#I fear the affliction is permanent

[ventique18]

Malleus is literally contender for most pitiful character in twst... Dead parents (mandatory for male leads, I fear), grandmother who couldn't bring herself to love him enough to hatch him herself, foster father who he can't even say I love you to because of their difference in status, foster brother/s who are mortal and will die before he physically turns 30, everybody dislikes him because his own mom accidentally cursed him, his first organically-met friend and potential love interest wants to go home to their own world and leave him behind, and if he chooses not to marry and have kids he's doomed to overwork until he either dies of loneliness or everyone else dies so he wouldn't have anyone to rule over anymore-- whichever comes first.

But even through all the shit the world's putting him through, he's still always so very grateful for any morsel of affection he does receive. Despite having all the reasons to be permanently afflicted with sad boy syndrome, he'd still grin and laugh the widest he could with anyone willing to share some with him. He wouldn't understand jokes and you may have to explain it to him, but he will laugh the moment he realizes you're being silly for him. He will adore that cheap bracelet you made for home economics. He will finish and love that plain omelette you made for him.

He's someone larger than life itself, but he's also someone who thinks little moments and memories and the people who gave them to him are more precious than even his very life. And he is genuinely thankful for every single one of them.

#god i am so in kove with him #what a deeply flawed #deeply loving guy #he's so flawed he's perfect #twisted wonderland #ventique rambles #malleus draconia

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 3;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon Aemond;

Warnings: all of them tbh, it's Harshest Winters we're talking about;

Word Count: 10k+

Author's Note: IT'S FINALLY HERE!! I'm honestly overwhelmed by the love this fic got in the span of so little time 😭 I hope you guys enjoy this part as well! Thank you so much for being so patient with me <3

Also, this chapter is FILTHY. I'm talking actual smut for the first time in my life, which makes me both nervous and embarrassed to be posting this lol

I know that the people who read this particular series are already used to the graphic content ahead, but consider this your fair warning :"))

PART 4 IS OUT NOW <3

As night swallows the world of Westeros, four beating hearts must get through the challenges that arise in the absence of sunlight.

Desire is the death of duty - fear pushes against the voice of reason.

Dreams really are the window to the soul sometimes.

One… Two… Three… Four.

Aemond’s breathing came and went in slow and labored pants. Whatever the man was dreaming about must have had quite the effect on him, and the lady scoffed to herself, while pushing down a disdainful huff.

Slowly, yet surely, her head rolled to the side. She could still see him in her periphery - the deep creases that adorned his forehead, a permanent reminder of his relentless character; the way his chest heaved each exhale, as if constantly pained by an unknown affliction.

Good, she thought to herself, At least his dreams should torment him, if his psyche won't allow it.

In… And out. In… Out.

Three weeks had passed since her brazen attempt to escape with Cain. Three weeks, since she left the wounded knight in the cave: to rot or to crawl back by himself.

Back.

Back to where?

Back home? That much was impossible.

Back to the Saltpans? And from there on… what?

Three weeks. Three weeks had passed to account for her life back in Harrenhal. Three weeks of sleeping in the same bed as him, three weeks in which her only waking thought was to grab a pillow and smother him with it as he slept soundly by her side.

Goosebumps crawled over her skin, leaving the lady restless and aggravated. She’d twist and turn more times than she could count - she’d curse herself and her current situation: her weakness, her inability to kill Aemond then and there.

She had to live. She had promised Jace that much, and she would honor her word.

There would be a time for Aemond to meet his end. And it would be by her hand.

Jace.

If he were here, he’d know what to do.

Her thoughts turned sporadic. For a few moments, the girl clenched her fists so hard that her knuckles turned white - squeezing harder as her anger built up. Each of her fingernails bit into the softness of her palm, and she could feel herself draw harsher breaths, in and out: all in a desperate attempt to calm herself down.

Her heart beat loudly, and her body trembled in unquenched rage.

She could still kill him now; Gods, how she wished nothing more adherently than that. And why not kill him - for his death would avenge Jacaerys, Luke… Cain.

Indeed, here she was, laying down next to the Kinslayer, one step away from wrapping her small fingers against his throat and pushing down with an unrivaled force and fury.

Before she could fully process her own actions, (Y/N) slowly rose from her resting place. The wide bed made a deep creaking sound, which echoed throughout the room for a couple of moments.

One, two, three seconds she allowed herself to wait.

The girl remained unmoving, as she took in a sharp breath, and held it in the back of her throat.

Her weary eyes skimmed over Aemond’s sleeping form, and her whole body stiffened in anticipation. When she noticed his lack of a reaction, a soft sigh parted from her rosy lips, and a deep scowl settled over her fair features.

Reason fought with ire and, eventually, the former succeeded in its quiet assertion.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, and the lady of Riverrun shut them tightly; it was Jacaerys’ voice that then rang in her ears.

‘You know what your only fault is?’ He let out a roaring laugh while engulfing her back with his stronger arms. She turned around to face him, abruptly so, and her hands came to rest over his broad and shaking chest. 'I remember a boy who once said I had no faults.' The lady laughed with him, whilst rubbing small circles in the cuff of his sparring vest.

He kissed the top of her head with a wistful smile, and glanced at her with a boyish glimmer in his hawk-like eyes. 'Please accept my humblest apologies, my darling love. I merely meant: do you know what the only thing that’s too good about you is?’

(Y/N) let out a soft giggle, mirroring Jace’s look of full, unadulterated love. She furrowed her brows comically, before tracing his jaw with her free hand. ‘Enlighten me, then, My Prince…’

Upon hearing his title cascade from her plump lips, the Prince of Dragonstone dived in to press his forehead onto hers. He took in a shaky breath, and gently cupped her cheek to kiss her. ‘You are far too loyal for your own good. You care too much for the people you let in. It makes you angry and brash - it makes you take too many risks.’

The threat of a sob was forming on her wobbly lip. (Y/N) bit it harshly, and sucked in another breath. Her tight hold replaced the tender meat of her inner palm, with the silky sheets of their shared bedding. A lone tear parted from her shut eye, rolling over her face, and staining her cotton nightdress.

‘It makes me quite jealous - your fearlessness and devotion.’ Jacaerys muttered against her ear, whilst pampering her with chaste, soft kisses. ‘When I make you my Queen, I might just make it so that you can only see and take care of me.’ He jested lightly, eliciting a chuckle from the laying girl.

Her hand reached for his soft, curly locks, and she twirled each strand against her slim fingers. ‘Should you make me your wife, Jace, I don’t think I’d ever part from you again.’

His eyes held a fire in them; the Velaryon prince reached for her tangled hand, and took it in his own, pressing it against his waiting mouth. ‘You will be my wife. My Princess.’ His voice was laced with naught but determination and love. ‘One day, we’ll both be crowned before the masses: and you will be the most beloved Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.’

‘When we marry, you will be mine, as I already am yours.’ He pledged with a final, delicate caress.

With each palpable reminder of him, her jaw clenched tighter and tighter. The suffering that erupted from deep within her chest both fueled and exhausted the lady and, soon enough, the girl found herself laying down again, wetting her pillow with endless rivers of tears.

The chastising fires of sleep licked at her conscious mind, and, although strained by her lover’s swift reminder, the woman fell into a deep sleep.

Oh, and how beautiful the dream was.

Although it wasn’t an exact replica of the way they first met, it more than made up for it with its stilling beauty.

***

He held his hand out to her, a polite smile plastered across his face. Her older brothers gave her a knowing look - there would be no higher honor for a Tully than to be singled out during the banquet of the Crown Prince's sixteenth name day.

Together, they danced not one, not two, not three… but seven dances during that blessed evening.

Her feet were aching and, with the redness of his cheeks and the lightness on his handsome face, the girl guessed she had at least had the same effect on the Prince, as he had on her.

They talked all throughout the night, sharing fond stares and quiet giggles that echoed and bounced off the hard stone walls.

“Why haven’t we met before, My Lady?” Jacaerys questioned with an upward quirk of his brow and a charming smile upon his lips.

“I’m afraid such questions will have to be taken up with my Grandfather, Your Grace.” As she mirrored his contagious grin, the young girl carried on, “I’ve… been at court while I was younger, and remained in the Red Keep for a couple of years, but the quiet of the Riverlands always suited me better.”

“We’re very similar, you and I, Lady Tully.” Jace let out in a long huff, straightening his back against the cold patio of the Royal Gardens. “I… I know that it is my duty, to confer with the other Lords and Ladies and make idle talk, but… I must admit that it can be quite…”

“Straining?” (Y/N) suggested with a quizzical quirk of her brow.

Jacaerys’ face broke into a beaming smile, and the Heir to the Iron Throne nodded affirmatively. “Exactly that, My Lady. I’m afraid, sometimes, that it shows on my face.” He joked half heartedly as he scrunched up his nose - though his posture remained upright and fair.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and the girl shook her head definitively. “I assure you, Your Grace, it couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Jace.”

“... I beg your pardon?”

“Friends and family just call me Jace.”

A knowing look was shared between them, and (Y/N) allowed her eyes to trail downwards, resting on the velvet flowers that adorned the well-kept garden. Her cheeks felt as though they caught on fire, and the lady was sure that her face held a comical rouge to it, thanks to Jacaerys’ insistent staring.

She knew well what came after that - she remembered how she hurried to allow Jace the same courtesy, of calling her by her given name, and how they both laughed at the other’s awkwardness.

And yet…

The Velaryon’s laughter turned into a painful cry. As if possessed, he started shaking his head. Then his limbs. Then his body.

“But dead men do not need names, do they, (Y/N)?”

Her head shot up - blood began pumping in her ears, and her heartbeat hammered against her chest.

“W-What?”

“I am dead, I am dead, I am dead,” He wailed continuously, “Can’t you see it, my love? Can you not see?”

Strong arms came to hold her from behind - wrapped up in algae, with flesh half eaten by the haunting sea.

The air in her lungs filled with a putrid smell.

“Do you see me? Do you? Do you see me, (Y/N)? My face, my eyes, how do they look? Oh, (Y/N), I cannot see down here! It’s so dark!”

Wet and cold rivers of liquid ran down her spine, coming from his parted mouth - water or blood, she couldn’t distinguish. And she was far too scared to turn her head to look.

“I cannot breathe - help me! Why did you let me die?”

A violent shriek escaped her lips. The girl tried to spin and turn - escape his hold, and take him in her arms all the same.

Jacaerys was faster in his attempts; he took her face with his pruney fingers, and twisted her head around.

But instead of brown eyes, she was met with greying hues.

“Why did you let me die?” Cain’s voice echoed Jace’s sentence. “Why did you let me die, My Lady? How could you let me die?”

Blood was raining down on them: it filled her lungs, and painted her blue dress in a sickly purple. It stuck on her eyes and closed shut. It made her limbs impossible to move.

"No… no, no… this is not how it's supposed to go…!"

“(Y/N)! It's all your fault, all your fault…!”

***

A blood-curdling scream regurgitated from her dry throat.

Neither her drenched nightgown, nor the clogged air of the wide chambers managed to calm her down. While still in the limbo between dream and reality, (Y/N) brought a hand to her souring throat, and clawed at her collar for more stability.

Almost immediately after her first shaky sob, Aemond’s body bolted upright, and the One-Eyed Prince brushed off any remaining fragments of his torturous sleep.

With his right arm, he reached for her in an outstretched caress, eyes wide with wonder over her violent reaction - whilst his left instantly grabbed the dagger on the drawer closest to him.

One look about the room confirmed his pending suspicion: she had gone through a nightmare, and a very unpleasant one at that.

Not all our dreams get to turn into nightmares - The dead of night can provide solace for some, as well as great agony for others.

Scattered desires, idle wants, and needs: all met under the velvety silence and gratifying darkness that eats one whole, and mends his subconscious to the most profane of fantasies.

In his dream, Aemond was engaging in a much kinder resolve than the lady next to him.

***

The echo of swift, hurried footsteps allowed a comforting sigh to wash over his parted lips.

The tedious company of his brother and father was long forgotten, the moment her familiar silhouette caught his eye, urging him to turn his head around.

There she stood, ever the vile temptress, wearing an emerald green dress that draped lowly over her shoulders, trailing over her tender bosom, and barely covering the perky mounds of flesh.

She was smiling at him, despite being attached to Jace's arm, and a soft bite over her lower lip was all it took for the young Prince to feel that familiar tightness form in his leather braies.

He couldn't tell who strutted towards who, or how they got to that point. But a tentative hand rose to his face, taking off his eye patch.

A hitch of pleasure escaped from her crimson lips. She took both his hands in hers and, before the masses, placed them right above her clothed, throbbing clit.

"Please…" She pleaded with him, writhing into his reluctant touch, "Kostilus. Kostilus, Aemond."

His hesitation and lack of movement caused a loud whimper to contort from deep within her throat. She gave him a sly smirk, and brought her own hands under her skirts, to lift them and show him her glistening cunt. The evidence of his arousal was obvious, what with his cock brushing against her thigh as they kissed. He took her by the neck with one hand, while resting the other on her cheek.

He let out a low groan, and pushed her hand away to cup her dripping sex. His calloused thumb flicked over her reddened pearl, and a long, slim finger went inside her tight hole.

Aemond clenched his jaw - almost painfully so - and his hips rutted into the air so desperately, that the man was sure her wanton gasps held some amused glimmer in them.

His lilac orb watched her face contort in pleasure. They were all alone now, hidden in the shadows of the Great Hall, belonging to the Red Keep.

… And there he was, seated on the Iron Throne, moving his hips lazily as his intended was bouncing up and down his clothed shaft, rubbing their bodies together with a renowned fever.

His name fell from her lips in a sickeningly sweet way - Aemond could feel his hardness twitch into the hot material, and the Targaryen Prince bit back a guttural moan.

"Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck, that's it. Bona iksos issa sȳz riñītsos." He hissed through gritted teeth.

She was finally his.

His to love, his to cherish, his to fuck and to make love to.

The thought of possessing her fully, unapologetically, wildly, sent a deep shiver down to his unyielding loins.

Aemond was close. Oh so close to reaching his high. But he wanted to make her feel good.

Wordlessly, the One-Eyed Prince stopped her desperate bucking with one hand over her hip and the other, holding down onto the nape of her neck.

The girl was sobbing and shaking. Her voice came out as a meek whisper, and her glassy eyes met with his dilated pupil.

"No, no… please… kostilus, Aemond, don't stop…" She writhed inside his arms, bringing her hand out to caress his scarred cheek.

A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his bemused lips. Aemond hummed at her admission, and tenderly licked her lips.

"Shh," He soothed her gently, "Be still, byka hontes. Issa dōna, byka jorrāelagon."

While speaking, the Targaryen Prince pushed her dress to the side, sliding off her small clothes with an able hand and placing her flush onto the Iron Throne.

He bit the inside of her thigh, and rubbed small circles on the back of her hands.

