#flame and frost: retribution

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Hades (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- Mr. Gloom by Aphrodite

Dear Brother by Zeus

Aidoneus by Rhea

The Soulless One, The Unseen One, The Silent One, Lord of the Dead by the people in Olympius

Age- 22 (immortal)

Location- The Underworld

Personality- Hades is extremely solitary and independent. He’s intensely bitter and distant because of how he got his start in life. He has crippling anxiety and low self-esteem, mostly due to his traumatic experience with his father. He’s not very fond of having conversations, only speaking to those he considers his friends, which are few. Hades is extremely intelligent and he remains impartial and fair when conducting his affairs in his domain and in Olympius. He’s also known to have a dark and twisted sense of humor.

As god of the dead & riches, his powers/abilities include necromancy, umbrakinesis, limited geokinesis (controlling/summoning the earth's gems & metals), having an innate sense of people's life auras, pyrokinesis (his flame burns blue), invisibility (through use of his helm), teleportation, and communicating with/shapeshifting into his sacred animals- like black rams, serpents, and screech owls.

Hades has a deep rooted resentment towards his baby brother Zeus (god of the sky, thunder, & lightning). He looks down on the many affairs his brother has and his continual embarrassment of his wife Hera (goddess of women & marriage). He feels that his baby brother was their mother’s favorite. Hades is more tolerant of his other younger brother Poseidon (god of the sea & earthquakes) since they both went through being eaten by Kronos (Titan god of the harvest, time, & fate). He also loathes the fact that he's the only one out of his brothers that mostly resembles their father.

Hades covers up the many healed scars covering his chest, legs, and back (due to being burned by Kronos’ stomach acid) with intricate tattoos, which were done by his nephew Ares.

A notable symbol of his is his platinum bident.

He’s aware of his low approval rating amongst most people of Olympius, but Hades doesn’t care one way or another. Despite his low approval rating, they like his realm’s imports- pomegranates and Hades’ brand of cigarettes (Plutopack). Its slogan “You’ll want to die soon” cracks him up.

He drinks his coffee how he likes his women, “steaming hot and black."

He stopped trying to get more pets after Cerberus kept eating them.

Hades met his current girlfriend Minthe in New Olympus during one of Zeus’ club openings. She was working there as a waitress. The valet gave them each other’s car keys by mistake, so Hades ended up returning her car at a parking garage. They ended up hooking up in the backseat. The only other relationship he had was with an oceanic nymph named Leuce, which he refuses to talk about.

Hades allowed his good friend and advisor Hecate (goddess of magic & witchcraft) to do the interior design of his modern style mansion. He keeps his most prized possession (his Helm of Invisibility) in an onyx case. In his garage (aside from his chariot), he also has a collection of vintage cars- his favorite being the dark blue & gold Rolls-Royce.

His favorite frozen treat is dark chocolate pomegranate ice cream.

With his family (and the pantheon), Hades is closest with his sister-in-law Hera, his niece Hebe (goddess of youth), and his nephews Dionysus (god of wine), Hermes, & Ares (god of war). He's also cordial with Hestia (goddess of the hearth). Hades is friends with Despoina (goddess of the arcadian mysteries, frost, winter, & shadows), Neféloma (goddess of space & dark matter), Thanatos (god of death), Nemesis (goddess of retribution), Charon (Ferryman of the Underworld), and Hypnos (god of sleep). He looks up to Nyx (goddess of the night) & Erebus (god of darkness). Hades also tolerates The Furies & The Moirai and he associates with Moros (god of doom).

In his free time, he enjoys skateboarding, listening to classical music as well as jazz, doing charcoal drawings & portraits, playing ice hockey, poker, writing poetry, lava surfing, billiards, reading, and chess. Hades even competes in chess tournaments in New Olympus, disguised as a young mortal man named Christos Michelakis. He’s won 1st place titles for the past few years.

Hades lost his virginity to Empusa (goddess of shapeshifting).

He’s in therapy, but he hasn’t seen his therapist Harpocrates (god of silence & discretion) in a while.

Being the richest deity, Hades has access to all the gems underground, taking up jewelry making as a little hobby.

His favorite holiday to celebrate is the Winter Solstice. The Underworld goes all out when they have its annual Winter Solstice festival.

He's in a makeshift deathcore metal band called Death Theater with Charon, Thanatos, and Hypnos. He plays bass electric guitar & sings- with them mostly performing for fun. They have released many of their songs online.

Hades believes he lacks the aptitude to cook, so ordering takeout is the only way of sustaining himself. He frequents Olympic Chef, a popular fast food joint in New Olympus. His go-to order is two double bacon olympian burgers cooked medium rare with extra pickles & mushrooms, a feta chicken sandwich, a mini pomegranate pie, two large fries with extra spicy tzatziki dipping sauce, and a large blackberry soda. Hermes usually brings it for him. He also enjoys a glass of red wine.

"They can say what they want. Everyone ends up in The Underworld eventually."

#my oc #hades greek mythology #hades god #my character #oc character #my oc character #oc intro #character intro #oc introduction #character introduction #modern greek mythology #modern greek gods #greek myth retellings #greek gods #hades and persephone #greek mythology #greek pantheon

[herald-divine-hell]

The world woke slowly, almost afraid. Fear gripped the whistling wind as hard as the white streams of frost. The pale pink light toward the west seemed to hobble and cower behind the mountains, dulled orange sunlight grasped their stony shoulders as if afraid to climb over. Esmyial could not blame it. It was rare to find Flame of the Mountains burn cold and somber, but now it appeared as if that was all that would come from it. Only cold-blinking anger resting in dead cinders and ash, the embers long faded. 

Threading down the long winding slope, his fingers brushed over stone marks, burning as cold as ice. He paid it little mind, even as it came away pink and only growing redder with each step. Thoughts swirled, never settling too long for him to understand. But he saw the wounding of fear in them, maimed with worry. Urgency drilled inside him, slamming into his gut with each step, but there was something within him as well. Joy. A terrible, sweetening joy. That fruit of joy that was terrible, but far too sweet to stop eating. Revenge sang sweetly before it hurled you into your grave. It drank you until you were silly, stroking your cheek and kissing your lips as the blade slid through plated armor and soft flesh. Just as it kissed you with all the love and care that could grace the world, the blade kissed the heart harder, drank it of everything, not only sweet passion and vile anger. He was afraid of revenge, more than vengeance. 

Ralia fell to it. She’s still falling to it right now. I cannot let Jac do the same. His twin had protested the so-called Army of Retribution, but made no moves to strip Ralia of Jader, nor halt the army from marching into Orlais a few weeks passed. He only hoped Ralia would stop at Halamshiral. Even worse, he hoped that the Orlesian had it in them to stop her. 

“You’re quiet.” 

Jolted out of his thoughts, Esmyial blinked the stinging tears from the cold wind scratching harsh knives along his eyes. His sister was at his side, staring at him from the corner of her eyes, with their father’s eyes. The pale silvery-blue of a winter moon, ever-watchful and chilling. Angry red strips spiraled all around her face. A nasty scar curved from temple down the edge of her cheekbone and over her cheek. The horror of them washed over Esmyial. They were not the thing that terrified him. It was the ones beneath the black-silver armor she wore, on the flesh and upon the spirit. The thick black cloak she wore, with its shoulder-shrouded great bear’s fur snapped with each hissing slash from the wind. Her once long copper hair so many adored was not cut short, the sides shaved off. Avvar-painted splashes marked her skull. Her claim as Thane-of-Thanes. So she already has the Avvar on her side. That is good. 

Despite the numerous scars now marring her face, Esmyial still thought her beautiful. Her hooked nose was proud and curve, her scarred lips full, her cheekbones high and her jaw strong. A warrior-queen come to life, helped by the massively curved greatsword. Coils of scarlet and gold and blue rolled over the ash-darkened steel, where magic kissed the sword for each fold and strike. She wore their father’s crown, too. A silverite crown wrought in the shape of twinned flames, each meeting seven points those rose up as a black spike. The spikes were her additions. 

