#driveling dragon

[dragonastra]

Hearing about Rooser Teeth's demise... admittedly I havent kept up with a lot of their content ever since they fired Matt Bragg. But the fact remains that I was a part of that community for several long years.

I made fanart. I made friends. My god, I made friends! Some of the closest friends I have we bonded through the AH/RT community or some branch of it. My current DnD group that streams on twitch, we were all connected to the community at one point, one way or another.

I attended RTX several times, which I maintain was a wholly unique experience unlike any anime convention I've also attended. I had so much fun in that community. I know RT has and had some problematic elements but it was also such a... force. I dont regret joining it. It got me into let's plays and streaming, it brought us RWBY which I still love despite everything and numerous other entertaining shows, and more importantly it made me laugh and connected me with friends.

To see it all dissolve so suddenly is... grief inducing. My heart definitely mourns. I've never been in another fandom community like it, and I dont know if I will again.

And of course, I hope the employees and contract workers affected can get back on their feet quickly. I cant imagine their position. Like the rug has been pulled from under their feet, I'm sure.

Just... yeah. Cowabummer, dude.

#you can go on and on and on about how RT was a sinking ship these past several years #i dont want to hear it #i knew it was on a decline but they were still doing new things and making shit #it seemed like they at least had a few more years left #honestly i do put a chunk of the blame on WB #the company with a history of shitty laughably horrible mismanagement #but yeah #driveling dragon #i imagine RWBY will probably be bought but who knows how businews people think #a lot of wait and see happens now

[morgana-ren]

I'm so fuckin gross, I have the most overwhelming urge to write stuff for dark souls for like seath or Pontiff sulyvahn because they give me the rancid vibes that I revel in and I can feel potential there and I'm just far too lazy to play through the games again at the moment to indulge my needs

#morgana whinings #im doing soul level 1 playthroughs and it takes a special mood #every few weeks i get obsessed with ds again #and the lore is so shaded that theres room to work #idk why #when i actually write something that isnt smut-drivel i will be inspired by ds like it was inspired by berserk #i really wanna do a convoluted high fantasy thing actually #with dragons and some weird religious shit #too bad im garbage at themes and lessons

[mesmerblossoms]

Spoilers for What Lies Within below

Negative stuff first.

I won't lie. I was disappointed with the way the story handled the Commander's trauma. While the narrative and the characters did acknowledge how much the Commander has been through, it felt like they were just scratching the surface without actually exploring or confronting it properly.

I greatly disliked how the Commander's trauma being used as bait for the demon did not backfire in any major way. Many players pointed out how callous and insensitive that plan felt after previous episode, and I was hoping there would be some consequences for it. Something going wrong to make them realise just how dangerous a position they were putting the Commander in, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and apologise for it. The Commander did get to express their displeasure, but in ONE line, and that was that.

Also the whole thing with channelling their emotions into the mechsuit and firing it at demons felt like a rather handwavy way of dealing with it to me. It made the resolution feel a little shallow.

The last boss felt rather... eh. I don't really have much to say about it other than that.

To be honest, this episode felt like it was less about helping the Commander heal, and more about helping Yao, Chul-Moo and the others overcome their inner fears and unrest. Which is fine... just... not what I was hoping for.

Okay, now the positive stuff.

I LOVED the choices we got at the beginning. I personally picked Blish and Aurene, but when I played it again, I picked Vlast and Cinder. Again, while these segements weren't nearly as in-depth as I would have liked them to be, they were still interesting and emotionally charged. It was nice to actually go back and acknowledge some of the people we've lost on our journey. Getting a peek at the Commander's complicated feelings towards Mai and Cinder was especially interesting to me. (Also Aurene's segement seems to imply the Commander hasn't seen her for a while. Where did she go?)

Again, while it felt a bit shallow, I did appreciate how the Commander's friends made it clear they were there for them. I was critical of their willingness to use the Commander's emotional turmoil as bait, but the constant reassurance that they would support the Commander was much needed. It showed that despite everything, the Commander does have true companions that would be there for them til the end.

The voice acting was stellar. A special shoutout to the female human, norn, and sylvari voice actresses. I really enjoyed their performances in this episode! The music for the tunnel segment was beautiful, and I can't wait to play it on repeat when the soundtrack comes out.

And of course, the date at the end. Thought it was a lovely paralell to the previous episode. where Rama, Gorrik and the Commander were alone. And I adore the fact they let you pick your date too. Would have preferred a slightly wider array of choices. Canach was a given, Ayumi is really sweet, and I do like Yao a lot, but I would have liked more options of people we've known for longer like Caithe let me date Caithe you cowards. The dialogue was charming and funny, and it was really nice to just slow down and talk with the characters.

Overall, I think it was a decent episode, despite my big gripes with it. But a lot of potential was lost. I do feel like the subject matter they tried to tackle was a bit much for two short episodes. The level of depth required for such a thing would need much more time to explore and resolve.

#what lies within spoilers #end of dragons spoilers #eod spoilers #dee's drivel #long story short #this chapter will go VERY differently for midnight and eyja

[fangirltothefullest]

Hey. Hey you. Yes you! If you are planning on having kids or if you already do and they are young (as in they're 3rd grade and younger) read your kids stories. Stop handing them the internet and READ THEM STORIES.

Bored? Grab a book.

Don't know what to do? Give them a book.

Read to them while they draw or colour.

Still little? Read to them while they are taking a bath.

Read to them once a week on Fridays for Story Night.

Read to them before bed.

Read to them at breakfast.

Whenever you can, read to them!

Curriculum doesn't teach your children how to have morals and how to problem solve, books with interesting stories do. Parents are super busy and juggling all the moral teaching is hard when you're busy- have them read! It does some of it for you!

Want your kids to do better than the generation I'm teaching? Read to them. Read to them whenever you can so they learn to love it. Make books of all kinds available. Make them read fantasy, make them read fiction, make them read science fiction, make them read realistic fiction, make them read about dragons and heroes, friends and dilemmas, make them read about warrior cats and the children of gods, heroic mice and people overcoming bullies, teen dramas and kid crushes, knights and cursed princes, faerietales and stories about princesses saving their brothers from being swans. Books with worm professors and spooky stories for the campfire that walk about lawn weenies and plonking children down the slide, stories of British children stranded on an island, and people cursed being set free with true loves kiss. Stories with mermaids and krackens or a dog thats a cowboy who saves the day. Stories of small mice having adventures or people with hidden secrets. Stories of children going through tough childhoods and children finding themselves or new understanding. Stories of funny little women who defeat the oni with laughter or what's beyond Z for Zebra.

Children are force-fed information-based/fact-based readings in their classrooms, filling their minds with the ability to parse data from what they read and answer it word for word on a test.

But the morals, the learning how to navigate life with each other, the building of relationships ships be it friend or foe, context ans meaning come from reading stories and relating to or understanding the characters, context and subtleties of emotions they face in books.

It's been this way since the dawn of time.

Please for the love of all that is good, don't slap a screen in front of your child to occupy them. Give them a book and let them get lost in a story. It's way healthier and helps them read better, helps them understand speech patterns, helps them understand spelling intuitively, helps them problem solve, helps them understand how to people, helps them with right and wrong, helps with morality, helps with contextualizing, helps them differentiate between real vs fake people and how to empathise with something even if its not real, helps them navigate the world with a broader and more open mind.

All tiktok and the internet/social media does is provide eons of the worst unfiltered, non-kid-friendly drivel and cruelty you could ever imagine.

I'm begging you to please think of their future because I'm teaching children raised on screens and so few books and they do not know how to people and they're so far behind in literacy at all and they open a book and if it's not immediately interesting on the first sentence it's "boring" and ignored.

I sound like a boomer but please I'm begging you make your kids read books from the time they are little.

[mcflymemes]

INQUISITION PARTY BANTER  *  assorted dialogue from dragon age inquisition

you... actually look like that?

thank you for remembering. sometimes people forget me.

it's interesting watching you. the way you carry yourself when you use magic.

why are you so angry at your father? he wants to help and you know he does.

no one needs to see my arse.

you're set on being sad forever.

remember, do not use it like a sword.

i'd just eat the cheese.

always knew you were up to something.

you didn't always have a beard.

sometimes love isn't enough.

there were so many wonderful hats.

you're happier now, [name].

you have so many feelings.

i am uncertain whether to believe you.

the world doesn't make sense to them. it's too real.

you're right about that. they would.

do you need to eat? or sleep?

you would stop it if you could.

i can't tug it loose without tearing it.

stop. it isn't about you.

i believe i can work with that.

you have other things to carry.

you're serious, aren't you?

you let it keep hurting because you think hurting is who you are.

it is because you think you have to?

you ask a lot of questions, [name].

why be ashamed? power should be respected, not swept under the carpet.

i'll have to steal that one.

hey, when this is all done, if you ever need my help for anything, you just ask, all right?

maybe you're not a complete moron.

we were having a moment, and now you've ruined it.

i can't believe you drank that swill at the tavern.

i'm well aware you lied to me.

that is... remarkably decent of you.

i don't want to think about that right now.

you need a hairbrush.

when you charge at them, you make them hit you.

i'm curious about you. i had no idea something like you was possible.

how do you want to be remembered? valiant yet sexy rebel against the status quo?

it's not easy finding people willing to shoulder such a terrible responsibility.

it's not such a terrible thing. some of my best friends are murderers.

who's judging now?

i know your kind.

i know that what comes out of your mouth is the same drivel that comes out of theirs.

careful i don't club you on the head.

if i had something to say, i'd say it.

if we're going to fight at each other's side, we need to get along.

enough, both of you.

you said i could ask you questions.

how do you get your hair to do that?

do you think we could ever be friends?

killing him won't make anything better.

if you really cared, you could ask.

you caught the eye of a young woman in that last village.

i just need to know you're capable of higher thought. for my own comfort.

i question your reasons for being here.

my reasons for being here are the same as yours.

i think that's the first time i've heard you admit anything is complicated.

what made you change your mind?

i will try to be more like you.

you should learn to watch your back.

i mean. could be naked more. that'd be better.

beardy people are supposed to be jolly.

why are you complaining?

you're smirking again.

right, here we go. what is it from you?

there is no need to tell anyone that.

does yelling while we're walking around count?

stop pointing that at me!

you need a drink or something, you tell me.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #rp meme #rp memes #rp prompt #roleplay memes #rp starters #roleplay prompt #ask memes #ask meme #roleplay meme #roleplay inbox prompts #rp inbox meme #inbox prompt #inbox meme #sentence starter prompt #sentence starter #sentence starters #mcflymemes

[dulcewrites]

Fool Me Once (part 7)

Summary: Time at Dragonstone leads to tense encounters. (Wc: 5k)

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x reader (y’all know the drill tho)

A/N: we are finally in dragonstone! Yay??? Lmao it’s about to get a little bumpy for reader now that she’s in the dragon’s den if you will. But I’m excited to explore team black’s dynamic. Or at least I think the dynamic would be since we really did not get that in the show. Also as our fab five (the nickname I have for fmo reader, Aemond, Aegon, Helaena, and quinton) are separated, I will be going back and forth between dragonstone and king’s landing. So we are gonna get lots of different povs which is fun

Fmo masterlist

But at last, the year of 129 AC would be one of great change for the House of the Dragon. Marked with death, triumph, and long simmering tensions boiling to the surface.