Like the perfect lover, he entwined her palms with his, entangling their fingers together as he hushed her sweetly.

"Spread your legs for me, issa jorrāelagon. Let me see how wet you are."

The echo of a "Please" got caught in his throat. It was taking everything inside of him not to kneel before his lady and beg her to let him touch her.

Her wild blush and plush, swollen lips made Aemond let out a low curse. He gripped her fingers tighter, and took them in his mouth, to coat them with adorning kisses, one by one.

"You can do it for me, my sweet, pretty girl." He encouraged her through a shallow pant. "Don't you want me to make you feel good?"

A shy 'yes' bounced off the cold walls of the secluded Keep. Aemond hummed in approval, and lowered his head over her sensitive mound, sucking lightly.

With each new whimper, his strokes became more and more sporadic. The Prince aligned his nose over her throbbing clit, and eased his tongue into her sacred depths.

His eye shut tightly at the feeling of her sweet nectar - one of his hands came free from her tight grasp, and he parted her thighs even further apart.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl…" He chanted while latched onto her scorching heat, and, with one final push of his tongue inside her, he took the girl over the edge.

Her cries of bliss shook the very building to the core. Her wild pants brought Aemond close to orgasm, and the male had to bring down a hand to his aching bulge, and clench it tightly, in order to stop himself from spilling in his pants.

It wouldn't take long for his love to wiggle her hips again.

His mouth and chin gleamed with the evidence of her spilled arousal. Aemond let out a rumbled laugh and licked himself clean with the help of two nimble fingers.

"I won't waste a single drop. Not one, single drop of you."

His words made her eyes roll back, and her throat inch with a loud moan. His Lady kneeled before him, and rubbed her cheek over his clothed cock, kissing at its outlines faintly.

Insatiable little mynx.

His eye fluttered shut, groaning in agony at her sensual touch. Aemond swallowed thickly, and he let out a hurting whimper, as the kneeling woman dipped her hand in the tightness of his pants.

Slowly, teasingly, she tested the waters.

The woman brought her hand up to her lover, and parted his swollen lips with the slow stroke of her thumb. Silently, she urged him to coat her skin with the wet of his saliva. Aemond smirked, and licked one long stripe over her spreading palm.

Humming in approval, and never once breaking eye contact, she eased her way down his leather trousers, and freed his cock from the tightness of its cage.

Several beads of sweat streamed down his pleasured face. Droplets of precum rolled down his reddened tip, and Aemond hissed at the contact they made with the base of his shaft.

His lady looked at him with soft, doe-like eyes;

"Syz taoba." She praised him with a mischievous smile. Before he could register the whole of her movements, the woman's tongue darted out, and she licked a slow strip over his twitching manhood.

She laughed at his dazed expression, and began touching him with her silky palm.

"Yes…" He moaned into her hold, bucking his hips to meet her hand halfway. "Tighter. Grip it tighter…" He instructed her through labored breaths, and a harsh groan etched its way from his bitten lips. "Ah, ābrazyrys!"

With each palpable thrust, Aemond moaned louder and louder, until the licks of relief washed over him in a sudden wave of pleasure.

At once, his hips stilled their violent bucking, and he felt the first streaks of cum shoot over his heaving abdomen.

Aemond gasped at her unwavering touch, and a single tear of pure delight rolled down his pale cheek.

She smiled at him. A pure, innocent smile, as if what she'd just done did naught to shake her untouched innocence.

(Y/N) moaned at the sight of him, so ravished and spent by her hand - she licked her lips tentatively, and trailed her fingers over his lower stomach, coating each digit with his warm release.

The cum pooled on the base of her tongue, and she showed him the fullness in her mouth, before swallowing him whole.

Thinking him fully drained, the girl made haste to get up on her feet and press her forehead against his. She giggled excitedly, and kissed over his jaw and neck.

A primal glint swirled deep within him, and Aemond's eye darkened.

He wasn't done with her just yet.

His arms flipped her over, and the pair found themselves in the peace and quiet of his old Quarters. Her body was pushed against the silk bedding, laid in below Aemond's insistent licks and kisses.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, until the only thing you can think of is me."

His voice was shaking with lust and need, and the curve of her waist and breasts did nothing to help his aggravated heart.

His love let out a stimulated groan. Her lips churned into a small pout, and she brought his hand out to her scorching heat, pressing down on it insistently.

His mouth lulled open - he could feel the heat emanating from her maidenhood, and the very scent that made his head swirl with need.

He gritted his teeth and lowered his body to press against hers. He could feel himself grow harder and harder by the second, twitching against her exposed thigh.

The girl let out a burst of snorting laughter, and her legs came to grip him over the bulk of his waist.

Effortlessly, she pushed him into the wide goose pillows, towering over him as she snapped her hips into his.

"I always wanted to mount a dragon. Tonight, I'm going to ride you as you ride Vhagar."

***

The intensity of her scream made the man bolt up in an instant. His thoughts surged with a singular instinct: to protect her.

A hand reached for his dagger. The other, for her shaking form.

"What happened?" His throaty groan echoed through the silent room.

At the sound of his smothering voice, the girl let out a startled scream. She would have fallen from the unmade bed, were it not for Aemond's hands, which caught her beforehand. … His face contorted in pain at her recoiling, at her lack of trust in him. His very presence was unnerving her.

Her numerous shrieks alerted the new guards, who, warned in advance of their master's disposition to anger, hastily opened the door to his chambers - swords unsheathed and shoulders tense.

But, upon glancing at the erratic woman, and the way her hands were pushing Aemond's chest away from her flush form, they assumed this was just another way of coupling, and the oldest of the two bowed his head in embarrassment, before grabbing his brethren by the cape and exiting the room.

Fucking assholes…! The Lady thought to herself. Upkeeping the realm and instigating order only when they see fit.

The pang of embarrassment took a hold of her jaded face. It didn't matter what they thought. But all the same, Cain's words echoed into her ears, slithering into her heart.

' - the walls talk in Harrenhal, my Lady. And they... well, forgive me for being so blunt - speak stories about how the Kinslayer loses sleep by visiting you in your chambers at night.'

Disgust painted its way over her distressed expression. A deep frown creased her forehead, and she clicked her tongue in irritation at Aemond's attempt to soothe her.

"N-Nothing happened." She strained herself to answer. "It doesn't matter. Now let me go."

But his hold didn't falter. His iron grip reigned over her, and (Y/N) could feel how her wrist started to ache from numbness.

Her eyes shot up in pure horror.

"Please, Prince Aemond." She tried once more, though this time sweeter. Her eyes trailed from his face to his clenched fists, and she tried to relax in his hold - at least slightly. Dread settled into the pits of her stomach, as she awaited his answer.

The One-Eyed Prince felt his heart hammer against his chest. A stinging pain ruled over any other voice of reason, and he felt lethal, succumbed to the endless lust and frenzy that he felt for the shaking girl.

And, although he didn’t let go of her bruising arm, he sat down the dagger in his left hand, in favor of touching her lax cheek with his rough fingertips.

Gods, he was still so painfully hard.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, as his grip over her body relaxed with each passing minute. The taste of abhorance was getting harder and harder to ignore - as did his raging hard-on, so adamantly pressed against her covered leg.

The woman darted her tongue out to wet her chapped lips; an action that wasn’t easily ignored by Aemond. His brows furrowed in lust and anger, and the coil in his lower stomach grew tighter by the second.

His hand ghosted over her twisted features, and he held his hand against her, with a fear akin to getting burnt. She scrunched her nose up as he scooted closer: her eye trailed downwards to his huge erection. Fear mixed with the knowledge of her situation, and her free hand came to grip the edge of the mirkwood bed.

“Hey,” She began to say, but took a pause to clench and unclench her jaw. “I think we should go back to sleep.”

Her eyes closed, if only for a second. Aemond’s deep breaths echoed through the quiet room, over her face, and the girl chastised herself for being so idiotic.

Some reply she gave him.

… But there is still a way to get a hold of that damned dagger.

Thoughts laced with uncertainty whirled inside her head. This wasn’t the first time Aemond had stared with hunger at her, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It was simply the way their 'relationship' worked. Simply the way he did.

Before she could muster up to add anything else, the Kinslayer broke the silence. His voice was soft and hitched; His broad arms snaked around her again, and his single eye loomed over her, adorning an emotion that menged perfectly with caution and lust.

“Why do you have this effect on me?” He questioned no one but himself. “You have ruined me.” He uttered, as if her presence and innocence were the strongest of poisons.

“Nyke istan nykeā vala hen gaomilaksir se rigo gō nyke mazilībagon laesi va ao. Se ao… ao… ao mazverdagon issa aylik hae lo nyke daor…”

The last of his words came out strained and angry, the desire to possess her coming out in the roughness of his sentence in High Valyrian.

(Y/N) squinted at him, unsure of what to do and say, except to stay awfully quiet. His cock twitched in his pants at her confused expression, and the woman sat her eyes on the dagger before her.

May his Gods so help him if he tries to do anything to me, she dryly thought to herself.

“I never tried to hurt you in any way.” She spoke decidedly, trying her best to keep a level of strength in her hoarse voice. Her body tensed under his aggravating touch, and the Lady quietly cursed herself for her inability to move further away from him.

Aemond’s face broke into a tight smile, and the Targaryen Prince huffed out in a low breath.

“Quit playing your game with me. You know exactly what you did. Women like you have quite the breeding for it.”

At that moment, anger blinded her. Swift as an arrow, she rose her head up high, and attempted to slap him - hard. But the older man caught her hand within his skilled fingers, and lowered it to his aching heart, keeping it there.

“Ao taenor issa. Aōha elēni, aōha laesi, aōha relgos, aōha maelki - aōha olvie perhas iksos surokvis issa. Issi ao biare? Hmm? Issi ao biare rūsīr skoros ao gōntan naejot issa?”

He could see the tears in her eyes. He could feel the flesh of her skin burn with the roughness of his touch. He could feel her anger and building disdain, and all of it pushed him over the edge all the same.

Aemond grabbed her face with his free hand, and clasped her jaw tightly. He breathed in her warmth, and he cursed himself for it - for the weakness that she caused him, for how easy it was for her to calm him down. “Ao issi nykeā quptenka ābra qilōni insalvak nykeā dārys hen ānogar.” He hissed desperately, lowering himself closer and closer to her face. “I treat you with kindness, and this is how you think to repay me? Vile, spoiled cunt. Gevie līve, ny dōna byka rene.”

To his mind, he was but an animal, caught helplessly in a siren’s grasp - she had lured him in with her beauty, her heart, and he was drowning in her, in her essence, in her being.

All of the things he felt towards her welled up inside of him: the love, the longing, the obsession, the lust, the need, the want. It was all too much.

He breathed heavily into her ear, while stroking at her bottom lip, “Gaomagon ao ūndegon sepār skorkydoso kraj ao issi, issa jorrāelagon? Aemond Mēre-Laes, se kipagīros hen Vhagar sen se Dārys mīsio hen Westeros… aōhon. Isse prūmia, haevisis, se maelki."

His raining assault in High Valyrian aggravated her to no end. Although Jacaerys' knowledge on the language wasn't perfect, either, he had taught the girl enough to get by.

And enough it was, at the very least, to make out the hissed out "beautiful"s, "love"s, and "heart"s that Aemond spewed at her.

The Tully girl spat in his face, biting on the index finger, that was trying to pry open her mouth. “You promised me,” She asserted as she pried herself free of his sickly embrace, “You promised me you wouldn’t touch me until I expressively asked you to.”

Her (y/e/c) eyes clashed with his lone, lilac orb. The woman swallowed thickly, and a droplet of sweat fell over her pounding temple. “So back. Off.”

Half a second goes by - half a heartbeat and half a breath -, until Aemond finally lets go of her, and settles back down onto the cold side of his bed.

For a while, (Y/N) is stuck. She sees how the man she loathes turns his back around, how his shoulders fall back as he’s trying to relax. She focuses on his breathing, and how his erratic breaths quiet down.

“Go to sleep.” He commands her bitterly, “Before I give you a reason to be tired out.”

The ferocity of a thousand curses almost falls from her tightened lips. The woman takes in a deep breath, and lowers herself back onto the drenched sheets.

He had donned the dagger to his fucking waist.

For almost two weeks, Cain had been falling in and out of consciousness.

His clash with Aemond left him weak and crippled - most of all, it left him ashamed.

Ashamed of his lack of diligence. Ashamed for having been unable to protect his Lady.

Finally, ashamed of his weakness and lack of thought, of reason.

If he were awake right now, he'd curse the Old Gods and the New for making him so - for giving him the wound that would incapacitate him forever. He'd have to fight the shivers that came with the rotting of his flesh, he'd have to clench his remaining fist in agony at the notion of the pools of blood he lost: the notion of his wound still going through the process healing, and all that came with it.

His once handsome face was still stained with his blood - dirt and sweat clung to it, like flies on dead meat.

His golden locks looked almost black, covered by the mold and mud that he'd crawled through once he reached outside the cave.

***

"You need to be swifter on your foot, lass!" Ser Allyn Swann instructed him, hitting the boy over the legs once, in taciturn aggression. "You're to be our Lady's sworn protector, are you not? You'll need to do better than that."

"I already am her sworn protector!" Cain yelled after the knight, rubbing a hand over his sweaty forehead. He took in a sharp breath, exhaustion seeping in his bones. Without waiting for an answer, he retook his wide stance and bowed down to his professor. "Again." He urged Ser Swann with a determined look.

The rains of spring had softened the ground, and both the knight and aspiring shield had to be mindful of their footsteps, so as to not land on their tired backs.

Allyn smiled, and shook his head. "Are you now, boy?" He obliged with a reply, "I think you're a seventeen-year-old blighter, who's bitten off more than he can chew."

His able taunting seemed to have worked.

No longer was Cain swinging his sword in circles, measuring his adversary with an aware look. Exactly like a dire wolf would after getting a whiff of fresh prey, the Waters bastard jumped into the leveling field, slashing his wooden blade directly at his opponent's head.

Allyn hummed in disapproval, and back-tracked to the right, faking a swing to his left side, before wiping Cain's feet off the ground with a wonky, but effective swipe.

"Again, Waters?" The knight asked with a click of his tongue. "This is the fifth time you fell for this exact same move. You may be as simple-minded as the Gods allow - but even a fool would learn from his mistakes once he swallowed mud once or twice."

As the boy lowered his gaze in undoubted guilt, his teacher offered him his hand, hoisting him off the field with a low grunt.

"Your mind is elsewhere, Cain. What is it that's bothering you?"

Eyes of the colour of steel clashed with Allyn's brilliant blues. A hoarse sigh left his parted lips, and Cain looked to the sky above them.

"I… I'm not ready." He admitted through gritted teeth. "Lady (Y/N) believes in me, but I'm not ready."

His simple sentence, his raw honesty, moved the greying knight.

He smiled tightly at the boy, resting a hand atop his heaving shoulder, and squeezed strongly.