Her leather-gloved hands rested upon the rounded pummel of her sword. Before them were three rows of piled wood, dusted in snow. A wooden pillar rose from each, strapped with a figure. Nobles, those nearest to Skyhold, who had a hand in their father’s death. There were fifteen stab marks. One for each, or so their dreams sang. Dreams carried whispers of truth, and it had taken days for Esmyial to strip each layer of lies to find it, buddling as a weakling flame. There were sixty. Twelve from the Kingdom of the Frostbacks. The rest from Orlais and Ferelden. Faces had been revealed, names learned, pealed back from masks of shadows. And now there twelve pyres. Here, where Haven once stood, forever buried in snow. 

“Had you offered them the chance for pardon?” asked Esmyial, though the words tasted like thick globs of poison in his mouth. They did not deserve it, but their father would be ashamed if forgiveness was not offered. 

Jac’s lips thinned, straight and pale. Those pale eyes hardened like shields of black ice. “Yes.” Her voice came clipped and hard and latched of emotion. 

Esmyial nodded. “And none took it?”

“No.”

He hated the joy that swam in his stomach at that. He punched it down with a fiery fist. Esmyial could not find his voice. He nodded.

His sister turned. He saw her back straightened like a lance, and her fingers grasped the pummeled with shaky hands. “Here me,” she said, voice carried by spell and wind, “traitors one and all. Long have I known each of you. Some I had laughed with. Some I had hurled curses at, and some I only as passing. You shunned forgivness, as you shunned the honors and kindness my father granted you, one and all. Your people do not deserve you. Your family does not deserve you. My father did not deserve you.”

There came wails from some, hard glares from others. A few titled their head down, as if in shame. 

Jac continued. “Nor will I forgive you. Forgiveness is in the hands of the Maker, in the kindness of Andraste. I cannot promise you will be forgiven by either. But for the honor of your family, I pray you do. May the winds carry you to the embrace of the Maker, away from the horrors of the Fade.”

Pleas curdled the air. Heads thumped against the wooden stands, and tears fell easily as a bard’s songs. Jac said nothing, and neither did Esmyial.

He felt it, the slow whisper of magic awakening. Despite the snow slicking the wood, he watched as gold winked upon the wood. Small at first, on each pyre. But slowly they glared red, prancing up along dead twigs and wood. Trails of smoke spilled up into the air. A blaze of orange flushed the skies, draining the snow into melts. Heat burst at his face, and melted away the morning chill. Screams of the dying met screams of the fire. They fought and clamored for control, throwing one off pitch, before they too were thrown back. For centuries on ending it seemed they battled. But soon the flames’ song clamored over at least, and the screams of crackling wood and soaring embers greeted the morning. 

All the while, Jac’s face was stilled as stone, washed smooth of joy or pity or lustful anger. There was nothing, and Esmyial found it was the same with him. He felt...nothing. No pride, no anger. Just a cold, empty depth at his heart. 

The fires bathed his sister in a mantle of ruby and gold. Her flushed cheeks took a ruddy shine. For a while, it seemed nothing to be a change. Then, he saw it. A flashing glint, strolling down the length of her cheek, bright as blood. Then another snaked down, mending with the first before parting in two streams. It froze as it fell over the edge of her jaw. 

His sister was crying. He reached out for her hand and found it. He squeezed and held, just as they did when they were children.  

 A sharp claw swiped at his chest, sinking deep where he thought it was empty. Only dully did Esmyial realize the truth.

He was crying, too. 

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age Inquisition #DA #DAI #Dragon Age Trevelyan #Angst #Dragon Age Fanfiction #Dragon Age Fanfic #Jacqueline Dorothea Trevelyan #Jac Trevelyan #Esmyial Trevelyan #fanfiction

[jasonblaze72]

#Books

[queer-as-used-by-tolkien]

Character Study: Braham (Part 1: Retaking Cragstead)

Braham has been a major character in the Icebrood Saga, and due to the confusing ending, we're not exactly sure where Braham's at right now or how he'll be going forward. I want to take this opportunity to go back to the beginning and see how far we've come, and how our relationship has evolved over the years - we've had ups and downs, but I want to see what the core of our friendship is.

Part 1: Retaking Cragstead

~oOoOo~

We meet Braham in Season 1 as a worried sixteen-year-old with an insane hairstyle (according to Taimi), who barges into Rytlock's office demanding aid for his people, citing his relationship with Eir while also being averse to talking to her.

We had come in looking for a way to help, and this seems like a good place to start, so when he decides to go to Hoelbrak despite his mother being there, we decide to go with and back him up before Knut Whitebear.

There - after learning the dynamics between Eir and Braham are complex - Braham shows a bit of an attitude, a bit of fire, some bitterness - but at heart he just wants to save his friends. Whitebear and Eir can't help, so you offer to go with him. He thanks you profusely.

At Cragstead, he shows stunning positive character traits like loyalty to his people, determination, courage, and - to top it all off - an amazing amount of responsibility.

He fights with energy and intensity, the sort you only get from a sixteen-year-old whose life is crumbling around him. His weapon is the blunt-power mace and shield and he tends to charge in recklessly.

After liberating some prisoners, his love interest, Ottilia, is mentioned (who remembers Braham used to have a love interest?!?) - the dredge had taken her away somewhere, which would incite anyone's fury - and yet, we have this line:

Braham: I hate this. We have to help Ottilia - and her family — but first, I have to make sure these 'steaders are okay. Braham: I've got this under control.

Later, he even tempers his hotheaded teenager-ness a bit:

Braham: I want to tell Brimstone and Whitebear that we managed without their help. Rub it in their faces, you know? Tell you what. You go tell Brimstone. I hear he's in the middle of a big meeting in the Imperator's Core. Player: You going to inform Whitebear? Braham: First I have to get these people to Hoelbrak. Once they're safe and healed and fed, I'll find out how I can rescue those who were taken.

Everyone knows Braham is reckless! But here we see his self-control. He couldn't rush off and yell at Brimstone and Whitebear immediately, so he was able to cool off and focus on the important things. He's capable of setting aside instant personal gratification for his responsibilities.

He was the only one both willing and capable to come to the rescue of his friends. And he was capable, and he was willing - that says a lot about him.

Braham is a teenage norn, and yet he takes the time to write us a letter and tell us how things turned out after, even calling us legendary... and yet he also says "I hope you still want to come with me."

Braham, Braham, Braham. Of course we still want to come with you. And so we do! Six Molten weapons facilities, where Braham and Rox get to know each other (and Rox shows him caution and tempers his recklessness a bit).

Afterward, Braham sends us another letter containing the line "I owe him [Knut] nothing, but reporting what happened is the right thing to do." And, y'know, to rub their faces in it like he mentioned earlier.

But then - when Braham gets there - he's more furious about the people who died. The people he grew up with.

Braham: I thought you should know. They were almost all... by the time I got to Cragstead, a dozen of my friends... Braham: If we'd stood together... but no, it's every hunter for himself, right?

Afterward, Braham thanks you again for your help when you were a complete stranger who didn't have to. He's expressed his gratitude at least thrice by this point.

He's sixteen. The destruction of his whole hometown caused him to grow up fast - but he didn't grow responsibility just because of that. He had it all along. His dad trained him well.

Let's have some love for Braham! Spirits know he needs it.

~oOoOo~

Credit to the Guild Wars 2 Wiki for the dialogues from these story instances! (in the tags if you want to look them up yourself!)

Next (P2: Ottilia)

#braham eirsson #braham: help from the legions #braham - eirsson #braham: retake cragstead #molten facility #braham: avenger of the dispossessed #<- actual instance name #really cool imo #season 1 #flame and frost: the razing #flame and frost: retribution #eir stegalkin #rox #ottilia #knut whitebear #rytlock brimstone #norn #gw2

[ravioverse]

Masterlist

Alright! Now that Atlas 2 & 3 are done and our Ravioverse Cheat Sheet is up, it’s time for a small break before we move on to Compass’ third and final adventure: Mixed Signals! From this point forward, we will also be working on the main story of Ravioverse and the adventure with the group, so we hope that you look forward to that as well! 