Many say the first turning of the tide was the departure of Prince Aemond Targaryen’s lady wife to Dragonstone… without him at her side. Speculation stirred around why she left; tongues ever wagging in court. Some say that it was an innocent as the young, and sprite Daella Targaryen insisting to see her ancestral home. Others had a more salacious take.

Gossip about a rift in the family swirled. One of the more of the inappropriate rumors was that youngest child of Prince Aemond was not actually his, but instead the illegitimate child of his lady wife and his brother Prince Aegon. Mushroom tells a story of the kind Queen Alicent sending away her good daughter in a fit of rage after finding out the truth. Many disputed this, nonetheless. Some claim the departure to Dragonstone was of Prince Daemon‘s demand. Court alight with the drivel of the Rogue Prince’s sexual proclivities. Talk of him and the Princess taking a special liking to Aemond’s lady wife. In more ways than one.

A more likely explanation came from Setpton Eustace. He emphasizes the smart and cunning nature of the family Aemond’s lady wife came from. Recounting that getting close to Princess Rhaenyra was just one step in a plan to landing marriage prospects for the little princess and princeling. It was said by Eustace that this angered Prince Aemond. His ire towards his sister and her family well documented.

Regardless of why she left, it was clear that family dynamics were bound to change. Whispers of a weakened house beginning to mount across the small folk. One prophet pushed the notion of the House of the Dragon being in grave trouble.

What would come in the follow years could only be explained by the Targaryen house words - Fire and Blood.

Eventually you get used to the smell of Dragonstone. In a way, it is no worse than the one that inhabits the Red Keep; just different. If you think about the smell too much, it makes you long for home. Your real one. The one that is clean, and warm. Nothing like the places you find yourself in now. At least at the Red Keep, you could facilitate a sense of domesticity with redecorating. At the Dragonstone, you are forced to stare at grey walls, and squint through dim lighting no matter how many candles are lit.

The stories you heard of Dragonstone were overflowing with fondness and reverence. Viserys was open about his love for place. You don’t know if it is the lack of Targaryen blood or if it really is just an ugly old castle.

Despite your feelings towards it, Daella had made her peace with everything. She is adaptable in the way most children are, wholly excited to be doing something different while somewhere different. Her interest in dragons only growing stronger. The high Valyrian lessons continuing. It was hard to complain if she was happy. Though her fascination with Daemon makes you pause.

You try not to think too much into it. She is at the age where everyone is interesting, including the new dragon riders around her. He must pick up on your skepticism. The head tilt and wry grin he gives you when you insist on sitting in on anything that involves her.

Quinton sticks to your side with heavy proclivity. The only time you can get away from everyone at Dragonstone was walks on the beach. It was your favorite part of the Island. The salty water of the Blackwater Bay cleared your head.

A close second of places your frequent being the Sept. There was something haunting about it. While the one in the Red Keep and in King’s Landing were grand and open. The one on Dragonstone was closed in. Just you and the statues of the Faith. Many say it is bad luck to stare at the statues of the Stranger for too long. Looking at the face of death apparently bringing bad luck. But all you can do is stare. The masts sculpture looks more animal than man.

You have accepted your fate by now. Those who go against the grain must be prepared for every option. You try to make the Stranger a familiar friend rather than foe. You memorize his face and pray for the day it does not scare you.

Helaena’s ears may be just as good as her eyes. Listening is a special trait, her mother would say.

It was supposed to be helpful. A teasing remark to help Helaena feel more comfortable about her dreams; the ones that her mother will never understand. It only made Helaena feel more isolated. Aegon would roll his eyes at the remark, and Aemond would just look curiously. Like the way she looks at her bugs. Trying to inspect and take in everything while knowing she will never truly know what it means to be them.

But Helaena does see and hear all. With the other personalities that inhabit the Red Keep, her family, it is easy to slip into the background. Easy to observe and wait till she knows what she wants to say. Your introduction into Helaena’s life had forced her to be seen. You weren’t there for anyone else, at least not in the beginning; just for Helaena. She soaked up that attention in a way that makes her crazy sometimes. The spiraling feeling, she got when she first met you reentering while you are away. She is back to being silent… invisible. A little mad.

She wonders if you would ever forgive her if you found out she was the one that brought up the prospect of you marrying Aemond. It was good thought in theory. Helaena saw how anxious you became over your parents’ insistence to start taking marriage offers seriously. At least if you were at the Red Keep, the two of you would be together. You would a part of the most powerful family in the Seven Kingdoms, and mother to dragon riders. It seemed like a no brainer to hint at it to her grandsire, who later convinced her mother.

She could delude herself into thinking it would work.

Daughters always secretly fear becoming their mothers. Following in cycles that feel like they will never be broken. She never felt more like Alicent when she watched you get married. She woke up that morning with the same floaty feeling she gets before a dream, except the dream did not come that day. But feeling lingered the whole day, and into the feast that night.

The dream finally comes years later. Dark hair, green eyes, red lips pulled into an attractive smile. She never told you; she never told anyone about that initial vision. Finding the words for what she sees has always been difficult. Even after moons of experiencing them, she still cannot predict how bad everything can be till it is going to shit in front of her. It makes her extra cautious to speak on them.

Perhaps it would have been better for you to be long away from the Red Keep married to some lord. Helaena likes to think she is better than Aegon and Aemond, and she is in many ways. But one thing they all share is their ability to be selfish when they want something. Love transforms that into an even nastier ordeal.

It is why Helaena is not surprised when Aegon began to follow you around like a kitten that wants its mother. She knew it was a matter of time before Aegon grew painfully attached to someone. Deepest of feelings often sprout from aching, wounds inside.

Though the reciprocation of feelings, whatever they may be on your part, did make Helaena pause. It was too easy to see what everything was in beginning. Men will always bend to the whims of their desires. And being desirable is a trait you wield so simply. But time has passed, masks have been dropped, and now the visions become blurred.

Helaena is not sure of your endgame anymore. She’s not sure even you know. If it was to send her and her siblings into a state of uneasiness, then you had succeeded wonderfully.

One day, she finds Aegon laying flat on his back on the balcony of the room they share. Eyes shut, and limbs laid out like a starfish. It was a rare, blindly sunny day in King’s Landing. The bright lighting only made his bags more pronounce. She was sure he had been laying there since the morning, right after the letter from you came in. The single letter for Helaena. She noticed how Aegon’s face fell.

She doesn’t see Aemond these days. Flashes of hair and leather catching her eye as he goes to his chambers or to the dragon pit. And when he is around, he is short and curt. More distant than normal. A claim she did not think was possible.

Oddly enough, the only person not on edge is their mother. Alicent seems to be floating around. Lighter than Helaena had seen her in years. She knows it is because of her half-sister. Alicent had scurried away, half smile on her face when a letter came for her.

Watching her mother in pain and sadness twisted parts in Helaena that she did know existed. Seeing Alicent happy, even in all its ephemeral glory, was worth taking and pushing down the floaty feeling in Helaena’s head.

She fears the dream will be too late again. Something is coming, and none of them are ready. They never are.

Before you left, Otto had given you a list of things to accomplish while at Dragonstone. Some things more realistic than others.

Get close to Rhaenyra.

You would be lying if you didn’t admit that she was a fascinating figure. A looming presence over everyone at King’s Landing despite never being around.

You have watched Helaena’s face fall when Viserys calls her Rhaenyra. Or notice Aegon’s eyes glaze over when Otto reprimands him about acting like a proper prince. You have helped Aemond remove the sapphire from his eye socket more times than you’d like to. Alicent’s whole demeanor changes at the sound of her name. All paths lead back Viserys’s first born.

And the most interesting part is that you do not think she even notices. It makes sense; of course, a princess and named heir would not fret over being the center of attention. She was born and bred to think she was important. More important than others.

“I thought you would like some water,” you bring out a pitcher to the outdoor area.

Rhaenyra’s head was leaning back against the chair, eyes shut, and one hand on her protruding belly. She opens her eyes softly, deep Iris saturated in calmness. Fresh air was always nice during this stage in the pregnancy. Took the mind off the uncomfortable feeling that begins to mount.

As you sit beside her, you notice the dark speck flying in the distance. Just based off the slightly bigger body of the dragon, you assume it is Jace on Vermax.

“Despite the invitation,” she begins softly. “I was worried about you coming here. Well, more worried about what you may have heard about me.”

Rhaenyra takes a sip of the water, and you notice the slight beads of sweat on her forehead.

“What do you mean Princess?”

Rhaenyra smiles, strained. “I am sure Aemond had mentioned me, mentioned my children in a less than glowing light. He still blames me for their mistake.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Often you felt like people expected you to speak on what happened to Aemond. A traumatic event that happened before your family even came to the Red Keep. While Aegon, Alicent, and Helaena recount the story in distaste and anger on Aemond’s behalf. Rhaenyra seems to brush it off as a moment of bad judgement by her son. The truth lies somewhere in the middle.

“Excuse my bluntness, but Aemond does not speak of you,” it was the truth. He was the one directly changed by whole ordeal, and you could tell by the way he avoided mentioning his sister at all costs.

Rhaenyra nods slowly. She seems not to believe you.

“But I am glad that I am here,” you try to shift the conversation. “Daella enjoys being here as well.”

While Daella had embraced the new scenery, Alaric’s attitude seemed to shift. A normally quiet baby seemingly on the verge of tears at every moment.

“I saw the egg she brought with her; it hasn’t hatched yet?”

The question takes you by surprise. Aemond had been adamant about both kids getting eggs in their cradle, the way he never did. You shake your head no. The deep green egg of Daella’s remained intact.

“I’m sure it will happen soon, or perhaps she will be like her father and claim one,” she says reassuringly. Except you do not need that reassurance. It sounds horrible, but a new dragon is the last thing you want to be worried about right now. But there is a sense that her not having one soon would be some sort of inditement on her.

You have seen the way Rhaena frets over it and have heard about the way Aemond did. You would hate to think your daughter felt like her worth was affected over a dragon. That having an unruly creature on her side will make her more valuable.

“But will it change anything,” you question. “Whether she does or does not any time soon. I know dragons are supposed to symbolize being closer to the Gods but does it really. Especially as a young girl?”

Rhaenyra’s brown furrow, pretty face pulled into deep thought. It is something she has thought about.