"You are ready. You haven't the slightest idea of what you can do, should the situation call for it."

"Aye, I can fall straight on my ass. Maybe that'll distract my real opponents!"

"Cain." His professor interrupted him, "Long has it been since I last faced that eight-year-old boy who wanted nothing more than to prove himself."

Ser Swann's words brought a twisted smile to his lips, and (Y/N)'s protector mirrored his tired expression, as he huffed out a breath in disdain.

"I'm afraid I'll fail her." He muttered under his breath, looking in the general direction of his Lady's Quarters. "She believes in me, yes. But what if she's wrong?" A deep frown splits his forehead in three, wide creases. "Sometimes it feels like she must be."

"Only a real knight would ever admit to his weaknesses and less than stellar moments." Allyn encouraged him shortly. His eyes never once left Cain's, and the old Lord nodded his head briskly. "Lady Tully is not the only one who believes in you. Before her, Lord Hunter Redwyne believed in you."

A small chuckle broke Cain's reserved silence.

"If I remember correctly, he made you his steward exactly because he believed in you. After him, of course, went his sons and daughters. When the siege over Arbourtown took place, who was it that fought 100 men all by himself?"

"Hardly 100. It was 66 at best."

"Honesty. Another rare quality to find in a knight."

Cain's frustration welled in his eyes. "It's not honesty - it's a well-known truth!"

"Let me tell you something, Cain. It could have been a hundred men. Or it could have been thirty, or it could have been just one. The unrivaled truth remains: when everyone abandoned their post, you were the only one left standing in the West Wing of that castle."

A hefty silence settled off between the two.

"Plenty of people believed in you: plenty still do. And all of them were right to do so."

Cain's aching fists turned lax once Ser Allyn put an end to his trail of thought. "I…" He bit his cheek in an attempt to talk.

'Thank you.'

"I still have a lot to learn."

"That you do, boy. That you do." Allyn confirmed with a convinced jerk of his head. His eyes glimmered with pride, however, and, as he picked his sword back up, the man smiled at his driven apprentice.

"But I believe in you, and in the fact that you will make her proud."

"... It's nice to talk again like this."

Allyn's expression saddened for a moment, before it regained its familiar vigor.

"As I told you, lass. No matter how far you are, I'll always be somewhere with you. I'll be right here, at the tip of your sword, in your armor."

Ser Cain felt a tear run down his cheek, and the knight rose a hand to wipe it away from his face.

"I don't think I'll ever hold a sword again." He hummed painfully, but the older knight only shook his head.

"You haven't the slightest idea of what you can do, should the situation call for it." He repeated his words again. "Trust me, son. You will hold Faithkeeper again. … But now it's time for you to wake up."

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

***

"-- Are you waking up?!" The worried voice of a woman rang through the open field.

Cain felt his head jolting with pain - his limbs of a calming numbness, and his lips dried up.

He swallowed thickly, before opening his mouth to say, "Water… I need… water."

"Right on it, soldier." She amusedly said, bringing down her own flask to his waiting mouth.

He drank to his heart’s content, and only when the last droplets of the blessed liquid touched his throat, did Cain Waters stop to breathe.

“I’m sorry.” Was the first thing he said, as the unknown woman checked her poach for any remains of the water. “I didn’t think about the practicality of leaving some for later. … Or about you needing a sip.”

The last of his words greatly perplexed the brown-haired woman - she let out a mirthled laugh, and gently shook her head to the side. “At ease, Commander. We have more where that came from. Drink as much as you need to.”

Her amber eyes trailed over his bandaged hand, and, as he followed her stare with his own, Cain sighed in wallowing dread. His gaze turned curious, however, as he glanced at his shoulder, and wasn’t immediately greeted with the ghastly sight of a chopped-off arm.

A shocked look adorned his features, and the knight brought his left hand to feel the borders of his forming scar.

A painful sting stopped him in his tracks.

“I’d be careful with touching that arm so soon,” She tutted over his brash enthusiasm, “Your stitches are far from being healed. … And it’s not all that good and grand.”

Her sharp eyes softened slightly, and she let out a hardened breath.

“I’m very sorry. But we still had to cut off some of the infected fingers. With time, though, I’m sure you’ll hold your sword again.”

‘You will hold Faithkeeper again.’

Cain hummed in a lowly tone, as his eyes traveled back to the strange woman before him. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, until he finally settled on the least invasive sentence.

“I’m very grateful for your help,” He began carefully, while nibbling at his lower lip. “But who are you? And why would you save me?”

The girl’s eyebrows raised in beguilement, and she jokingly brought her hand to her chest, bowing deeply.

“My name is Mira Florent, of Brightwater Keep. I was a ward not long ago, under the esteemed tutelage of Lady Caswell. For eleven years, I served in Bitterbridge.” Taking in his every reaction with a curious look, Mira quirked her head to the side, and offered the knight a half-earnest smile. “And who might you be?”

“You didn’t answer my other question.” Cain tensed visibly, and the woman raised her hands out in false surrender.

“Indeed, I have not. I’d like to know who it is I’m talking to, as well, before I should waste all my breath away.”

The knight’s deep gaze settled on her downturned nose and inviting smile. He took in a deep breath, and propped his body on his healthy elbow. “I asked my questions first, my Lady.”

“And I demanded for answers, second.” Her voice rang out with a beaming laugh, and the older woman showed him her portrait-perfect grin. “No one here is in any position to make demands. … But please. I am not a Lady. There’s no need for you to address me as such”

Her easy-going attitude and fun behavior were almost enough reason for Cain to return her gracious smiles - still, the royal knight remained impassive, while nodding his head in quiet agreement.

“My name is Cain Waters, m’lady.” A short pause ensued, during which both healer and patient exchanged a diverted look, “Until recently, I served in Riverrun; I answer to the Tullies, the lords of the Riverlands.”

“I knew it!” Mira’s gleeful exclamation set Ser Cain back on his back. “It was fairly obvious by the crest in your armor. The trout lost its head, but the house colors are still as clear as day.”

“Is that why you decided to save me?” The man asked her tentatively.

“Well, that’s why we kept carrying you with us after patching you up, I suppose. But we would have tried to heal you either way.”

“We?” The Waters bastard questioned once again. “There’s more than just you around?”

“You don’t think I carried you all the way here by myself, right?” Her sarcastic question jabbed at his intellect, but her placid smile told the knight to relax, and put an end to his sporadic trail of thought. “It’s just me and my travel partner - he’s the one that wanted us to leave you at a crossroads end, by the way.”

A bemused smirk tugged at the corners of Cain’s chapped lips. “Then you have my full gratitude, m’lady - I have to say, I appreciate you not letting me die. Pray tell, does your companion have a name?”

An arch of her bushy eyebrows was the only telltale sign of Mira’s pending curiosity over Cain's meddlesome nature. She jerked her head to point at a silhouette near the fireplace, and she leaned over on a tree’s bark end.

“He does.” The woman said simply, and her expression turned somber for just a moment. “You take your profiling seriously, Cain Waters - his name is Albar. Albar of nothing, who serves under no one. Albar Stone.”

Cain’s face brightened slowly, as if he’d just been reminded of an old joke.

‘Us bastards always find a way to help one another.’

A rumbling laughter shook him in his laying spot, and the man gingerly shook his head after a passing while. “Another brother. I’ve a feeling we’ll get along just fine.”

Mira’s only reply was to shrug her shoulders, keeping quiet for the first time since they’d met. Her auburn eyes went over Cain’s shoulder, and she took in a deep breath. “You fought the Kinslayer, haven’t you?” She asked whilst playing with a silver pendant.

“You’re wearing the Tully crest - a house that openly pledged for the Blacks. Despite your heavy armor, your wound was of a clean cut. Too clean for a normal blade.” The Florent Lady awaited no confirmation from the laying man, as she went on, “I’ve been well acquainted with the deadly swords forged from Valyrian Steel. And there are only two people who wield such feats of war. Of course, only one of them who terrorizes our home.”

“Aye, that is true.” Cain let out after a low curse. “I regret not being swifter on my foot that day. It would’ve saved us a lot of trouble to slay him then and there.”

���Opportunities arise. And I’ve a feeling there will be another time for you to face him again.”

Cain’s forehead puckered at the last of her words, and his able hand pointed at the empty flask that now rested on her lower hip. “Oh, I would drink to that.” He bitterly laughed in earnest.

Mira’s posture ambled away, and she edged closer to the man’s plodded body. Silently, she got a hold of the bridles of the nearest horse, and offered Cain a lackluster smile. “I’ll hoist you up this saddle and we’ll keep walking towards the Vale.”

The muscles in Cain’s face tightened. His immediate thought went to (Y/N), his Lady, no doubt still stuck with Aemond in Harrenhal - that Gods' forsaken place.

His fist brandished in a tight hold, his head aligned to Mira’s working hands, and the knight tried to stop her musings with a firm palm over her waist.

“Wait -” He tried to reason, “I cannot go there. My Lady is still waiting for me, I cannot just abandon her.”

"Abandon your Lady?" Mira's eyes widened once more. She jumped up from the ground, and straightened her back in disbelief. "You're Lady Tully's personal knight? Is that why you fought the Kinslayer? You're telling me she's still alive?!"

Through an exhale, the male nodded. He cleared his throat with a loud cough, and scrunched his nose up in frustration.

"Indeed, m'lady. So you must understand me - I cannot forsake her. Not when she's still in the jaws of that one-eyed fucker."

Mira wiped the dust off her cotton pants, and grunted in agreement. She let out a tired breath, and clicked her tongue at his persistence.

"Well… you could have returned to Harrenhall, limping on your feet and all, if only you awoken a week ago. But we're less than an hour away from the Eyrie, Ser Cain." His crushed expression and gritted teeth softened the lady's resolve. "I warmly recommend you stick with us. Our road leads to the Arryns: we can drop you off to your Lord and you can take a while to recover."

"You slept for a very long time, Ser Cain. Everything you knew has changed in these last couple of weeks. Getting acquainted to your new situation will do you well."

Alys never dreamt. At least, she never once recalled what her dreams were about.

Such was the way of things for her, and she didn’t mind it - that was, until tonight.

Stilling images of her in his arms, of his soft lips upon the Tully's face made her shake with anger and betrayal well into the first callings of dawn.

Morning came and went, and the afternoon spent itself with her clasping her hands together, in the comfort of her room, thinking on what to do.

Her rattling worry wasn’t as much about her love for him, as it was for the frightening thought that if the Crown Prince didn’t want her anymore, she'd find her death by the sharp end of his sword.

The Rivers witch gulped thickly, and brought her hands over her neck and bump.

Aemond was capable of many things. But he wouldn't risk killing his child. Right?

The Tully girl had to go. The conclusion was a natural reach, and an expected one, at that: it was the only solution to her ticking problem.

A slight arch of her brow sent her thoughts adrift. How would she take care of it all? She gave the haughty Lady the chance to escape, and she failed - miserably. Now, she had no more allies left in Harrenhal, and no access to any amount of privacy.

The memory of Aemond's rage sent a cold shiver down her spine. Not once during her long life, did she witness a sight more fearful to behold, than the one of the One-Eyed Prince when angered. Hundreds died the day of her escape, and thousands more would keep on suffering, if ever she should break free again.

The Tully girl had to go. And then Aemond would be hers again.

Her prayers were answered when, sometime along the laid-in dusk, his footsteps echoed through the long hallway of her keep.

She waited for him in her small framed bed, eagerly aligning her hips to the side, to strike a more seductive pose.

… But when Aemond reached her doorstep, his eye carried a solemn, and resigned expression.

"The maids tell me she won't eat." He told her worriedly, opting for that instead of his usual greeting. He reached her bedside with two wide steps, and wordlessly took a seat while rubbing his temples. "She's punishing me."

Alys staggered a frustrated breath, and tried to calm herself back down. Her left leg moved to tease Aemond's crotch, and she chuckled appealingly.

"Must we worry about her all the time…? She'll eat when she gets really hungry." Alys dismissed his inquiry with a small caress, "In the meantime, I'm sure I could take your mind off things…"

Within a second, Aemond's hand was wrapped softly on her neck. "Stop that." He chastised her cruelly, "I'm not in the mood."

"You never are, as of late." She muttered dryly, but regretted her words instantly, when she felt his long fingers squeeze over her larynx tentatively. "I-I only meant to say that I missed you." She quickly intervened, while entangling her hand with his in a forlorn attempt to redeem herself.

Aemond hummed tiredly, and, as if he finally registered what he was doing, the man let go of her dainty neck.

Quietness washed over them, and Alys' eyes welled with the threat of tears, until Aemond spoke up.

"I want you to keep an eye on her. Become her friend, if you must."

The detachment with which he spoke wounded Alys' pride, but, as she massaged her neck, the woman only sighed. "Befriend her, Aemond?"

"Do whatever you think is right." He uttered once again. "Starting tomorrow, you'll be her maid - you'll make sure she eats when I'm not here; you'll make sure she doesn't think of a way to escape."

Her ears reddened from the deep wound laid upon her enlarged ego. Alys huffed in disbelief, and promptly shook her head. "What…?" She asked her lover. "So you want me to feed her and empty her chamber pot?"

"Don't act as if this work would be beneath you, love." Aemond tutted as he raised up from his taken seat. "I've already made up my mind: you will take care of her while I'm not around. And you will make her like it here."

The urgency in his words muffled out any other attempted protest. Alys' fists were clenched at her sides, and the older woman was biting down on her lower lip. "As you wish, Your Grace." She hissed past her tightened lips, while looking at him desperately.

As she noticed him turn around to leave, the Rivers witch shot up straight. "You won't stay?" She asked Aemond in a strangled tone.

"I have some business to attend to."

Aemond prayed before his dinners. As if that would make them any better.

As if that would help him swallow his guilt, or scatter it over the ghosts that he himself created.

As if that would deter the Gods to forgive him for his sins.

The pair stood quietly at the polished oak table, surrounded by naught but fermented wine and copious amounts of meat. For a while, all seemed well.

The cutlery broke a sound every once in a while, and Aemond's deep breaths turned the room's atmosphere heavy.

Eventually, it all built up to be too much.

"Is the food not to your liking?" His velvety smooth voice asked the girl before his eye.

With her hands still in her lap, now gripping her fingers painfully, Lady Tully replied, "... It's nothing of the sort. I'm just not hungry right now."

Aemond stared blankly into her eyes, until his scorching orb settled on her lips instead. Lustful thoughts of what he dreamt the night before plagued his mind, but the Prince merely shook his head, whilst taking a sip of the wine.

"You haven't eaten anything today." He muttered through a raised eyebrow, and a ghost of a forced smile. "Surely you must be famished."

The muscles on (Y/N)'s face twitched in annoyance. She jerked her foot from under the table, and turned her eyes back to her untouched plate.

"... As I said, I'm not feeling very hungry." She leaned further away, and the firelight of the wide, lit room, danced across her face with glorious shades of red and amber.

