#eastern middle earth

[mrkida-art]

Stiffbeard dwarves laughing at something (or someone)

#my art #tolkien #dwarves #the stiffbeards #stiffbeard dwarves #eastern dwarves #eastern middle earth #tolkien dwarves #the seven clans of the dwarves #the hobbit #lotr #the lord of the rings #lord of the rings #the silmarillion #middle earth

[ohsalome]

#ukraine #lotr #укртумбочка #український tumblr #український тамблер #lord of the rings #if you don't follow middle-earth of eastern europe on twitter you're missing out

[blastdamage]

like... i personally have friends whose loved ones are in ukraine. ive seen firsthand how the war in ukraine has traumatized and terrified them despite being safe here in so-called canada. they can't sleep at night because they are worried sick about the people they love. they are a shell of their former selves. the invasion of ukraine isn't some abstract thing for you to use as a rhetorical device, it isn't a fucking team sport, it isn't a joke for you to own the libs with or whatever, it's a real thing that affects real human lives. i have a profound disgust for people who speak of the war which such callous disregard.

#my barber's family is in eastern europe. some of them are in ukraine #i'll never forget the look he gave me the week after the invasion started #im about to cry in the middle of this coffee shop lmao #we talked about it again yesterday (as well as gaza) while he was cutting my hair and i almost burst into tears #💔💔💔 #i know it's corny but like.... i just want there to be peace on earth!

[pendraegon]

while it is true that 9/11 played a role in mcr's conception and that isn't anything that is contestable.. you know what's truly ghoulish? seeing 9/11 jokes as if making edgy jokes + memes around an incident (i will also say that some of us never made these jokes/memes because our brains were never that fucking rotted) that TO THIS DAY has intense islamophobic and racist ramifications and acts of violence against large groups of people in the united states, but also seeing fucking mcr 9/11 jokes... it's no secret that bandom circles have always had a rampant problem with racism but you guys really are showing your true fucking colors huh.

#i havent seen any of this on my dash bc i curate my followers so carefully but. oh my god. i stepped outside in the tags and... #i hate white people so much it's fucking unreal. #im truly swinging a bat at a hornets nest but i think all of you need to genuinely learn some compassion lmao #edit: i wouldnt even call myself INTO bandom bc im not bc im [1] 27 and [2] bandom is a hellish place on earth. but dear fucking god. have #some fucking couth for ONCE in your lives. #edit 2: this isn't even accounting for the fact that this has had shockwaves in parts of europe and canada as well + the legacy of 9/11 #within + in surrounding countries in the middle east....it's unreal how all of you guys think that this is an acceptable thing to joke abou #and i don't mean this merely in a mcr relation but in GENERAL. and almost always. the people joking about this aren't [1] muslim and/or #[2] aren't of middle eastern descent like. LMAOO.

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

Dwarrowtober: Warrior

Again, taken from something pre-written (but now unreleased!). Yes, out of sync with the daily schedule, but still procrastinating on writing.

--

Eyes. Khalei had a thing about eyes. Dwarves who had limbs so mangled that their bones had been splintered into tinderwood by orcish war machinery? Khalei didn’t even blink, sedating them in the hospital tent until they ceased to writhe and scream, and carefully removing the arm or leg with clean cuts of their surgeon’s knife. Intestines bulging out out of a soldier’s abdominal cavity from a deadly greatsword swing — the price of war.

Khalei could handle anything as long as it wasn’t an eyeball.

The battle north of the Iron Hills had been short lived, but ferocious. The newly crowned King Dáin had ordered a hundred dwarves to follow a warband of orcs that had circumvented Erebor, either a remnant of one of the scouting parties at the Battle of Five Armies that had regrouped its strength, or a new pack that was travelling to Ered Mithrin. Whatever their business, they had none in being so close to the re-founded kingdom. With so many of their own wounded and Esgaroth in tatters, any attack could prove too much for the Men who still lingered, preparing to rebuild Dale as the winter closed in.

Cries for ‘medic’ reached Khalei’s ears while they were in the middle of wrapping bandages around an archer’s leg. It was broken but there was little to reset the bone with, and the tent that they had set up to house the dead and the wounded was already too close to the enclosing enemy line. The healer gritted his teeth, glancing around. Badrur was desperately tending to a soldier whose ribs had been smashed inwards — a discarded chestplate lay caved-in nearby and blood dribbled down his chin. Rild was nowhere in sight, and the head surgeon Alvis was steadily cauterising a large head-wound that had almost cloven Estri’s skull.

“WE NEED A HEALER!”

There wasn’t any more time to think about it. Khalei tied the tourniquet as tightly as they could and jumped to their feet, grabbing a pack that carried the supplies they needed for field-medicine and pulling on their iron-helmet. If Khalei admitted it, they had been woefully unprepared for the ambush, and the terrain had given the orcs the better hand at the start of the fight. But, unlike the dwarves who were fighting, it wasn’t Khalei’s place or position to worry about these things. They were there to care for the wounded — and that was it.

“Where?!” Khalei called to the dwarf who had poked his head into the tent. “General Baranul — someone last saw him on the ground, about fifteen paces west of the riverbed there, but he wasn’t moving…” the dwarf exclaimed breathlessly. He was limping badly, and a smear of blood was streaked across his cheek, but he was alert and talking, and that would do. Khalei set off, his pack bouncing across his back with every step. In the distance, the orcs seemed to be retreating to form a line once more, a horizon of ugly shapes, blackened armour and the the hunkering outline of wargs. Here and there, Khalei ducked around swinging axes, but the remaining orcs were either being quickly dispatched or were already taking their last breaths on the battlefield. A sliver of hope that this would be the end of it rose inside his chest. Please let this be it.

After only a moment of scanning the dried-out river for the dwarf, Khalei found him laying in a pool of blood. General Âr Baranul was alive, but he was gravely wounded, and for a moment Khalei backed away, grimacing. There was an arrow jutting straight out of his face. Mustering himself, he kneeled down and peered over the prone body. The General’s eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell and he was still gripping the haft of his axe. “It’s medic Khalei Iskbanal, General. Put your arm around me if you can, and I shall carry you.” The General let out a throaty laugh. His black beard and moustache were matted with congealing blood and his chest was rising feebly, perhaps, Khalei imagined, from unseen internal bleeding. “You couldn’t carry me. Leave me.” “I wouldn’t have suggested that, General, if I could not do it,” Khalei said, gritting their teeth at the slight. It was General Âr’s way, but he didn’t need the dismissal when the dwarf was so close to death. He leaned forwards, placing his fingertips on either side of the dwarf’s neck and working his way down to assess the extent of his injuries. “But before I move you, I need to check that you can still feel your legs—”

The sky went dark. For a moment, Khalei assumed that it was a cloud blotting the sun, or that twilight had fallen unexpectedly early. But then, he heard it. The incoming whistling far above them, getting louder and louder by each passing second. Khalei glanced up, and saw the volley of arrows arching upwards, and then, as if time had slowed, falling steadily towards them. Well, that’s that, then. Khalei threw himself onto of the General, avoiding the eye with the arrow in it, and covering as much of the dwarf’s body with his own as he could. He felt Âr try to push him off, a stout leg finding the strength to hook itself over his body and roll on top of him instead, but Khalei held fast, pinning the larger dwarf to the ground. He was a medic — a healer. He did not leave dwarves to die if he could help it.

To this day, Khalei didn’t know how they both survived. The next thing Khalei remembered was raising his head and noticing that the Gates of Mahal’s Halls looked very much like the same stretch of riverbed. The pain in his calf made it all the more real. In a daze, the army medic broke off the stems of two arrows that had embedded themselves in his calf, before laying down to check for Âr’s breathing. “Go,” the General whispered, his face pale. “Get. Out. Of. Here.” “No,” Khalei grunted through the pain ripping through his leg. It took all his strength to carry Âr back to the camp, even after Khalei had stripped him of his armour. At some points he was just dragging Âr across the field, before two dwarves rushed over to help support their General’s body. Alvis met them at the tentflap, her brows creased in worry. Khalei thought he heard her mutter something about his leg, but his eyes were fixed on the nearest cot.

Âr’s eye was the only one Khalei had ever touched. He had steadfastly avoided anything to do with them throughout his medical training, but now wasn’t the time to balk. Leaning over the General, he trimmed down the arrow and set about carefully removing the entrenched tip of it. It was a miracle that it hadn’t passed straight through Âr’s skull, but there was no saving his vision. “Khalei — Prince Iskbanal — your leg—” Khalei twitched in irritation, holding the General’s head still for cleaning as the General’s jaw worked, stifling a cry of agony. “I’m working,” he said flatly, brushing off the concern of his fellow healer. “And I’m Healer Iskbanal.” The General’s one good eye opened. It was bloodshot, but it held a steady gaze. “You’re King Varhi’s wayward younger brother?” he asked. Khalei shushed him, pressing the tincture soaked cotton pad underneath his nose, the calming fumes suffusing the air. “If I had known that before, I would have cleaned up a little.”

—

“And that,” Khalei took a draught of wine, setting the glass neatly back on the table, “is how I met your father.” General Âr looked over proudly, the golden rim of his eyepatch glimmering. “Though I was afraid that you wouldn’t look twice at an old, one-eyed dwarf when you had so many others trying to woo you,” he remarked. Khalei smirked. “Less eyes the better for me. Still hate the things.”

#dwarrowtober #dwarrowtober 2022 #dwarves #dwarf culture #lotr #lotr fanfic #lotr fandom #middle earth #eastern dwarves #the hobbit #the hobbit fic

[lurkerjenmish]

I’m going to get back to posting again soon… but right now all I’m thinking about is how my favorite term of endearment people choose for Cas to call Dean is “my beloved”

it’s perfect yes that is 100% what an Angel would call his favorite. He would be saying it like Arabic men use habibi because of course he would, he’s an Angel

And we just so happen to have a very similar word in America that men use but I never see it, so allow me to now make a suggestion for what Dean would call Cas… Beau.

it’s perfect. It’s so cowboy and everything. It’s culturally acceptable for straight men to call each other so it’s believable for Dean who I can’t every really buy being able to comfortably use “Babe”/“Baby”(no, that’s the car)/“honey” for another man, and “sweetheart” and “Angel” are only believable in private. Beau? None would be the wiser, he can get away with it scot-free! And Cas, ever so literal, gets to be called Dean’s beauty on a whim. By the one person we know Cas considers so beautiful. Likewise, I really like “sunshine” for being another culturally acceptable endearment. I mean, obviously, since that’s the one Dean actually called Cas in the show a couple of times. But it’s also in perfect harmony with beloved, because in Arabic ‘light’ (Nūr) is used affectionately so often; I imagine Cas interpreting Dean calling him sunshine to mean that he basks in his presence. As it happens, “Nora” is the feminized version Nur, and I like to think Cas saw some symbolism in that when he met Nora and entertained a relationship with her, before being confronted with seeing Dean again

Now, following this theme- I think I’m on board with “honey” as an endearment for Cas, too, but not in public. Where Dean might think it’s embarrassingly corny, Cas might think it’s vulgar lol. However poetic

#Destiel #i love lily sunder but I feel loyal to castiel being conceptualized as a character who hasn’t walked earth in two thousand years #And I think he would still favor middle eastern languages and archaic memes #Because all language is relative and referential #Think “you light up the room” #This was supposed to be a short post telling you that Dean would call Cas Beau 😔

[wastinawaaay]

hamas is known as a terrorist group but not the Israeli government? make it make sense

#palestine #this is not me saying hamas is not a terrorist group by un definition it is but how on earth that wretched government is not a terrorist gov #both of them are responsible for the murder of innocent people especially children but only one of them is recognized as one #Israeli government is responsible for the murder and r*pe of a lot of innocent palestinian as well as their own citizens you can't deny it #if they hadn't had done all those atrocities against palestinians extremists wouldn't be in charge rn #how is it that every middle eastern is a terrorist in your book but the most atrocious terrorist government is not acknowledged as one #politics #some of you are bigots and it shows

[yellosnacc]

New year, new creature reveal!

