little trance when the priest removed his hands from their heads, a sign that it was done and they would have to kiss now.

Moving to make the gesture felt strange to Namor. He touched Shuri's chin hesitantly, as if apologizing. She tipped her lips forward, giving him permission.

He pressed his lips against hers long enough to elicit a reaction from the audience, releasing them in some haste. Part of Shuri had expected something more elaborate and the feeling of disappointment took her by surprise. She didn't understand what she was feeling.

Returning to her sense of responsibility, her husband took the initiative to hold her hand and walk all the way back, introducing themselves to the guests as a married couple. Without exchanging more words, soon Shuri and Namor were in the center of the place of honor for the bride and groom, receiving tributes and gifts.

When the musicians filled the palace with the tinkling of instruments, most of the guests began to dance, which was watched with curiosity by the Talokani who were there, including their king.

Breaking a long silence, Shuri turned to her husband.

-Isn't there anything like this in Talokan? - she asked.

"It's not like we have the balance in open water to make the same repetitive movements so gracefully," he confessed, watching with delight, "but the movement of the water is great for a good ball game."

"I didn't know you played," his wife commented in surprise.

"I don't play, I just enjoy it when I can," he replied, not knowing exactly why he felt embarrassed.

-Maybe you could try it, the game, the dance - Shuri encouraged him.

-Would that be a command from my wife and queen? - he dared to give her a smirk, trying to take charge of the situation again.

-I don't know, I don't want to be that kind of wife, but to tell you the truth, it's tradition for the bride and groom to dance, remember that my brother did that at his wedding, don't you remember? - she explained.

-Oh no, if I have any favors with my wife, I ask you to spare me such embarrassment, I don't want to look like a fool in front of your people - he put himself in a position of defense.

-Look Namor, following a Wakandan custom will actually make you look good to them - she gestured in a relaxed way, in front of the guests.

-That's... interesting - he chose which word to use, sipping some of the drink he had been served, trying to buy time; time, that's all he needed - give me a little more time until I get a handle on the idea.

-Okay - she agreed, unable to stop smiling - I won't be that cruel to you.

"I thank you, my queen," he nodded at her, smiling again.

-Shuri, you can call me Shuri - she made it clear, seeing that kind of smile as someone's friend, and friends were treated by their first names - after all, I'm already your wife and I call you Namor all the time.

-Shuri then-her husband agreed, considering it progress.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to prepare for the dance. He watched the little prince, T'Challa, called Toussaint by the family, approach his aunt insistently.

-Come on, aunt Shuri, you need to dance! - he asked.

-Oh but I still haven't danced with my husband, it's tradition for the bride and groom to dance - Shuri corrected.

-I will pass my turn to the prince - Namor joined in her joke - but I promise not to escape your tradition.

Laughing at the comment, Shuri got up and followed Toussaint, grabbing each other's hands and kicking sideways in opposite directions, swaying their shoulders, bobbing their heads up and down. She might not be as graceful as the other guests, but at least she looked like she was enjoying herself. Seeing Shuri happy made Namor happy too.

With courage, he got up and went to his wife, touching the shoulder of the boy who was now his nephew, a clear sign that his turn had come. Toussaint ran to another corner with a mischievous manner, and Namor took his wife's hands. Shuri felt a slight tremor as she felt his fingers close against her palms, giving her a strange sense of security.

"I'll follow what you do," he declared.

"Good choice," she returned, seeing what he wanted to do.

Shuri did the same as she did with Toussaint and laughed at Namor, who for her was a little slow, but was getting the hang of it. A while later inside that dance, it made him forget that he was the center of attention, of the looks that were there. The world had become him, Shuri and their laughter, their heartbeat. They were living proof that their marriage had served its purpose in making their two peoples friends.

At that sight, T'Challa reassured himself, Shuri would find happiness that way.

(That was the fluffness I mentioned before)