"Very well." Aemond asserted quietly, after letting out a hoarse curse in High Valyrian. Soon, the Prince turned his attention back to the illuminated room, without sparing the girl another glance.

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and coughed in the back of his hand a couple of times.

Each time she heard his attempts to clear his throat, the girl clenched her jaw tighter and tighter.

Neither spoke anymore, until Aemond sighed deeply.

"Does…" He began, but closed his mouth once again. His face turned into a sour scowl, his pale cheeks reddened, and the man forced himself to keep going, despite the hardness with which such a question came to him. "Does your wrist hurt you at all?"

A quick reminder to the other night.

The lady's eyes snapped forward, unsure of whether or not she'd heard him correctly. Were she not in this unpleasant situation herself, the woman would have laughed at the Prince's awkwardness; no less his stupid question.

Instead of laughing, she took in a shaky breath, which she exhaled almost immediately, before replying curtly. "It doesn't hurt." Her eyes closed and her brows furrowed in concentration.

Distaste for him, for what she was about to say, filled her weary heart and mouth.

"... Thank you for the inquiry, My Prince, that was very kind of you."

She wanted to scream and shout the moment his daft fingers gripped her own, and the Kinslayer tried to caress her, despite his hand's deep callouses. Still, she remained poised.

She was all alone now, and she had to play it smart.

(Y/N)'s breath caught in her throat, and her shoulders tensed visibly from under her green dress. Slowly, yet surely, she wiggled her hand free from under his palm, and placed it above her thigh once more.

If her movement displeased Aemond, then the Prince didn’t show it. His hand twitched atop the table, and he clenched it momentarily. But just as soon as his action was executed, it was covered by the Targaryen's mellow voice.

"Try to eat something tonight. And whatever it is that you'd like on the morrow, you can tell your maid to bring you."

Maid…?

Confusion made its way across her face. And, not even waiting for her to ask that eager question, Aemond dipped his head lowly and replied.

"The days are hard and long - prisoner or not, My Lady. While in Harrenhal, you are still a royal, and will be treated as such."

(Y/N) felt as if she could do nothing else but laugh. She envisioned her life in Harrenhal drift in a lot of different ways - though no thought of hers deterred her to believe she'd be taken care of by Aemond's older lover.

Of course, she jested lightly to herself. In the end, I am but a prisoner. And Aemond only has one eye.

Her hands were tied. And so were Alys Rivers', who looked none the happier to be rooted at her bedside table, judging by her tight expression.

"We don't have to play his game, you know." The girl hushed in her direction, as she kneeled down to help her change the ruined bed sheets.

Green eyes washed over her smaller form, holding an icy glimmer in them. But, despite her obvious discontent at her words, Alys remained quiet.

"You've known Aemond for longer than I," She kept going in the afternoon. "But we can both agree he has a dangerous character." Her lack of cooperation irked the lady to no end.

She dreaded the silence she was greeted with.

Hopelessly, she watched Alys wipe the last corner of the room - the girl observed how she turned on her heel, bowing at her without sparing her a second glance, and made her way toward the doors of her chambers.

"What do you think will happen once I tell Aemond that you helped Cain plan my escape?" She asked in a neutral tone.

For the first time that day, the Rivers bastard whipped her head around, and kneeled to the floor to gather up the dropped cloth. Despite her neutral smile, her voice was shaking. "You're trying to blackmail me?"

"I'm trying to help myself. ... And help you."

The woman let out a roaring laugh. "I am carrying the child of the dragon, girl. He wouldn't dare hurt me."

"Are you that sure?" The hardened look on (Y/N)'s face let no emotion stand out. Still, her eyes remained honest, truthful in her questions, and the wood witch let out an ample sigh.

"I know you don't want me here." The Lady raised her head in bold admission, "Believe me, I am the last person to be happy with this arrangement. This is your home. This is supposed to be your room and your rightful bed. On that, you'll hear no argument from me."

As her speech came to an abrupt end, Alys furrowed her brows in unexpected shock. She was quick to collect herself, and shield her shaking body by crossing her arms.

"We're more similar than we'd allow ourselves to think, Alys. We both want me gone and far, far away from here."

With a tentative look in her eyes, the Lady of Riverrun approached Alys' heaving body. She took her hands in hers and squeezed them reassuringly.

A strained chuckle parted from the elder's lips. She jerked her hands away and shot her an unfeeling look. "What would you have me do?" She interfered with a cutting voice. "You forget yourself - and I. I'm just a woman in this Keep, the same as you. If you think I hold any power over anyone here, you'd be sorely mistaken."

(Y/N) shook her head, and allowed a crooked smile to grace her tired features. She quirked her eyebrow at the woman's words, and only hummed disprovingly.

"I may not know you, Alys Rivers. But I know you are a smart and conniving woman. You lived all your life in Harrenhal, or so I heard."

Her harsh tone cut through the deadly silence of the room.

"I'm sure you kept at least a secret passage to yourself, and away from Aemond. It's not like us to keep all our eggs in the same basket... So, I want you to teach me all you know about this castle.”

A jocund expression seeped into Alys' pores. She clicked her tongue at (Y/N)'s words, and huffed out a wired breath. “Foolish girl. If anything should go wrong, Aemond will kill us both.”

A small pause, followed by a muttered curse ensued after Alys’ warning. Once her eyes locked on the Lady again, she frowned as she nodded her head.

"You have yourself a deal."

Taglist:

@bellameshipper @ohitsthemaster @kravitzwhore @virginslut08 @hiatuswhore @somemydayy

Translations:

"Bona iksos issa sȳz riñītsos" = That's my good little girl;

"Byka hontes" = Little dove;

"Issa jorrāelagon" = My love;

“Issa dōna, byka jorrāelagon” = My sweet, little love;

"Ābrazyrys" = Wife;

“Nyke istan nykeā vala hen gaomilaksir se rigo gō nyke mazilībagon laesi va ao. Se ao… ao… ao mazverdagon issa aylik hae lo nyke daor…” = I was a man of duty and honor before I set eyes on you. And you… You… You make me feel as if I am no longer…;

“Ao issi nykeā quptenka ābra qilōni insalvak nykeā dārys hen ānogar.” = You are a common woman who enslaved a prince of the blood;

“Ao taenor issa. Aōha elēni, aōha laesi, aōha relgos, aōha maelki - aōha olvie perhas iksos surokvis issa. Issi ao biare? Issi ao biare rūsīr skoros ao gōntan naejot issa?” = You tempted me. Your voice, your eyes, your lips, your soul - your very presence is seducing me. Are you happy? Are you happy with what you did to me?

"Gaomagon ao ūndegon sepār skorkydoso kraj ao issi, issa jorrāelagon? Aemond Mēre-Laes, se kipagīros hen Vhagar sen se Dārys mīsio hen Westeros… aōhon. Isse prūmia, haevisis, se maelki." = Do you see just how powerful you are, my love? Aemond One-Eye, the Rider of Vhagar and the Prince Protector of the Realm… yours. In heart, body, and soul.

"Gevie līve, ny dōna byka rene" = Beautiful witchling, my sweet little slut;

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x you #the harshest winters #dark aemond #jacaerys valaryon #jacaerys x reader #jace x reader #jacaerys strong #aemond imagine #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #Spotify

[kittenintheden]

This isn’t really a prompt, more of an intriguing idea I can’t not talk about—what if Tav is blind, probably in a magical/curse way because it’s Faerun. Maybe she “sees” aura or whatever, so Astarion’s good looks don’t work on her, but she can immediately sense his constant fear and not-lies. Just as Shadowheart said in the game, his hedonism is a facade, and according to Durge’s butler Astarion’s so, so afraid.

So a Tav who can sense feelings would know Astarion’s in an almost permanent state of fear, like a hunted animal. Kind of heartbreaking, really.

okay but I have a close friend who's blind so hear me out

most people with blindness are not fully blind unless they have ocular damage, so frequently "blind" means still able to see light, shapes, some color, movement, etc. so picture this

Tav who is a ranger, who has made their living learning to track via an assisting beast, likely a dog or bird of prey. they use a cane and between that and their working animal, they can navigate different terrain pretty well. they're attuned to the sounds and smells of nature -- not in a supernatural way, just in the way someone who's trained in it would be. they notice things people reliant on sight wouldn't, like shifts in atmospheric pressure that indicate a storm's coming, etc.

to them, with their limited field of vision, Astarion moves like both predator and prey. it's perplexing. he's light of foot and cautious, but also vicious and coiled tight, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

Tav has spent a lot of their life being treated with kid gloves and underestimated due to the general way people tend to treat those with disabilities, and they've learned a lot about people. they need assistance, but when they have the tools they need, they're very independent and capable. they're highly suspect of the way Astarion coos at them, asks if they need help. they can sense there's something off about this person -- in his movement, in the way he pitches his voice, in the sharp unpredictability of his personality. in the way he's so, so still when he senses danger present. in the way he always has the slightest scent of fresh blood on his breath.

they're suspicious, but their beast doesn't seem to find Astarion a threat to them, and they're usually good about that. so they let it go until things start getting a little weird. like, you know, being woken up by your barking dog/screeching bird friend because some asshole is trying to bite you on the neck while you rest.

it doesn't take long for the two of them to square up and see each other for what they really are: two people with an affliction and a history that necessitates survival and self-reliance.

and once Tav makes that connection, Astarion's little game falls entirely apart.

#ask box #kitten rambles #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav

[cap-sweet-and-salty-sadness]

— “c’mon, i can tell you’re freezing. i won’t tell anyone that you like to be the little spoon, honest:” - For whoever you want to write. <3

I chose to write some fluff for Astarion/Karlach. There's some mild spoilers of Karlach's personal quest, Astarion's backstory and act 2, nothing main plot though. Hope you like it!

Read on Ao3

There were many disadvantages to having a tadpole living freely behind one's eye, namely the unavoidable doom of becoming a mind flayer and having Faerûn destroyed and overrun by an army of said mind flayers.

Astarion understood the fears that struck his companions, he really did, but they were overthrown by the unique benefits that his state of possession had given him. His whole anatomy had been transformed, the rules that he'd followed for two centuries completely turned upside down.

He wasn't under Cazador's beck and call anymore. No more living through the shadows, he could walk under the sun and embrace its warmth once again. He could walk inside any building he wanted without needed to be invited, he could swim in any body of water. He was still bloodthirsty, figuratively and literally, and along the bite scars on his neck and his pallid skintone, those were the only remaining signs of his vampirism.

Hence his lukewarm willfulness at getting rid of the tadpole. If only he had more time to seek someone knowledgeable in ithillids, perhaps they could find to cut contact of the tadpole to the hive and keep it in permanent stasis. Unfortunately time wasn't a luxury they could afford, especially not now that they were in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. If a shadow wasn't trying to get at them, it was some vile creatures ambushing them.

At least the curse wasn't an issue anymore for them, with the blessing of Selûne, but the real problem for Astarion was the overwhelming, bloody cold. He'd forgotten how his body used to be severely influenced by temperatures, and it’d been fine on the Coast with its warm sunny days and temperate nights. But here in these lands, it felt like the chill seeped down to his bones.

It’d been days of this, to the point he couldn’t remember when he hadn’t been cold. It wasn’t so bad when they were walking around and getting into everyone’s business, but it was hard to dismiss when they were at camp and resting. The campfire helped somewhat, but he feared that if he sat any closer he’d been sitting in it, and he didn’t want the others to know his predicament.

He trusted them somewhat, but not enough to disclose his discomfort. He wasn’t the only one afflicted by the weather, seeing as Gale was using a spell to keep himself warm and cosy. He hadn’t even offered it to anyone, the prick. Not that Astarion would’ve accepted, mind you, but it appeared wizard schools taught no manners.

He tightened his hold on his thin blanket and sighed. At least everyone were getting ready for sleep. Perhaps he’d find some comfort in his bedroll, if not in meditation. The cold was reminded him of when he’d been trapped in a tomb for a year as punishment. That was why he was reacting so badly to it, he was realising.

“Hey soldier,” Karlach said, joining him by the fire. She probably was immune to the cold, with her engine heart running so hot. They’d visited Dammon to upgrade it a second time, where Astarion had been in earshot when he told her it was only a temporary solution.

“Evening, darling.” Astarion was massaging his stiff hands, not managing to improve their state much.

“I know you’re normally pale, but not this blue pale. Are you feeling alright?”

Astarion hesitated. Beside Wyll, she was the most trustworthy of the companions. She was loyal to a fault, despite being betrayed in the past. He wasn’t sure whether to call it naivete or resilience. “I’m just cold. The curse on these lands, its chill seeps through our blessing it seems.”

Karlach made a sound and approached him. “You should’ve told me, I run almost too hot for this plane after all. Unless you don’t trust that I wouldn’t hurt you, which I understand.”

Astarion shook his head at that. “Would it be too much to say it’s not you, it’s me?” They were only in close proximity and already he could her warmth, the glow of her heart pulsing steadily through her ribcage. It was a beautiful sight, if ignoring the fact it was killing her.

She crouched in front of him and extended her large hands. She wasn’t forcing herself on him, instead letting him choose. He appreciated that.

He slid his hands into hers. They were almost too hot to bear and his body instinctively flinched at the change in temperature, but he held on and soon it felt like his hands were dipped in a hot bath. So good and relieving.

“By the hells, Astarion, you’re freezing,” Karlach said, gripping him before letting go. Astarion almost whined in displeasure. He watched her retrieve her bedroll and spread it beside Astarion’s.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not letting you freeze another night. Help me with this.”

Together they spread the two bedrolls like a makeshift bed so they could both fit underneath. Karlach was the first to slip into it.

“Come on. I won’t tell anyone that you like to be the little spoon, honest.”

Astarion laughed and joined her. It was a tight fit, but Karlach didn’t seem to want space between them. She pulled him against her with a strong arm, hugging him. It felt like his limbs were melting from ice blocks and he could finally have control of his body again.

He liked that she smelled of ashes and fresh air, that her skin was scarred and tough when he rested his hand against her bare back. He’d been fond of her pretty eyes and easy smile for a while but hadn’t acted on it with her whole ‘my skin will burn you’ thing before, but tucked against Karlach, the warmth he felt wasn’t just physical. He felt comfortable and safe.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, soldier.”

#astarion #karlach #astarion x karlach #hellspawn #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #karlach x astarion #fireblood #bloodengine #i've seen so many names for the pairing and i have no clue which one we're supposed to use #my writing #thanks for the prompt bby!

[makingspiritualityreal]

Jupiter and Sagittarius in your Chart - Your Horizons

The placement of the Sagittarius House cusp and Jupiter as a planet in your chart indicate the opportunities, that you are allowed to explore in this incarnation and the provision that supports those opportunities.