This animal is an Iťalaq, a large creature adapted for the hot and dry environment of the east. Just like some earth desert animals, it has energy storage in the form of its watery bloodstream and of a large fat pocket under its 'pelvis'.

They feed primarily on plant matter. Bushes and grasses are easy targets, while hard or spiky materials will get stomped on with their middle limbs to then scoop up the insides. For food high up, they pick on it using their front limbs and throw it to the ground or insert it directly into their mouth. They do not mind a meaty snack.

As a bonus unpleasant fact, Iťalaq have the contents of their 'ends' ready to protect them from predators (both liquid and bullets), and it gets very stinky if they eat meat before the processing.

You are unlikely to ever see one in nature - at least not the domesticated species that are used all over the eastern sloman cultures (those are better reported to the nearest settlement).

Their history with slomen is not as long as it is with pamuli that evolved side by side with slomen. However, they are considered the first domesticated "arm-jaw" animals and have served people for thousands of years as their main "vehicle". Where they are used, wheels and carts are uncommon, finding most use in cities.

One iťalaq can often carry over 200kg (330 pounds), but it's better to keep the weight lower and let a pamuli take the rest of the cargo.

In this illustration, the rider is a sloman matriarch, likely stopping to stare at a strange phenomenon.

It is often that a northeastern family has at least one iťalaq, and the oldest members are the primary riders (both because of the member's importance and less energy from old age). The matriarch is the oldest and most respected, so it's only expected she's most familiar with the animal.

the picture with no text

hope the text wall doesn't have too many mistakes man

#art #speculative biology #artists on tumblr #digital art #artwork #worldbuilding #speculative evolution #spec bio #fantasy #original species #speculative zoology #speculative fiction #xenobiology #slomen #sloman culture #domesticated animals #spec evo #alien animal #elve

[cheeekycharchar]

The Forbidden Fruit, Choices and Fear

[A GOOD OMENS META ANALYSIS OF AZIRAPHALE POST S2] I know everyone is still upset about that gut punch of an ending to GO S2.. and many are also extra upset at Aziraphale.. I'm in so much pain over it too but.. I have to rationalize that damned "I forgive you" line that broke all our hearts to comfort me until we get S3.. I basically overanalyze our favorite cocoa loving Angel to explain his reaction to the kiss and why we all need to be a lil kinder to him.

2500 BC in the Land of Uz.. Aziraphale, the Angel of the Eastern Gate, had the fear of God put into him. And this affected the rest of his immortal life up until that kiss.

Angels, after the Fall and the great war between Heaven and Hell, had the fear of the Almighty's wrath put into them. They all fell in line and stayed in line. Or else they'd end up like their fallen brethren.. or worse. But there was one lil Angel that had since toed that line..

"Didn't you have a flaming sword? Yeah, it was flaming like anything." "…Gaveitaway.." "You what?" "I gave it away!" As far as we've seen, this is the first time Aziraphale did something "bad". And he's already feeling the pressure. The guilt. The fear. He didn't follow the rules. He didn't do exactly as he was told. And suddenly, here's a Demon slithering up next to him and making him doubt his choice even more. The same Demon that snuck past the guardians of Eden and tempted the first human's into eating the apple, breaking the rules and getting them kicked out of paradise on Earth.

"Bit of an over reaction if you ask me. First offence and everything. I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway. "Well, it must be bad.. [..] Otherwise.. you wouldn't have tempted them into it." "Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a 'Don't Touch' sign. Makes you wonder what God's really planning." "Best not to speculate. It's all part of the Great Plan. It's not for us to understand. It's ineffable. It is beyond understand and incapable of being put into words."

Already the seeds of doubt are tinkering in his mind. Stay in line. No more questioning the Almighty's plans. That's what got all the bad Angels thrown out of Heaven and then Adam and Eve exiled too.

"I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing." "Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing." "Oh, thank you. It's been bothering me." "I've been worrying, too. What if I did the right thing with the whole 'eat the apple' business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing. It'd be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one." *chuckles* "..No. It wouldn't be funny at all!"

And then we get to season two's opening reveal. Crowley and Aziraphale had actually met before the wall of Eden.

"But that's idiocy!" {…} "It's not our job to advise the Almighty on the details of creation." "Well, then whose job is it?" {…} "Well, if I was the one running it all, I'd like it if someone asked questions. Fresh point of view."

And thanks to Aziraphale mentioning the Great Plan to Angel Crowley.. it put seeds of doubt into his mind. Making him question the Almighty's plans.

".. I'd hate to see you getting into any trouble." "Thanks for your help. And thanks for your advice. I wouldn't worry though. How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?"

And then 10 million Angels fell. Kicked out of Heaven and marked as evil, unforgivable, and without God's love for eternity. Then we get the flashback to the story of a a prosperous man of outstanding piety named Job and how his life was destroyed because of a bet between God and Satan to test his faith even in adversity.

"What did he [Job] do? "Job? Nothing. Job's the nicest man in the world. That's why he's so perfect for the bet. You see, God was saying how righteous Job was and how much Job loved God. And Satan pointed out-- that maybe that was just 'cause God's been so nice to him. ..God's letting Satan destroy everything Job has. And then we'll see."

Now remember, the great flood wasn't too long ago. Where the Almighty wiped out nearly all of the human race with a big storm cause they were tetchy aka simply irritable, bad-tempered and annoyed. So this time, Aziraphale actually questions Heaven about this bet when he finds out that Job's children will be killed.

"Trust in God's plan, Aziraphale. Always." "Of course. So, once Job's trials are over, everything is restored to him?" "Even better than that. God will reward him with twice as much as he had before." {…} "I think they quite like the old ones [Job's children].. And if.. we kill them-" "-Aziraphale… we are the good guys. We're not killing anyone. What we are doing is simply not stopping hell. What they do is up to them."

His faith is wavering. He can hardly believe that Heaven would actually destroy a good man's family without truly understanding the fragility and consequences of human life/death; all to test him on a bet.

"Are we sure that Sitis wants to give birth four more times?"

Furthermore, they would be forcing Job's wife to give birth 7 more times despite Aziraphale's warning of them loving their original 3 children and that Sitis may not actually want to give birth to more children at her age. Hence taking away her choice. But thankfully, good ol' Crowley is the worst demon ever and is secretly protecting Job's children and goats. Something they're keeping between the two of them. And then during this deception… Crowley tempts Aziraphale with his first bite of food.

"Have an ox rib." "Are you trying to tempt me?" "Not at all. Angels can't be tempted, can you?" "Certainly not." "Well, there you are then. You're free to try the food."

A temptation he quickly falls into. A choice to eat the food and enjoy it to gluttony. Another sin under his belt. In the end, Virtuous Job passed his test but had the shit reward in return. Except Crowley and Aziraphale secretly saved the children.. which lead to Aziraphale lying straight to Heaven.. again.

And this is where he finally falls apart.

"I'm ready to go." "Go where?" "To Hell." {….} "But you have to. I'm like you now.. A demon.." "You think you're a demon?" "I'm a fallen angel! I lied.. To thwart the will of God." "Well yeah, you did, but I'm not gonna tell anybody. ..Are you?" *shakes head no* "No. Then nothing has to change, does it?" "…But what am I?" "You're just an angel who goes along with Heaven as far as he can." "That sounds um.." "Lonely?" "Yeah. But you said it wasn't." "I'm a demon. I lied."

As Crowley always tells him- Demons lie. And Aziraphale lied. Again. And now they're keeping this huge secret between the two of them. To never be spoken of or else possibly face the wrath of God. THIS scene right in this minisode here is SUCH an important part of Aziraphale's character and his future choices. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? Choices? The ability to choose between good and evil.

"Look, I am good. You, I'm afraid, are evil. But people get a choice. You know, they cannot be truly holy unless they also get the opportunity to be wicked." "Yeah, that only works if you start everyone off equal. You can't start someone off like that and expect her to do as well as someone born in a castle." "Ah, but no, no. That's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have."

What we learn from this wee Scottish body snatching story is that something can be seen as evil but could actually be a good deed from a different perspective. And that Aziraphale truly believed that the lower you start, the more opportunities you could have. But he also believes in divine punishment. Punishment that can be dealt at any time for any thing. Big or small. From a few questions that make you lose God's love to selling corpses for survival money and accidentally getting your best friend killed or just having too much faith in God could destroy everything in your life for a bet. All of which he has witnessed with someone good (Crowley, Job, Elspeth, etc) losing everything that's important to them in the most horribly way. But Aziraphale remembers the hard lessons he learned; of inequality and responsibility of your actions and the choices you make.

Someone born into poverty doesn't get as much out of life as someone born into a rich lifestyle. Or.. a lowly snake and a lowly principality falling in love and being forgiven may not be as easily dismissed as a Duke of Hell and Archangel finding love in one another and simply being allowed to run away to the stars together without any punishment. It's all of these moments, these lessons that Aziraphale learns throughout the years that change his view on life but he still remembers the wrath of God throughout existence. Something as little as a question could get you kicked out of Heaven, eating an apple could get you banished from paradise or you could be the most faithful perfect and loved person and still have your entire life destroyed over a bet. What does he know most about the Almighty? They're "tetchy" and unpredictable.

"Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the Gate of Eden?"

He then conceals the truth to God themselves of the choice he made to give humanity a fighting chance of survival by giving his holy sword away. And is left alone without another word. Forced to walk on egg shells for the rest of his existence out of fear.