Ravioverse Lore & Other Assorted Pieces

The Four Goddesses of Lorule

The Sovereign Rod

The Timeline & Universe Hopping

The Spirit of the Hero & the Reincarnation Cycle

The Necroi: Tribes, Customs, Traditions, and Beliefs (to be continued...)

The Ravioverse Cheatsheet – Your basic guide and summary to everything Ravioverse

The Origin of the Hero:

The Rise of the Demon King

The Hero’s Quest

The Banishment of Demise

Fivefold Flame:

Prologue

The Surface

The Silent Realms

The Triforce

The Dark Mirror:

The History of the Mirrors

The Gerudo King and the Mirror

The Shadow’s Charge

Vicious Retribution

The Shadow’s Defeat

Divine Intervention

Band of Memories:

Return to Lorule

Ray

The Winding Forest

The Great Fairy’s Fountain

A Series of Reunions

Into the Dragon’s Den

The Solstice Festival and the Capiri Crystal

Truths Revealed

Viola of Space:

Discovering the Sovereign Rod

The Spirit Realm and the Sacred Stones

Meeting the Princess

The Temples and Sages

The Fate of Frost

The Fate of Blaze

The Fate of Gust

Twilight Princess:

The Metamorphosis of Lorule

The Politics of the Twili

The Evacuation of the Palace

Bonus Post: The Interlopers

Seeking Refuge

Reconnaissance and Returns

Ravio’s Awakening:

The Deterioration of Lorule

Falling Asleep

The Lucedine Glade

Calming Encounters and the Glade’s Plight

Exploring the Glade

The Mirror Shrine and Discovering Truths

Saying Goodbye

Waking the Earth God

A Link Between Worlds:

Sheerow

Making Connections

Yuga’s Arrival

Decisions of Consequence

Hyrule

The Hero

Adventuring Vicariously

Returning to Lorule

Reconstruction

The Adventure of Ravio:

The Triforce Returned and Secret Histories

A New Generation

Atlas’s Quests

Exposing the Governor

Meeting the Ku

The Feud of the Krythos

The Dark Valley

The Aftermath

Oracle of Elements:

A New Quest

The Storm

The Oracle of Truths

Eiliss Village

The Flute of Elements

A Collision

The Quest for the Elements

Miscellaneous Misadventures

Parallel Palace

The End... Unless?

Oracle of Dimensions:

A New Oracle

Proxa City's Mysterious Museum

A Friend of a Friend

The First of Many

Art Collection and Restoration

Returning to the Museum

Andrios, The Curator

The Flame of Hope

The Third Flame

An End to This

Saccharine Fantasies:

When will this be available, you ask? Who knows. It’s gonna be a mystery until it is Time™ for story purposes

Storm Chaser:

The Divine Rain

The Outset

Treacherous Waters

The Spectral Compass

The Archives and the Islands

The Tower of the Gods

The Sages

The Sacred Realm and the Triforce

Infinity Key:

The Demon’s Sea

Lotus Isle

The Hall of Janus

The Night Key

The Spirit Realm

Carapace Island

The Advent Rod

The Court of Judgement

The Abyss

Epilogue

Mixed Signals:

It’s coming.... Choo-choo....

Hyrule Warriors:

Prologue

Discovery

The Portals

Omenous Isle

The Southern Swamp

The Mountain of Mun

Return to Lorule Castle

Ikana Canyon

The Final Gate

Call of the Arcane:

The Convergence

The Royal Engineers

The Nivale Ruins

The Anchors

The Goddess and the World Tree

The Wolf of Nemoris

Harmony

On Archive of Our Own (AO3):

Concerning Dragons focuses on Shadow and explains the reason behind his short hair

Concerning Dragons 2.0 –– coming in due time

Tripartite A peek into the VoS trio’s quest, and the consequences of their actions.

Ὁ Πρῶτος Φυλάσσει Τοὺς Ἐπιγιγνομένους (Translation: The First Protects Those Who Come After)

Lore Posts (For those who find reading on tumblr to be Unpleasant) This will be updated as each cycle of posts is completed.

Ravio, Meet Ravio aka a quick oneshot on when Empyrean meets Viola, and the quest begins

The Hour of Twilight a meeting between Shade and his Hyrulean counterpart

A Pair of Lonely Dreamers two chapters centered on Sketch and Legend and their biggest secrets

Sharp Edges is the new and improved version of how Shadow meets the gang and eventually takes on the name Vex

Ravioverse Art Posts

Psi and the Sovereign Rod

Confronting the Guardian of the Sovereign Rod (Viola of Space-Era)

Comparing Adventures

Atlas

Origin

Shadow and Sheerow

Warp and J3

Group Photo

Names and Photos (for ease of identification)

Early Development Empyrean (1) (2) (3) (4)

Comet

Happy Atlas

Oracle of Truths, Pavhalla

Shipwrecked Atlas

Shade

Melior

A sketch of baby Sketch

Ray doodle 1

Sylvan

Willow (art by Lucky)

Mermaid Compass

New Lands, New Forests... And also a headshot of Circuit (Hilda)

Tags

Ravioverse Trivia –– for little tidbits on the lads

Miscellaneous tag –– includes memes, creator shenanigans on discord, creator announcements/comments, and content reblogged from others

Lore & History of Lorule –– for information on things outside of quests, such as origins for certain weapons/tools, the Goddesses, etc.

Tales of the Heroes –– the collective tag for all the informative posts detailing the quests and storylines for each incarnation of Ravio

Ravioverse Crew –– includes anything that involves all of the boys

The Art Tag –– aka where to find all the art

The Ravioverse Adventure –– this is where you’ll find information on the actual group quest

Asks –– aka every ask we’ve gotten and answered to the best of our ability (at the time)

#loz #legend of zelda #ravio #linkeduniverse #ravioverse #miscellaneous content #links and ao3 have been updated btw! #everything should now (hopefully) be in working order #and all available quests can be read off of tumblr

[moontours]

michelle what are your favorite comic quotes ever

EVER??? maria u have no idea what ur asking for. this is going to take me 6 years. 

help us to not take the easy road, and i promise we’ll fight every fight they can throw at us. help us win the hard way — the right way — not with hate, not with retribution, but with wisdom and hope. help us become champions (kamala khan)

that's how I survived. time and time again. that's my secret. i survived because i willed it to be. how did i survive apocalyptic fire? i simply refused to feel the flames (emma frost)

always dreaming. of higher, further, faster … more. we’ll get there. and we will be the stars we were always meant to be. (helen cobb to carol danvers)

i have hunted for less i have killed for less but never with as much pleasure (natasha romanoff)

hearts always break and so we bend with our hearts and we sway but in the end what matters is that we loved and lived (natasha romanoff)

i will not go out this way and i will not go out quietly (natasha romanoff)

welcome to the world of the blind (matthew murdock)

i’m the only me that ever was (jean grey)

cut me and i bleed (lorna dane)

you want me to fight? then give me a reason. show me something. show me that this endless damn battle will actually leave the world better than i found it. show me i’m not just spinning my wheels, living through the same patterns over and over and over. make me a deal. show me anything, and i’m yours. forever. (matt murdock)

you do not have to walk through it ... you can run (f4/franklin richards)

you say im lost? i’m right here. in a cave—with scraps. you say im not acting like tony stark? look at my cave of scraps, reed. look at my ticking clock. this is the only place i’m ever like tony stark. this is where tony stark was born (tony stark)

i do not belong to you. we can fight all day, sunfire, but i still won’t belong to anyone but myself (lorna dane)

im not a porcelain doll, you chauvinist pig (lorna dane)

imagine that. all it took was death and desperation for you to turn into me (emma frost)

this is where i made my stand (johnny storm)

you had a dream. i had a plan (scott summers)

i’m not a monster. i’m not. well summers, you wanted to be able to make a difference. to do something. i open my eyes and— (scott summers)