“No, I guess not,” she begins to pick at her rings. “At least not for me. I used to think that having Syrax meant that I was special, and because of that I would be valued more. Even compared to certain men in my life. That being named heir meant I would not have to go through certain things. In a way, I did not; my life has been different from other noble women. It will be different from other women. But I am also aware that nothing I do will ever make up for what is between my legs. Having a dragon does not change that for me. It unfortunately will not for Daella.”

Her candidness takes you by surprise. You can tell it is something that haunts her so deeply. For the first time, you feel sad for Rhaenyra. She is trapped in the same cycle you all are. Getting entangled in the same game but being the ones punished for it. The only difference is that she may eventually have the power to change it. If she will be is up for debate.

“It does not change the way the men in your family look at you, even the ones closest to you,” the words tumble out of your mouth. The flood gates that seem to open with Rhaenyra shut quickly.

The slight accusation towards Daemon or Viserys makes her back stiff. You must bite your tongue to say the next thing you are thinking. Even Targaryen women must fear those around them. The system will never be even.

———

Group dinners had become a necessary annoyance while being at Dragonstone. Some nights were you able to eat earlier when the younger kids do. Daella and you locked away in the apartments. But most nights you were all but obligated to entertain the drivel that Daemon and Rhaenyra could come up with.

After your tense conversation with Rhaenyra, you felt even more anxious about breaking bread. If there the tension was noticeable, Daemon did nothing to try and make dinner as peaceful as possible.

“Perhaps our guest can give the girls some advice on married life,” Daemon finally pipes up. Slick smile on his face, as looks around the table. “What to do… what not to do.”

Cunt.

Your eyes drift to Rhaenyra, who sits at his side silent; lilac eyes on the plate in front of her. She seems to do that a lot whenever Daemon takes over a conversation. Either goes along with whatever point Daemon is trying to make or shrinks into herself in the worst way. It is nothing like you have seen from Rhaenyra when she is outside of this dynamic.

“You have been married three times; I am sure you have ample experience to help your daughters.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker up at that, eyeing her husband. The table is silent before Daemon lets out a bark of laughter. Head thrown back as if it is the funniest thing he has ever heard. Rhaena shifts in her seat next to you, clearly uncomfortable by the scene in front of her.

Baela looks pissed, while Jace looks embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Funnily enough, the only person who can meet your eyes is Lucerys. A curious look in his big eyes. A warning in his eyes.

“And wit to match,” Daemon grins, a deep glimmer in his eyes.

It is the same amused look that Daemon gave Aemond at dinner moons ago. Daemon, who wants to be constantly entertained, would find Aemond what said and did, thrilling. Dispute the fact that the targets of Aemond’s ire were now his sons. Men like Daemon never truly settle down, and they never put their needs above others. They seek out the gallant behavior in others that they can no longer drum up themselves.

Aemond is all the youth and virility that comes with Targaryen blood. Daemon would find him compelling. More compelling than he has found a member of his family in a long time.

Rhaenyra has been sobered by motherhood, and the pending passing of the throne. The weight of the world changing the way she looks at everything. Gone is the young girl with little care in the world. Gone is the flush of youth that more than likely endured her to not only Daemon, but to others.

Daemon is someone is who thrives off making everyone else in the room pause. The Rogue Prince who wants all to stop and wonder what his next move will be. To let Daemon catch you on the back foot is a sign of weakness. He talks the way he spars. Fluid yet full of surprises.

Rhaenyra looks at her husband with an incredulous look. Then looks back at you with a scowl.

“I am tired,” she mutters, working her way out of seat slowly. Daemon makes little effort to help his pregnant wife. Jace instead gets up to help. Seeing it as an out - Luke, Baela, and Rhaena all get up as well.

Daemon and you stay seated for a moment. He gives you that same grin you have come accustomed to by now.

“You know I think I might have judged you prematurely.”

You raise a brow in efforts to get him to explain what he means by that, but it never comes. He gets up from the table leaving you alone. Rhaenyra’s frown plays in your head. At least you can see that your marriage is not the only fragile one.

It did not take you long to see something is deeply wrong with Lucerys Velaryon. Every thought you had about him was based on the less than promising things you had heard during your time in the Red Keep. And of course, the constant reminder on Aemond’s face.

The skepticism was right, but not for the reasons you assumed it would be. Luke, at a horribly young age, picked up a knife and did something that even the most morbid and seasoned of warriors would hesitate to do. Something is wrong with him the way something is wrong with Aemond.

There is something invisible holding everyone together, and you are sure that imaginary thing broke in Aemond and Lucerys that night at Driftmark. While Aemond was fine leaving the damage on floor till it crept up on him, Luke seems to be spending his life desperately trying to pick up those pieces. But it won’t happen without true remorse. Healing without an apology is not possible. So now, two broken people exist in constant fear.

It makes him dangerous in a way you did not expect. A flighty, anxious eye taker. The irony.

———

“Harrenhal is said to be a cursed place.”

The voice sends a bit of a chills down Luke’s spine. He turns to see you leaning against the study door, wine in hand. Bright eyes full of mirth. You point to the book in his hand.

“We have that book back at the castle,” you point at the one in his hand, as you walk into the room. “An… interesting read.”

The two of you had not been in the same room alone before; it sends Luke’s brain into overdrive. He has to remind himself that he had no reason to be nervous. You were here as a reprieve, at least that is what his mother said. And he always trusts his mother. Even when she has given them reason not to. Under all the splendor and false hope, he knows she means well.

Baela and Rhaena have fully embraced you being at Dragonstone, and Luke trusts them as well. His brother gets embarrassing moony eyed when you are around. He tries to be respectful of his betrothed, but Baela seems to pay it no mind. In fact, Luke believes she is relieved your presence takes attention away from the decision made at the Red Keep. He understands her apprehension.

But Luke has always followed Jace’s lead; he tries to do the same now with you.

“She is harmless, brother.”

Luke highly doubts that. This family does not toil with the feelings or thoughts of those seen as harmless. Harmless people get crushed under the weight of it all. Those to be feared or micromanaged get invited in. Told to sink or swim.

He wakes up every day and reminds himself he has no reason to be worried about the future. He is a Targaryen. He will not be casted out. He will not be crushed.

You lean over him to get a better view of the book, and he gets a whiff of helichrysum and sage. One hand on the table, the other on the back of his chair. Luke blinks rapidly at the page, not daring to look away from the book.

“Blood mixed into the mortar,” you whisper. “I wonder if the horrors within towers and walls truly haunt the houses who stake claim to it.”

Luke feels like he might throw up.

He finally dared to turn, and he sees the side of your face illuminated by the fire the room. Your face as calm as it is unsettling. Like the silver and red spiders that inhabit Dragonstone. The first time they all came back there, after his mother and Daemon had married, he thinks back to finding one on the lapel of his red suit coat. The scream he let out was blood curdling. He remembers the strange look Daemon gave to him. He gives that look a lot. Perplexed and annoyed.

Luke was sure Daemon disliked him for the same reasons Daemon dislikes a lot of people. He does not live up to the expectations Daemon has. Or maybe Daemon had no expectations, the dissatisfaction lies in Luke showing him exactly what he anticipated

But no man would marry his daughter off to someone he saw no use in…. right?

“I heard you like to draw,” you change the subject easily.

Like nods slowly, feeling embarrassed that Rhaena or her mother probably brought it up to you. They tend to gush about the most minute things to make him feel comfortable.

“I am so envious of people who have artistic talent,” you sigh wistfully. “Maybe you can teach me?”

Being alone with you is the last thing Luke wanted, but even then, he finds himself nodding again a bit entranced by the whole situation happened before him. You smile bright before turning to leave.

Luke lays his head down on the cool table to let out a shaky breath. Gods be good.

When Quinton joined the kingsgaurd, his mother cried.

Full on chest sobs, and hyperventilation. The whole scene was… a lot.

In beginning he was sure it was out of fear, now all of her children were away. Both of her sons, taking of a lifelong oath and her only daughter married and far from her family. It was not till her mother calmed down that he realized it was because she expected grandchildren from them. He had laughed at that being the thing she was most heartbroken about. They had joined the most honored spots in Seven Kingdoms, and the pitter patter of feet is what she wanted.

He never thought about children. He has accepted kids were not going to be a part of his life, for better or for worse. That was until he became your protector.

Life is funny in that way. Never letting someone find solid ground. Once you are sure of something, it will be taken away. Your introduction in his life flipped things upside down. Protecting the family was ironically easier to do what real emotions were not involved. When he did not have to question ever person met with, and how they could harm you.

Now he at a dragon castle, utterly confused. Why would any want to harm you begin with?

“I need my own master of whisperers while here,” you said lowkey as you bounced a babbling Alaric in your arms. “People who have been at Dragonstone for longer than us.”

All Quinton can do is give you a look. You know it well. It says it that really a good idea. You roll your eyes in response.

“Loyalties can be tested and broken, just look at Jayne,” you say sourly. “Not everyone here will be completely loyal to Rhaenyra or Daemon, and perhaps they will know something that can help us. Someone unassuming.”

You make a funny face at Alaric, whispering things in a baby voice at him.

“And I know exactly who can help.”

Your eyes go from Alaric, and they flash to the corner of the large room. A young boy with shaggy blonde hair, and a freckled face stands awkwardly in the corner.

“He is just a boy,” Quinton says confused. You grin at him slyly.

“Exactly,” you go to stand up, shifting Alaric in your arms. “Hold him for me.”

Before he can oppose, you place your child in his arms. Quinton just sat there stiffly. Alaric squirms, and he fears that the crying will start again. He tries to bounce him the way you do but he is sure it is no use. Nothing is compares to the embrace of a mother.

As much as the name gesture warmed him heart, being around kids is something he had to get used to. He often had to remind himself that they were half you.

Half spawn of Aemond, but also half you. The prayer is that the good part you instilled in them will outweigh whatever part their useless father put in them. Plus raising children is hard. His mother used to say that it was like cooking. Sometimes your stew would come out perfect. Other times you would just have grimace and eat through the bad taste. Not the best comparison for a young boy to hear, but he understood.

Quinton looks up to see you laughing at something the young boy said. His big blue eyes staring at you in slight awe. It is clear the young lad doesn’t speak to women outside his mother, the wife of a lord her at Dragonstone, often.

The effect you have on people is easy to see, and lately Quinton sees how quickly you are to use it. He supposes he can’t blame you for exploiting the nature of those around you. He can only hope that the side you show him is the full one.

Daella runs into the great hall area to you, an exhausted maidservant following behind. Daella’s short legs can barely keep up with herself. He watches you pick her up watching amused as she explains something exuberantly. Alaric begins to whine. Big lilac eyes filling with tears. This place disturbs him he thinks.

This place disturbs Quinton too.

———

As sun begins to set on over the mountains and castle, a soft breeze carries in the wind through each crevice and dip.