For example, a person from a poorer background will inevitably have an affliction to their Jupiter as a dispositor of their Sagittarius house cusp. Their Jupiter might be aspected by Saturn, placed in a Saturn ruled house or afflicted by sign. As a result, their horizons will be narrower, simply because they are forced to, because life doesn't give them resources and opportunities to expand their life through new experiences.

Planets in Sagittarius sign in general, either benefic or malefic planets, will determine the condition of experiencing growth and expansion. The best one to have is naturally Jupiter. It indicates the person has the freedom to explore life at leisure, having enough comfort to do so, and they will have an opportunity to see a lot of places in their lifetime. The Sun, and the Moon, are also very favorable if placed well and can indicate frequent travels since childhood and a family that naturally supports the native's growth and expansion. That occurs simply because the mentality of growth naturally enters the child's conscious mind, fostered by the right environment.

The Nodes placed in Sagittarius are unique, as they can produce sudden, unexpected travels or permanent relocations in their dashas, if the chart supports it.

The South Node can force karmic situations with relocation, making the native feel somewhat apprehensive towards horizon expansion, even though their early environment was definitely friendly towards it in some way, to the point that wisdom or learning can be taken for granted or viewed as unwelcome. The South Node's psychological issues and tendency to stay in a comfort zone can make one unappreciative of one's blessings, as they can come in tandem with trauma, or within a limited scope of emotionally difficult situations. Only near the Nodal maturation in one's 40s a person gets the ability to redefine a personal idea of expansion of their worldview, making drastic changes, and sometimes the person is so fearful that even these changes can be forced.

The North Node creates hunger for expansion, and street smarts in being able to achieve it, as the native has to pave their own path. The only way for them to grow is to go towards something completely new, outside of their comfort zone, ignoring one's fears. The more the native pushes one's boundaries outside of where their ancestry line comes from, the more expansion is offered.

Venus, Saturn and Mercury present a certain crux in the sign of Sagittarius, as all these planets have a transactional element in some form.

Saturn, being related to karmic bondage, restricts the native's blessings and possibilities for expansion. They are only given at the right time and in the right form, and the native is out of control when it comes to their opportunities. That can create a feeling of hopelessness. The transaction here has a karmic nature, as Saturn says "I will only release you and give you opportunities when I decide the time is right". Even if growth is permitted, it happens within a certain amount of bondage attached, depending on Jupiter's condition also. For example, the native may go abroad, but they have to work a lot to stay there, or they struggle getting their paperwork done.

Mercury likes to learn and explore, but its dualistic nature causes the native to have to offer something first before growth is permitted. On one hand, the native is well learned, on the other they have to offer a certain idea in order for the opportunities to appear for them. There is a necessity for self reliance and a lack of laissez faire, that Jupiter would have. Nevertheless, over time the native becomes very skilled, in international cultural awareness and foreign languages. Venus suffers from a similar predicament, as one may find that their own personal growth and opportunities are dependent on the other, but on the flip side, after their Saturn return they may be offered opportunities for luxury travel and become worldly as a result.

#astrology #jupiter #sagittarius #astro observations #astro notes

[mariacallous]

British exceptionalism means that we do not like to think of our politicians as extremists. Official paranoia, state-sponsored lying, half-mad ideas that play to bigoted prejudices: these evils do not afflict dear, sweet, safe old Blighty.

You need only glance at the press or watch the BBC to know that policies and politicians we would have no problem identifying as radical right if they appeared in Europe or the Trumpian corners of the United States, are treated as mainstream here in the UK.

To be fair, Rishi Sunak is not a typical strongman leader. He is small (5ft 5in) and without physical presence, oratorical skill, or a definable sense of purpose.

Sunak’s manner varies from  wide-eyed chirpiness when discussing his strangely marginal political passions – banning smoking, recruiting more maths teachers – to petulance when confronted with difficulties: “He comes across as snippy, and comes across as thin-skinned — which he is, when people challenge him,” said one former minister.

Labour politicians believe he will fall apart under the scrutiny of a general election campaign.

And yet this mediocre member of the superrich (our modern Malvolio married rather than earned his wealth) who received the best education the Western world can offer at Winchester college and Oxford and Stanford universities, is by any reasonable definition an extremist.

Sunak’s only saving grace is that he is as useless at extremism as he is at everything else and thus there is a limit to how much damage he can cause.

Within the past few hours Sunak passed into law the power to send asylum seekers to the quasi-dictatorship of Rwanda. The deportees will include genuine refugees, the victims of human trafficking, and Afghans who risked their lives serving the British armed forces in the war against the Taliban.

I have no doubt that radical right politicians across Europe would like to possess the same powers. But as things stand only Rishi Sunak has them and is able to set them to the Orwellian task of remoulding reality.

The UK Supreme Court ruled that the government could not deport people to Rwanda because it is not a safe country. It’s a quasi-dictatorship under Paul Kagame, a genuine and genuinely frightening strongman, who is engaged in covert warfare against neighbouring states. There’s no real judicial independence and the Rwandan government breached the terms of a previous asylum deal it had entered into with Israel.

The UK government has got round these objections by announcing that reality is now what Rishi Sunak says it is.

Sunak’s legislation declares that Rwanda is a safe country, even though it isn’t. From now on, an asylum seeker trying to stop the UK deporting him cannot use the actual existing repressions on the ground in Rwanda to challenge the government in UK courts.

Sunak says Rwanda is safe so it must be so. Maybe Sunak will move on to declare that black is white and 2+2=5, but for the time being he is limiting himself to creating an imaginary African republic where all is peace and light.

Lord Anderson, who as a former adviser to the UK state on terrorism is hardly a knee-jerk softie, put it well when he said of the government’s plans to end judicial oversight

“If Rwanda is safe as the government would have us declare, it has nothing to fear from such scrutiny. “Yet we are invited to adopt a fiction, to wrap it in the cloak of parliamentary sovereignty and to grant it permanent immunity from challenge. To tell an untruth and call it truth.”

To insist that lies are the truth is extreme. It is also the logical conclusion of the Brexit policy of concerted lying in the service of political ends, which has been running since 2016.

And speaking of Brexit and before I go any further, I should note that, with the exception of Geert Wilders, no European far-right leader advocates taking his or her country out of the EU. But Rishi Sunak was all for Brexit, and promised that “our nation would be freer, fairer and more prosperous outside the EU”.

We know how that went.

And we almost certainly know how the Rwanda deportations will go. They will fail, and Sunak will be a failed extremist because what he wants is impossible.

Look at it from the point of view of a right-winger who is furious that tens of thousands are crossing the English Channel and entering the country illegally. Throughout his life the Conservatives have betrayed him.  

David Cameron promised to reduce migration from the hundreds to tens of thousands, and failed to deliver. Brexit promised to return control of our borders. Instead, small boats cross the channel in a parody of the Dunkirk evacuation, while legal immigration has gone through the roof.

No pro-European politician would ever say this, but it does not mean that people have not noticed. By leaving the EU, the UK swapped European migrants who were largely white and, if they had a religion, it was Christianity, for migrants from the rest of the world who are largely not white and, if they have a religion, it is unlikely to be Christianity.

Despite all this Sunak is still bellowing that he will stop all the boats, which is as impossible as David Cameron’s fake promise to reduce migration to the tens of thousands.

He is bellowing because Conservatives are terrified that Reform (the latest Farage party) will send the Tories down to a landslide defeat.

They are trying to unite the right by assuming that right-wing and radical-wing voters are stupid, and won’t notice the attempt to con them with impossible promises.

It’s not working. At the moment we are in an unprecedented situation, where Labour enjoys a poll lead on immigration.

For those on left who say there is no difference between Starmer’s Labour and the Tories ought to notice that Labour holds that lead even though it is absolutely opposed to the Rwanda obscenity, when Tony Blair’s Labour party would probably have gone along with it.

In the Commons yesterday, Stephen Kinnock, Labour’s shadow immigration minister, tore into the government.

He pointed out that the cost of the vain attempt to save Sunak’s skin – will be about “£2 million per deportee”. As only a few hundred are ever likely to go, tens of thousands more will be left “in expensive hotels, stuck in a perma-backlog at a staggering cost to the taxpayer.”

Assuming, that is, anyone goes at all.

 Yesterday Sunak made a rather pathetic admission that no plane will leave for 12 weeks. We shall see. Despite the government’s best efforts to rewrite the law and threaten the European Court of Human Rights, there can still be legal challenges which may last until the next election.

Cynics say the government would like nothing better than the flights to be stopped so it can blame left-wing lawyers in the campaign. I think they are attributing intelligence to the prime minister he does not possess.

Put like this, the UK’s failed extremists do not seem so reprehensible.  But look at what they have done. Since David Cameron in 2010 they have never explained the necessity for immigration in an honest conversation with the public.

They have pandered to right-wing and radical right-wing sentiment and then infuriated voters by making promises they could never keep. In doing so they have prepared the ground for genuinely extremist politicians.

We have already paid a price for their trickery with Brexit and I doubt the full bill is in yet.

We are fortunate that Rishi Sunak is too hopeless to be dangerous. We may not be so lucky in the future.

[autumnmobile12]

In this scene when Hector is threatening Lenore, he says the following, "...or I will rip your fucking throat out and break your fucking neck and we'll see how fucking well you live then."

All right, let's pretend for a moment Lenore was in any kind of danger and this was a legitimate threat: Is Hector just bluffing (as if Lenore's not going to know her own weaknesses) or would breaking her neck actually result in some permanent damage if he succeeded?

In other words, can the Netflix's Castlevania vampires be crippled?

Modern vampire media plays fast and loose with Bram Stoker's rules, (I mean, the more powerful Hellsing vampires can even walk around in sunlight; it just annoys them,) but in every other vampire-themed series I can think of right now, short of the classic stake through the heart or the head being removed, vampires tend to come back from just about anything. Regrowing limbs, regenerating catastrophic blood less, etc. The series Shiki actually has a pretty disturbing rundown of what vampires can and can't survive, courtesy of a doctor capturing one and putting her through a series of inhumane experiments to see what will actually kill her. (This one also has a pretty similar explanation to Castlevania as to why vampires fear holy relics, and it's the only modern vampire series I've seen that actually has the 'sacred ground is off limits' factor.)

When the chips are down, Hector's probably just overreaching here. (Or possibly trying to intimidate Lenore on the mistaken assumption she's a 'helpless lady.')

But I do think it's an interesting notion to have vampirism not being the 'cure all, return to factory setting in case of emergency' trope we see everywhere because the 'factory setting' is different for everyone. Such as vampires experiencing permanent injuries or even terminal illnesses. The light of the moon is just reflected sunlight, so a vampire with a skin condition that makes them extra sensitive to even moonlight could be possible. Also, vampires developing illnesses like blood disorders, rabies, even the ones who have animal forms contracting mange, certain cancers, neurological or physiological conditions they were born with that a vampire's bite didn't 'cure.'

Or maybe they have a whole other range of afflictions specific only to their species.

Example: Aside from Carmilla and Godbrand, none of Dracula's Generals speak, not even Cho even though she has a flashback in Season 3. In a Hellsing/Castlevania crossover I was working on, I wrote a part where the Generals had an ongoing bet of whether or not Cho was too arrogant to bother speaking with the plebs or if she actually couldn't speak, implying she has a speech disorder that predated her being a vampire.

...

I've read books where humans with asthma, severe scoliosis, and even Alzheimer's Disease were cured after becoming a vampire, and I do think that's wonderful.

But there's also the part of me that thinks, "Nah, too easy." I want to see vampires who are blind or deaf or both, autistic vampires, 10th century Chinese vampire ladies who still have maimed feet from the foot-binding of their childhoods, vampires who suffer from dementia and are terrified of losing hundreds of years worth of memories, dyslexic vampires, paraplegic vampires, vampires with autoimmune disease, or allergies outside of being unable to enjoy the gift to humanity that is garlic bread.

#castlevania #hector #lenore #castlevania vampires #castlevania headcanons #can vampires be crippled? #hellsing #shiki #castlevania netflix #vampires #seriously #of all the things #why garlic bread?

[theprinceofpeacesposts]

All afflictions are temporary, God will deliver you

"The afflictions of the righteous are many, but the LORD delivers him from them all." Psalm 34:19

Today, God's word is strengthening you as you go through life's challenges and sufferings. Don't think that maybe God doesn't love you because you're experiencing the troubles of this world.

When the word says "the afflictions of the righteous," it means that even God's blameless people suffer. When you face afflictions and troubles, it doesn't mean you've sinned or you're unworthy. No! Even the righteous suffer many afflictions.

So, Child of God, know that troubles and sufferings are part of the righteous life. We have much to learn from Job, who endured immense suffering. And God testified of him to Satan, saying, "Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil." Job 1:8

Jesus Christ also told us, "In the world, you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world." John 16:33 So, suffering and tribulation are things we will encounter in our lives, and it doesn't mean that the one suffering lacks something or is weaker than the one who isn't suffering.

The good news today is the promise God has given us in this word: "But the LORD delivers him from them all." Psalm 34:19 God has assured us of His healing and salvation. He has promised to heal all afflictions, not some, but all.

Some people have lost hope because there's something they've been praying for, for a long time, but it hasn't been answered yet. Everything else has been answered by God, except that particular problem. So, they've come to accept that problem as a part of their lives. They feel like God won't answer it. The word says, "God will heal all." There's no illness or disease that is yours. No affliction is yours permanently. All the sufferings you're going through are temporary, and

God will heal all your afflictions and you will live a life of joy and peace, praising your God for his goodness and grace in your life.

PRAYER: Thank you, LORD, for your promise to heal me and deliver me from all afflictions. Today, I surrender myself to you in faith, believing that you can save me from all my troubles, Amen.

#devotional #bible reflection #spirituality #christian faith #biblequotes #christian inspiration #god #bibleverse #bibledaily #believe #christian tumblr #reminder

[cult-of-the-rizz]

Archiving further thoughts on the power of the bishops vs narinder (also gets very speculative on the nature of the cotl universe's destiny so the speculation aspect is just what I'm basing the laws of my lamb's universe in):

Haro mentions that the four bishops are flexible and fluctuate their control of their elements, yet narinder is hard line absolute and that it's somehow baffling that he wants to destroy the order of the world by killing the other bishops:

"He was unalike the rest of his kin. While others dealt with flux; chaos, famine, pestilence, war. Things in which their constancy must transpose. And yet he was the inevitable; the obstinate and irresistible. The one who waits. Truly peculiar, 'twould then seem, has appetency to invite the novel and the new, break ancient vow and primordial bond alike. Traditions stagnate and appetites augment, nonetheless. Doubt tears faith asunder."

I think this is wrong and in this essay I will explain

The four aren't flexible, they're incomplete. Narinder is the only god of the five with absolute power, so much so that at his full capabilities he can override the abilities of the four. The bishops were keeping narinder from reaching his full potential as god of life and death because it would render their own rule useless. What's the point of curses and blessings if they don't do anything permanent? None of their sectors of control are absolute. You can be diseased and still live, sickness doesn't guarantee death. Just as peace and bounty don't guarantee life. But narinder, narinder can guarantee those things. Get his blessing and live through a terminal disease or get cursed and drop dead in the most painful way.