by earth and sky, by hex and craft—by the past and the future—i call forth hope from darkness. i speak the words of power. the words we gave power to. the words we made into magic. let their power augment our own. to strike one blow from our hearts and souls—from all that we are. lt the call go forth—avengers assemble (wanda maximoff)

i am a futurist. i am. to my core. that means i respect the future. i believe in the future. i worship at its feet (tony stark)

because i believe in dick grayson. i believe in the boy who always stepped up when someone was in need. i believe in the man who just wants to help. without wanting to apply too much pressure, i believe you can be one of the greatest forces for good this world has ever seen. whatever you choose to do, please know i am exceedingly proud of you. proud of your heart, proud of your compassion, proud of your humor, your optimism, and your strength in the face of everything that confronts you. and, above all, though we rarely say it aloud … i am so very proud to call you my son (alfred pennyworth to dick grayson)

batman is dead. long live batman (bruce wayne)

and babs had to change most of all. there was a time when none of us could match her crime-fighting skills. she was in a class of her own. but when her legs were taken from her, she reinvented herself and ended up as an even bigger threat to the perps she used to take down with a batarang (dinah lance abt barbara gordon)

everything doesn’t have to be about fear. there’s room in our line of work for hope, too (stephanie brown)

AND OF COURSE. WHAT WAS THE REVOLUTION, SCOTT?

#THIS ISNT EVEN CLOSE TO ALL OF THEM. NOT EVEN CLOSE. #maria tag #m.inbox

[jengajives]

Couple of OCs in this one to make it work, but I really wanted to do something with second/third age Maglor gettin too close with Ulmo and the Oath sneaking up bite him

“So... you’ve seen it?”

Maglor didn’t look up when he spoke. Just went on dragging his fingertips through the sand, drawing swirling patterns on the beach around him. Ulmo sat cross-legged on a rock watching him, letting the wind blow warm and gentle raindrops through both their hair. A beautiful evening for a talk in the rain.

“Seen what?” he asked absently. There wasn’t anything familiar enough in the way Maglor stiffened at that to be alarming.

“It,” the minstrel said again, softer but more insistent. “You know. The...” He trailed off. The fingers on his right hand, twisted with scars, gave a feeble twitch.

The burn marks reminded Ulmo what they were probably talking about and so he nodded.

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen it. I keep it safe, you know. You needn’t worry yourself.”

A long silence. Maglor pressed his hand into the cool damp of the sand.

“Yes,” he mumbled distantly. “No need to worry...”

Silver armor and royal blue banners. Swords that gleamed under the light of the stars.

A figure atop a mountain peak, cloaked and hooded, and the blood-red torchlight lighting his brothers’ faces in the high court of Tirion.

Constantly the words of the Oath boomed now in Maglor’s head, where it had slept for many hundreds of years. Constantly the weight of his father’s spirit pressed his mind.

He would have left the coastline and forsaken sight of the sea, but the glimmer of silver and gold he often saw now beneath the distant waves kept him fixed upon the shore. To turn his back would be to give up the Oath and suffer the ultimate pain of retribution.

He could not. He could not. He could do nothing but cower on the edge of the water, too afraid to act.

“No one will withhold a Silmaril from the house of Fëanor,” said his father within the deeps of memory, “be it Elf, Man, or Vala.”

Ulmo.

His burned fingers trembled and twitched.

Ulmo, his friend. Sheltering the Silmaril at the bottom of the sea.

He buried his eyes beneath quivering hands and tried not to let the connection form.

The Oath waited ever so patiently.

The water was still and glassy black, reflecting a sky of stars that reminded Maglor of the ages before the sun and moon. His days in Valinor, before any curse or oath had torn his family and soul asunder.

He liked the pool. It was always cool and tranquil like a vast sheet of glass within stone’s throw of the sea, and when the world was younger he used to come here to remind himself that he was a lord of the Noldor no longer; look at his reflection and see nothing but a wanderer without people or honor to plague him.

Tonight, though, he saw frost-white armor glinting ghostly beneath his coat, and the light of Aman burning fierce in his face, and in his eyes the soul of the two trees mingled and tamed within depths of stone.

Maglor cast a stone across the pool to shatter the image, unable to stop the quivering that spread up from the root of his spine.

“Is it far?” he asked softly.

Ulmo didn’t stand there in the gangly form he was so fond of, but Maglor still knew he was listening.

The water lapped at the shore like gentle laughter.

“Far enough, but well within my reach.”

When Maglor turned to look at the sea the entire horizon was turned to streams of molten gold and silver chasing each other endlessly within the ocean’s cold jewel.

“Where are we going?” Riston asked eagerly as he trotted behind.

Maglor had forgotten he was there. His mind was busy with other things.

“Going?” he repeated. “When are we ever going anywhere?” But the words were numb and he could not stay the path his feet now took of their own accord.

“I just thought,” huffed Riston, scurrying over the sea-hewn boulders to try and keep pace, “that we would be avoiding places like that.” He pointed upwards.

On the nearby clifftop, a tower fortress blazed with torchlight red and fell.

Maglor let his eyes wander down the cliff face to the dark gap at its foot.

“Yes,” he said dimly. “We should.”

And he hurried along, desperate now to come quickly to the cave and dispense with this mania.

If he could just see what he was seeking, the need for it would pass.

It would pass.

The cavern was cold and dripped with seawater, and in all the ages of the world it had not changed. From the tower above, the stone seemed to vibrate with raucous shouts and music, but the dark stone, crusted with barnacles and grasping things of the sea, was fast and familiar under Maglor’s feet. He moved eagerly now, driven forward by the desperate need to prove himself wrong, forgetting entirely the fact that Riston trailed behind him in wonder.

In the darkest back of the cave, a pale green light shone just enough to illuminate a small stone chamber, wide and high-roofed, and the shelf carved carefully into its back wall.

He knew the place, because he had labored there cutting stone to forget the world, because he had poured Maglor Fëanor’s son into this rock to forget him.

On the shelf rested gleaming white armor, and above it on the wall was set a pale sword with a green gem set into its hilt.

They looked polished and new, as if he had left them yesterday and not thousands of years hence.

It felt as though everything warm left Maglor in a single rush and he was nothing but cold stone himself, staring blank at those arms and wishing he could forget them.

If all was fair, Glírlang’s curved blade should still drip with blood for every life it had taken. The blood of his kin and his friends who had done nothing but stand between him and his father’s prize.

Maglor fell to his knees.

Yes. Yes, it was over now. There was no Oath that could hold him to kill again. No promise he had made would drive him any longer. He was not his father. He was not the elf prince who had sailed from Valinor long ago. Yes, he was no one. No one.

“Maglor-!”

Slowly he turned.

Riston was still here, but oddly enough he was not the only one.

When Maglor saw eyes gleaming cold with greed and malice he thought at first of goblins, and of his brothers, but these were only Men with stout swords who crept in on thick boots that cracked the clinging shells beneath them. They spoke Westron, roughly, though it took him long seconds to understand it.

“Trespassin’,” one said. His blade flashed in the green light of the gem. “Little vagabonds trespassin’ on our lands.”

“Oi,” said another. He pointed to the shelf with the tip of his sword. “Puttin’ some shiny armor down here so’s you and your friends can come back and kill us with it later?”

“That don’t make no sense.”

“Shut up! They’re trespassin’, and you know trespassers gotta die!” The first man’s pale lip curled into a grin. “Besides. I want me that nice silvery sword, and they’re in the way of me takin’ it.”

They moved closer, and Riston stumbled back with a squeak. His Westron wasn’t good enough to understand what was going on.

“Maglor!”

They would both die. What would Maglor do? He could do nothing. Well enough for him to die on the point of a sword, but Riston was barely more than a child.

Well enough for him. Well enough to die here.

“Look at ‘im squirm!” roared the one man, and with fluid ease he cast Riston to the floor and planted a boot on his chest to keep him there. “You say I gut ‘im, boys, or take ‘im up to the tower and let the others have a go?”