Inside the dragonmount, a low grumble spreads through the walls. Large tan wings spread out to their full, and withered yellow eyes blink into the darkness. A familiar warmth spreading through the large dragon.

The Bronze Fury feeling a presence he has not in years.

I’ve been seriously slacking on the Taglist so I’m sorry for that but here are people I remembered asking. Sorry if I miss anyone: @voniikg @afro-hispwriter @florent1s @crispmarshmallow @tremendouswolfsaladranch @strawbrryquinn @widemiffyhappy @msmarvel-19 @dc-marvel-girl96 @xkennobi @fanfics4ever @hydrationqueensworld @lyra689 @blazzlynch @httyd-marauders @bregarc @b00kdiary @grey-water-colors @mercedesdecorazon @flowerpotmage @bstorn @poisonedsultana @papery-maniac @its-sam-allgood @yu3kkii @hvx @leoramage @neenieweenie @stargaryenx @rey26 @lazypinkpig @blackravena @s0urmarvel @elleclairez @rebelfleur22 @inpraizeof @luvremlu @clora95 @blacpiink @let-love-bleeds-red @iwanttohitmyself @alastorhazbin @kitkat-writes-stuff @carriellie @aloneatpeace @ensolleildelune @landlockedmermaid77

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x oc #hotd imagine #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond imagine #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!oc #prince aemond targaryen

[natalieironside]

Maggots in the Corpse of an Empire: An anarchist approach to gothic literature

Hey everybody, all the wonderful people who subscribe to my Patreon already saw this last week but I wrote another one of my grouchy rambling essays that I write sometimes and this one is some reflections on how I as an anarchist spec-fic writer view my genre. I think it's pretty good but of course I would say that. It's free to read now but if you wanna toss a coin to your author then you'll get early access to stuff for only $2 a month; I'd call that a bargain.

***

“America sleeps ahead of you, its nightmares filled with quakes, storms.  You’ll need to find your own path.”

As is so often the case with terms related to art and aesthetics, what is and is not “gothic” is infuriatingly difficult to pin down with mere words.  As a musical genre, subcultural lifestyle, or personal style of dress, the vast intersections between goth, punk, emo, hardcore, synthwave, heavy metal, and so on make a simple and concise definition nearly impossible to verbalize; one might as well say that a goth is a punk who wears lace while a punk is a goth with spikes.  Aesthetically, the gothic is a lot like pornography, in that I have no idea what it is but I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.

Defining the gothic as a mode of literature is a bit easier, but still irritating enough.  In superficial terms (and, I think, in the mind of the average person), it’s tempting to say something like: “A gothic story is a scary story about an old building.”  In every nook and cranny of the vast gulf between Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto and Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily, the word “gothic” calls to mind French cathedrals, English country estates, Carpathian castles, and American slave plantations, with all of the dark secrets, unpleasant pasts, and shallow graves one expects to find in such places.  But, of course, if that were all there were to it, every Dungeons and Dragons campaign about an evil wizard in a tower and every horror story involving a haunted house would be gothic; and, while those things certainly can be, they aren’t necessarily.

The matter is complicated further as the gothic genre contains immense variety, and even the works that most of us agree are all gothic can be very, very different from one another.  A work may be in the equivocal gothic (supernatural elements are ambiguously real or unreal, as in Wuthering Heights), the natural gothic (supernatural elements are not present, as in the aforementioned A Rose for Emily), the explained gothic (what was thought to be supernatural is revealed to be natural, as in The Mysteries of Udolpho), or the supernatural or marvelous gothic (the unnatural and phantasmagorical is present explicitly, as in Dracula), and still sit comfortably under the label of gothic.  What, then, is the unifying factor?

To my mind, the most elegant and concise definition of what is and is not gothic was put into words by James M. Powell in 1988, writing for the Syracuse Scholar about German narrative historian Leopold von Ranke:  “The great paradox of human existence is the refusal of the past to die and the danger that critical examination of the past, always fragile, may succumb.  Human beings live in the narrow margins between mythic pasts and hard-won efforts at understanding their past.”  To wit, I believe that a story becomes specifically gothic fiction rather than more broadly horror or fantasy when its central themes deal with the uncomfortable intrusion of the past into the present and the stubborn refusal of that past to die.

My opinions on literary fiction should be well-known to anyone familiar with my work, but to briefly summarize a bitter old woman’s lifetime of kvetching, I find the majority of contemporary so-called litfic to be uninspired and uninteresting drivel that isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on (with the few notable exceptions, such as Leslie Feinberg’s incredible Stone Butch Blues or Latin American magical realism, notable as much for their rarity as their exemplary quality).  I find myself at home in the world of speculative fiction, in stories of imagined worlds and flights of fancy and phantasmagoria; what Professor Tolkien called subcreation.  Progressive speculative fiction is a genre dominated by science fiction, such as the dystopian near-future sci-fi of Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower and the “harder” far-future sci-fi of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Hainish cycle, with works of fantasy and phantasm (such as the fantasy of Margaret Killjoy, or Le Guin’s own Earthsea series) being comparatively uncommon.  This is to be expected; the fantasy genre is usually rooted, at least superficially or aesthetically, in the past or the present, and those artists setting out to create art dealing with progressive themes will naturally be most concerned with progress, whether that’s dreaming of a better future or ruminating on how the crimes of the present might affect the future.

However, the problem of the stubborn past is not one that can ever be discounted or ignored.  As the character Ulysses said in one of my favorite works of progressive near-future science fiction, the video game Fallout: New Vegas, “Who are you, who do not know your history?”

In his 18th Brumaire of Louis Napoleon, the brilliant political economist and passable wordsmith Karl Marx famously said:  “Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given, and transmitted by the past.  The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living.”  This, to me, summarizes the essence of the gothic as much as it's a statement on real-world history and politics.  The past, with all of its mistakes and all of its secrets, defines and creates the present.  The stage of history upon which the great drama of our lives will play out was set and dressed long before we were born, and the problems of the present that we fight to fix are the purest form of the stubborn refusal of the past to die.

Ever since the people who worry about such things have condescended to turn a critical eye towards genre fiction, rivers of ink have been spilled discussing the possible utility of horror fiction and the nature of humanity’s perpetual fascination with the grotesque and macabre.  The general consensus amongst critics and theorists, which I mostly agree with, is that horror is important both as a conceptual “safe space” in which to explore the more unsavory aspects of the human experience and as an unflattering mirror providing a far too honest reflection of ourselves and the world we live in.  This, I think, makes the gothic a genre uniquely poised to treat with the problems of the modern world; as the past creates the present and the contradictions of the past define the issues of the present, our lives as workers are haunted by the uncomfortable intrusion of the past into the present and by the stubborn refusal of the past to die, and the phantasms vexing workers in the edifice of a dying empire are far more terrifying than those haunting Victorian aristocrats in their decaying estates.  After all, as the old world is dying and the new world struggles to be born, now is the time of monsters.

Marx also said, in his verbose and rambling but nonetheless insightful Capital:  “Capital is dead labor which, vampire-like, lives only by sucking living labor, and lives the more the more it sucks.”  We artists tend to be a disconnected and self-aggrandizing group who go through life with an over-inflated sense of the importance of what we do, and I as a novelist have got my doubts about the utility of fiction as a pedagogical tool, but it can’t be denied that all art is propaganda.  I do believe that, when we as artists take the time to explore the gothic, we might help deliver just a few more hammer-taps onto the end of the stake being driven into the heart of the vampiric wage system.

In love and solidarity,

Natalie H. Ironside

Horror Writers Association

IWW Freelance Journalists Union

#patreon posts

[dreadfutures]

Fanfic Writer Questions

Tagged by @plisuu and @rosella-writes - and tagging the whole rest of the DA FanFic server crew:

@warpedlegacy @rakshadow @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @blarrghe @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

49

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

1,645,298

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Maximum Ride, Pokemon, Spirited Away, Zelda, Pathfinder CRPGs, Elden Ring, Dishonored, and of course, Dragon Age

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Dead Pasts and Dread Futures (Dragon Age)

Hero of the Wild (Legend of Zelda: BOTW)

When the Wind Whispers (Legend of Zelda: BOTW)

The Brave Guide (Dragon Age)

Light in the Dark (LOZ)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I try to. I fall behind very frequently but I always try to say thank you. So many people tell me why these stories touch them, and to share that with me, is such a gift that deserves acknowledgement.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably 'The Hope of Fen'Harel' (on AO3) or the scene where Solas finds out that young Ixchel is dead (here on tumblr).

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

the road seems too wild for mixing it with blues (Dragon Age) - literally it is a Solavellan happiest of happy endings. There are brown butter donuts.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yes. Not infrequently.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Sometimes! I do try to write titillating smut but if it's in my longfics, it's got to be for character reasons and serve the plot. But I have more than one smut oneshot that's just there to get people hot lol.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

No.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I have had ideas copied wholecloth.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of, but you are free to do so as long as you tag me and properly credit via the "inspired by" on AO3

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! ALL of my Maximum Ride fics were co-written. Literally sending passages back and forth over *yahoo instant messenger.* It was an absolute fucking joy. Those fics are gone now though lol.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

Prooooooobablyyyyyyy Haku/Chihiro. I will read absolute drivel if it's got them in it.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I WILL ABSOLUTELY FINISH MY BOTW FICS I AM WORKING ON THEM OKAY?! The one i don't think i will ever do is my young!Ixchel fic. It's too fucking sad. But it lives in my head and calls to me.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dreamy prose, evocative horror, and really motivated plots.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm verbose, I have a hard time connecting scenes / passing time without it feeling like it's dragging.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

So, for fantasy languages that you have to conlang -- I think you should just write it in English. Especially if you're not making up YOUR OWN conlang and instead relying on the work of a notorious jackass. I have taken to "[[brackets and italics]]" to indicate when dialogue is happening in Elvhen. In real life languages, such as Spanish, the current movement in ownvoices communities is to include the dialogue in its original tongue, with no italics. Readers are smart. They can look it up. And they need to get used to languages other than their own without it seeming other, alien, or magical. In my original novels, where Spanish is often used, I stick with this rule.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Maximum Ride or Spirited Away.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

it ends or it doesn't (Dragon Age), my Felassan-as-Benoit-Blanc arlathvhen murder mystery!

blank form below:

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

5. Do you respond to comments?

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

16. What are your writing strengths?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

20. Favorite fic you've written?

#long post #tag meme

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

Considering Blake's crush on the rusted knight I think she just has a thing for handsome buff blondes. I wonder if she ever fantasized about Yang as her handsome chivalrous knight saving her, the beautiful princess from the clutches of a big evil red dragon that just so happens to be named adam

Knight!Yang: Fear not, Princess! I shall vanquish this foul beast and deliver you from its grasp!

Princess!Blake: Oh, my valiant Knight! Be careful! The dragon is such a moody Edgelord!

Dragon!Adam: ROOOOAR!!! SNARL!!! HISS!!!