Narinder isn't necessary selfish for wanting his divine dominion over life, but I think there's an underlying reason that perhaps only shamura understood that caused his imprisonment. Giving narinder the chance to realize fully his ultimate power over the other four meant that ultimately, the world they govern would come to an end. Pestilence, famine, war and chaos are temporary afflictions, but death is cyclical with life and absolute. Narinder, at his full power, would bring about the end of gods and the five because that's his role.

The other gods have already died and become relics of the past, the end for the rule of cults and gods was bound to come soon.

"Five points to a pentagram, five portents of doom, five siblings stood abreast, five gods and one tomb..."

"Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing."

"Knock, knock, the Lamb comes to raze, end of days, end of days."

"Death cannot flow backward. It was I who had him chained. Forced into subjugation by the four of us."

Shamura knew. This isn't just shamura ravings and fearing narinder's success. They knew from the fucking beginning. The five are portents of doom, the end of times, the destruction of the world as they know it. The five were cast upon the world as heralds of the changing times. Of the end of the era of gods. Narinder was always going to "win". He was born to champion the change and ensure the end of cults and gods. However I don't think that narinder realized this death of gods would include himself. I think in his hubris he didn't think that he would lose his crown after the others died, but that was his destiny. As he too is a god, so he too must die

And shamura's famous five becomes four quote, they knew the loss of even one bishop would be a catalyst to the end. Imprisoning narinder only prolonged the inevitable. And I don't think this was selfish of them either, they loved narinder and no doubt the rest of the bishops. I think, despite their godly knowledge and age, they didn't want to say goodbye to it all just yet. I think kallamar knew the eventual outcome of everything too, being the second oldest. He probably was the only one at the time to truly understand what shamura understood in regards to the end of times for the five of them, which is what made him so scared of narinder. Because narinder is the absolute. He cannot be stopped, he can only lie in wait.

Shamura's error was made out of love. Love for their family and for narinder, not wanting to see him victimized to destiny.

#cult of the lamb #cotl kallamar #cotl narinder #cotl heket #cotl leshy #cotl #cotl lamb

[sleepingdeath-light]

s/o who isn’t afraid of the curse hcs ; eda

requested by ; anonymous (16/08/22)

fandom(s) ; the owl house

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; edalyn clawthorne

outline ; “So y'know that interpretation of werewolves where the only major reason their beast form is completely feral is the sheer confusion, disorientation, and fear that comes with such a transformation? And that if you could coax them out of that headspace, they'd be pretty lucid? I've long seen Eda's curse as functioning similarly. So how do you think she'd do with an s/o who's not unafraid, but still much more willing to work with her in that form. Help her beast form not have a full blown panic and to not lash out every transformation. That sort of thing”

warning(s) ; canon typical references to violence, the owl beast being the owl beast

for most of her life eda had been terrified of her curse because of how volatile and animalistic she becomes under its influence

she permanently disfigured her father and caused him to struggle with keeping up his carving

it ended her relationship with raine because she was so afraid and insecure about it and felt like she couldn’t tell anyone about her affliction

she became isolated for years because of her curse and her status as a wild witch — hunted down even by her own sister, leaving her with nobody in the world to turn to

nobody but hooty and owlbert and, eventually, king — but no other witch because she was such an outsider

and then she found you

you, who was able to match her energy beat for beat

you, who stood by her despite the consistent threats to your life that you faced because of her

you, who tended to her and comforted her at her lowest — when she couldn’t take her of herself

you, who faced the dangers of the night market to fetch her the potions she needed when she was too scared to go out

you, who she loved more than herself

you, who she was terrified of losing to the curse one way or another

she spends so long fretting and hiding any signs of the curse from you that she forgets just how empathetic and determined you are

and when she runs out of her potions and starts to transform she’s hyperventilating and panicking because you’re in the house and she doesn’t want to hurt you and she can’t hurt you not now now ever…

and then you find her and you’re not scared

not when her body contorts and twists in ways that are unnatural and painful even just to watch

not when her voice deepens and echoes and warps to a bone-shaking tone

not when she’s more claw and feather than witch

not even as her pleas for you to flee and hide morph into owlish screeches and monstrous cries

not ever.

you still look at her with the same amount of love and you comfort her — comfort her — with gentle reassurances and gentle touches and gentle words

‘eda, it’s alright, i’m here’

‘you don’t have to be alone anymore’

‘i love you, and nothing is going to change that’

‘come here, love, you don’t have to hide. not from me’

and whilst it’s not eda that cowers in the corner and screeches at you and bares it’s teeth — whilst it’s not eda who regards you with hesitation and something close to fear — you can still see eda in the way the beast relaxes and it’s snarl fades into a whimper, you can hear her in the whines and purrs that the beast lets out when you draw near and press your forehead against it’s own

it’s not eda, you know that, but she’s still in there and the owl beast isn’t something you can find it in yourself to fear

not when it soothes and cooes at your affections

not when it leans into your touches and pats with an intense affection that has you giggling

not when it drags you into its nest and settles in around you, more cat that beast, and slowly drifts off to sleep

so like eda and yet not at all her; totally different and, yet, totally the same somehow

and the next morning, when eda is eda again and not the beast, she’ll recall pieces of your night and smile

in awe of your loyalty and laughing at herself for thinking that the owl beast would ever harm you

because she loves you so dearly

and clearly, somehow, the beast loves you too

and she never really had anything to worry about

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #fluff hcs #fluff #toh fluff #eda x reader #toh x reader #the owl house x reader #toh eda x reader

[radiowallet]

Loss

Summary: The loss is heavy. WC: 511 Warnings: Mature. Some gratuitous descriptions of blood and wounds. A lot of purple prose. Truly, I don't know. I was journaling and this came out and here it is.

Gif by the talented and kind @pedropascalsx

————

The loss is heavy. 

Weighted and much too big, bearing down on the width of his shoulders, digging divots, deep and permanent and forever into his skin, the labor of it biting sharp into the marrow of his bones. His muscles ache and his knees shake, every step reminding him of what he could not save. What he cannot change. Each movement sends the sting of her bruising fingers, much too small but still so strong digging for purchase. Fingers that gripped so tight, clinging to the cords of his neck, gripping at the steel of his shoulders, blood pooling beneath his skin, blistering from burning red to putrid purple, the leverage never meant to fade. The heft is massive, bulky and dense, and it isn’t long before the loss is all Joel Miller knows. 

The pain is dense.

Fresh and bright, burning at the edges of his ribs. It is a hurt that weeps, open and bleeding, slicing bloody sinew from skin, a new cut with every beat of his heart, every breath in his lungs. Scars multiply, again and again, covering the breadth of his back, the span of his shoulders, marking their territory across his spine, but still never enough to hide that first bite of discomfort. Wounds will heal, skin puckered, smooth and shiny and pulling too tight, but her breath will linger. Forever he will feel the fire blooming blazing deep, no match needed to ignite the blaze. The agonizing affliction of pain will grow heavier, day by day, step by step, and soon enough the pain is all Joel Miller feels. 

The fear is staggering.

Ever present, consistent and haunting. It follows him from room to room, catching at the edge of the shadow he carries with him. He closes his eyes and he is back in the dark, a flash of a streetlight, an echo of a scream, her weight in his arms. It digs and carves and worms a home inside his belly, the bowels of his horror living an endless life, always awake, always running, never to sleep soundly again. It snaps and it cracks and it aches with each breath he takes, snot dripping, tears pooling. His fingers reach for an unseen weight, his arms heavy with the force of a promise he could not keep. He sprints, feet unsteady, slipping in dark, pools of muddy black sticking to his soul. And before he can blink himself awake from the night, the fear is what Joel Miller has become.

Fear and pain and all that come between the cracks of each word, the spacing small and wide and vast and close, keeping him settled, buried down inside the ache of his hands, the burn of his muscles, the shake of his knees. He will carry these things, forever, strapped to his back and sewn to his skin, an unwavering brunt of the brutish life that exists in an eerie reality. It is unbearable, unnecessary, unrelenting, a weight that he will hold close until he takes one final breath.  

Joel Miller knows what loss is.

And it is heavy. 

————

All the thanks to @write-and-buried who read this and encouraged me and is honestly and truly 50% I’m excited to meet this broken, angry man. Thank you for your love and friendship, you gremlin angel 🖤

#Joel Miller #joel miller fic #the last of us #TLOU #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #Joel Miller fanfic #pedro pascal characters #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller tlou

[moonfeatherblue]

BEFORE I FORGET AGAIN here are all the notes from our latest brainstorming stream ~

“What If Beauty Could Literally Steal Your Breath?”

Random Thoughts

We see something beautiful to us, we start turning blue and suffocating; can cause death if not treatment, stop exposure, etc

Beauty is subjective; different things would affect different people

Could be scenarios where only a certain type of beauty e.g. a person’s physical beauty is causing the affliction; could also be all forms of beauty

People could be suffocating over – movies; books; video games; faces of their children or loved ones; landscapes; paintings; music; different genres of music; smells –

Could smelling a rose kill you?

Concepts or ideas can also be beautiful, they could also affect certain people

Dating will be awkward and potentially dangerous

Spending time with loved ones could become very difficult

Oxygen tanks

Could the breath stolen by beauty be collected and used for e.g. filling oxygen tanks; spells; etc

Would whatever steals the breath (if it’s not a natural affliction) gain life or improvement in life?

Can different levels of beauty affect differently; cute kitten video make you wheeze a little, but looking at Mt Fuji could make you faint – but again, different for different people

If it’s a natural affliction, symptoms similar to asthma attack (mild to severe); probably no ‘breath collected’

If it’s a nefarious e.g. curse, maybe built into the spell for breath to be collected, or the caster of the spell needs to be nearby

Could also be affected by dreams in your sleep – wake up gasping and/or dead

Smell of the air beautiful – infinite loop

If find yourself extremely physically attractive, could you be affected?

If simply like your looks, could you be affected?

If you have a healthy relationship with yourself and ‘love yourself’, could you be affected?

Plastic surgery to diminish looks to stop hurting your loved ones; would that work? Your loved ones love you, not how you look; beautiful due to personality/soul, beautiful no matter how you look; could be tried in pandemic scenario but found to not be very effective?

Soul surgery???

Does love equate to beauty? Depends on situation/scenario/different people – so subjective

What if it’s only beautiful humans that cause the affliction, not art, nature, etc?

What about the poor people who find something beautiful in everything?

Use as an excuse to get out of e.g. classes – I find the language beautiful!!!

If you do find a particular language beautiful, hearing it would affect your breathing; limit the places you could travel

What about the poor people who find Vtuber feet beautiful??? WHAT ABOUT THEM???

Favourite food could affect you – would no longer be able to eat it

Some people not affected by any beauty at all

How powerful a spell would be required to make a singular person lose breath at the sight of beauty? What about many people at once? If it’s a powerful spell, it might take a novice a huge amount of power, but a master might be able to do it with a click of their fingers

Curse scenario – how painful is it to lose breath? Depend on strength of that particular spell; drawn out of lungs and can’t breathe it back – very distressing; how long does it last? Until death? Just until they have the breath currently in your lungs? Not preventing from breathing in again?

Natural affliction scenario – similar to asthma, other breathing conditions; painful and distressing to that degree

Maybe doesn’t cause any huge health issues – just annoying; causes huge cough, like getting the wind knocked out of you, but no more permanent damage

Two types of fear – one associated with feelings of suffocation without a way to stop it, other is everything else – IF THIS WAS A CURSE SCENARIO this might be quite pertinent, some sort of reasoning behind this curse?

WHAT IF a beautiful person was cursed so everyone who sees them gets the air pulled out of their lungs?

Is breath close to life in some religions; could there be religious implications

What if it’s widely believed those affected – it’s not their breath being pulled out of them, but their soul? What would that lead to – discrimination against the ‘soulless’ sort of thing

THE PLAUGE

Concept for counterbalancing a superpower –

Most beautiful person in a village being accused of being a witch and stealing someone’s soul

Beauty trials instead of witch trials

IN THE CURSE SCENARIO – maybe the curse only works if you see the cursed person’s body directly and wearing 100% covering counters the curse – full long-sleeved dresses and full face-covering veils very popular and sensible

A Medusa situation

Curse scenario – curse only takes oxygen out of someone’s lungs in a manner so they do not realise they are suffocating

What if beauty replaces the oxygen in your lungs with something else (e.g. macaroni; roses); beauty gas replaces?

Roses in the lungs disease; a major fanfic trope; cough out petals if you’re bottling your love feelings; either confess love or forget about the person you love; if untreated leads to death

Beautiful voice can steal your breath

CURSE SCENARIO -  If a person’s ambition is perceived as beautiful and they curse someone and steal their breath, would their own ambition, etc, become more beautiful

Beauty as a power without using the overused trope of charm is a good idea

Could this be a superpower – your face/voice/personality/etc can steal people’s breath – how could you use this power; what difficulties will you face in life; etc

What would the embodiment of beauty be?

Would you know you find someone you like if you lose your breath? Probably a good indication

World ugly-fying filter for extra sensitive people so they can leave the house

CURSE SCENARIO – sorcerer collecting breath so their idea, dream, ambition, etc, gains so much breath it can will a body/form into existence, become personified; could someone literally make a god?

CURSE SCENARIO – what if when you steal someone’s breath, you take it for yourself, increasing your own beauty (in the eyes of your society)

Breath transfusions

Iron lungs – beauty industry evolves around accessories and mods for iron lungs, etc

Could pets, animals, (plants??) also be affected?

Mosquitos would go extinct??? Blood so beautiful???

Use of robots and AI for art; become cyborgs to avoid art and beauty

Beauty deities could die out from declining numbers of believers

What if being ‘ugly’ can fill someone’s lungs with oxygen?? ‘Ugly’ people become saviours

Photo of ** become a creepy pasta/urban legend, but actually true

Beauty is a Lovecraftian eldritch being that gains power from each breath taken

Are lungs and gills equal? If not, research into humans developing gills and becoming amphibious

If two ‘ugly’ people dated, could they permanently live in space/water if their lungs are constantly filling with oxygen?

Mermaid HRT (hormone replacement therapy); need to know actually afflicted by disease and it’s not a fetish; or heart transplant – WHAT ABOUT THE MERMAIDS

What if people get systematically tested for what type of people (or other things) they find attractive and what archetype of beauty they are – like blood types; medical update during yearly physicals, etc, part of regular blood tests, monitor changes as grow

Sirens – become what we individually find most attractive; sirens stealing breath?