"So, giving the mortals a flaming sword. How did that work out for you?" "The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again.." "Probably a good thing."

That fear of the unknown consequences to his past actions.. his lies.. for good or for bad.. he could fall at any moment or lose everything he holds precious (aka his Angel-ness and Crowley).

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I'd be in if.. if they knew I'd been fraternizing? It's completely out of the question." "Fraternizing?!" "Well, whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further."

So what does he always do? Deflects.. to protect himself. To protect Crowley. Not saying the real truth out loud. Keeping the reality of their relationship an unsaid secret like always.

But sometimes, actions speak louder than words.

"Should I say thank you?" "Better not."

Yet again, he breaks the rules. Doesn't even want to hear a thank you. Again, it must all go unsaid.

"You go too fast for me."

Crowley has always been one step ahead of him. Asking questions, falling, breaking the rules, etc. Aziraphale isn't ready yet. He's not ready to lose everything he holds dear to him by admitting out loud all of his sinful choices or else face the punishment he's been fearing for thousands of years.

"Go off together?" "How long have we been friends? Six thousand years."

Aziraphale starts panicking here. Crowley is saying too much out loud. Deny deny deny.

"Friends? We're not friends. We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don't even like you."

This bandstand breakup was literally Aziraphale freaking out about doing too many bad things dealing with the whole anti-Christ situation and Crowley getting too close to saying what they truly are to each other. But the fear is too much and he lies again. But this time to himself. Aziraphale has only ever wanted to do the good thing. To make the correct choices. To be on the right side. But he's always faltered. Made choices that he was sure were the bad ones. Lied on occasion. Kept secrets from Heaven and God. Given into temptations. And has always had this fear of God's Almighty wrath hanging over his head for millennia. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. At any moment, everything will be taken away. But what could be the last straw? The straw that finally breaks the camel's back? To garner God's attention and punishment. It has to be something big. The biggest and most important part of his life. Something that matters to him more than anything in the world. His relationship with the Demon, Crowley. But he's learned. If you don't say it out loud.. if you keep it to yourself. Then you won't be punished. It's worked out for him so far. So why should he think otherwise? And then in the end of S2E6, Metatron gives him the opportunity to make a change to the Heavenly system. His chance to restore his best friend to his former holy glory. A chance to relieve all the suffering he's seen throughout history. A chance to make a difference. Despite all his secret sins, he's being given an unbelievable opportunity- one that proves that maybe he isn't as bad as he always thought he was. He's actually seen as worthy. But then Crowley gets angry about all this. He's against it all. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want to be an Angel again. He doesn't want to return to Heaven. He just wants to be with Aziraphale. And he finally says their best kept, unsaid secret out loud. With a love confession and a passionate kiss.

"You idiot. We could have been… us."

Aziraphale wants this more than anything but every instinct inside of him is screaming to stop it, to not let anyone see, to not let anyone know the truth. This final temptation. His one and true forbidden fruit that is the Demon Crowley.. and it's the one he knows he must resist at all costs.

The fear is overpowering. And the only words that come from his lips…

"I forgive you."

I forgive you for letting our unsaid secret out. I forgive you for trying to tempt me. I forgive you for refusing to join me in Heaven as a renewed Angel. But can he ever truly forgive himself for the choice he just made? Remember, in the end, Aziraphale is just afraid. Afraid to lose everything. Afraid to lose Crowley. Fear of punishment can be traumatizing after all. And it will all be fixed in S3. ;) HAVE FAITH IN GAIMAN!

..Sorry this was so long and drawn out but… I NEED SEASON 3 ALREADY.. (everyone! keep re-watching GO2 on Prime! and no more threats to the creators plz ^-^) Honestly, this was very cathartic to write and help me come to terms with the most heart wrenching painful TV kiss of all time D: But I need to see how their story unfolds. I need to see Aziraphale allow himself to make the choice to be with Crowley without fear of punishment. I NEED MY INEFFIBLE HUSBANDS. TOGETHER. T^T

PS. Literally as I was finishing writing this, I saw Neil Gaiman himself say this on his Tumblr, "But the story of Job is pretty central to the whole Good Omens conversation, including Aziraphale's bit of it." OMG I KNEW IT lololol

#Good Omens #Good Omens meta #good omens analysis #Good Omens 2 #Aziraphale #Crowley #ineffable husbands #Good Omens theory #go2 spoilers #character analysis #“I forgive you”

[mrkida-art]

A Stiffbeard dwarf being mistaken for a child by the bear-folk (Based on these designs)

#my art #beorning #beornings #bear-folk #eastern beornings #stiffbeard dwarves #eastern middle earth #north eastern dwarves #the stiffbeard clans #stiffbeards #dwarves #tolkien #the hobbit #lotr #the lord of the rings #middle earth #GIANT LADIES #polar bear beornings

[stuckinapril]

Doesn't Israel have a right to defend itself from Iranian aggression?

Right as you hit send a fiendish feeling rams into you, something akin to post-nut clarity but far more insidious. You tilt your head away from your phone, slowly, wondering why on God’s green earth you levied a tepid argument that not only has been parroted by half a dozen people, but debunked by half a dozen more. Unable to contend with the depthless shame of your existence, you take to the balcony. It’s clearer to think up here, with the cold air on your skin, but it still takes a few more minutes for it to hit how lightly you were speaking about a live genocide. You realize it was never about fairness for you; never about the preservation of humanity or its ideals. No, it was simply about your deep-seated desire to dehumanize middle easterners at all cost. The guilt that took hold in the wake of this is at present a chasm that yawns ever wider. Hands shaking, pulse pounding, you pull up Anera. You donate at least 50 dollars to it, to help those who’re going on hunger strike in the coming week reach their goals. It’s nowhere near enough to compensate for your ignorance, but you figure it’s a good start. With your eyes on the skyline, where twilight gathers between crevices, you vow never to spout ignorant, baseless things like this again—most of all not about an ongoing genocide.

[flowerishness]

Cornus nuttallii and Cornus florida (western or Pacific dogwood and the eastern or Florida dogwood)

The western and eastern dogwood trees are native to North America but they are grown in temperate gardens all over the world. Look in anyone's back garden and you'll see globalization in action - the United Nations of Horticulture. I have flowers from six continents in my small corner of Planet Earth. Everybody seems to get along. The petty squabbles of human politics are left behind at the garden gate.

As you can see from the first photo, dogwood blooms are actually like a community of small flowers. For example, this pink eastern dogwood typically has 20 little flowers clustered in the middle. If you look closely. each tiny flower has it's own equally tiny petals. By surrounding this 'village' with larger petal-like bracts, the dogwood saves energy, maximizing it's reproductive potential with minimum effort.

Incidentally, the Pacific dogwood is the official provincial flower of British Columbia and the eastern dogwood is the state flower of Virginia, Missouri and North Carolina.

#flowers #photographers on tumblr #dogwood tree #spring flowers #flowering trees #fleurs #flores #fiori #blumen #bloemen #Vancouver #Canada

[elbiotipo]

I'm not kidding when I say worldbuilding is extremely easy and fun, you can make easily all sorts of new fantasy worlds on like half an hour, follow this guide:

take a rectangle, draw a line through the middle, that's your equator, draw another two lines south and north, those are your tropics, draw another two lines further north (you can see a real world map to guide yourself), those are your arctic/antarctic circles

Draw continents, any shape you want, it's better to combine large soft blobs (like Africa or South America) with coastlines full of peninsulas and islands (like Europe or South Asia). Draw some island chains in between where you feel it's appropiate. Some inland seas like the Mediterranean are good too.

Decide where you will place mountain ranges. In real life, they are where oceanic-continental plates (Andes) or continental-continental plates (Himalayas, Alps), collide. These are very important.

Place rivers, just the most important ones. The places where you place big river systems are gonna be big plains.

Now, the fun part. With your first step, you've already decided where arctic, temperate, and tropical climates are there. You can mark it as letters in your map. Mountain ranges, of course, are colder.

Here's the tricky part: vegetation: vegetation mostly follows precipitation, and precipitation is mostly decided by altitude and distance from the ocean. The interior of your continents should be dry with plains and deserts; the coasts should be rainy with forests and plains. But remember, if you have a mountain range, that's a rain shadow! Picture the wind coming from the ocean with rain, and it should get less rainy when it "clashes" with a mountain range, with the other side a desert.

Deserts are tricky to place, but as a quick cheat, you can place them in your tropic lines. They can even border oceans: see Australia and the Kalahari.

WHEN IN DOUBT, LOOK AT SIMILAR AREAS ON A REAL WORLD VEGETATION/CLIMATE MAP. THIS IS WHY DRAWING THE EQUATOR AND THE TROPICS IS SO IMPORTANT AND SHOULD BE YOUR FIRST STEP ALWAYS.

Now you already have a quick and dirty vegetation map, you're halfway there! Don't worry if there are some doubtful areas, real world geography can be weird.

Now for the REAL fun stuff (if you aren't having fun already, I sure am): making civilizations!

You have to decide center of origins for your domesticated crops and animals. Basically, every early civilization had its own "package" of staple crops and animals that are still used today.

With this, you can decide:

the primary civilizations of your world

roughly how different animals and vegetation are distributed, if you want an Earth-like world (for an quicker method, you can apply the biogeographical realms to your own continents as you wish)

A quick cheat sheet of centers of origin, what they have, and where you can place them:

(this is just a quick thing, do read the article it's so much better)

Middle Eastern: wheat, barley, cows, sheep, goats. Place them in a dry area with lots of rivers (the Fertile Crescent!)

East Asia: rice, soybean, oranges, pigs, horses. Place it in a rainy temperate area bordering the tropics.

Mesoamerica: Corn, beans, pumpkin, chilli, tomato. Place it in a dry area near the tropics.

Andes: Potato, quinoa, llamas. Place it in a mountain range.

Tropical South America: manioc, peanuts, pineapple. In the tropics.

Tropical Asia: Rice, banana, sugar cane, beans. In the tropics, again.

or, just straight up use this fucking map, it's so much better:

You can mix and match the crops, animals, and such as you wish, and you should definitively read the wiki page on center of origins and see some other less known crops.

If you have non-human civilizations, of course they'll have different packages. Carnivore or subterranean civilizations might be very different. But at this point, your imagination should be flying already and I don't have to hold your hand here.

Now, you have a rough map of your world at the dawn of agriculture! Congratulations! Depending on the historical period you're setting your world, you can start to draw countries and civilizations. This is where it gets complicated again. I might have to make a part two... But just with this, you already have a new world to use as you wish.

I'll make a worked example later to show you how easy it is if you don't believe me.

#worldbuilding #cosas mias

[calabria-mediterranea]

Sirens of Greek Myth Were Bird-Women, Not Mermaids

Bottle-askos in the shape of a siren (2nd half 6th century BC) from Locri / Southern Italy's Calabria. National Museum of Magna Graecia (Reggio Calabria, Italy).