Knight!Yang: (skillfully defeats the dragon and climbs the tower into the Princess's arms using the dragon's corpse as a ramp) You're safe now, Princess. No harm shall ever befall you as long as I am by your side.

Princess!Blake: (swoons) Oh, brave Knight!

Weiss: (reading the absolutely horrible, self-insert fanfiction) Blake, what the hell is this drivel?!

#thanks anon! #sorry this took so long to reply to #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #bumbleby #Knight Yang #Princess Blake #Dragon Adam #rwby crack post

[dragonastra]

Anyway I'm on bluesky if you are (same username: Dragonastra.bsky.social). Been meaning to use it more anyway, I've just been reluctant because I dont have as many people to follow as I did on twitter.

#driveling dragon #atla

[vosh-rakh]

3e634 chapter 2

--chapter 1--

Master Kassur sat cross-legged at the peak of a hill in the Reach, hunched over a well-worn copy of The Four Suitors of Benitah, smiling. The wind whipped up the frayed corners of the pages, but he paid it no mind, enthralled as he was by the words. His husband sat a ways behind him on an elaborate conjured chair, fiddling with the runes carefully inscribed on a pair of spectacles. They sat in silence, kept busy by their respective businesses. 

The spectacles suddenly appeared held within the grasp of a well-manicured hand over Kassur’s shoulder. Without turning his gaze from the book, Kassur asked, “Have you finally finished with them?”

“I believe so,” Master Aryon answered. “Give them a whirl.” 

Kassur shifted his book to one hand and took the glasses with the spare. With a quick movement of his wrist he flicked open the arms and laid them over his ears, his eyes now covered with lenses of carefully polished glass. At first the world was awash with mauve smoke, but it quickly dissipated to reveal perfectly normal vision. “Is there nothing you can do about that startup period?” he asked, turning to face his husband. Aryon was not overlaid with magical smoke, which was a good first sign.

“I’ve tried,” Aryon said with a sigh. “Something about this particular enchantment, it would seem.” He laughed and adjusted the crooked glasses on Kassur’s nose. “There could be some sort of metaphysical implications, if I could be bothered to interrogate them. But I’m no philosopher or Psijic.”

“How shall we test them, then?” Kassur wrinkled his nose, and the glasses fell askew again.

“Well,” Aryon began, indicating one of his famous monologues was to follow, “All I’ve just done is fine-tune it for the drier climate this far west. During our audience with the master of the Greybeards, I discreetly tested it on him. He glowed very brightly.” 

“And does it verify me?” Kassur asked. He removed the glasses and handed them to Aryon.

Aryon carefully took the spectacles and placed them straight on his nose with both hands. He squinted for a moment as his vision adjusted, and then nodded. “You glow as brilliantly as Magnus himself.”

“I appreciate the compliment, my dear,” said Kassur with a crooked smile, “but do the glasses work?”

Aryon rolled his eyes behind the glasses and gave him a light shove on the shoulder. “Yes, you dolt. Don’t sweet-talk yourself too much, or Azura will get jealous.” Neither of them cared much for Azura, but it was a common phrase that even venerable Master Aryon had picked up. Aryon handed back the spectacles, and Kassur returned them to his face.

Aryon scratched his chin for a moment. “I suppose the next test would be on the latest Septim, but I doubt we could obtain an audience with him, even with the Hortator’s diplomatic assistance.”

“Are we even sure the Septims after Martin are still Dragonborn?” Kassur asked, scanning the horizon, as if Skyrim were somehow filled with dragon souls lurking around every corner, hiding in every nook and cranny of the cliffs and hills.

“The official Imperial line is that they are,” Aryon said. “Seeing as our device here is the first to accurately detect them, even our best spies couldn’t be sure.” He pondered for a moment. “The Dragonfires apparently remain lit, so we have to assume.”

“Mhm,” Kassur said.

“Are you reading again instead of listening to me?” Aryon snatched the book from Kassur’s hands. Kassur tried to snatch it back, but Aryon retreated. Kassur couldn’t be bothered to stand so gave up. “You’ve read this a thousand times. Why bother reading it again? You could recite it word-for-word from memory.” 

“I like reading more than reciting,” Kassur pouted.

Aryon flipped through a few pages. “What drivel. How can you stand this stuff?”

“It reminds me of where I’ve come from.”

“Why this, then?” Aryon waved the book about, not caring if Kassur kept his page. “Why not some, I don’t know, Ashlander tales or hymns?”

“You know why. I couldn’t go back to them if I wanted to, so why bother even thinking about it?”

“Hm. Fair enough, I suppose.” Aryon tucked the book back in Kassur’s bag. 

Kassur planted his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, looking westward where the road meets the limited horizon of this rough place. Something vaguely purple seemed to rise over the edge and walk slowly down the trail. Kassur paid it no mind at first, but it grew closer and closer, and brighter and brighter, until it separated, as if by mitosis, into two distinct shapes of lavender light.

He blinked once, then twice. He removed the glasses, and saw the two traveling figures in true light. One shining-armored with a black cloak, the other in yellow robes behind. Kassur put the glasses back on and waited for the purple glare to recede. It finally resolved into just the overlay of the two travelers.

“Arrie.”

“Yes?”

“I think you still have some fine-tuning to do. They’re too sensitive.”

“I’ve done about all the fine-tuning I can,” Aryon said, coming back behind Kassur. “Let me see.”

Kassur handed Aryon the spectacles. He put them on, squinted until they calibrated, and looked to see what Kassur was making a fuss about. His eyes widened. “By Mephala’s…”

That was all Kassur needed. He jumped to his feet and started clambering, nearly rolling, down the side of the hill. He faintly heard Aryon shout “Kass!” behind him, but blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out even his awkward tumbling down the earth.

- - - - -

“N’chow,” whispered Dagoth Valer as she watched the wizard tumblr down the hill towards the road. She stopped in her tracks, considering her options. She almost reached for a weapon, but reasoned such a clumsy wizard couldn’t be much of a threat. Just play it - 

Before she could finish her thought, the sleeper walked right into her back. Valer had forgotten to will her body to stop when she did. This kind of control was taxing - she wondered how the other ash vampires had managed it, and across so many sleepers, for so long. 

Valer reined the sleeper back in and had her step back. Fortunately, the wizard didn’t seem to notice the collision. Unfortunately, he was soon accompanied by another wizard, this one gracefully levitating down from the hill behind the first.

The first wizard - blessedly a Dunmer - dusted off his robes and extended a hand. “Good afternoon!”

Valer did not take his hand, and in fact considered for a moment cutting it off. “Sera,” she began icily, “I trust you might understand how a traveling woman might feel, when suddenly accosted by two strange mer on the road.”

The first wizard’s face fell, and he lowered his hand. The second came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Apologies for my partner’s overeager behavior,” the second said. “We’re simply very excited to meet such an esteemed personage out here.”

N’chow. How could they know? She didn’t think she was that conspicuous. Without thinking, she tightened the hood around her face. She could feel her confidence waning, and so followed her grip on the sleeper. “I’m just a traveler.”

“Modest, I see,” said the first wizard, apparently recovered from his embarrassment. “And you, f’lah,” he said, addressing the sleeper, “are you also just…why are your eyes closed?”

“She’s deafblind,” lied Valer. “I’m delivering her to a friend of hers in Windhelm.”

“A deafblind dra-...” muttered the first wizard before interrupting himself. Under his breath, he wondered, “Could she even…hm…”

Valer began to quietly panic, her domination of the sleeper fading still further. What did these strangers know? Slowly, so as to not alarm the wizards, she began to reach for her nearest concealed sheath.

“Well, traveler,” the first wizard said, smiling as he took a dangerous step closer to Valer, “I think you’ll find that your modesty is misplaced, and that we shall soon become fast friends.”

Enough of this. In a heartbeat she withdrew her hidden blade of heartblight and stabbed the first wizard with it, leaving it embedded in his chest. Before either wizard could react, she also slipped her sacred hammer from its holster and swung at the second wizard. She felt her hold on the sleeper finally fail completely, but she paid it no mind; there was a much more present danger.

With a quick ward, the second wizard deflected her hammer strike. But the dagger had struck true, and the first wizard wobbled backwards before collapsing. 

The second wizard watched as his partner fell to the ground, and then turned his baleful gaze to Valer.

N’chow.

A moment after those eyes hit Valer, so did something else. Something cold. Something sharp. Something wide.

She glanced down at her chest. There she saw a massive shard of ice lodged in her breast plate. From the additional pain in her back, she knew it pierced her completely.

N’chow n’chow n’chow -

Instinct. Careful not to drop the sacred hammer, with her spare hand she conjured flame, both to melt the magical ice and cauterize her massive wound.

And she fled. The sleeper was lost. Her master would be displeased. But his displeasure she could weather. Death, not so much.

- - - - -

Malekaiah opened her eyes, and found she was already on her feet. First she saw a man fall, dagger in his chest. Then she saw the man beside him launch a great icicle into a woman’s chest, a woman Malekaiah vaguely recognized, but couldn’t remember why.

A terrible shriek filled the air, issuing from the woman’s throat, who then ran away into the hills.

The mage who attacked the woman did not pursue her. Instead he fell to his knees by the fallen man and held him close.

Instinct. Even without knowing any context, Malekaiah leapt into action, sliding down next to the wounded mer. The mage holding him held up a hand crackling with electricity, but Malekaiah held up her open hands. “I’m a healer,” she said.

“You’re not deafblind?” the mage asked, the lightning dissipating.

“No?” Malekaiah said as she looked over the wound. “Why would I be?”

“Nevermind,” the mage said, his spell completely fizzling. “We didn’t bring any potions, and I don’t know much Restoration.”

“Good thing I do, then,” Malekaiah said with a reassuring smile. Her hands glowed faintly pink as she probed around the wound with her Healer’s Sight.

The mage tried to mirror the expression, but failed. “Can you save him?”

She probed deeper, then nodded. “We can. Do as I say and he’ll survive.” The mage nodded, so Malekaiah continued. “He’s lucky. It seems the blade missed everything important. We need to keep it that way.”

She rubbed her hands together to warm them and get the magicka flowing. “Do you have steady hands?” she asked.

“Steady enough,” said the mage. “I’m an enchanter, after all.”

Malekaiah wasn’t sure how that was relevant, but nodded anyway. “Good. You’re going to - as straight as possible - pull out the blade while I try to stop the bleeding and close the wound.” She prepared by hovering her hands near the injury, already faintly glowing golden. “Be very careful. If you pull it out crooked you’ll risk damaging adjacent organs.”

“Okay,” the mage said, wiping sweat from his brow. 

“Before we start,” she said, eyes lifting to catch the mage’s, “Introductions are in order. What’s your name?”

“What does it matter?” snapped the mage. “Can’t this wait?”