Pinocchio-like – become more of a ‘real person’ by being the most beautiful, gaining the most life/beauty/etc; ‘contest’ between unscrupulous sorcerers to gather the most breath/life/beauty

SHOW IDEA – near extinction of human males; all boys captured and on government-mandated dating shows – MAKE IT A ROMCOM

Treatment for curse – depend on strength of the curse; whether it’s short or long term; are there any antidotes? If not, at the mercy of the sorcerer

If a mental health or other disorder due to chemical imbalances or other difficulties in the body, treatment similar to other mental health/respiratory diseases – drugs, CBT, relaxation, decreasing stress, etc

Potential of social pension, etc, if afflicted by this – if it’s a rare thing, probably; if it’s a pandemic, no

Family issues – parents not being able to raise their children, unable to spend much time with them, affect on the children emotionally, developmentally

Spending infancy in opaque incubator; light cycles and stimulus provided within?

Would baby beauty affect all people or just family – could all babies be raised in a box? What age would they come out?

Insurance issues

Importance of visual beauty decreases, leads to auditory beauty being the most dominant form, which in turn leads to auditory beauty causing more problems; need to soundproof incubators, etc; deadly loop

ID cards – fingerprints, etc, instead of faces

Difficulties getting medical treatment?

So in love willing to die for each other – toxic relationship

Logos not exist since someone could find it beautiful

Beauty could become something like alcohol, cigarettes, recreational drugs – people know it’s dangerous, but do it for the euphoria

Compare ‘beauty tasting’ to wine tasting

Beauty battles- UNBREATHE

Disease would produce many forms of ableism – taunting due to avoiding beauty, etc

A Rare Affliction

Mental health disorder; when affected by beauty, body seizes up, affects the trachea and the lungs, etc, creates asthma-like symptoms

Permanent or a curable affliction

Could be related to neurodivergence

Minimise exposure to beauty; need to find out exactly what you find beautiful in order to avoid it

If found self beautiful and were affected by it, get rid of all your mirrors!

Minimise contact with family and friends for your health

Lead to depression

Treatments – if natural, inhalers, relaxation therapy, etc could work for mild to moderate cases; difficult to treat severe attacks; if it’s a mental health disorder or chemical imbalances causes breathing difficulties, probably some kind of treatment

What kind of treatment if it’s a curse

Like many disabilities, chronic disease – live your life, but need meds, assistance tools, regular care, etc

A Global Pandemic

Pandemic cycles as beauty standards change to something once believed safe

People naturally start finding other things beautiful that once they didn’t find beautiful in a self-preservation reflex, but now THAT’S beautiful, so that starts affecting them, too = cycles

Beauty becomes suppressed in all its forms

Oxygen would become a black market item; ridiculously expensive and hard to get; hoarded

“Beautiful” people encouraged/forced to wear masks, etc

There will always be a “most beautiful”; doesn’t matter how ugly masks, clothes, etc, are; logical conclusion (in the beginning) is to try to avoid beauty

Some people would try to capitalize on the situation – selling oxygen at high prices; if the curse scenario, collecting all the oxygen and selling it again;

Military uses – send something beautiful to the enemy to act as a debuff

Selling diet air for a good discount

Small percentage of people immune and run secretive beauty clubs; poetry readings; in dystopian future sort of thing

IN THE BEGINNING – preventative measures; increased respiratory clinics everywhere; warnings outside of art museums, libraries, famous natural sites, etc

Only so much preventative measures can do – when beauty is so subjective (people could be dropping with every rainbow) and the beauty cycles that are starting

‘Beauty’ starts being controlled; libraries, galleries, art and creative expression in general start being suppressed; to many restrictions; and eventually outlawed

Libraries would be burned; book bonfires; art bonfires; musical instruments bonfires; natural world desecrated – ALL IN THE SAKE OF HEALTH

No one able to appreciate things like fine dining any more; fancy chefs out of a job

People not affected by beauty at all in a prime position to EXPLOIT

A curse gone out of control; evil magical people exploiting it stealing breath

Surge in kidnappings – can intentionally use beauty to knock people out and kidnap them

If it’s only people you find beautiful that causes the breath loss, what if everyone is only affected by those genders you are sexually attracted to? Is it just sexual attraction or is it romantic attraction, as well? (does not include family members, etc, that you love and find beautiful)

HUGE EFFECT ON POPULATION

What does society look like in 100 years if this beauty pandemic is ongoing; if all forms of beauty – becoming a drab bunker society in which creativity is shunned, all forms of beauty shunned, self-expression punished; secret beauty club for immune people; black market in beauty for those willing to risk their breath just to experience beauty; probably rebellions brewing (or constantly being stamped out) in this bunker society

What would happen with the beauty industry?

Beauty as a drug and erotic asphyxiation being common; like strip clubs but removing masks not clothes

IF BEAUTY STEALS BREATH AND UGLINESS GIVES IT (societal norms) – eventually what is beautiful and ugly might completely swap; cycles

Everything becomes very bland to prevent declining population – population and crowd control through beauty

Self harm increases to diminish beauty and protect others – no one would want to be beautiful; what about cycling beauty standards, things that are ugly would soon become beautiful to most people

Dystopian beauty soldiers

Movies, tv shows, etc, temporarily banned until beauty standards switch around; keep cycling

If you'd like to write anything inspired by our lovely and mildly disturbing brainstorming session - be it a six-word story, a sentence, a drabble, a paragraph, a poem, a play, a short story, a novella, a novel plan, or something else entirely - please, write it and share it with us! If everyone is comfortable with making a Scribble Hub account, this might be a good way to keep all our writings together (please don't panic about cover art - any random free-to-use picture related to your story is perfectly perfect). Please use #MacGuffinsUwrite in the synopsis, and perhaps include an @moonfeatherblue just to grab my attention! If you're not comfortable with Scribble Hub, don't worry! Please post where you are comfortable, use the hashtag, and maybe let me know with a VOD comment so I know to track it down.

You'll have a little longer this time around due to Blue's family holiday adventure coming up - I'll be reading all your stories on 6 May at 10 am aest (assuming all goes to schedule). If you could try to have your stories posted by the day before, that would be very much appreciated 💙✨

#writing #indie vtuber #brainstorming #creative writing #macguffinsuwrite #blue mooney #moonfeatherblue #writeblr #vtubers of tumblr #envtuber #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #english vtuber #writing vtuber #what if beauty could literally steal your breath

[precious-little-scoundrel]

I’ve got some Whole Man questions and I hope it’s okay because it’s a story I truly enjoy but I lack history knowledge and I’m not as smart as you.

1. (Not a historical question) I imagine Rosey maybe having a baby face despite what she’s been through, like maybe when she smiles people are reminded how young she is. Any accuracy to how you envision her?

2. Does the Captain have an STD of sorts for real or is he wrongly diagnosed under Colonel’s orders?

3. And if he does carry an STD, is Rosey okay with it being passed to her? The latest chapter when she asks him if he is refusing to sleep with her in fear of getting her sick how exactly did all that work back then? Is he sick like Aida?

4. What exactly is the Captain ill from?

5. Is Rosey saving him money now that she’s running his books or is she still trying to figure out exactly what stretches his money so thin?

I’m sure I’ve got more that are currently escaping my mind so I might pop back in later with them if that’s alright! Like I said I love this story I just get a bit lost sometimes! Not because of your writing but because of my lack in knowledge!

I am soooo glad to be asked these sorts of questions, I could talk your ears off about this particular story and as it’s rather complex and uh, vague??? i do sometimes wonder what confusion I may have sewn at times with the unfolding and it’s nice to have a check as to wether those confusions are being unsnarled properly. Also, I am a history nerd, everyone has their areas of passion and study and excellence, I’m just so glad this series caught your affection anyway.

1. The baby faced softness: oh yes, very accurate to how I imagine her, a rather stern and unconventionally pretty resting face that belongs to a woman who has been through hell and deprivation rather than the young fresh girl she ought to be. But then her smile can wrought a complete metamorphosis in softening her face, I like to think her teasing little looks she sends Captain Presley the more confident she becomes around him have a similar effect of making her look younger and arch. I never wanted to give her an full faceclaim as in my mind she’s very much original. I also wanted y’all to feel free to imagine as you like, it did start as a reader insert, after all. But here are a few gals from ye olden days that resonate with my vision of her. mainly the third, I see her AS rosey.

2. Mm, ok yeah so, it’s rather likely he had one? At some point? But the entire fuss made over it and the credit it’s given for ALL his ailments is entirely fabricated. And not out of poor doctoring but an intentional (by the colonel) misdiagnoses to keep him both in thrall to the drugs and shamed regarding the very cause of his current misery. I have always intended he have something like malaria or the like, which is borne by biting insects and can cause damage to vital organs permanently in those who survive the initial illness and often flares as a chronic fevered illness, effecting the liver and blood and mind. There were treatments already available for it back then but chiefly belonged to indigenous people and the brilliant minds of the medical system at that time had no desire to learn from “primitive” people who actually lived and survived amongst the most afflicted areas -shocker. 🙄 I guess I sorta answered your fourth question here lo

3. Yeah so this will be interesting to tackle, as I fully believe he is concerned with passing anything to her although his genuine reasoning is in regards to waiting for marriage. As for Rosey? I think she already doubts that’s his full trouble but then she is not very educated on any of these conjugal things or the side effects of prostitution. The captain has watched, with Aida and others, the slow or rapid decline of so many succumbing to his erstwhile occupation -in fact, his chief tolerance for Aida and providing for her is a guilty sort of attempt at charity with the hopes that if he is kind to her and merciful, the same mercy might be granted him when he declines similarly. A bit of a bargain with God. So Rosey is perhaps not as concerned as she should be, but that may work in their favor if he’s misdiagnosed. Also, back then -and this is criminally tragic- plenty of women caught and died from stds given them by their philandering husbands, men who weren’t “disreputable” in any polite sense but did indulge in prostitutes and came back to their unsuspecting (or worse suspecting but helpless) wives and infected them. This even resulted in congenital infection, many babies died from their fuckwit father’s spreading this to their wives. All of this is an impolite history Rosey would be unaware of but Captain Presley would be keenly cognizant of.

3. Rosey is trying. 😂 Boy is she trying to save and to play detective but honestly? I think we already know where the money is going just as we know where the real Elvis’ money chiefly went -to Parker. While Elvis is left with his half share that must also pay for the boat, the coal, the wages, much of the bribes, multiple dependents off the boat and of course, his occasional bouts of outrageous generosity and indulgence in fine things.

#AWM asks #elvis fanfiction #love notes

[heniareth]

ZevWarden Week 2023

Day 2: Secrets, Kept and Told

His Best-Kept Secret

Wordcount: 1,515 | Rating: Teen and Up

Zevran has let himself be catured and is waiting for his Warden. The interrogation, however, is taking an unexpected turn.

WARNINGS FOR:

canon typical violence

the mention of torture

arrow portruding out of someone's stomach

(Read down below or here on AO3)

The torture hadn't started yet, and if everything went according to Zevran's plan, it never would.

Well. Plan was a strong word to use for his vague idea of how things would go. But it was much quicker to say and sounded like more. Presentation was half the sell. His captors seemed to know this too, however, artfully as they had arranged him. And professionally. Zevran tested his restraints for the uptenth time. They held fast, just as they had done the last time, and the time before that, and... Well. It was sufficient to say that these people knew their business. They were even letting him wait for hours in end. Maybe to give him the time to think about his crimes. How very considerate.

And how lucky he was to have a different, secret, and far more exciting topic to think about while he worked on freeing himself.

Antiva had gotten far more beautiful ever since his love had arrived here. He had missed her. He had missed her terribly. Her letter announcing her arrival had sent him mad with fear. She was his secret, his best kept secret. And she would walk right on the Crows' home turf? Out of the question. And he had told her as much.

All these fears had been set aside like old clothes when he had laid eyes on her again. The permanent good mood he had been afflicted with ever since—sweet affliction, sweetest of them all—hadn't dissipated even now. And why would it? His Warden was in Antiva, by his side once more. He would see her again in... Zevran checked the angle of the sunbeam filtering through the window. In an hour or so. They hadn't deprived him of a way to measure time, a gross oversight on their part. Had they actually buckled down to properly inch him ever closer to despai, as torture was supposed to do, they wouldn't have committed such a mistake. Securely as they had tied them up, surely they were not amateurs?

The question answered itself. The door swung open and a black-clad figure entered the dusty but well-lit room. The figure evidently shared his opinion on the preparations; they—she, if Zevran's eyes did not deceive him—scowled as she regarded the room.

"I know, I know," Zevran called over, intent on speeding this along so he could make his appointment. "It would not have been my location of choice either."

Behind the figure, the door slammed shut with an almost offended note to it.

The newcomer clicked her tongue, took off her gloves and placed them on the empty chair sitting in front of him. Circling one wrist, he spotted what looked to be the mark of the last important house of the Crows outside of his influence.

"Arainai's whoreson," she addressed him. "Everyone thought you dead."

"Alas, it seems you were wrong," Zevran said and shrugged. "Valisti, I presume?"

"Concha del Hierro of house Valisti," the Crow nodded and bowed her head slightly. "I am pleased to formally make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," Zevran answered, bit back a smart comment, and demonstratively pulled at his restraints. "I would bow, but I find myself unable to do so. If you would unbind me, however..."

Concha scoffed, and Zevran could have sworn she was glad his captors—for captors they believed themselves to be—had at least managed to get this one thing right.

"There have been a number of deaths among the Crows," Concha began. "Starting with yours, extending to your house, and then to other houses. As the only survivor so far, you would not happen to know the source of this plague, would you?"

"I have heard rumors of a Black Shadow prowling Antiva's streets," Zevran said and didn't bother to hide his fiddling with his restraints. "So it is true?"

"So it seems," Concha answered. "An unoriginal name, if you ask me."

"House Valisti has always had an eye for the fine details," Zevran said politely.

"Spare me the flattery," Concha spat.

Had there just been an edge to her voice?

Zevran raised one eyebrow. Was this a genuine outburst or merely a ploy to make him believe he was dealing with somebody inexperienced?

"I am surprised to see members of house Valisti with so short a temper," he offered. "Master Arnoldo is doing a worse job than I thought."

"What do you care?" Concha replied, harshly.

There was, and Zevran knew this for a fact, no master Arnoldo. Not house Valisti, then?

"Concha del Hierro is not your real name, I take it?" Zevran continued.

The Crow—if she even was a Crow—bared her teeth. Her canines were unusually sharp. Half-elven, perhaps. "I am asking the questions."

Zevran cocked one eyebrow. "Are you, now?"

"Yes." A dagger rested in her hand now, steel shining in the sun. "Are you the Black Shadow?"

Zevran guffawed loudly. "This is your idea of an interrogation! If I was, would you truly expect me to simply answer you?"

The dagger flipped in her hand. At least she had some skill with the blade. "You will if you want to keep that pretty nose of yours."

"Threats! My, but you are creative," Zevran said and laughed. "Are you certain you are a Crow?"

The woman, whose name was definitely not Concha del Hierro, sad as this was, held up her tattooed wrist. "I thought your eyes would be sharper."