In the wine-dark expanse of the Mediterranean Sea, far from the halls of civilization, there was once a small island—or so Homer, the famed poet of Ancient Greece, wrote in his epic The Odyssey. No buildings occupied its flowery meadows; no fisherman worked its shores. Those who passed in their black ships heard only voices, twining over the windless waves, singing a song that promised knowledge of all things. Once they heard it, they were enchanted; they had no choice but to land and seek out the singers. Those who did never left the island; their bodies remained, rotting amid the flowers, for none who heard the Sirens' song could escape it.

The story of the Sirens has inspired writers, poets, and artists for millennia. But somewhere along the way their form was confused. Today, Sirens are almost always represented as voluptuous mermaids, whose beauty and sexuality lure men to their deaths. But the Classical Greeks understood the Sirens differently: as bird-women, creatures that Mediterranean cultures traditionally associated with hidden knowledge.

Sirens first appear in the literary record with the Odyssey (written around 750 BCE) in a segment that’s much briefer than you’d think considering the cultural impact of these mystical, singing creatures. It goes like this: Odysseus, warned by the enchantress Circe of the danger posed by the Sirens’ song, orders his crew to stuff their ears with wax. But, curious to a fault, he has himself bound to the ship’s mast so he can listen without flinging himself into the sea. The Sirens promise him tales of all that had occurred during the war at Troy, and everywhere else besides; enchanted, he begs his crew to release him. He rants, raves, and threatens, but to no avail. His crew sails on until the song fades in the distance, and so saves his life.

Homer doesn’t describe the Sirens’ physical appearance in his epic poem, Wilson says. But in ceramic paintings and tomb sculptures from the time of writing, and centuries after, Sirens were usually depicted with taloned feet, feathered wings, and a beautiful human face. The bird-body of the Siren is significant to Wilson: In the eyes of traditional peoples all across Europe, birds were often graced with an otherworldliness associated with gods, spirits, and omens.

They inhabit the water, the air, and the earth. They’re also associated with song; they have voices that are not human voices, and kinds of movement that are not the same as human kinds of movement.

The Sirens’ role in tomb art is particularly telling. In ancient Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cultures—as far back as 7,000 years ago—birds were often depicted carrying spirits to the underworld. In Southern Italy's Calabria, archaeologists unearthed several Greek askos (unguentary vessel) in shape of sirens, most commonly found in tombs.

Bronze askos in the shape of a siren (5th century BC) from Crotone, Calabria, Italy - Archaeological Museum of Crotone.

Jump ahead a few millennia to 1,550 BCE, by which time Ba-birds, depictions of departing souls as human-faced birds, began appearing in Egypt. That connection between birds and dead souls seems to have then hopped over to Greece: Writing in the 5th century BCE, the playwright Euripides described the Sirens as at the beck and call of Persephone, one of the rulers of the underworld, while other writers identified the Sirens as rivals and dark echoes of the Muses, those goddesses of creativity.

These are the Sirens the Ancient Greeks would have recognized: bird creatures of the underworld, bridging the human world and what lies beyond. The Sirens—and their fateful songs—then offered a glimpse behind the veil, a chance to hear how earthly glories would echo in eternity. The question of what song the Sirens sing, what is this forbidden knowledge, what's wrong with it, what's the temptation—the text leaves a lot of open space there. Therein lies the seduction.

Yet today, mermaids or beautiful sea nymphs replace the dark, winged Sirens of ancient times.

It is during the Middle Ages that the image of the siren began its shift from bird-woman to mermaid . With the transformation of the siren's image, the attributes associated with female monsters shifted. This suggests a change in the traits that were considered monstrous in women. The siren's movement from a frightening bird-woman to a beautiful mermaid represents female beauty becoming monstrous. Throughout the Middle Ages sirens increasingly represented a male fear of female seduction, suggesting a growing fear of female sexuality.

For medieval Christians, sirens were heavily associated with female sin.

However it happened, the identification of Sirens with mermaids seems to have affected later translations of the Odyssey, and ultimately common knowledge of Sirens. Translators in the 19th and 20th centuries cast the Sirens in a sexualized light. In one prose translation, the Sirens speak of “the sweet voice from our lips,” despite the word στομάτων directly translating to the less sensual “mouths.” Another adds flowery descriptors of “each purling note/like honey twining/from our lips.” But unlike the Odyssey’s other island temptresses, Circe and Calypso, the Sirens get no admiring description of their faces or hair. Only their voice is described, and their field of bones and flowers.

That’s a pretty strong indicator that the Sirens are not meant to be read as offering a sexual temptation. You can kiss lips; mouths devour.

Folklore and mythology move on, given enough time. Today, the Siren is just another word for mermaid, and is likely to remain so. But there’s something richly thematic about the Sirens of Classical Greece that deserves to be remembered: in-between creatures on a lonely island, floating between the boundaries of life and death, and offering an irresistible song of both. Water-temptresses are a dime a dozen; the Sirens offer wisdom.

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

#sirens #calabria #homer #italy #italia #south italy #southern italy #mediterranean #mediterranean sea #the odyssey #ancient greece #greek #greek art #art #terracotta #greek mythology #greek myth #underworld #mermaids #mythological creature #magna graecia #magna grecia #locri #folklore #mythology #siren #mermaid #crotone

[dreamstate4you]

Pilot.

Chapter 0.1.

Omashu

"So this crazy king is your old friend Bumi?' Katara asked curiously.

King Bumi turned to face the water tribe girl with an offended look, "Who are you calling old?"

...

"Okay, I'm old."

"Why did you do all of this instead of just telling Aang who you were?" Sokka still irritated by the fact that they were stuck in the rock Candy

"First of all, it's pretty fun messing with people." King Bumi snorted. "But I do have a reason." The atmosphere shifted to a serious tone.

"Aang, you have a difficult task ahead. The world has changed in the hundred years that you've been gone. It's the duty of the Avatar to restore balance to the world by defeating Fire Lord Ozai. You have much to learn. You must master the four elements and confront the Fire Lord. And when you do, I hope you will think like a mad genius." the kind looked around at his friend's "And it looks like you're in good hands. You'll need your friends to help defeat the Fire Nation." Bumi took a pause as Momo climbed on him. 

"Thanks Bumi." Aang replied enthusiastically with a smile.

"Oh and before you leave." Two neatly dressed ladies came out holding a plate." Take these"

Bumi took the papers from the two ladies, revealing them to be tickes.

" What are these?" Sokka asked. 'Where these slips of money used in omashu or what?'He thought to himself as his eyes shined with greed.

"They are VIP tickets to see the performer Venti. I bought some for myself ,but I guess I bought to much." Bumi let out a giggle. " Now please go, trust me you don't want to miss the show." Bumi waved his hands dismissing the group. He started walking back to his castle room. Laughing along and muttering words no one could hear.

The three teens were left standing together Wondering why they were given tickets to see a performer.

" Well we better get going the show is starting at noon." Katara said as he looked at the tickets they were given.

The three arrived just in time for the open festival , a moment could be spared to buy snacks from the vindors. Aang and Sokka immediately moved to the food section.

One particular food that caught Katara's attention was on shaped of a cloud and arrows coming from the four sides of the could, creating a star in the middle.

"Hey aang look." Katara called out to show aang the interesting food, while sokka was already with a crowd of people anxious eating the food he bought as he waited for the performance in the front row.

"Hey it kinda looks like Appa." Aang whispered as he was handed the cloud cookie, but still loud for katara to hear.

Before katara could answer, sounds of people cheering could be heard, as tall men in Earth bending uniforms came marching behind each other in a neatly formed like. Aang and katara both rushed to join the crowd not wanting to miss a second of the show.

The three men on each side started stomping each of their feet hard enough that the stage started shaking. The instrument started playing from each side of the stage. In the middle a tall, tanned girl dressed in luxurious silks of the earth kingdom emerged. Her long black hair put in an elegant braid that could almost touch the floor.

The moment in that instant, Aang felt the colour drain from his face. The clothes the woman wore were the ones that most women from the Eastern Air template wore. Sure the colour had been green ,but Aang recognized those clothes. The women of the eastern air temple would often visit the southern temple so Aang wasn't a stranger to them.

Questions started to gather in Aang's mind. He wondered how this performer manage to get such sacred clothes.

The voice of the woman brought him back to focus on what was happening.

" Aang are you okay?" Katara asked for Aang's weird behavior. She watched as he looked mostly zoned out.

"Yeah I'm fine" Aang dismissed Katara.

Bringing his attention back to the performance the girl danced with grace as the earth benders created temples and figures of people behind her.

Now that Aang focused on the background dances and not on the main performer he noticed how the temples the earthbender's were bending resembles that of the Western Air temples. The temples were hanging upside down and kept popping out of the sandy wall before being pulled back into the wall by the Ender's abilities.

"Wait this song." Aang jumped up almost airbendering into the air.

"Yeah?" Katara asked next to him " it is nice isn't it." She said with a smile on her face. Her face focusing back on the main dancer.

" No its just. IT SOUNDA LIKE... THE AIRBENDERS LULLYBY!"

Aang screamed earning weird looks for the people around him. He know this song, the tempo and rhythm it had. The song would be hummed around the temples, it had no words so young monks would often make up their own words, allowing for creativity to form, but every monk and nun would always include a small line about the flying clouds that held the ability to fly and taught the Airbender how to fly

.

.

.

.

After the performance. The two immediately went to find Sokka who was on the front of the crowd and crying his heart out.

" That was beautiful." He said between sobs.

"Come on! I need to go talk to that Performer guys." Aang quickly walked infront of the group. Walking backstage to what seemed like a big white tent. He noticed the earthbender's who were in the background chilling on the side of the tent.

Before they could enter they were stopped ,by earth bending guards.

"Hey, what are doing. Let us through." Aang protested

"We can't let you through without a pass." One of the guards answered.

" Please this is very important, you see He is the Avatar and he needs to personally thank the performer for her amazing performance." Katara tried to reason with them earning no reaction from the gaurds.

"Hey!" Sokka shouted from the back. He walked towards the gaurds handing them the ticket that king Bumi gave them. The gurads inspected what Sokka was holding and let him pass.

Aang and Katara quickly did the same. Katara embarrassed about how she didn't think of that.

Inside the tent that was set up We're multiple papers and books scattered around. People inside were also chatting and laughing among themselves, but they weren't here for the after celebration. They were here to talk to the performer, Venti.

After the performance Aang started acting weird and had not said those many words to the two siblings. It seemed that the performance struck something inside him. Sokka too had the performance stuck in his head. He kept rumbling on about how he needs to fly on a magic cloud in the desert then his life goals would have been almost complete.