Patiently, Malekaiah answered: “Healing works best with a personal connection. No time for chit-chat, so a name will have to do.”

“...I’m Aryon. His name is Kassur.”

“And I’m Malekaiah,” she said, smiling. “Extract the blade whenever you’re ready.”

Aryon wiped sweat-plastered black hair from his brow and slowly wrapped his fingers around the dagger’s handle, careful not to tilt it from its original angle of attack. But he hesitated. Blood slowly pooled around the wound, sticking Kassur’s robes to his skin.

“It’s okay,” Malekaiah said. “You can do this. But do it. Straight and swift, like peeling a plaster.”

After another breathless second, Aryon pulled the dagger free.

Immediately Malekaiah went about flowing magicka and Dibella’s grace into the wound, bidding it close behind the dagger’s tip, and staunching the stream of blood that erupted from the removal. Once she was satisfied, she probed the area again with her Healer’s Sight. 

“Good work, Aryon!” she exclaimed. “No organ damage. He’ll live, but he needs rest.

She noticed Aryon examining the bloodied blade in his hand. It looked exotic, sure, but she couldn’t tell if it was any special otherwise.

Suddenly, Kassur’s eyes fluttered open, and he grabbed Aryon by the arm. Aryon’s attention jolted from the dagger to his partner’s face.

“Arrie, Arrie,” Kassur slurred. “Did you see…that hammer…”

“Yes, dear,” Aryon whispered, just barely loud enough for Malekaiah to still hear. “Sunder. The last Dagoth yet lives, and she’s in Skyrim.”

“And,” Kassur coughed, “she’s Dragonborn.” With this final phrase, he lost consciousness again.

- - - - -

As night neared, they set up camp on the nearby hilltop. Malekaiah gathered scraps of wood for the fire, only for Aryon to light a magical flame upon the pile that could sustain itself all night without fuel.

Huffing and puffing from carrying the wood, Malekaiah asked, “Why’d you let me do all this, when you could’ve just cast the spell at any time?”

Aryon shrugged. “I thought you knew who I was.”

Malekaiah asked, “Is your name supposed to ring a bell?”

“I’m a Telvanni magelord, Master of Tel Vos, as well as a frequent confidant of the Hortator.”

Aside from vaguely knowing what a “hortator” was, Malekaiah didn’t understand any of those qualifications. “I’m from Cyrodiil,” she said. “I don’t know much about Morrowind politics.”

“Well,” Aryon said, crossing his arms indignantly, “my husband and I are what you youths might call ‘a pretty big deal.’”

Malekaiah glanced at Kassur, who was lying asleep near the fire. She had helped Aryon change him out of his torn and bloody silk robes into a spare set of clean ones. Both sets were so intricate and obviously delicately crafted - “Finest Daedra spider silk,” Aryon had said - that Malekaiah was certain she’d never laid eyes on a piece of clothing so expensive.

She took a look at Kassur’s face. Whereas Aryon had the signs of age clear upon him, looking rather middle-aged, Kassur looked as young as Malekaiah. She knew the aging of elves was slow and different, but the apparent age difference between these two made their apparent married status strike Malekaiah as odd.

She remembered a question she wanted to ask, and worked up the courage to pose it. “What was that about, what he said when he woke up?”

Aryon sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you. It’s technically a state secret.”

“I don’t know anyone from the Ebonheart Pact,” Malekaiah said. “Who would I tell?”

“That’s not a very good reason,” Aryon said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but I will tell you anyway. Long ago, Morrowind was plagued by a corrupt House called Dagoth. The Hortator destroyed them two hundred years ago. But somehow, one escaped. She was your captor. Valer.”

Malekaiah remembered the razor-sharp yellow teeth lining the witch’s mouth, and the glowing crimson eye tattooed on her forehead, and shivered. “And the hammer? Kassur said it was special.”

“It’s really not important. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Aryon shook his head. “I’ll leave it at this: it’s a historical artifact of great significance. It was once in the possession of the Hortator. A few years ago, it was stolen, but we didn’t know by whom.” He tilted his head. “Although I suppose now we do.”

Aryon was right: Malekaiah didn’t really understand. But she nodded her head like she did. “And he said something else,” she said. “Something about dragons, I think. So did Valer, when she captured me. What does that -”

Kassur began coughing again. Malekaiah reached over to keep an eye on him. She was alarmed to notice blood around his mouth, so she rolled him over on his side so he wouldn’t choke. She placed her hand on his forehead - still feverish. To check his pulse, she placed two fingers on his neck. Slow. But more concerning was the lump there. It didn’t seem to be a swollen lymph node, but something else.

“Aryon,” she called. He came over, the Dagoth’s strange dagger still in his hand. “I know you’re not a physician or healer, but feel this.” She pointed at the growth on Kassur’s neck.

Aryon placed a few delicate fingers on his husband’s neck. “This feels like…” His eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“Do you recognize this?” Malekaiah asked, turning towards him.

He looked at the dagger in his hand again. “Could it be this…?”

“Was it poisoned?” Malekaiah asked.

Aryon shook his head. “I studied under Divayth Fyr, in his Corprusarium,” Aryon said, looking away. “This feels like that. Like Corprus.”

Corprus. The word terrified Malekaiah. An intense fear of the disease had been instilled in her by her Restoration tutors, an ailment as devastating as the Knahaten Flu, or the Thrassian Plague - but completely incurable.

“I’m so sorry,” Malekaiah said, placing a consoling hand on Aryon’s shoulder. But to her surprise, he seemed much less crestfallen than she expected. “You know what that means, right?”

“Of course,” Aryon said. “Fatal unless cured quickly.”

“Aryon,” Malekaiah said, her voice stern. “There is no cure for Corprus.”

Aryon laughed, but it was an empty, dry laugh. “Allow me to let you in on another secret, Malekaiah. Another state secret, one carefully guarded by the Temple in Morrowind.” Conspiratorially, he leaned in close. “There is a cure. Our Hortator was cured of Corprus, over two hundred years ago. After Divayth’s…unfortunate demise, I worked with his daughter Uupse Fyr on further developing the cure.” He looked back at the dagger in his hand. “There’s little need for a cure, since Dagoth Ur’s defeat by the Hortator, but I believe I can recall the formula we concocted.”

Malekaiah’s jaw dropped. “So it’s actually possible?”

“Yes,” Aryon said. “But the specific ingredients we used were mostly local to Vvardenfell, and are therefore out of our reach. But I believe there may be suitable substitutes to be found here in Skyrim.”

Aryon stood, dusting off his robes, and stepped away for a moment. With a click of his finger, a worktable appeared, faintly luminous and violet. He reached into his bag nearby and pulled out a couple parcels.

Malekaiah stood also, and marveled at the conjured worktable. It was kitted out with what seemed like delicate alchemical apparatuses, retorts and calcinators and alembics, and little tubes and pipes to feed them, and flames to heat them. She didn’t understand their purposes, but could imagine that a better alchemist than her could work wonders with them.

“On our way to Skyrim,” said Aryon, “we stopped in Solstheim.” He opened one of the parcels, a small jar. “We discovered strange beasts, reminiscent of ash creatures created by Dagoth Ur’s blight long ago. Upon their death they released a similar substance to the ash salts found in Vvardenfell.” Malekaiah peeked inside the jar; it seemed to contain a fine gray powder looking very much like ash, but somehow more crystalline. Aryon continued: “Uupse’s original recipe called for ash salts. This should serve as a substitute.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. “What else do we need?”

“A shoot of Nirnroot, and two hearts.”

Hearts? Malekaiah shivered. Hopefully he was being metaphorical. She decided to focus on the less scary part of that answer. “What’s Nirnroot?”

“It is a glowing, singing plant that grows by the water all across Tamriel. I don’t have any samples here, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find some. There’s a river on the other side of this hill, beyond a small copse of trees. You should be able to find some there. Go on ahead while I procure the Daedra heart.”

Malekaiah nodded. She checked on Kassur one last time before she began to slowly climb down the hill. It was still dark, but the cloud cover was bright, illuminated by the full moons behind, and her Orc eyes acclimated quickly. The copse Aryon mentioned was small but dense enough to obstruct the river she could hear on the other side. She had to move carefully through the trees, as their shadows kept the light of the heavens from reaching her. Finally, she reached the small river, and looked around.

Malekaiah could guess “glowing,” but what had Aryon meant by “singing?” She looked up and down the stream, trying to see any light along its course. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Frustrated, she picked a direction and started following the banks westwards. 

The white noise of the flowing river was making her ears ring, and it seemed to get worse the longer she was by it. She was just about to give up when she remembered what Aryon said. She backed up, retreating eastwards. The ringing seemed to get quieter. Eyes peeled, she kept heading west.

Finally, she saw a strange light peeking from behind a boulder. She wrapped around it and saw the plant, a spiky-leaved thing, luminous green, and chiming a sharp note. 

Using her hands (she didn’t want to get her dagger dirty), she gradually dug up the roots and pulled the entire plant from the earth. Once its roots were free, its noise died down to a whisper.

Something caught her attention in her peripheral vision. A small thing, alighting on the slow-moving surface of the river. It didn’t sink, but left a small impression on the water. Then she noticed another, and another. Then she felt something cold fall on her nose, and she looked up.

It was snowing. She had heard of snow before, but never seen it herself. She held out her empty hand and caught a falling flake, and quickly tried to inspect it before it melted from her body’s warmth. It was a beautiful, geometric crystal. It reminded her of the tattoos priests of Zenithar often wore, denoting their faith to the mathematical god of industry. Perhaps, Malekaiah wondered, during creation, Zenithar collaborated with Kynareth, the goddess of the rains, to create such beautiful frozen artifacts.

The falling snowflakes began to increase in volume, until so many landed on Malekaiah’s head it sent a shiver down her spine. She pulled her hood over her bare scalp, and began to head back east to the copse at the base of Aryon’s hill.

When she finished climbing the hill - a bit more difficult now, as the precipitation was making it icy and slick - Malekaiah greeted Aryon. Kassur didn’t seem to have moved from his position when she left, which she tentatively took as a good sign.

“Do we have all the ingredients now?” she asked, holding up the Nirnroot plant. 

Aryon, now hooded himself, glanced over from his work at his enchanted table. He seemed to be boiling down a dark red, almost black, organ she couldn’t identify. A Daedra heart? she wondered. “Ah, thank you,” Aryon said. “Although I didn’t require the entire plant. Just a sprig would do.” Malekaiah frowned. “But it never hurts to have extra,” Aryon added upon seeing her expression.

Malekaiah brought forth the Nirnroot. With magical shears Aryon cut a leaf from the plant and had her set the rest aside for now. Then he cut the leaf into small strips and added them to the boiling heart’s juices.

“But do we have all the ingredients now?” Malekaiah repeated.

“Oh, not yet,” Aryon said. “We still require a Briarheart. Specifically, one taken from a living subject’s chest.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. Her conscience couldn’t help but butt in. “So, does that require murder?”