"Marks like these are easy to fake," Zevran said and shrugged. The bindings would come loose any time now... "A Crow's composure, however, is not. Now, what do you want with this Black Shadow?"

"I would like to tell him personally," the woman answered.

"Alas," Zevran said and sighed, "whether you meet them or not will depend on your answer to this question."

A quiet thud sounded outside the room. The woman heard it and spun around, eyes wide.

"And if this is who I believe it to be," Zevran said, "it will increase your chances of survival immensely if you tied me loose."

Another thud and a choked scream, this one right behind the door. The woman who had been interrogating him jumped up to the rack he had been tied to. Two, three quick motions loosened his restraints.

"Your weapon," Zevran said, holding out his hand.

"What!?" The woman quickly held her dagger out of reach.

The door cracked and splintered. Zevran knocked the woman off-balance, avoided her dagger and caught her arms behind her back. Then he ripped the dagger out of the woman's hand.

"This is for your own safety," he grunted, straining against the woman's efforts to break loose.

The door broke open, swinging wildly in its hinges and banging against the walls on either side of the entrance. A figure entered the room: tall, commanding, the right side of her face scarred and a loaded crossbow in her hand, pointing straight at them. A smile drew over Zevran's face before he knew it was there. Before he could say anything, his interrogator used this smallest of distractions to smash the back of her head into his nose. White light danced in front of Zevran's eyes, the woman slipped away. There was a thunk, then a pained shout, and when Zevran could see again he saw his interrogator lying on the floor, clutching her stomach, in which a heavy crossbow bolt had lodged itself. Back at the door, he could hear the crossbow that had fired it being reloaded.

"Do not shoot!" he shouted in Fereldan.

"She was attacking you!" his Warden answered likewise, but she held her shot.

Zevran moved over to his former interrogator.

"I told you, it was for your safety," he said as he removed any weapon on her person he could find. "Do not try anything else. I am afraid my rescuer is a rather quick shot."

Behind him, Zevram heard Astala scoff. The woman in front of him groaned in an attempt to see who had attacked her.

"Now, you see," Zevran said, "if you were a Crow, I would not be hearing a sound from you. You may want to pick a different disguise next time."

"Is that the fucking Hero of Ferelden?" the woman gasped in pain.

"Ah." Zevran did not dare turn his head to where his Warden was standing, searching for a suitable lie. "A momentary collaboration, if you will. But yes, you stand- er, lie in the presence of the Hero of Ferelden and the Black Shadow. What do you want of me?"

He would later tell her that Astala was merely helping him because she had her own issues with the Crows. They had tried to kill her, more than once, and they had stolen her sword, after all. He was alright telling this woman he was the Black Shadow; it might gain him an ally, and it was only his second best kept secret. His most private, his most treasured, his best-kept secret, was his Warden. And no word from his lips would reveal her to the Crows.

-

The name Concha del Hierro is a very infantile joke and I do apologize. In some Spanish-speaking places, Concha is a slang word for vagina. Hierro means iron. del technically means "from", not "out of", but it sounded better. And yeah, no, it's definitely not that poor girl's real name

Thank you so much for making it this far and to @zevraholics for organizing this event! Have a lovely day ^^

#zevwarden week #zevwarden week 2023 #zevwarden #Fanfic #Zevran x f!Warden #Zevran x Tabris #dao #dao fanfic #dragon age origins #dragon age origins fanfic #dragon age #warden tabris #female tabris #astala tabris #my ocs #my writings #secrets #cw: injury #torture mention #canon-typical violence #original character #blood

[kingofdrakon]

The Spawn Cycle

Well, well, well, if it isn't a second minecraft lore community I can share my minecraft soul theory with. A truly joyous day. Buckle up, because this theory/headcanon has quite a lot.

Souls As one might be able to tell, souls exist in some form within the minecraft world, and seem to come in multiple parts. This would be whatever souls exist in soul sand/soul soil, and experience. I believe the former is closer related to the true soul, while the latter is literally accumulated life experience.

The Spawn Cycle In minecraft, things can spawn, or are born (which could also be considered spawning), and things die. However, when a mob dies, its soul doesn't simply fade into the void, but respawns instead. I'm not sure whether it would be possible to respawn as a new mob or not. As one can expect, this would logically apply to sapient mobs as well, such as villagers, piglins, and whatever group the player is a part of (I will call them humans for simplicity). But here is where things get interesting.

The Respawn Beds have some sort of anchoring ability on souls who use them. Wherever the bed is, that place is considered home. Humans, however, developed a special ability, the power to literally respawn in current form wherever their home is, defaulting to the world spawn. Uniquely, their experience is imprinted on their actual soul, allowing them to retain memory when they really shouldn't. This resulted in humans being able to outcompete other mobs and achieve a worldwide dominance. However, I consider this ability to be not exactly available to the whole population, as how then could the human society have fallen with none remaining? I also think it may be possible the ability could suddenly just stop working after a while, resulting in a permanent death eventually.

The Immortality Project (Mostly headcanon) As one could expect, someone would make the connection that it would be great if the entirety of humanity were truly immortal through this respawning method. Some performed an experiment in order to grant this onto the rest of the population, which succeeded horribly. As people died, they respawned wrong, their mind broken, their flesh beginning to decay, their souls corrupted. What's worse, this soul corruption was transmissible, and would overtake the entirety of the human population, save those who naturally possess the Respawning ability, as their souls were already able to do so. I think this one has something to do with the ancient cities and sculk.

The World of Undead Now, corrupted souls lurk in every place conceivable within the overworld, waiting for darkness to allow them to spawn again and spread the curse further. It is in this world where villagers live in fear, yet are capable of being cured, and piglins cannot step out of the nether without fear of zombification.

Other neat things I also theorize that the compass pointing to spawn isn't pointing to some sort of magnet, since a magnet has two poles and where would the other one be? Instead I think it points in a direction along which the respawning souls of the overworld flow, journeying to the world spawn and back out into the world to spawn again. The compass is attuned to the journey to spawn.

Lodestones have some sort of property, perhaps related to netherite, that allows them to redirect the flow of souls in a certain area, and attune the compass to that flow.

The soul corruption affects the different sapient mobs differently, with the worst affliction being on the humans, who are nearly universally corrupted and incurable. The second worse is the Piglins, who suffer in strange and unique ways, such as fire immunity (perhaps as a result of their nether adaptations) and are also incurable. The best off are the villagers, who managed to avoid the curse almost entirely, save for direct infection, and even then can be cured.

Potions and their ingredients are likely linked to souls in some way.

Beacons and nether stars are definitely connected to souls, perhaps using the flow of souls to power the effects they bestow.

The wither and wither skeletons are probably the purest form of the corruption, and the wither effect is as well.

Carved pumpkins are able to redirect the flow of souls into certain constructs, which facilitates the creation of golems

Sculk literally uses parts of the soul (experience) to fuel its growth, and those souls swirling in the shriekers and wardens have to come from somewhere.

Tangential side notes: I wish soul sand had more uses in the game. It is literally a block made, in some form, of trapped souls. Forgive me if this sounds a little "dark wizardy" and "unethical" but I want to manipulate souls to create weird and horrifying things, is that so much to ask? Maybe in a hypothetical future magic update. (Pls mojang I beg you)

I feel like I forgot things, even though this is a lot of info, lol.

#minecraft lore #minecraft #mineblr #minecraft theory #minecraft headcanon

[blackjackkent]

Hector goes into the zaith'isk first. At first Lae'zel said that she should, that it is both her duty and her right, but Hector insisted. (The dialogue option was a bit un-Hector-ish which is why I'm summarizing; I think ultimately he insists on going in first because he doesn't fully trust this machine and doesn't want to subject his companions to it before himself. Also the scene is more interesting if he's in it. XD )

Amusingly, Lae'zel actually approved of him being forcefully demanding about it. ("You walk the line between confidence and arrogance. A beguiling turn of events.") She's very hard to predict. :P

Anyway...

Narrator: The zaith'isk. This unnatural device offers your best chance of purification. You feel your parasite stir.

Hector is a man who has been raised for self-sacrifice, charity, etc., but the fearful part of him is already regretting demanding to be first into the chair. The thing is...unsettling in the highest degree, like an open mouth of flesh and metal waiting to swallow him.

"Do not fear," Stornugoss says, running a hand along the device's metal frame with a dreamy expression. "My experience in operating this machine is unparalleled. There is nothing on any plane stronger than a zith'isk for curing unwanted afflictions."

Hector swallows, feeling his throat suddenly dry and constricted. "Will it hurt me?" he asks unsteadily.

She looks back at him and quirks one eyebrow up sardonically. "More than ceremorphosis? Chk."

It's not much of an answer. Certainly not a heartening one. There will be pain, no doubt of that. Perhaps he should have expected that all along. This culture of Lae'zel's is not a gentle one.

With a sudden burst of motion, he forces himself forward, turning to settle into the chair before he can think too much about the action.

Narrator: Your body grows cold, its warmth sapped by the cold metal seat. The machine awakens.

Around him, the machine's biomechanical arms twist, clicking together like the pincers of a giant, horrible insect.

"You must focus on the parasite at all times," he hears the ghustil say. "The zaith'isk will do the rest."

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. There is no turning back now but the terror is pulsing in every cell of his body now. His fingers clench around the armrests of the seat, his knuckles turning pale white on his copper skin.

A soft, undulating glow of pale light begins to circle him, emanating from those strange arms draped around him on all sides.

Narrator: Layers of magic weave themselves tightly around your head. The tadpole squirms and contracts. It's trying to hide. [PERCEPTION] The device possesses immense but unfocused power. If you fail to direct it towards the tadpole, your faculties could face permanent harm.

Narrator: Your skull groans and bends under the pressure. Then - agony.

It's like a white-hot poker shoved directly into his brain, through his eyes, into his nostrils and his mouth and ears all at once. Everything is fire and flame, blinding. It is the pain that came with the tadpole connections, with Omeluum's experiments, but multiplied a hundred times, a thousand times. He is dimly aware that he has begun to scream, but it sounds far away, far less immediate than the unending, pounding, searing pain.

[SAVING THROW] Follow the doctor's instruction. Seek the tadpole.

Narrator: Through waves of torment, you search for the parasite's lurking presence. The device searches too - you sense its hunger, its craving. It wants the tadpole, but maybe something more.

Gods...it hurts, it hurts...he can think of nothing else but the pain and the squirming, consuming tadpole and the squirming, consuming machine. He has always been here in this white-hot suffering, and it had no beginning and will have no end...

"That's it. Ignore the pain. Think of the tadpole!" He can hear the ghustil's voice in the distance. "Think of it purged!"

And then, stronger, demanding his attention like a drill sergeant, Lae'zel - with a layer of worry he has never heard in her voice before. "This torment. You-- you must persist! You must be cleansed."

He tries to hang on to these grounding voices but everything feels so far away...

Narrator: The parasite burrows deeper, sinking its teeth into your brain's exposed tissue. It sucks greedily. You feel yourself ebbing away, while the parasite only grows stronger. It's evolving.

[SAVING THROW] Stay calm. Guide the device closer.

"That's it!" Stornugoss calls gleefully through the haze of agony. "You're almost there! The zaith'isk never fails!"

Narrator: The device *yearns* for the creature, for every part of you tainted by its presence. You will be *consumed.* The tadpole quivers. A different magic is building within it. This one is ancient. Rotten.

Terror seizes him. He is caught between two powers over which he has no control, and with the clarity of awareness of an animal caught in a deadly trap, he knows suddenly, with horrible certainty, that the device is destroying him. He is being pulled apart, mind and body and soul, and perhaps the thing never meant to let him survive the process at all.

And oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, it hurts, it hurts so much...

He lets out a soft, whimpering cry and strains at the arms of the chair, trying to push himself away, to disconnect from the machine and its power...but he can't move, except in spasmodic jerks as the pain floods him.

"No..." A soft voice inside his mind. The guardian from his dreams. She is with him, within him, a faint beacon of hope and calm within the tempest raging around him. "No more."

He clings to that slight beacon, pushes himself up slightly in the chair, gritting his teeth, trying to focus. The tadpole's threat lingers, but the machine's is sharp and immediate, overwhelming.

[MONK][SAVING THROW] Channel your ki. Flood the creature with your essence.

Narrator: You pour yourself into the tadpole's putrid magic. Its strength multiplied, it unleashes on the machine. The two forces fuse violently together, your brain their conduit. Your body and mind drift apart - you are being undone.

The pain settles into a constant inescapable plane, no peaks and valleys of hammering pulse but simply pain, forever, always, unchanging, blank. He feels reality start to slip away, his fingers going slack on the chair arms.

And then the guardian is with him again, her voice in his ear, in his thoughts. "Enough."

There's a horrible, metallic screech from under him, around him, and then an almighty explosion that lifts him into the air, shattering the machine apart and sending him flying through the air. He hits the ground with a grunt, all the air knocked from his body, and lies there still, barely conscious. The agony of the machine is gone, replaced by the thousand little aches of reality. He is still breathing. His heart still beats.

Narrator: The room swims back into focus. Your mind is intact, yet unfamiliar. Inside it, the tadpole lives on. And you feel...different.

Slowly, slowly, the dizziness fades and he is able to push himself unsteadily to his knees, then to his feet. He can hear the ghustil screaming behind him, but it takes a few moments for the words to settle into something with meaning.

"No. NO! The zaith'isk... What have you done?"

She rounds on him, eyes wide with fury. "My life's work, gone. And yet you live! And so does your parasite!"

Narrator: Her voice cuts with a fanatical edge - an obsession bordering on mania. If there's a chance the parasite lives, she wants it.

Hector takes a step backwards, steadying himself against the pillar behind him. In some other circumstance, perhaps, he might feel some compassion for her, for whatever "life's work" she has lost -- but he is still barely conscious, ears ringing from the pain, feeling like a mad dog that has just escaped a trap and is desperate to run.

"Your zaith'isk tried to kill me," he grinds out between his teeth. "And failed."

Did Lae'zel know this is what that machine was designed to do? Did she mean to sacrifice them all?

Surely not... She made it very clear she would kill them herself if the need came to it. She did not need this machine. But then why... why...

Stornugoss scowls. "The zaith'isk does not fail," she snarls. "The only variable in this experience was you - and your parasite. And I *will* uncover how this happened." She turns, stalks away towards the door. "Wait here. I will gather my tools."

She disappears and the door shuts behind her - and locks.

Hector stares at it in silence, breathing deeply, trying to bring his heart rate down to a manageable level. The fear and pain are still so close, so near to panic.

At his side, Lae'zel turns to face the shattered machine again, a wail of despair on her lips. "No! I followed the protocol. I MUST BE CLEANSED!"

And in his mind, like a whisper, he hears his guardian, unreadable emotion in her mental voice. "Incredible...your parasite is even stronger now..."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #eyyyyy another long one :D #this is so inteeeeeense #also really proud of some of these screenshots haha