After some time of asking where they could find the performer. They finally found her.

She was inside another tent, a taller tent that resmbeled a watching tower from the outside, but her tent had no flooring. She was barefoot in the sand and stretching her legs.

"Ah, visitors." She quickly stood up properly. Her hands put to her side as she looked at the three infront of her. "You must have either paid a lot of money to personally see me or have good connections." She said with a hint of an accent.

"Yes, you see this is the Av-" Before Katara could finish Aang inturpted.

" How do you know that song!? WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE CLOTHES!? HOW DO YOU KNOW THESE DANCES?!"

Aang put on his most threatening voice and face he could. ( Which just ended up making him look less threatening.)

... " I got them from... A vendor. Yes a seller-" before the performer could answer Aang once again disturbed.

" YOU'RE LYING. NO ONE WOULD EVER SELL THOSE-" This seem to be a trend to interfere with another persons conversation , because Katara softly pushed Aang to the side.

"Excuse us. You see he." Katara motioned to   Aang who was now on the floor. " He is the Avatar and we would really like to know where you got your knowledge from."

...

"HE'S THE AVATAR!" The young performer seemed to have lost any elegance she had as she figured out the new information. Reacting in the same way Aang was acting earlier.

The performer dashed to the boy on the ground at a ridiculous speed that shocked Sokka.

Venti bent down to help the young Avatar from the floor and looked like she was about to say something before she stopped.

"Wait, how do I really know your the Avatar?" She pointed at Aang.

Aang simply didn't respond and jumped high in the air touching the highest point of the tent and came down ,but not touching the grass, clearly still using his bending to keep him afloat.

The young girl gasped before she also jumped into the air, descending down at a slow rate, she also kept herself afloat for a few more seconds before finally reaching the ground with a smile on her face.

.

.

.

Sokka was the first to faint... Then Aang.

This performer is definitely an Airbender

#atla x reader #atla #aang x reader #x reader #Atla x Airbender reader #Alta x fem reader #Aang x Airbender reader #katara #sokka #Alta katara #Alta Sokka #katara x aang #Fluff #Alta fluff #Avatar the last Airbender #Avatar the last Airbender x reader

[entishramblings]

The Scorpion of Sarn Ford [Aragorn/F!Reader]

A.N: the amount of weird shit I had to google for this….my FBI agent definitely thinks I’m planning some fucked up crap.

Inspired: this fic was inspired by @estelofrivendell ‘s fic A Change of Heart. I adored the Assassin/Ranger relationship and had to put my own spin on it!

Pairing: Aragorn X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Scorpion of Sarn Forn is a notorious assassin. Much to Strider’s dismay, they are both hired for a job.

Disclaimer: I tried my best with geography, once again, it isn’t my best subject. heh!

Word count: 8.2k (idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, humor that will have you peeing, blood, torture, death, murder, brief insinuation to sexual abuse (side character), creepy men that get what's coming to them, a little bit of spice, brief shirtless aragorn. this sounds very dark but I promise you its good, besides: shirtless aragorn. duh.

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

Aragorn never thought he would be in this position. He never even anticipated such a scenario. It was, quite frankly, entirely unfathomable. Not once did it cross his mind that he might be in the same city as her, much less be forced to sit next to her at The Black Falcon Tavern and Inn with a potential contractor. You see, The Scorpion of Sarn Ford—or as Aragorn preferred to refer to her as: the heinous hellspawn that middle-earth would undoubtedly be far better off without—was a notorious assassin. She made her coin from slipping into the shadows and slaughtering her targets, leaving no trace besides a corpse—still warm from the blood that once ran through it. The men of the south-west were wise enough to be wary and the rich of such lands were stupid enough to empower her with their dark wishes. She’s rumored to have a body count in the hundreds, including kings and queens. Though, that is not how she acquired her title.

Percaric Rothswood, one of the richer dukes of Anfalas, sat with them at a table in the back of the tavern. The Ranger and the Scorpion occupied the bench alongside the wooden wall, granting them both a clear vantage point of the entire establishment, while Percaric sat in a chair across from them. Aragorn's arms were folded, a small blade discreetly nestled up his sleeve, and his ale remained untouched on the table. Yet, the assassin reclined casually at his side, her dark cloak draped loosely enough to unveil the myriad of weapons adorning her attire, with two empty pints before her and a third in her hand.

The peculiar grouping drew the attention of onlookers—it was indeed an unusual gathering, particularly with the presence of the infamous Scorpion of Sarn Ford, and her form specifically beside Strider. Nervous and inquisitive gazes, hushed conversations, subtle nods, and even more overt glances from passersby and bar-sitters were all directed towards the pair. If a meeting like this were to take place, something must be going down.

“So, what’s this job, Percaric, that requires a ranger and a shrew,” Aragorn gruffed, his scowl as deep as the sand pits of the eastern coast.

The woman beside him snorted. “A shrew. Just what a lady wants to be called.”

He shrugged. “An argumentative, ill-tempered rat. I see no difference between it and you.”

She raised a brow, twisting her head to look at him. “Technically a shrew is a mole.”

Aragorn sent her a glare in response.

She huffed at him. “A mole that will die if it doesn't eat every two to three hours.” She picked up her ale and took a swing. “That sounds nothing like me.”

“You reckon so? I bet if you didn't get new gold to chew on in that exact time frame you would also die of pompous deprivation.”

A deep chuckle escaped her throat as her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. She turned to quip back an insult; however, Percaric nervously interrupted the hostile hires.

“Well, uh, you see, it's quite a delicate matter. The-the job, that is. My client doesn't want his indiscretions aired out among the common folk because, well, uh, the matter is quite sensitive and—”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, Percaric.”

The man exhaled through his nose, nervously patting the table. “Right, right, very well then.” He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my client, his daughter was taken by someone of high prestige and, well, he would like her back.”

Aragorn leaned back in the chair. “Why doesn't he just pay the ransom then? Instead of hiring someone to take her back. There is a ransom isn't there?”

“Of course, of course. But, well, you see, this daughter, ehem, she’s bastard-born. His wife doesnt know that she exists and he would like to keep it that way. Paying the ransom directly would cause too much attention. Like I said, he wants this discreet.”

Aragorn sighed, his morals pulling hard on his heart. “How old is the girl?”

Percaric winced. “Fourteen.”

The Ranger cursed under his breath. “She’s just a kid.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you see, that’s why my client asked for you, Strider. Not many would want to help a bastard daughter.”

The Scorpion leaned in. “Then why did he ask for me as well?”

Percaric’s face twitched. “Well, uh, Scorpion, there’s a matter a bit more delicate involved that requires your skill.”

She raised her brows.

“My–my client’s daughter is quite beautiful. Well, we can only assume what is being done to her by her captor during her stay. He, well, he wants the perpetrator killed.”

She snorted, leaning back into the wall behind her. “Why not make Strider here do it?”

The Ranger clenched his jaw. “He should be imprisoned, rotting in a cell for his crime.”

“Ah,” she started. “You would bring him in instead of kill him, and that would mean a trial.” She winked at Percaric. “Too public for this client of yours.”

An anxious and awkward giggle-like breath left the man’s lips. “Precisely.”

“So, where is she being kept?” The Scorpion asked.

The duke glanced around him before leaning in and letting his next sentence come out as a whisper. “The tower of Eastemnet.”

“Eastemnet?” Aragorn confirmed, wide-eyed and surprised. “But that would mean—”

“Lord Theovail,” the assassin interjected. “One of the richest, well-guarded men in Arda.”

Percaric bit his lip. “Yes, yes. Now, well, now you see why my client asked for you, Scorpion of Sarn Ford.”

Aragorn huffed, hot air coming from his nose, as he shook his head—now finally reaching for his ale. “We will take the job,” he stated reluctantly.

“Oi! Not so fast,” the assassin interjected. “What’s the pay?”

The Ranger shot her a glare. “A girl, a child, is being held prisoner, and you worry of pay?”

She glared right back at him before turning back to Percaric. “The pay?”

He cleared his throat. “Three hundred pieces of gold up front and another three hundred upon your return of the girl, alive, and proof of Theovail’s death. Though you will have to split it, I’m afraid.”

She raised her hands with a tilt of the head. “Fine by me.” She turned, flashing a devilish grin to the man next to her. “Let us go hunt a girl-snatching arsewipe, Strider.”

He offered no-response other than a scowling side eye.

“Fantastic,” Percaric replied, taking two coin pouches out and plopping them on the table.

The assassin was quick to snatch up one of the bundles, standing, ready to take her leave.

Aragorn, however, let his finger drift over the coin. He glanced up at Percaric. “What’s her name?”

The man’s expression softened. “Calista, daughter of Lord Kassim.”

Aragorn nodded, grasping onto the pouch. “We will bring Calista home.”

……

The pair had been traveling for approximately two weeks at this point, and their interactions during this time were characterized by sparse conversations intertwined with numerous glares and disdainful expressions. In those few moments when words were exchanged, they were often heated disagreements concerning which path to follow, strategies for infiltrating the tower, or debates over the responsibilities of meals. It was, quite frankly, the most miserable trek across Arda that Aragorn had ever taken upon. But it wasn't until they were passing through the gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais, that they met any trouble.

An arrow, coming from the mountain’s rocky side, whizzing past Aragorn’s ear was the first sign of danger.

He whipped his head around. “Scorpion!” he called out in warning, his eyes meeting the assassin’s for a brief moment.

She drew her dual silver blades only seconds before a small pack of goblins began descending. She was quick to behead the first goblin whose feet hit the grassy pass they walked through.

“Goblin’s from the Mountains,” she hissed.

Aragorn too drew his sword. “They shouldn't be this far south! They stay up near Ehu Daur and Moira!” He drove his blade through one of the beasts, swinging around to slice another.

“Well, clearly, they dont give a fuck as to where they should or should be!” The Scorpion quipped back as she brought one of her blades through the neck of one of the creatures. “On your left!”

Aragorn twisted his body just in time to block a blow from a rusted scythe.

The assassin dodged the next beast that came at her and sprinted towards the biggest one. She was quick to push herself into the air, flip over the goblin, and slice its throat before her feet even landed on the ground.

She looked up to see the two final goblins, one in match with her companion and the other approaching his back.

The woman moved quickly. Her feet carried her towards the beast who held its blade above Strider’s head. Just before it was to be brought downward, she yelled out a war cry and grasped onto the few hairs the creature had. She yanked hard. The goblin fell backwards onto the ground and she pounced on top of him, sending her blade through his heart—his pungent blood spraying across her face, neck, tunic, and leather armor.

With heavy panting breath, she stood and turned to face the Ranger who had slayed the final beast. Kicking the corpse of the one she had just killed, she spoke. “Only nine. A scouting team. More will be coming upon their lack of return. We gotta get a move on.”