“That depends,” Aryon said, “on if you consider the destruction of a necromantic beast murder. Frankly, Briarheart warriors are not human anymore. They make pacts with hagravens and the Daedra Lord Hircine to become what they are.”

Malekaiah considered it. If it’s necromancy, it can’t be murder, right? She nodded. “Okay. So how are we going to get one?”

“It will take some time to find and obtain one,” Aryon began. “And one of us must stay with Kassur. Seeing as I am not a healer, that must fall to you. I will go, by stealth, to tear the heart from a sleeping warrior. I believe the Forsworn have a camp not far from here. If I’m not back in three hours -” Aryon started to say, but he looked at Kassur and reconsidered. “No. I’ll be back in about three hours.”

“Okay,” Malekaiah said. She took a seat next to Kassur and waved Aryon off as he swiftly departed.

- - - - -

With great effort, the Emperor sloughed off his regal fur-lined coat before his attendant had a chance to offer his assistance. Unburdened, he spun around to see Merculus frowning.

“You know, Your Highness, that I’m here to assist you,” Merculus, an old white-haired geezer of a Cyrod, said.

“Oh, brighten up, will you?” the Emperor said with a bright grin. “It’s a beautiful day in…er…”

“Helgen, Sire.”

“Of course,” said the Emperor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I was only feigning ignorance.”

It was, of course, not a beautiful day. The young Emperor was known for embellishment. The sky in southern Skyrim was a dreary gray, and the ground here in the fort sucked at your boots like it wanted you to stand there forever. His two Blades in his entourage, both Nords, had told him this was fairly usual.

“You’re lucky if you see the sun once a year in this shithole of a province,” the tall, shaggy blonde Fjulgur had said.

Thargun, the shorter, ruddy-complexioned one, sighed. “Your tongue, Fjully.”

“Sorry,” said Fjulgur, covering his mouth. But the Emperor could tell he was smiling underneath his hands.

Now, Merculus asked, “Is there anything you’ll allow me to do for you, Your Highness?”

The Emperor rubbed his throat. “You know, Merculus, I could go for a drink before bed. What do the locals have here?”

“I believe Helgen is known for its juniper berry mead, Your Highness. I could procure for you a bottle.”

“No, just a glass will do. Or a mug. Do they drink it hot up here? Surely they do.”

“Yes, Your Highness. I will return as swiftly as possible.” With this, Merculus, in his usual way, glided out the door, which closed behind him with a soft click.

The Emperor turned to inspect the room. For a “shithole province,” they certainly knew how to furnish a chamber for royalty. The bed had four tall posts, supporting a frame from which hung a black curtain, sporting on all sides the Imperial insignia, a diamond with a dragon at its center, in red. In the corner by the window sat a similarly red-upholstered armchair, the cushions of which looked like they could swallow even a Nord or an Orc in their depths. The crimson curtains on the far-side window, which stood a few stories high over the fort’s courtyard, were pulled open for the Emperor to look out upon his subjects. The two nightstands on either side of the bed were of dark spruce, as were the massive dresser and desk across from the bed’s foot.

The Emperor hesitated; he felt his neck warming up. He glanced down at the Amulet of Kings, and felt a voice ring out in his head: BEWARE.

He glanced around, letting his peripheral vision do the heavy-lifting for him. But he saw nothing.

“Come out, assassin,” the Emperor commanded, just quietly enough that no one outside could hear.

“How did you know?” whispered a voice that seemed to come from every corner of the room at once.

The Emperor flashed his teeth, part smile, part threat-display. “Magic has an odor. Especially Illusion magic.”

There was a long pause. Then: “You just made that up. It was a lucky guess.”

“It was a lucky guess,” the Emperor admitted, keeping his volume even. “But I had you going, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t,” said the voice, who suddenly revealed herself, the figure in the plush corner chair appearing piece-by-piece of vanishing invisibility. “Uriel Septim.” She tilted her head. “Are you the seventh, or the eighth?”

“The ninth, Hla-eix,” he said. The Hortator of the Ebonheart Pact’s daughter was unmistakable: a Dunmer by almost all features, save for side-slitted lizard eyes and patches of pale, ephemeral scales on her skin. 

“Ah,” she hissed, wrapping her thin fingers around the delicate point of her chin. “You humans take so many lifetimes to accomplish so little.”

Uriel ignored her and asked, “How did you get in here? The window?” Even as he asked, he doubted it; the dust on the windowsill looked completely undisturbed.

“Who’s to say I haven’t been here the whole time?”

Uriel smiled. Fair enough. He decided not to think about the worrying implications for his security. “We’re not meant to meet until tomorrow. What are you doing here now?”

“I wanted to appraise you,” Hla-eix said simply.

“Like a piece of jewelry? A ring to wrap around your finger?”

She smiled, her lips barely parting to reveal razor-sharp teeth. “You have a sharp tongue. Expected for a Cyrod, an Emperor no less.” She planted her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself out of the deep seat, landing on her toes. “But is it as sharp as the blade at your throat?”

Reflexively Uriel swallowed deeply, but hoped it was mostly imperceptible; he never let down his smile. “And here I thought this was just a friendly visit. Are you sure you’re not an assassin?”

“I’m not one anymore,” she said, stepping even closer. “The Shadowscales and the Morag Tong both answer to me. But they’re not the ones you should worry about.”

“And who, praytell, should I worry about?” He resisted the urge to step back.

“There are snakes in the lion’s den.” She was now so close Uriel could feel her breath on his cheek. “And venom is indiscriminate.”

“And how, praytell, would you know such a thing?”

“Simple. Assassins make good spies.” She shot a glance at the door behind him. “And Blades make weak ones.”

“I don’t understand your motive, Hla-eix. Our peoples’ are on the precipice of war. Why should you concern yourself with the strength of my Empire?”

“That’s not for you to know.” She leaned in close to his ear, and he couldn’t help but flinch this time. “Keep your wits about you…Emperor.”

There was a loud crack, and she was gone. The air left behind seemed to pull at the folds of Uriel’s robes for a moment before it settled again.

The door behind him burst open. He turned to see Fjulgur and Thargun pushing through the threshold, katanas in hand. “Sire!” Thargun shouted. “Are you alright? What was that noise?”

“Stubbed my toe on the bed, dammit,” lied Uriel. “Everything’s alright. Calm down.”

Thargun tilted his head, but said, “As you wish, Sire.” The Nords scanned the room through the eye slits of their helmets before sheathing their swords and leaving, the door closing softly behind them. Uriel sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his forehead. Nine-damned dark elves, he thought. Oblivion take them and their schemes.

#tes #tesblr #oc: malekaiah #oc: kassur #oc: dagoth valer #oc: uriel ix #master aryon #skyrim #orc #orsimer #dunmer #imperial #cyrod #cyrodiil #nord #my writing #oc: hla-eix

[sevi007]

FF16 continues

There be dragons! Yes I reached the Bahamuth fight

First of - Dion makes for an interesting character. He is desperately trying to do right by his people but also wants his father‘s approval and love. In the same vein, his dragoons seem to adore him, which says a lot. I like him! And his boyfriend seems nice

In stark contrast, his father’s an influencable idiot. Falling for Annabella? Or rather, listenibg to her drivel? And « for every man that falls, a new one can be bred? » Gross. Glad he’s dead. Sorry for how it happened though

I honestly enjoyed the confrotation between Clive and his mother. It shows this contrast of - Clive, doing his level best to make the world s better place without thinking about his own status and doing everything he can to support his brother, whereas Annabelle just thinks of herself, and status, and blood lines. Even now, even though she had duch a good family and country.

And her admission that Clive should have been the Phoenix? Hit hard. So she didn’t even love Joshua, she only saw the benefit in him for his Eikon, while she was bitter over the « stronger son » disappointinh her expectations. HOW did these sweet boys come from this woman ugh. No wonder Ultima chose her as the mother of his avatar.

« I am a Shield of Rosaria, and I will do my duty » - awesome, chill-inducing, let go kick some dragon behind

And the battle was so awesome? I mean I still kind of wish the fight would usually start with Clive versus the Eikon and then we transform, but eh.

And we got baby brother back! Heck yeah! I‘m here for the dual battle.

The fusion baffled me shortly, but in hindsight it makes sense. Everyone kept insisting that there can only be ONE Eikon of every element, so maybe Phoenix and Ifrit used to be one at some point? And that Ifrit now manifested now of all times might be because it is in Clive, a devoted brother to the Phoenix. And. Whatever a Mythos is supposed to be.

(Cackling that we are now fighting IN SPACE)

After the battle - not sure if I like the Bahamuth abilities yet. They are strong, but very slow to cast, doesn’t match my usual flow of „hit hard and fast and then spam the dodge button“ XD But anyway, you may now call Clive the dragon king. As soon as his migraine passes.

#sevi plays ff16 #ff16 #ffxvi #clive rosfield #joshua rosfield #dion lesage

[blackjackkent]

The Dragon Doors are open!

Hector is SO scared going through this door, but he's keeping a tight lid on it for the most part and just looks mildly nervous. I, however, am super psyched for Wyll to get a dragon buddy.

Here we go!

Another gorgeous room waits inside, all crystal and marble and stone, and another statue waiting to give us Balduran's wisdom.

"With courage does the hero march. Fettered by the taxing chains of fear, A stalwart soul must ever persevere. With insight does the hero choose Guidance born of ancient wisdom proven, Peace, not strive - the undenied conclusion. With justice does the hero rule. Lead not the guiltless lamb to bloody slaughter, Nor cleanse the lion's sins in sacred water. With strategy does the hero scheme. A cunning mind a hundred steps ahead, Your allies close, your rivals stunned in dread. Worthy you are found. Go forth, hero - seize your fate, And rise, great wyrm, Heart of the Gate!"

The heavy doors again swing open before them.

------

"Gods," Karlach mutters in an undertone. "Who wrote that drivel?"

Hector chokes on a soft laugh in spite of himself. "Well," he says dryly, "he was an adventurer, not a poet."

"We are not here to debate the poetry," the Emperor, unexpectedly, growls inside his head, making him jump. "Press on. Or better still, return to our true business."

-----

Welcome to the Dragon's Sanctum.

Again gorgeous. Hints of plant life, tons of these pale crystals, waterfalls and jagged rock formations in all directions. Ansur has picked fine quarters for his long slumber.

Forward to meet him, then, and ask if he--

Oh. Uh. Huh...

"Shit," Wyll whispers as they draw near to the enormous corpse. "All that's left of the great wyrm is bone and ash..."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #spoilers it escalates from here IMMEDIATELY XD #bjk writes her own party banter #first attempt at the emperor in my fake banter lol

[thephantomcasebook]

Did you see the leaks for HOTD season 2?

Helaemond confirmed!

Well, sort of ...

Thoughts?