Laughter echoed off the walls of the chamber. Maglor’s back hit cold stone but all he could hear was Riston screaming his name.

“Maglor!” cried Elros as the orcs swarmed around him, arm thrown protectively in front of his brother, both little ones wide-eyed and trembling with fear. “Uncle Maglor, please!”

The sun glinting through cloud near the sea. Orcs guffawing to find the little lords of the Noldor unguarded.

So many ages ago and Glírlang dripped with blood.

Fire rushed across the surface of the pool with a deafening roar.

Glírlang pushed in through the back until the tip of the blade came right out the other side.

Blood gurgling through punctured lungs.

Maglor pushed and the Man fell, toppled over, the sword slipping easily from the hole it had put in him, resting with such familiarity in Maglor’s hand.

His Glírlang. So familiar.

He turned to the other Men, standing right over Elros, blade glinting and body slipping automatically into a defensive stance.

No, no, it wasn’t him. Elros wasn’t here, he was long dead now.

It was Riston. Little Riston.

Yes. Riston.

The sword in his grip brought him back through centuries of honey-slow time.

“Step back,” he said steadily. Many years had passed since last he used Quenya, but it flowed now easily past his tongue and filled the whole of the cavern with a crackling power. “You will not touch him.”

The Men scrambled away, faces frozen in awe and terror, for it seemed to them that they had just watched a wandering beggar transform before their eyes into a fell warrior of old, shining with the light of countless centuries and the power of ancient kings, and his sword was alight with green flame.

His enemies fled before him like the cowardly goblins had in ages past.

Torchlight. Blood-red torchlight in the night without end. The courtyard of Tirion stained crimson.

“Let no creature stand between my house and a Silmaril,” Maglor said softly, speaking the same words to the cavern that had sealed his fate those ages ago. “Be it Elf, Man, or Vala.”

He heard the dull roar of the ocean outside, and left Riston behind to cry gently in the earth’s cold embrace.

The waves slammed the shore with fury, but to Maglor, all seemed silent. The stillness of the night utterly complete.

Nothing to shatter his fevered thoughts as he screamed a challenge on the wind to the Lord of the Sea.

“No one will withhold a Silmaril.”

No one.

Vala.

“Maglor.”

He looked up and Ulmo was there, standing in the ankle-deep water in the tall, gangly form he’d once kissed. The sky had grown cloudy but he couldn’t remember when, and the distant line of the sea was alight with fire.

Maglor raised a trembling hand and put the tip of his sword to Ulmo’s chest.

“You... will... give it to me...”

“This is mad,” Ulmo said, very calmly. “Maglor, you don’t have to do this.”

Sea spray brushed against his cheek in some semblance of a fond touch, but he was not swayed.

“Give it to me,” he hissed, his own voice like the touch of hot metal to water. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t do this,” Ulmo said again. When he stepped back Maglor took a swipe at him, but it was easily blocked by a forearm coated in rough blue carapace like a crab’s. Rusted chains clinked against each other with every movement Ulmo made.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“You would keep what’s rightfully mine!”

The hissing flame and shadow of Balrogs. His father’s eyes burning brighter than the sun with his last words.

“Thief!” Maglor screamed, batting Ulmo’s shield arm aside to press Glírlang to his breast again. “That Silmaril is mine!”

Ulmo straightened to a new height. His brow, crusted with salt and living stone, grew hard and fell. His simple clothes hardened to plates of chiton armor.

“Do not make me hurt you,” he said again, but now his voice boomed like thunder on the plains and waterfalls and waves breaking against unyielding stone. Behind him the sea rang with the blowing of horns in the deep, shaking the ground, sending rushes of icy water up to swirl against the solid cliffs. Lightning split the sky. Rain began to fall in cold sheets.

“Deliver me what is mine!” Maglor roared against the wind. “Or I will take it!”

Glírlang flashed white light back at the sky. Maglor felt the might of his brothers behind him. The strength and glory of Valinor rushing through him as if he had just newly set foot on Middle-Earth. His blade moved in a blur of green and white, and when he returned again to ready stance, Ulmo stood before him with a gash across his face slowly beginning to seep seawater.

When he touched the tear in his skin, the water turned blood red.

“So be it,” Ulmo said at last, and with the rush of the sea, the tall glorious form was gone, and in its place was a tower of water adorned with sharp yellow teeth stained scarlet, and lengths of rusted silver chain caught in the swell, and a million blue-green eyes that saw everywhere water touched the world, that saw into Maglor’s very soul.

The roar of a tidal wave filled his ears and the flood took him.

Direction became utterly meaningless because he was spinning too fast to recognize any way at all. There was no color but the black of fathomless depths, and Glírlang was torn from his fingers, and teeth tore his flesh, and he spun alone suspended in the might of the sea.

Well enough, to end this way. Conquered at last.

Maglor screamed and water rushed in to fill his lungs. All around him and within him Ulmo spoke.

“If it is the Silmaril thee desire, then take it.”

Before his eyes, the brilliance of the Two Trees locked in a jewel without equal.

“Take it and see where it leaves thee. Let it drive thee mad. Let thee fall as thy brothers have fallen.”

Maglor stretched out his fingers. It was there. It was there, he could feel it, he could almost taste it...

“Take the heirloom of thy house,” Ulmo rumbled, “and let it destroy thee.”

Maglor screamed and the water played the sound he couldn’t make as Being began to fade.

Everything went still and silent.

When air rushed again into his lungs, all he could do was sob.

“Why didn’t you do it?!”

On his knees. Water dripping slowly from his hair, his fingers in the sand.

“Why do you keep me here?!”

The blinding light of the Silmaril resting in a pool in the sand. Glírlang at its side. Maglor took up the blade and threw it with all his strength into the sea, then fell again with his eyes turned from the jewel, his whole body shaking with sobs.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it! Please!“

Still he was here. Still he lingered.

“Just let me go,” he breathed to the motionless air. “Just take me! I don’t want it! I failed! Just let me go!”

Ulmo did not answer. No one answered.

The waters were still and the Silmaril lay there watching.

Maglor screamed at Ulmo to take it away, but the Lord of the Sea would not answer.

And his mind crackled and folded like the flesh of his hand.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #silmarillion #maglor #maglor x ulmo #silmaril #non canon #ulmo #ulmo’s true form is a wave with orca teeth and a trillion eyes with rusty chains spraying from it and no one will change my mind #oc #elrond #elros #sad boys hour

[youngster-monster]

shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

-

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

-

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

-

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

-

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

-

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

-

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

-

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

-

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

-

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

-

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

#writing #world of warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #necromancer kael'thas

[mightysteelix]

The Sin Of Gluttony

Because this, after all, is still a fic blog. Here's my newest story - and my longest so far. And it did not take as much time as I expected, being finished in two-three weeks. Written to fix the lack of Shirou/Dantes fics and the lack of male "Fate/" kink fics.

Rating: Mature Category: M/M Fandoms: Fate/Grand Order Relationship: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler/Edmond Dantès | Avenger Characters: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler and Edmond Dantès | Avenger Summary: Shirou Amakusa had been sneaking in Chaldea's kitchen to indulge his gluttony. Thus, Archer enlists one Avenger to help him.Weight-gain kink fic. Don't like, don't read.

WARNING FOR KINK CONTENTS UNDER THE CUT

Additional Tags: Weight Gain; Belly Kink; Rapid weight gain; Magically assisted weight gain; Main character is 18+; Force-Feeding; Teasing; Erections; Mildly Dubious Consent; Feeder Edmond Dantès; Feedee Amakusa Shirou

LAST WARNING FOR KINK

Amakusa Shirou sneaked into Chaldea’s kitchen. Coast - clear. 

The last master of humanity was snoring in their bed, lulled by Nursery Rhyme’s tales. The Servants had taken the opportunity to sleep - expect the most obsessed, who tried to barge in Ritsuka’s room. Even EMIYA, usually restless about his domain, had holed with the rest of his not-exactly family.