Aragorn’s lips were parted in surprise, realizing that he nearly lost his life. Surprising the assassin, he spoke words that she never would have thought to leave his lips for her. “Thank you, Scorpion.”

She raised her brows. “I have a name, you know, Strider.”

The Ranger turned away from her, continuing along their path. “I don't care to know it,” he gruffed out, his brief sincerity from moments before disappearing.

She snorted, calling out to him regardless. “It’s (Y/N).”

“Don’t fall behind, Scorpion,” he replied.

She huffed, her irritation obvious, before jogging to catch up with his wide strides. “I don’t like you very much either, but if we're gonna be on this job for a while, you could at least not be a dick.”

“Coming from the rudest and most corrupt person I have ever met, that's rich.”

She chuckled loudly. “Wow. Rude, okay, I deserve that. But corrupt? That’s a bit far-fetched.”

He stopped walking, twisting to glower down at her with disgust. “You truly think so? Let’s talk of why they attach the massacre of Sarn Ford to your name. You killed dozens. Women. Children. Innocents. All for what? Gold! Corrupt is too kind a word for you. Wicked, diabolical, vicious is more like it.”

(Y/N)’s brows shot upward as a pained and frustrated laugh thundered in her chest. “Really? Do you even know what was happening in Sarn Ford?!”

“They were farmers! Common folk! Living off the land in peace and you…you slaughtered them!” he yelled.

She got in his face, her hot, angry breath burning against his skin. “THEY WERE ALREADY GOOD AS DEAD, STRIDER!”

“How could you even say that?” he replied, horrified.

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, before focusing back on the man before her. “A disease was making its way through their village. Incurable. Painful. An alchemist, who had been working for weeks to try and find anything to help them, hired me. There was nothing to be done for them except extend a hand of mercy. To give them a good, painless death.”

Aragorn stared at her, his brows pulled together with shock in his gaze.

The assassin clenched her jaw. “I had mothers plead with me to end their child's life while cradled in their arms, only to follow them into death. At least, that way, they could die together.” She looked up at him, her tone privy with rage. “So, yes, Strider, feel free to bestow upon me any epithet you see fit."

He was silent, his shock radiating into the wind around him. Quietly, he spoke again, “How did you not get sick?”

She exhaled slowly. “The alchemist instructed me to wear cloth over my face and cover all skin but my eyes. Once the deed was done, I burned everything I wore and paid for new clothes with gold born of their suffering.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, compassion in his gray eyes. “I am sorry. Doing such a thing mustn't have been easy. It was an execution of mercy.” He turned, continuing once more. “Though the tales of your other kills aren't so kind. Come along, Scorpion. There’s a town a couple days ahead.”

(Y/N) snorted, anger seething in her bones, but followed him nonetheless.”

…..

The pair strode towards the Inn, located not far from Gondor’s borders. They forcefully pulled the door open, unveiling a noisy uproar of laughter and boisterous shouting, mingling with the lovely odors of urine, sweat, and stagnant ale. Creating such an environment, one the Scorpion and Ranger were used to, were the disheveled bodies of inebriated men.

With a mischievous grin, (Y/N) expertly navigated through the crowd, leading Strider to a secluded table nestled in a dim corner. It wasn't long before the arrival of steaming platters of meat and bread arrived, along with two pints of foamy ale, both of which they heartily devoured. The Scorpion raised her hand, beckoning the barmaid over and placing an order for two more pints—both of which she downed, much to Aragorn's evident disapproval.

After releasing a loud belch, she casually swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then rose to her feet. “Gonna go get some air,” she grumbled, her balance momentarily unsteady as she gained her footing. Aragorn, in response, merely offered an exasperated roll of his eyes.

The assassin maneuvered through the bustling throng of men, slipping through the sea of people before pushing through the doors. The sudden rush of frigid tranquility enveloped her skin as she stepped into the embrace of the night. With a deliberate intake of breath, she allowed the crisp air to fill her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tilted her head upwards, letting the misting drizzle of rain kiss her skin. The sound of the tavern was muffled, and the echoes of the celebration they passed down the road drifted into the air. Though it was subtle, for it didn't drown out the sounds of the singing crickets or the croaking frogs. It was peaceful. Well, that is until a form slammed into her and pressed her against the wall.

The smell of ale-laden breath and sticky sweat filled her nostrils as her eyes shot open. Her gaze, fueled by adrenaline, locked onto the burly figure before her—a man with a rugged orange beard—who had forced himself upon her.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in a dangerous place like this?” he asked, a knife held to her throat.

She snarled up at him. “Oh, you're about to find out—”

Before she could make a move, however, the man was suddenly struck from the side, his body sent sprawling onto the weathered, muddy path.

As (Y/N) peeled herself from the wall, her hand instinctively reached for the slight gash on her neck. Meanwhile, the bearded man found himself seized by the throat, forcefully hoisted upward, and pressed hard against the unyielding stone.

“Do you even know who that is?” Strider uttered sharply.

A chuckle escaped the lips of the man, his bloodied lip spraying a fine mist of red onto Aragorn's face. “You’re whore?” he sneered.

With an unrelenting grip on the man's throat, Aragorn pulled him several inches away from the wall, only to slam him back against it once more. The impact elicited a grunt from the man. "The Scorpion of Sarn Ford," Aragorn hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with restrained fury.

The assailant’s laughter was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah and I'm the fuckin’ King of Gondor.”

The Ranger clenched his jaw, ignoring the secret dig the man's comment produced. “You know why they call her that? Hmm. The Scorpion? Scorpions incapacitate their prey with venom, paralyzing them before they deal the final blow. That woman over there? She severs her targets’ spinal nerve, rendering them unable to move before subjecting them to her torture and kill. And the worst part? She doesn't even need them paralyzed. She gets off from witnessing the terror in their eyes as they're rendered helpless.”

Another laugh escaped the man, but as his gaze shifted towards (Y/N), his amusement faded. The assassin now held a dagger, twirling it in her fingers, a sinister grin stretching across her features.

He turned to look back at Aragorn, the color now drained from his face. “Ye’ c-cant be serious,” he stammered.

The Ranger merely lifted his brows and tilted his head.

Driven by desperation to escape the woman beside them, the man started to shove against Aragorn. However, a single forceful punch to his jaw rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing onto the mud once more.

“I had it handled,” the assassin stated.

Aragorn shot her a stern glare before responding bluntly, "Sure, you did."

The woman emitted a snort, yet settled into a squat beside the man, her dagger poised.

The Ranger, however, was quick to grab her by the wrist, successfully stopping her actions. "Are you out of your mind? We can't kill him. That's the last thing we need – drawing attention to ourselves."

With a huff of mild exasperation, she sheathed her blade. "Fine." She then nodded to the black horse tethered nearby, gesturing with a nod. "That's his horse. Saw him dismount as we entered. Bring it here."

Aragorn frowned, confused, but did as she asked.

“Alright,” she stated, gathering the man’s arms in her hands. “Help me with his legs.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Strider, just grab his damn legs.”

Exhaling audibly, the Ranger complied, reluctantly gripping the man's ankles. With a coordinated heave, they hoisted the man up from the muck. After a few groans and sighs, he was draped over his horse's back.

The Scorpion then took the leather strapping of the saddle and began binding the man’s hands and feet to it. She nodded to the young maple tree behind the Ranger. “Get me a large twig from that. Bout a foot tall. Keep the leaves on it.”

“What?” he hissed, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Strider, would you just get the branch,” she urged impatiently.

Another loud, reluctant exhale left his lips, yet he trudged toward the tree and pulled off what she requested. He approached her, holding out the twig.

“Ah, thank you,” she acknowledged with a grin, accepting it from him.

With that she moved to the side of the horse, close to the man's legs. She seized the waistband of his trousers and gave it a yank, reaving his bare ass.

“Scorpion,” Aragorn chided.

Undeterred, she grinned, sticking the small branch between his ass cheeks so it stood upright, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.

“Seriously?” he gruffed out, his arms crossed.

(Y/N) looked at him with a wicked smirk. “You hear that party still going on down the road? I think they would appreciate some impromptu entertainment.” With that, she smacked the horse's rear and, with a brisk snort, it took off down the path.

Not even a minute passed, when they heard the shouts of anger and amusement funneling from the gathering.

Strider turned to glare at her, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with irritation. He grasped onto her bicep and pulled her towards the doors. "Get inside the damned tavern, quickly."

A loud, hearty laugh flew from her throat, yet she allowed him to pull her along.

Engulfed once again in the clamorous atmosphere of the inn, Aragorn wasted no time in steering her towards the bar. “You can't just put a branch up the arsehole of a person that pisses you off,” he hissed under his breath.

She grinned unapologetically. “Sure, I can.”

He blew hot air out his nose, opting to withhold a retort. With a determined demeanor, he maneuvered them through the crowd of men, navigating as close to the counter as he could get. "Barkeep," he called out, projecting his voice. "Two room keys."

The man approached them with a shrug. “Only got one room left.”

Aragorn huffed. “Fine. Well take it.”

With that, the Ranger deposited three gold coins into the man's palm, secured the key, and then swiftly tugged the Scorpion alongside him as they grabbed their bags and ascended the creaky wooden staircase.

They approached their door, marked the same as the key, and it swung open under Aragorn’s touch. Within, the room exuded a chill darkness, accompanied by a faint draft slipping in through the slightly cracked window. The space appeared quite sparse, furnished with nothing but a small dresser, a modest table accompanied by two chairs...and a solitary bed.

A muttered curse escaped the Ranger's lips as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the table. "I'll take the floor."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Really, Strider? It’s the one night we get the option of having a bed. As long as you stay on your side, I don't mind sharing.”

“Fine,” was his gruff response.

With that, the pair began getting comfortable for the night. Aragorn lit the worn down candle, its feeble golden glow illuminating the area, proving slightly better light as he dug through his bag. Meanwhile, (Y/N) shed her cloak and vast assortment of weapons, earning a skeptical glance from the Ranger. Yet, when she began to unfasten the tightly-worn leather armor that clung to her figure, his reaction was far more dramatic. "What on earth is that stench?!" he blurted out, recoiling.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember those goblins? Yeah, I got an unexpected bath in their blood.”

“That was days ago. You reek,” he retorted. He strode over to the dresser, opening drawers until he came across a gray towel. Returning to the table, he picked up the pitcher beside the candle and gradually poured water into a small basin, also provided. After submerging the towel and wringing it out, he flung the damp cloth towards her, which she easily caught. “Clean yourself up.”

She shrugged once more. Turning away, she shed her shirt and let it drop to the floor. Her swift movements were focused as she wiped her face, neck, and chest, cleansing her skin of the grime that clung to it.