I've seen a lot of them over the past few days.

This guy I've trusted for years, I've talked to him once or twice during the height of my GOT fandom - he's a solid dude with good info most of the time.

Do I think it's real?

To be honest, it sounds like the kind of dipshit, poorly written, drivel that I'd expect from Sara Hess and the writers. Aegon running around like a psychopath murdering commoners cause he can - making Rhaenys a hero rather than a sacrificial lamb for Rhaenyra's cowardice. Taking away the absolute genius battle command and strategic thinking of Criston during the "Rooks Rest Campaign" and boiling it down to ...

HAR HAR AEGON BAD, WOMAN GOOD, SLAY GIRLBOSS! BIG SPECTACLE! WOMAN IS HERO! HAR! HAR! BLACKS GOOD! GREENS BAD!

But I'm not fully convinced that this is what they're gonna be using for Season 2. I believe that this was Spotchinik's orginal plan for Season 2 before he got shit canned. The Greens are the bad guys, Daeron is nowhere in sight, and the Blacks are all "Punk Rock" heroes of the people.

But I'd expect with Spotchnik gone and George being very public in his lecturing of "Staying Close to the Source Material" - basically calling out the House of the Dragon writers for trying to change his material - such as trying to remove Daeron from the show and continuously writing characters whose decisions don't have any consequences - Aka Rhaenys murdering thousands of small folk and the writers being like "Small Folk Don't Count" which flies in the face of the very core lesson of the "Dance of the Dragons" which is that the people of Westeros will only ever put up with so much before they turn on the ruling class.

I'd expect them to rewrite or at least restructure Spotchnik's ideas and flesh out the settings and characters more rather than rush through the entire War in one season.

However it does intrigue me that some of the rumors are that a good portion of early Season 2 will show Aemond and Aegon feuding over Helaena. And the big argument between them before the "The Battle of Rooks Rest" is Aegon throwing in Aemond's face that Helaena will never be Aemond's. If I were in charge I'd definitely turn into that story line and give Helaena more depth and personality to make her someone that is worthy of two men fighting over.

Also heard that they're gonna hold off on Daeron till season 3, and introduce him after Rhaenyra captures King's Landing and takes Alicent and Helaena prisoner. Which is a huge fucking mistake, if true. So they want to hold off on one of the most important characters in the war till his mother is captured, then give him the "John Wick" Storyline but instead of his dog it's Alicent?

How the fuck is that going to work?

How are you gonna hold off on Daeron Targaryen for two whole ass seasons of a four season show and than just dump his ass into the fray after Criston and Aemond are dead. Who the fuck is gonna care about his character when he's got no relationships to established characters to anchor him to the main storyline?

You mean to tell me that Daeron "The Daring" Targaryen, Alicent's Champion - the Greens' Hero - is not gonna have one scene with Criston, Aemond, Helaena, nor Aegon? That he's not gonna even have a scene with Alicent? His mother? The one person in the world that he loves above everything else? The person of whom is the inspiration for his heroics and valiant actions in battle that are immortal in Westeros history?

And he ain't gonna have a scene with her?

Thank God I don't believe in most of these things coming out, cause I'd lose my fucking mind at the sheer incompetency of the writers if half the shit flying around Reddit these days are true.

#House of the Dragon #Aemond Targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #Helaena Targaryen #Helaemond #Daeron Targaryen

[skyrimissol]

Welcome to Skyrim.

How do I start this? Dear Diary? no that sounds like I'm some Nord child writing about a crush. Look, I don't know who you are but if you're reading this, you're either very bored or have a morbid sense of curiosity. So, let's just start at the beginning.

I was trying to cross the border and the imperials picked me up. To their mind, everyone not with them is a storm cloak. I mean, unless you're a Dunmer, then lumping you in with the other side just makes a convenient excuse for your murder. You may not want to read that, but it's true. In war, if you're not an ally, you're an enemy. No one is neutral. At least, not to the stormcloaks or imperials.

Anyway, I made my way out of Helgan and made my way to Riverstead. Now, I don't know about other people, but narrowly escaping death by rampaging dragons, really makes me consider what's important in life. And random drunks blubbering in the street does not even move the needle on importance

A random ranger making some comment about my ignoring said drunk ramblings did get the sharper edge of my temper though.

Come to find out his name is Bishop, and he was looking for his long-term companion: a wolf. That makes a lot of sense for his grating nature. But hey, I wouldn't want to leave the animal that I was super close to alone in the hands of bandits, so I agreed to help him.

The local merchant asked us to stop by a place called Bleak Falls barrow and recover some golden claw thing for him. Yea sure. why not. I'll add it to my list of things to do.

ANYROADS: We headed off to find Karnwyr (that's the wolf by the way. And I called it, he DOES like me more than Bishop, but I digress). On our path to find Karnwyr, we stopped off at Whiterun. I needed to pick up some spells and I had it on good authority this guy who worked for the jarl had what I wanted.

I was going to stop and talk to the jarl too, but he was busy in some sort of courtly meeting thing, so I just left.

I figured Skyrim was relatively civilized, you know, minus the giant magical lizards flying around. I was wrong. On our way to find Karnwyr, we were attacked by necromancers, wolves, and bandits. BANDITS! What the heck are the soldiers patrolling the roads doing? Does the Jarl know how useless his men are? Oh! wait! that's what they're doing! Bishop just reminded me of the Falkreath soldier and the Whiterun soldier that were fighting over a prisoner on the side of the road. *sigh* He got away while we watched. Their loss.

Along the banks of the river, we found a broken-down house with a shrine and a dead body. I did the sensible thing: looted the body and prayed at the shrine.

We were passing some ruins of a stone tower and might have walked on by if we hadn't heard some cursing and sounds of pain. I absolutely had to investigate. It was required. It seems this old, abandoned prison was a hidden Thalmor torture dungeon. Not Dibella's type of dungeon either, this one isn't fun, or consensual.

It seems the Thamlor's latest victim has a pair of lungs on him. We rescued and healed the guy, Kaidan by name, and helped him get his gear back. Many Thalmor died that day. I regret nothing. I probably should.

Oh! Here's something I remember that makes me shake my head. Bandits have zero sense of self preservation. Look, I expect wolves and other wild animals to attack us out of nowhere but BANDITS? IF you see three armed and armored travelers, they would not normally be the first choice of "targets" but bandits man, I'm telling you. So yea, we killed them and freed their prisoner because we've decided we're chaos incarnate now.

Kaidan helped us rescue Karnwyr. it was a very touching reunion. Bishop tried to be a tough guy, but you could tell he really loves that wolf.

The nearest town was Riften and we all wanted to sleep in a bed that night, so we made our way to town and the inn.

Riften, now here is a story worth preserving. The guard at the door said some drivel about "visitors tax" Kaidan offered to distract him while I picked his pocket. I opted to make the guard piss his pants instead and got him to open the door.

We made it to the local watering hole with little more than some local thug's attempt to intimidate us (the boy can't help himself but spill the beans about everything going on in town. I wonder how he gets off calling himself an "information broker". )

I got us rooms and was about to indulge in a mug of Black-Briar mead when I noticed a note. Something about someone waiting for me in Riften Jail. Well shit. Now my curiosity is piqued, and we all know that is never a good thing. So, I pack up and head to the Riften jail.

Some fast talking and a quick look around later, and I'm staring at a blue Khajiit who is convinced he tried to kill me. I don't know this guy at all, but he's absolutely convinced. Since I'm not one to kill an innocent man, even if he asks, I tell him if he wants to pay back some debt, he can work it off.

I gear Inigo (that's his name by the way) up with some stuff I looted from the bandits who jumped us, he grabbed a dragonfly in a jar, and we made our way back to the inn.

I'm going to get a bath and sleep in a bed. Tomorrow our band will make our way to Bleak Falls barrow.

#skyrim #modded skyrim #kaidan 2 #inigo the brave

[bohemian-nights]

"...but why should she even be Valyrian? I'm terribly afraid that the point keeps going over your head"

She is of valyrian blood. What sort of racist shit are you saying? A black/brown woman can't have valyrian blood because of their skin color??? This argument is inherently racist and has been called out in the fandom already. Don't you wonder why it's Netty whose valyrian heritage gets questioned and not Addam/Alyn? George is already hinting at the racism yet here you are parroting the same racist shit. George literally wrote Brown Ben Plumm, the same guy whose Dany's dragons are comfortable with, as having valyrian blood. He wrote lores about dragonriding. Nettles is a dragonseed. You talk against racism but speak like a racist.

You sent me this and two other anonymous messages within an hour of each other(each sounding more ridiculous than the last).

It’s clear that you are spiraling and have a bad case of I’m not listening disorder, therefore this will be the last time that I respond to your unhinged rants.

This is how you(and the others who parrot this garbage) sound when you say Nettles’ fantastically brilliant Black self(don’t think I can’t see you still trying to be slick about her race) can’t be a non-Valyrian dragonrider: “How dare you say Black girls are pretty/talented/smart. Only non-Black girls are pretty/talented/smart and if you say otherwise you are a liar who doesn’t respect her betters.”

That’s the exact logic you are using Miss I’m not a racist, you are the real racist 🙃 GRRM isn’t writing this story to tell us how special the Targs are and that Targ supremacy is justified, but you are more than welcome to think that if you can’t handle the fact that a Black non-Valyrian girl was able to claim and tame a wild dragon🤷🏽‍♀️

According to GRRM, Nettles is a legal adult while Rhaenyra is a minor when they begin their respective relationships with Daemon. Additionally, Daemon has known Rhaenyra since she was a child and she’s his niece. He only knew Nettles when she was a legal consenting adult who could’ve gotten herself the hell out of dodge if she wanted to.

There is no way a smart girl like Netty who found it preferable to be homeless than be used by men for their pleasure would stay where she didn’t want to be. No matter how much you go on about it, Dettles≠Dumbnyra, and yes, a racist white woman is the villain here(last time I checked CSA doesn't make you into a racist and it doesn't excuse trying to make a pregnant woman into a hate crime statistics. She's a victim of Daemon, but she's a villain to Nettles. She’s responsible for her own actions here)🤷🏽‍♀️

Calling me a “white male worshipper” is ironic considering I’ve had someone accuse me of “only wanting to put Black women with Black men” due to shipping Baela and Alyn rather than Baela and Jace. It can’t be both so I need someone to tell me ASAP(no Rocky) which one is it.

So now you care about Black women 🙃 I like Baegon in an AU setting where Aegon knows how to act right, not how he is in show/book canon. Laughable that you actually think I’m using Baela as a proxy(or any of these ladies) to lust over Aegon of all characters 🫠Like I said, you are unhinged.

If anyone wants to know the fastest way you’ll get blocked by me it’s this(being butthurt you got called out so now you have descended into spamming me with your drivel).

#bnasks #bnask #a tragedy 🎭 #hotd fandom nonsense