As expected. Amakusa planned every heist months in advance, manipulating Servants for the perfect night. As a saint - even if apocryphal - he should reject the pleasures of the flesh: forget the buttery cookies, the fluffy desserts, the sweets that melted in the mouth... Snapping from the trance, he caught himself drooling. His eyes sparkled with desire. He had to fight the sin that would lead him astray.

Yet he crossed the large dining area in a single leap and entered the kitchen. The enthralling taste of gluttony, as captivating as EMIYA’s food, lingered. His own desires were controlling him. For a third night, he would indulge his longing in secret, fill his craving stomach with the most masterful food the world could offer. He would stuff his stomach past the norms of sense, lose himself in the pleasure of food. Perhaps the Fiendish Bodhisattva had cursed him with the unquenchable hunger.

Amakusa licked his lips, imaging the feast tonight. “Or my sins crushed me and I am their slave.” He should have rejected it. Yet those greedy desires took over the priest, stealing any control. Against the craving, he had no power. Gulping down his dry throat, he opened the fridge slowly, as if performing a holy rite. Sweet, sweet aroma tickled his nose. His fingers shivered. The light blinded his eyes, used to the dim darkness. As he adjusted, the outlines of the dishes took a concrete form. A large tray of cookies sprinkled white with powdered sugar; a few batches of thick, sweet, and fluffy ice cream.

Above them stood the crown jewel of EMIYA’s cooking - a five-layered cake, patiently decorated. Sugar flowers colored the frosting, each one with crafted petals. Fine glaze ribbons circled each tier. The Archer must have put an entire day in his masterpiece.

And Amakusa would destroy it in sheer, unbridled gluttony - a grave, unforgivable sin. Once he was stuffed, unable to stomach another morsel and pinned in one place by the pain and the weight of the food, he would polish down the cake in the most wasteful, decadent show of greed. His heart beat faster in his chest.

“The feast has started,” Amakusa whispered and took the chosen dishes. The light thinned, before disappearing as he pushed the door closed. Alone in the dark, hidden from everyone’s stare, he snatched a cookie and pressed it between his teeth. They tore the sweet dough. The sugar melted over his tongue.

“EMIYA,” he moaned, “you have outdone yourself again.” After gulping the cookie, he took another. The sweetness excited his tongue. His greedy fingers reached for the next one and it disappeared as quickly. The risk of capture at any moment, red-handed at the crime scene; the off chance his plan could fail drove him to gulp faster. If he did not finish before the others woke up, he had lost.

The ritual ended as the last cookie traveled down in Amakusa’s belly. A whole tray and he was barely stuffed. He had laughed at the tales of Saber’s hunger yet now was outeating her. His fingers rubbed the small curve of his stomach, hidden under his baggy clothes. A solid beginning, yet so far from the gluttony he desired.

“What should I pick now?” he asked himself. The cookies - however heavenly - had dried his mouth further. Some ice cream would serve as a relief. Amakusa opened one tub, a fresh, chocolate wave of coldness pinching his cheeks. “It’s decided.” 

Standing like a hero against their sworn enemy, Amakusa held his sword - a spoon - and broke the dark brown, almost black, layer of syrup.

“Huh?” Shadows hissed out of the ice cream and twirled around his arm. The curse chilled his skin, leaving a deep chain mark. Amakusa tensed. He tried to free his hand, yet the darkness pulled him closer, even more chains shooting at him. One bound his free arm, another warped his legs painfully tight.

They held him above the ground, unable to move a single finger. Only his mouth remained free. Should he scream for help? No, his captor desired that - to break his pride by forcing an admission out of him. He would never allow himself to be caught.

“Do not hope you will escape!” Thundering, evil laugh boomed. Pale sparks flared around the core of the curse. The shadows grew like smoke. Two legs formed under the cloud, covered by a long, dark coat to the ankles. “For your sin has already claimed your very soul!” The Avenger - the Count of Monte Cristo - cackled. His eyes flared brightly like the flames of hell. “No salvation awaits you!”

“This noise for me? Ah, you flatter me, Avenger.” Amakusa smiled, far more sweetly than any pastry. “I doubt you will release me if I ask.” He closed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sly whisper. “Would at least tell me why you took your time to curse me?”

“Politeness will lead you nowhere! The Archer yearned for vengeance.” Edmond walked closer to Amakusa, leaving a trail of shadows behind himself. “His thirst summoned me. The perpetrator must suffer and regret his crimes.”

“Have you stolen Holmes’ job? He will hate it. Very well, you caught me. You can turn me to the Master.” The pleasant way out. The preferable one.

Edmond shook head, his long hair swaying. “No, mon ami. Our Master will forgive you. That would be justice - their justice, yet the Archer does not care about it. He wants retribution, he wants punishment.” The fire in his eyes died as he held Amakusa’s cheek. “You will bear the weight of your sins.”

Amakusa gulped - an exaggerated jest of fake fear. “Does he plan to hang me until my limbs become numb? He must have a strange taste.”

The Count’s manic laughter filled the kitchen, making the utensils on the wall shake. “No, he gave me full right over your punishment. If the greatest Avenger accepts it, it will satisfy his dark desire. No one is observing us, nor anyone will wake in the following hours. Until our time runs out, I will plunge you in my curse.” He took the spoonful of ice cream from Amakusa’s hand. “Enjoy your greed, sinner! Rejoice as you become the embodiment of your sin!”

The spoon aimed for Amakusa’s mouth. He shut his mouth and bent his head backward. Whatever the Count had prepared, he would not comply. Although empty curiosity (or greater hunger) gnawed on his thoughts, eating him alive, he resisted. One word and the Count would stab with the spoon.

“Too late!” The magical sparks lit the kitchen with their pale colours. “You should have fought your sin before eating the bait!” Another shadow - thin like a piece of cloth - forced Amakusa’s mouth ajar.

He struggled to close it. His jaws shivered, pulled back by the bindings.

"Now," the Count continued, “you can repent only through punishment!” As soon as Amakusa’s lips opened, he lunged the loaded spoon in his mouth.

The ice cream had already molten a little. Thick and syrupy, it chilled Amakusa’s tongue. Sweet chocolate excited his taste buds, before emptying in his throat and leaving him craving more. He licked his teeth - some of the treat had stuck there. “Do you plan to feed me the entire night?”

“The punishment must fit the sin! Tell me, priest, how else should I discipline you?” Edmond scooped more ice cream, before pushing it in Amakusa’s mouth. “Three nights I prepared the perfect curse for you.” The shadow loosened its hold. “A curse to please Archer’s and my lust!”

Amakusa had to stop. The Avenger’s plans could only end badly for him. If he clenched teeth again, he could fight the spoons: sweet, sticky, pleasuring… The lingering chocolate taste flared up in the pit of his stomach. He wanted - no; he needed the creamy, thick confection down his throat.

A priest should reject any temptation.

And yet once the ice cream touched Amakusa’s tongue, he gulped down desperately.

“That’s it!” More frantic than a Berserker, Edmond forced a spoonful after a spoonful in Amakusa’s mouth. “Fall in your sin! Embrace your desires and suffer!”

The priest obeyed like a trained pet. He could not reject the tingling pleasure of the sugar. Each gulp moistened his throat, making him shiver with delight before a stronger, fresher taste replaced it. Closing his eyes, he waited for the powerful, familiar fullness. Once hunger had left him, he would eat because he wanted to blow in size: bloated, overfed, huge, indulging. Most thoughts were pushed away, only one lingering. The Avenger must have realized Amakusa enjoyed his punishment.

“You are shaping up perfectly!” The chocolate taste died without a new hit to replace it. “Now everybody in Chaldea will realize your gluttony!” Edmond pressed hands over Amakusa’s belly. “Did you believe I will only feed you?” The black shadows let him on the kitchen counter. “No! You will suffer the results of your sin: your lustful, decadent greed!” Where Amakusa used to have solid abs, now there was a chubby, small belly.