Though Aragorn didn't intend to look, his gaze inadvertently flicked towards her silhouette against the wall. It was then that his eyes fixed upon her bare back, adorned with a network of vivid, angry scars. He’d seen scars like that. He knew what they were from: torture.

“(Y/N),” he whispered sincerely, his steps leading him closer to her form. “What happened?”

Hearing her name for the first time from his lips, she was caught off guard—her heart skipping a beat. The simple utterance carried an unexpected weight, a rare vulnerability that seemed to momentarily freeze her in place. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood still, her mind racing to process the unfamiliar tone from him.

His touch was tender as he raised his hand to trace the lines on her skin. “Who did this to you?” he growled.

Brought back to the present, she instinctively recoiled from his touch. "I'm an assassin. I've earned my fair share of enemies," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. Shifting her gaze over her shoulder, she met his eyes. "Have an extra shirt? Mine's beyond saving."

"I, uh, yes. Yes, of course," Aragorn responded, seeming to realize the sudden intimacy of the moment. He retreated to his bag, rifling through its contents until he procured a cream-colored tunic. He tossed it to her. "This should suffice."

“Thanks,” she grumbled, pulling it over her head.

(Y/N) approached the table, the Ranger's shirt engulfing her smaller frame. The fabric's loose drape hung off her shoulder. If she wasn't such a menace, Aragorn would have thought that she looked cute in his clothes.

Ungracefully, she deposited the damp towel on the tabletop before proceeding to yank off her boots and socks, placing them with a deliberate thud upon the chair nearby. “We are not that far from the tower of Eastemnet. Perhaps a two day journey or so. However, our predicament remains unchanged: we don't have a solid strategy. We don't have any floor plans. We don't know how many guards will be stationed. And we don't know where the girl is being kept. We are gonna be going in blind—”

“You’re bleeding,” he interjected, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a scratch,” she dismissed casually.

Aragorn grasped onto her jaw, lifting her chin up to take a better look. "A seemingly insignificant wound could easily become infected, Scorpion," he asserted, his tone insistent.”

She pulled her head from his grasp with a snort. “I’m fine, Strider.”

He crossed his arms, an unyielding resolve in his expression. “If we are breaking into Lord Theovail’s tower and stealing from him, I'd prefer my partner not succumb to infection-induced delirium, potentially endangering both our lives." Swiftly, he nudged the empty chair towards her. “Now, sit down, Scorpion.”

(Y/N)’s brows lifted, followed by a teasing expression that animated her features. “Oh? So I'm your partner now?” she quipped, her tone laced with playful amusement. "What happened to the 'vicious shrew killer that you would rather leave tied to a tree,' as I seem to recall you once calling me?"

He glared at her. “Sit, or I will leave you tied to a tree.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked, allowing herself to sink into the chair with her legs casually sprawled and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Aragorn dug through his bag, pulling out a couple small tins and a tiny glass bottle. Grasping the towel, he located a clean section and dipped it into the basin. Squatting down between her legs, he lifted the towel to her neck. "Chin up," he instructed, and she obeyed without protest. Gently, he began cleansing the wound, meticulously removing dirt and debris from the area. Next, he uncapped the small glass bottle. "This might sting," he warned.

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing as the alcohol was poured upon her neck. Aragorn gently dabbed the liquid away. He then opened one of the small tins, extracting a dollop of green goo.

“What is that shit?” (Y/N) asked.

“Athelas leaf paste.”

“Athelas leaf?” she echoed, seeking further clarification.

“Kingsfoil. Athelas is the elvish word for it,” he replied simply, his attention focused on gently applying the paste to the wound.

She raised her eyebrows. “Elvish, huh. You're full of surprises, Strider. Where’d ya learn that?”

“Shush. Be still.”

The Scorpion rolled her eyes, but complied as he completed the task.

Standing up, Aragorn rinsed his hands and addressed her once more. "We can devise a plan for the tower tomorrow. Right now, we need rest."

(Y/N) sighed, nodding in agreement, as she too stood. She made her way towards the bed and pulled back the thin sheet, eager to climb into the softness of a mattress—regardless of how old and worn it was.

The gentle sound of air extinguishing the candle was succeeded by the enveloping darkness that reclaimed the room. Soon, Aragorn’s footsteps followed. She discerned the rustle of fabric as, presumably, he removed his shirt. The bed then creaked gently as he settled beside her, lying on his back.

She, resting on her side away from him, let her eyes close. There she laid, for a moment, before shifting. Then she shifted again. And again.

“Stop moving, Scorpion,” Aragorn grumbled, his patience waning.

“I can’t get comfortable!” she retorted.

“That’s because you keep moving.”

“It’s cold and you're stealing all the blankets.” With a determined tug, she seized more of the fabric, leaving Aragorn with a minimal share.

He merely exhaled audibly, opting for a wordless response. At the very least, she had ceased her constant fidgeting.

Aragorn remained awake during the initial hours, unable to find slumber. (Y/N)'s breathing had swiftly settled into a rhythmic pattern after she commandeered the majority of the sheets, though her small unconscious movements kept interrupting the perceived tranquility. Occasional, soft whimpers escaped her lips, her brows furrowing with evident distress. In truth, Aragorn found himself uncertain of how to respond. He held onto the hope that the disturbances would cease on their own, perhaps that whatever troubled her dreams would eventually pass. And eventually, it did stop, but not without an unexpected turn of events.

The Ranger's senses jolted as the Scorpion’s frigid form rolled towards his side of the bed, seeking refuge in his warmth. Although she had mentioned feeling cold earlier, the intensity of her chill surprised him. The wave of uncertainty that washed over him did not leave as her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Initially, the thought of infection taking hold crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it; her skin would have been hot to the touch if that were the case. It only took seconds for him to realize that the draft from the cracked window was striking her side directly. With a sigh of reluctance, he tentatively encircled his arm around her, drawing her in further.

In her state of deep slumber, she instinctively nestled into him, drawing a slight skip from Aragorn's heart. He cast a cautious gaze downward, taking in her appearance.

She seemed so different—distinctly separate from the notorious assassin he knew her to be. There was an innocence, an unexpected purity, about her in this moment that rendered her almost unrecognizable. Gone was the perpetual scowl that often marked her features. Instead, her face had relaxed into a gentle expression of repose, free from the tension. Her lips, adorned with the faintest hint of a pout, moved slightly as she drew each breath, almost as if he warded off the nightmares that had plagued her.

In this vulnerable state, the Scorpion seemed untainted by her reputation, stripped of her fearsome persona. The layers of her identity, usually shrouded in crude comments and sharp weapons, had fallen away. It revealed that the facade that she showed the world was just that, a facade. A good one at that though. Even Aragorn—a man well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature—hadn't thought it would be a mask; but her story of Sarn Ford was the first thing that revealed its possibility to him. It was as if the walls she kept built had crumbled away, allowing him a glimpse of the person beneath the lies. And, until sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to savor this glimpse—to see her beyond the assassin.

When the first light of dawn began to filter in, (Y/N) stirred, wrapped in the warmth and safety that had cocooned her during the night. She hesitated to peel open her eyelids, savoring the sensation. However, as her senses roused to full awareness, a gentle yet distinct rhythm reached her ears—the steady thud of a heart beating beneath her. In an instant, her eyes shot open, and a surge of apprehension raced through her.

Beneath her, Strider's form lay, his chest rising and falling in slumber. Anxiety tightened her chest and clawed at her throat. Reacting instinctively, she sat up abruptly and, fueled by adrenaline, threw a punch at him.

A resounding groan of pain escaped his lips as he scrambled to sit up, his expression twisting in both surprise and discomfort. "What the hell, Scorpion?!" he managed to sputter, his hand instinctively reaching to dab at his lip.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” she retorted sharply.

He glared at her, his irritation obvious. “I did. If you would take a moment to observe your surroundings, you would see you are in fact on my side of the bed.”

Wide-eyed and perplexed, she twisted her upper body around, casting a glance over her shoulder. As the reality of the situation dawned on her, she faced him once more. Her eyes filtered over his form briefly, taking in his muscled biceps and defined abs. Her expression then turned into a deeper scowl. “Fuck off!” she snapped.

He only stared at her, bewildered.

….

Under the shroud of darkness, the Ranger and the Assassin stood at the base of the tower of Eastemnet on the south side. Concealed within the protective embrace of the tree line, they had spent approximately three hours observing the guards' patterns and identifying vulnerabilities in the tower's defenses. There they had hidden two steeds that (Y/N) had procured for them at the inn—most likely through theft, though Aragorn didn't want to think of that—allowing for a quick escape with Calista. Strategically, they discreetly knocked out all the guards on the outposts, binding and gagging them, for they knew the element of surprise would be their only bet. So, now they stood, with a pretty loose plan, ready to steal back what Lord Theovail had taken.

The Scorpion grasped onto the vine that entwined itself along the stone surface of the tower. A swift, assessing tug confirmed its stability. Her gaze shifted briefly to the man positioned behind her. “About two hundred feet to the top. Best guess, that’s where Calista is being held.”

He nodded. “After you.”

The Scorpion adjusted her grip upon the vine and she initiated her ascent. Aragorn doing the same only minutes after.

They moved in a synchronized rhythm, the sound of their breaths and the faint rustling of vines mingling with the night's stillness. Each handhold and foothold was chosen with precision, the texture of the stone under their fingertips guiding their progress.

(Y/N)’s movements were fluid and practiced, evidence to her agility and experience. Her lithe form seemed to dance with the contours of the tower, making it look easy. Aragorn, not as accustomed to such endeavors, displayed a determination that rivaled his unease. His powerful muscles flexed and strained as he pulled himself upward, his eyes never straying far from the path she took.

After what felt like hours, the assassin spoke. “Nearly there, just a couple more feet.”

Aragorn only grunted in response.

The woman firmly gripped the vine adjacent to the windowsill, positioning her feet against the wall in a manner resembling a vertical walk. This facilitated her upward movement as she pulled herself closer to the window. Yet, as her head reached the level of the glass, she swiftly withdrew, instinctively lowering herself. In an unfortunate circumstance, the unconventional stance she maintained resulted in her ass colliding with Aragorn's face.

He groaned. “Really, Scorpion?! Really?!”

“My bad,” she huffed out. “Hold on a second. I think someone is in there.”

“Yeah, hopefully Calista.”

She resumed her ascent, then promptly lowered herself again. This time, Aragorn effectively maneuvered his head to the side, evading her buttocks.

Regardless of this, he shot her a glare—not that she would be able to see it.

“It was a maid.” she whispered. “I think we are in the clear now.”

With that, she heaved herself up for a final time and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Duck your head,” she commanded. With as much force as she could muster, she brought the blade against the glass, tucking her face into her elbow. It shattered, falling around them both like deadly snow.