Intriguing. Out of all possible torments: the hellish tower; the soul-sucking nightmares - the Count chose to feed him in person and curse him with fatness. Amakusa smiled like the sun. "You do not lose points for originality. But what are you going to do now?" He took a spoon and fed himself a large scoop of the cursed ice cream. His body tingled as the sweet taste washed over his tongue and he felt himself pluming the slightеst bit.

Edmond snorted. "I have already broken you? Pity. I expected you would rebel for longer. If you had tried to run, I would have had you tied and stuffed for the whole night."

"Not at all." Amakusa's warm eyes locked on the Count. "You have not broken me. I would have eaten the ice cream anyway." He cupped his chin - a little thicker than normal. "Cannot let my careful planning waste. Thank you for speeding the process and feeding me."

Sparks flew around the Count, making the kitchen glow. "Don't talk!" he ordered, tying Amakusa with the shadows once again. "I will fatten you up until you need to be rolled around Chaldea! How could you still eat despite the curse?"

So cute. The big bad Avenger was flustered and his it behind anger.

Amakusa scratched the flab lightly. Small ripples formed around, disappearing at the limits of his newly gained fat. It was a real, permanent part of him; a definite proof of his gluttony. "Be fast, please." He wanted to grow soft, enormous, fattened by his inevitable obsession. And he would make the Avenger admit he enjoyed the night as much. "Perhaps I should have tried to run. I'd rather not waste time on small talk when there is still food."

"I shall make you eat your words along with everything else!" Edmond flared as if burning alive. The shadows boiled and squirmed behind him. One coiled around Amakusa's legs and pinned them to the base of the counter. "Even if you enjoy it now, the night is still young. I have endless time to make it a worthy punishment!"

"Would you drop the pretences already?" Amakusa leaned forward and his shirt rode a little, showing a silver of tan skin. He held Edmond's palm in his hands. "If you admit we both seek pleasure, the night will be more enjoyable."

"What pretences?" The Count pulled his hand free. "I work in the name of vengeance! My only pleasure is the pain of my victims!" He draped over his prisoner and fed him so fast that Amakusa could not talk.

The overfilled spoon left his lips and came again, even more full, forcing him to gulp or drown in the ice cream. With each course, his belly expanded - even more extra weight piling on it, stretching his black shirt tighter and making it ride up higher. The speck of revealed skin grew as his little bit of flab engorged in a proper gut - and Amakusa would not stop.

Not that Edmond would let him. Frantic sparks shot around, giving short bursts of light - Amakusa bigger at every one. Laughing madly fast, he scooped through the tub and ensured that all of its contents ended in the priest's mouth. Any moment he expected to break Amakusa's bliss and make him beg for mercy.

But it did not happen. As Amakusa’s body widened, so did his grin. A decadent desire possessed him; he sucked the ice cream from the spoon before Edmond had finished putting it in his mouth. He poked his hands sideways in his stomach and shook it up and down, the vibrations jolting through his flab. The weight over his hands increased, and he put more force to jiggle his forming rolls. The next dose could not come fast enough. 

And even though the Avenger controlled Amakusa, he was fighting on the defensive, unable to find an excuse. Tied and speechless, the priest still rebelled against him. Not only rebelling, but he also held swath over Edmond’s actions. His joy would not end soon; the Count’s anger was burning up. And how could it stay, when Amakusa ate every fattening spoon and took the full bunt of the curse?

The Count dragged the spoon out of Amakusa’s mouth but did not fill it again with ice cream.

“What happened?” Amakusa asked, his nimble tongue licking the ice cream on his lips. “Has it run out? Too bad,” he laughed, his chubbier cheeks jiggling along. “I was just starting to enjoy it. Can we move to the cake now? A bit earlier than I expected, but if there’s no more ice cream left…”

“How?” Edmond broke the spoon in two as if it was a mere twig. “An Avenger - a Servant born of hatred - to bring pleasure? Impossible!” With a flick of his hands, he cleared his pale sparks, drowning the kitchen in total darkness. “I hoped to keep this as my finishing move, but your joy has continued for too long!”

He took the second tub - the first truly empty - and imbued it with his dark power. It glowed a sick green color as the ice cream boiled, bubbles forming and exploding with a strong ‘Pop!’. It melted, leaving a thick liquid full of sugary calories. As soon as the light died, he pressed the tub to Amakusa’s lips.

The viscous liquid slogged down the priest’s throat, and the empowered curse fattened him faster. Even in the darkness, he felt himself expanding, stretching the black shirt to sizes Amakusa never imagined it would reach. Each gigantic gulp sent shocks through his gut. It flopped, pulling the shirt higher. Now it covered only the topmost part of his belly - and soon would free it as the mass of lard did not stop growing.

His pants proved somewhat more resistant, digging deep in his gut. The waistband stretched to its limit, a mound of flesh falling over it. Amakusa tried to reach under it and unbutton his pants, but his chubby fingers could not budge the button. He would have to pop it with his growing gut. An even heavier gulp made his abdomen sag lower, resting on his tights.

Of course, the fattening had not spared them either. His legs filled the dark pants, pushing the material beyond its limit. He felt the brush of air on his bare skin, small holes having formed around the seams. The fabric pressed deep, but with each second the thread unraveled further.

His arms also expanded, losing any muscular definition. Even with the powers of a Servant, he moved them with more difficulty than before. The arm flab quivered with his movements, doubling the pleasure of exploring his flabby body.

And the cushion of his ass softened, taking more and more place over the counter. Amakusa sneaked his hand down his back, squeezing the thick globe of pure fat. His nails dug in the flesh and the ripples traveled to his knees, the flab a perfect conductor for them. Moving up, he groped his large love handles - they have united with the bulk of his gut, forming a flabby ring around him. 

How huge was he? He could see nothing, only feeling his belly bulge and his shirt rise and his pants tighten…  Once the lights came back, Amakusa expected incredible joy and disappointment. He would find how enormous he had become, yet it would never reach his imagination. If his lardy ass covered the counter, the floor would be the next challenge, then the rest of Chaldea…

After each gulp, he leaned back more and more, the sudden weight of his gut proving too much for a Servant’s body - or another effect of the curse? The more his belly surged out, the closer he came to lying down, pinned under the always growing weight of his own fat. Could he even stand up on his own once done? Or he would rely on the Count’s whims: seemingly unpredictable, but completely under Amakusa’s control and in an endless game of cat and mouse?

As Amakusa lay on his back, the warm fat insulating the cold counter, the last spurt of the ice cream fell in his throat and pushed out his flabby sphere of a gut.

“Perfect!” The Count dissolved the shadows and jabbed his fingers in Amakusa’s stomach, above his belly button. The vibrations shook his mass, reaching to his now-ample moobs. “With all this fat pressing you down, you must feel -“

“Perfect.” Amakusa cut in Edmond. He huffed as he sat up, mashing his bulbous gut and forcing more pressure on his soft ass. “Did you believe that you can make me regret it? Abandon my gluttony?” He laughed, feeling his chubby cheeks wobble. “Avenger, this time your plans failed.”

The Count clenched fists. A storm of sparks flared around him, throwing blinding light over the kitchen. Amakusa bowed head, avoiding the sudden brightness. He saw his rolls: wide and flabby, daring almost to touch the counter.

“I failed!” The Count stomped away, causing the kitchen to shake - Amakusa’s fat body included. “I had only to force you to regret your sin, make you detest your desires - to punish you in Archer’s name! And now the night has fallen to ruin.” His body vacuumed all the sparks but the palest light.

“It does not have to be,” Amakusa said. “We have not touched the cake. Your last chance to make me detest the curse. Will you take up to the challenge?”

“Yes,” Edmond muttered. “Yes!” he roared, clenching fists in a triumphant pose. “You, mon ami, will curse my name by the end of the night!” He burnt bright with sparks. The closer he walked to Amakusa, the more air around him heated. “I swear it! As the sun rises, you will curse the Count of Monte Cristo!”

“And I swear,” Amakusa replied in turn, “to make you admit that you have enjoyed the night.” It was a deal with a handsome devil; a bet he would win. He extended his pudgy hand to Edmond’s slender one.