The Scorpion pulled herself upward and through the window, careful not to be pierced by any stray piece of glass, and Aragorn did the same.

The room was small, but decorated to the extreme. The prominent feature was the bed, elevated upon a platform, its tall wooden posts adorned with a luxurious velvet canopy that cascaded in graceful drapes. The mattress was covered in ornate blankets and quilts, complemented by an array of plush pillows. However, any semblance of beauty was starkly contradicted by the grim sight of chains extending from the wall and ensnaring the wrists of a young girl, shattering the room's facade of luxury.

Immediately, Aragorn ran towards her side. “Calista,” he murmured gently. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Calista's golden hair framed a face that appeared worn and defeated. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze void of life. Her voice emerged as a feeble whisper. "Who are you?" she inquired softly.

Standing steadfast in the center of the room, (Y/N) maintained her posture with crossed arms. Her unwavering gaze fixed on the imposing wooden door that likely remained locked from the other side. “Your father sent us.”

Aragorn carefully manipulated the cuffs that bound Calista's wrists, gingerly freeing her from their constricting hold. "I'm Strider," he introduced himself, his fingers working skillfully. "We're here to help. Come.”

As if entranced, Calista began to sit up, struggling to rise from the bed. Aragorn extended his support, assisting her onto the floor. However, her weak frame proved too fragile to sustain itself. She leaned unsteadily against him, her body unable to bear its own weight.

The Ranger looked to his partner. “She’s too weak. There's no way I can scale down the wall with her on my back. She won't have the strength to hold on."

The Scorpion uttered a quiet curse. “You will just have to come with me to find Theovail.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We can't bring her near him.”

“Well, we don't have any other choice,” she snapped. “But as soon as I kill him, we will have to haul ass. His guard will be coming for us then—if they don't already know we are here.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Fine. Get that door open.”

With that, the Scorpion set to work picking the lock and Aragorn scooped Calista up in his arms, her golden head nestled into his chest. It wasn't long before the group was creeping down the tower, level by level. The Scorpion led the way, ducking behind walls and maneuvering around pillars, making sure the way was clear. When they came across a guard that was blocking their escape, she was quick to slice his throat and pull his body out of sight.

“Scorpion, why you can't just knock them out?” Aragorn whispered with exasperation.

She, dropping his legs as she stuffed him into a closet, glared at him. “And risk having him wake up and alert others? I think not."

He huffed, knowing she was right.

However, their path forward soon encountered a challenge they couldn't evade as easily. Just as they were on the verge of turning a corner, a young maid's panicked voice pierced the air. “The-the girl. She’s gone!”

(Y/N) slammed her back against the stone wall, Aragorn doing the same.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’??!” A deep male voice thundered.

A shared realization passed between (Y/N) and Aragorn—Lord Theovail had now entered the fray.

“FIND HER!” he snapped. “Or it will be your head!”

The servant scurried down the hall, running right past the Ranger and Assassin who slunk into the shadows with their charge.

(Y/N) cautiously peered around the corner. The room before them was every bit as lavish as the one that had imprisoned Calista, if not more so. A roaring fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows that danced across the two plush velvet couches by it. Luxurious fur blankets adorned each sofa, hinting at Theovail’s rich indulgence. A sprawling fur carpet lay before the fireplace, while an ornate wine cart laden with deep reds was conveniently placed nearby. And there, infuriated, stood Lord Theovail himself, a glass of crimson liquid in hand, his temper fuming. To make matters worse, his guards were positioned near the room's exit—the very door that Aragorn would need to pass through in order to escape with Calista.

The Scorpion drew her knife, sending Aragorn a look. It was time. In a hushed tone, she whispered to him. “When you hear it’s over, take her and run to the doors. I'll be right behind you.”

He nodded in agreement.

She then disappeared into the shadows. Not even a minute passed before Aragorn heard the thumping of two bodies, one right after the other, followed by the telltale crash of a shattering wine glass meeting the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Theovail’s voice thundered, a mix of surprise and outrage lacing his words.

Aragorn cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding. Lord Theovail was now a whirlwind of fury and frustration, his gaze darting in every direction and a knife clutched in his hand. “I am not one to indulge in games!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he brandished the blade. “Reveal yourself, you coward!”

Within seconds, the Scorpion’s blade was poised menacingly at Lord Theovail's throat, her grip firm and unwavering as she held him in check from behind. Her voice dripped with a sinister malice as she spoke, her words slithering through the air like a venomous serpent. “Lord Kassim sends his regards.”

A broad chuckle bubbled from Theovail's lips, mingling with a mix of disbelief and arrogance. “A woman?! Kassim sends a woman to kill me?!”

Aragorn watched as the assassin drew another blade from her lethal arsenal, the steel glinting in the dim light. He winced inwardly, knowing what was about to unfold. In one swift, calculated motion, the Scorpion's blade found its mark, slicing deeply into Theovail's spine. The lord's body crumpled to the floor, staining the pristine white fur carpet with a gruesome red pool. His once-commanding presence now reduced to stillness. Though his eyes, wide and drifting in panic, showed his fear.

She then sat on top of him, bringing the blade to his neck once more. The Scorpion's lips curled into a chilling grin, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. “Not just any woman. You ever hear of The Scorpion of Sarn Ford?”

Instantly, a tidal wave of horror engulfed Theovail's blue gaze, his previously defiant demeanor shattered like the fragile glass of Calista’s window.

He knew the legend. He knew there was no escape for him.

However, at that moment, a large, burly guard burst in. Seeing what was unfolding, he was at his Lord’s assistance in a flash. His hand grasped onto the assassin’s hair, yanking her form from Theovail.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, giving her a moment before he intervened.

The collision sent shards of glass and splintered wood flying as the guard and the Scorpion crashed into the wine cart, locked in a fierce struggle. The guard, towering in his size, managed to regain his footing first and hauled the Scorpion up with him. His meaty fists struck out, landing brutal blows that drew crimson from her nose and brow.

The Ranger cursed. Quickly, he sat Calista upon the ground and rushed to his partner's aid. Unsheathing his blade, he lunged into the fray. His sword found its mark in the guard's back, the steel emerging through the man's stomach. Time seemed to freeze as the guard's bloodied gaze locked with the Scorpion's, a moment charged with shock and shared disbelief. The guard crumpled to the ground, revealing Aragorn.

With a swift motion, Aragorn twisted his blade downward and reached out to grasp the Scorpion's face, his hands marked by a blend of relief and fear. The touch, both tender and urgent, brought her gaze to his. Blood marked one cheek, while the other felt the cool press of his blade's hilt against her skin. His deep voice, a mixture of anxiety and care, called out her name. "(Y/N)," he stated, the word a lifeline that pierced through her dazed state.

"(Y/N)," he spoke once more, the urgency remaining. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, forcing a response. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.”

Aragorn released a sigh of relief, yet his hand remained for another heartbeat, a reassurance in the form of touch. "Take care of Theovail. I will get Calista," he instructed, his hands finally and reluctantly withdrawing as he moved to tend to their young charge.

The rest was a blur: (Y/N) slicing Theovail’s throat and grabbing his ruby ring, Aragorn hauling Calista into his arms, and the trio racing down the tower's corridors—fending off any obstacle that dared to stand in their path. Adrenaline drove them to the treeline, panting breath heavy and loud, as they climbed upon their horses and took off into the night—leaving behind the bloody assassination of the Lord of the Eastemnet Tower.

…..

Weeks later, at three in the morning, the trio stumbled into The Black Falcon Tavern, where they first met with Percaric. The establishment was eerily quiet, save for the slumbering figure of the barkeep, who had succumbed to the late hour with his head on the counter. At the far end of the room, Percaric and Calista's mother stood, their figures illuminated by a flickering candle on the table. An air of anxious anticipation clung to the atmosphere.

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, that stillness was disturbed. Calista's voice pierced the quiet as she called out to her mother, her strength visibly renewed since the ordeal. Without hesitation, mother and daughter closed the distance between themselves, embracing as if they had been torn apart for eternity. Tears flowed freely, mingling sorrow with joy. The warmth of their reunion dispelled the darkness that had clouded their lives.

Percaric approached the Scorpion and the Ranger.

The assassin tossed the man Lord Theovail’s ring. “Proof of death,” she stated bluntly. “I was gonna bring you his head, but figured it would smell pretty rotten after the long journey.”

He nodded awkwardly, the thought making him feel ill. He took a quick moment to examine the ring. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. “You did well. Lord Kassim sends his thanks.” He then tossed them both pouches of gold before turning back to the mother and daughter. As Percaric prepared to take Calista and her mother back home, he turned back to the two rescuers. His voice carried a sentiment with his words. "Thank you."

Aragorn's silent nod and the Scorpion's subtle acknowledgment conveyed their understanding and their shared commitment to a world that often demanded their sacrifice.

With that, Percaric, Calista, and her mother left the inn, leaving the assassin and the ranger alone.

“Well,” (Y/N) began, as she walked towards the snoring barkeep and leaned over the counter, fishing for the room keys. “I don't know about you, but I could do with a good night’s rest.” She pulled the ring from his waist and turned back to Aragorn. Holding it up, one key dangling, her grin faded. “You're kidding, right?” She shook her head with a huff but turned and made her way to the rickety stairs. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed this time, Strider—”

“Scorpion,” he interrupted as he followed her.

The wood creaked under her feet. “I am serious. Keep yourself in check—”

“Scorpion.”

“I will not hesitate to paralyze you—”

“(Y/N)!”

She froze upon the stairs, slowly turning to look at him on the step directly below her. Now they stood at the same height, face to face, only inches away from each other.

“You almost died out there,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her skin.

“Yeah, so did you. It happens,” she shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

“(Y/N),” he persisted.

“What?!”

With that, he grasped onto her face, his finger warm and calloused from the lifetime of travel and battle. Time seemed to freeze as the moment lingered, the air changing between them.

And then, his lips were on hers.

At first, a sense of uncertainty held her still, her mind grappling to comprehend the sudden intimacy. But as his touch deepened and the kiss became a dance, she surrendered to the moment. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling themselves among the dark waves, as her lips moved with just as much force—if not more—as his. He tasted of pine and fresh soil, she wast sure if she quite literally was consuming the dirt upon his face, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop herself from becoming enthralled by his lips.

“Scorpion,” he mumbled against her mouth.

She hummed a reply as her lips continued to move with his.

“Room. Now,” he practically growled.

She grinned, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Make me.”

Aragorn pulled away from her, raising his brow with a smirk. With that, he grabbed her by the hips and hoisted her up. Her mouth found his again as he stumbled up the stairs, ignorant to the barkeep who woke and was now squinting at the pair.

“The Scorpion and Strider,” the old man huffed. “The boys aren't gonna believe this one.”

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