Edmond fell in the trap; once their fingers pressed, Amakusa pulled him closer, making him fall in the mountain of his gut. The sudden movement made Amakusa’s whole body jiggle like a ball of squishy jelly. Trying to push himself up from the soft pile, Edmond only sent greater tremors through it. He spoke horrible curses, his fiery tongue licking Amakusa’s skin. The priest wanted only to keep him there forever, worshiping and feeding him.

Alas, the momentary happiness had to end. Using his shadows, the Count pulled himself free. “I have never thought a priest as you would fall to such nasty tricks.” He draped over Amakusa. His hands groped his flabby moobs for support. “You could have asked.”

“You would have refused,” Amakusa smiled without a trace of regret. “Or I have won?”

“Not even close. I am merely -“ he leaned even closer, above the priest’s lips, “- casting a bigger net.” Edmond massaged Amakusa’s moobs, his fingers squeezing the two sacks of flab. His knees gently kneaded the gigantic mass of his gut.

Amakusa’s pants tightened even more. His erect dick pressed in the flab of his tights, and each ripple of his belly sent a stronger joust of pleasure through it. “And how it helps you to give me more pleasure?”

Edmond’s heated breath touched the priest’s face. “I could chain you with the shadows and leave you here.” One of his hands slipped lower and stroke Amakusa’s dick slowly. “Begging on the verge of a release that is not coming.”

“Is this your rumored cruelty, Avenger?” Amakusa smiled and pulled Edmond in a tight hug. “Then I will reply in kind.” He dragged his flabby hands over the Count’s back, holding them over his tight, tiny ass. Edmond’s dick poked into Amakusa’s stomach. “Now we are even.”

“Do not overstep your bounds, Ruler.” Pressing hands on the counter, Edmond pushed himself up above Amakusa’s face, close, but out of reach.  “I might just decide to leave you packed in shadows as a present for the Archer.”

“Perhaps it is your fault. If someone was… I don’t know - feeding me too fast - I would have no time to play with you.” Amakusa trailed a finger over his fat, empty gut. “Bear the responsibility and keep engorging me. Ensure I grow constantly.”

“Your tendency for shameful moves should have made you a Caster. A warning to the people, who don’t expect sneaky priests.” Edmond jumped off the counter and turned his back to Amakusa. “No.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I knew your nature and still chose to fight against you.” The flame in his eyes glowed. “Enfer Château d’If!” His body tensed and in the next second, he had Amakusa gagged again, while he leaned over his mouth with a chunk of the cake. 

One shadow had coiled around Amakusa’s calves, squishing the fat on them, and slammed them to the base of the counter. A second bound his hands, forcing him to lie down on the table. 

Amakusa smirked and opened his lips. “I won,” he muttered before the Count pushed the pastry down his throat. He gulped the light, extra buttery dough, letting the curse do its job. His tights fattened around his hard dick, embracing it in hot flab. Almost cuming, Amakusa ground them together. The movement shook his stomach, its bottom roll falling onto the tip of his cock and pressing deeper.

The Count moved at a fiendish speed; before Amakusa could gulp, a new portion of the cake had filled his mouth. Using both hands, he tore from Archer’s masterpiece, all in the important goal of feeding his priest. Amakusa twitched, his erection throbbing. 

His moobs - two balls of fat that could rival Raikou’s - strained the black shirt which fought in vain to cover them. His sleeves fared even worse; bits of exposed skin oozed out of the large tears. The tight pants endured the longest, yet as Amakusa’s gut pushed out heavier, fatter, more decadent, the waistband groaned. After an especially heavy chunk, the layer of fat forced it stretch more. The fabric could not take it and with a loud sound tore all the way down to his crotch.

Amakusa moaned as he felt himself cum, soaking his tight underpants. The Count paid no notice, only using the opportunity to force even more food into his wide-opened mouth. The priest’s body heated even more as a haze of incredible pleasure clouded his thoughts. He ate on autopilot, not caring how big he would end - it would not be enough. Thus, they would repeat the night’s session later, when…

The sweet flow of the cake ended. “What happened?” he asked, licking his lips. “Have I eaten the entire cake?” Already? Even with Edmond’s Noble Phantasm increasing his speed, the doughy tower should have lasted longer. Amakusa wanted to check, but his fattened neck and the tight shadows restricted his movement.

“Not yet.” The Count gritted his teeth, turning his head away from Amakusa. The long shade of his collar hid his face. “But I lost my only advantage. You have won. I do not have to feed you further,” he said in a weak tone. Melting away, the shadows released their prisoner.

‘You have won.’ The hollow words did nothing to fill the void in Amakusa’s stomach. He lay unmoving, staring at the dark ceiling of the room while Edmond walked away. “Wait,” he said, just as the Count stood in the door, ready to leave him. “As long as there’s some cake left, you have chances. You can fatten me so much that I would regret it. So fat that I would depend on you for everything.”

Edmond leaned on the door. “And yet you would still like it. Tell me, priest, one reason not to leave.”

“You will never know. I might just realize I dislike my size once the cake is over. Would you risk missing the chance to taunt me over it and mock me? Would the Avenger miss his vengeance? Besides,” Amakusa whispered an octave lower, “I am sure you are as aroused as I was.”

“Even the goddess of pleasure cannot compete with you.” The Count turned, his coat fluttering behind him in an arc. “Very well, priest. You will entertain me for some more time.”

Tomorrow, Amakusa would deal with the questions, the stares, and the consequences. The Great Order, the King of Mages, even simply moving became a distant goal. Tonight he had a cake to finish and a Count to tease.

#weight gain stories #male weight gain #male weight gain stories #weight gain fanifction #Fate Grand Order #amakusa shirou #edmond dantes #chubwritings

[the-wintershade]

in another life (I surely was there)

pairing: loki x reader summary: he wants to create a new world and he needs you -- loves you, but love is corrupt and he fails to realize the corrosiveness of his affections. wc: 3.1k+ genre: slightly angsty, dark, unhealthy desires, villian!loki

The first thing he learns is there is always darkness in the dawn. 

Thrown onto the ground after portaling to Joutenheim, he cowers in the face of danger and death but swallows the unnecessary emotions with a pearly grin. There’s nothing that grin can’t repair, can’t magically fix. 

They speak, the giant’s red stare burning holes in Loki’s perfectly concocted excuse. He bites back his unrestrainable irritation and partial embarrassment and continues with the facade hoping that they’ll grant his true desire. 

….

He watches it in your face. 

Your eyes zone onto his and he feels the anger, hurt, disappointment vibrating in the air around you — even if you are several feet in front of him. Your chest heaves, blood stains your brow crimson, and your eyes curl with darkness, conjuring every hateful emotion available to you. 

But you smile at him, lips painted red. And it’s the smile that frightens him the most. 

It’s not a smile of joy like he’s used to, but a smile with the promise of retribution, with the inkling of death and the promise of a deep, chilling anguish. 

He knows he shouldn’t have left. And you turn away from him, throwing yourself back into the slaughter, defending the innocent while he watches, rooted in place, afraid — not by you but for you. 

…

You ignore him. 

Even when beaten to a pulp and unable to lift a leg muscle, you refuse his help. It is the captain who carries you to the safety of the jet as you cling to consciousness. 

He feels how desperately you sway between life and death and hovers around, wanting to fight the man of black with a sharpened scythe. He can’t take you away, you still have sinners to punish, breakers of justice and righteousness to cleanse. 

Your work here can’t be done. It’s barely begun. 

He watched you go into the fray, punching wildly, impacts of limbs constantly striking you, repeatedly, without stopping. He would have stepped in if you hadn’t been so, so—

Your eyes peel themselves open and a moan escapes your mouth and it’s like he’s breathing again for the first time. They don’t stay open long enough; he needs to feel that wrath inducing stare pin down. But he can relax. You’ll pull through, he’s sure of that. 

….

He finds out quickly that everything won’t go back to normal with flowers...or chocolate...or a gem refined by the dwarfs. 

Nothing brings you back to him and he eats every present he brings you with no eye contact, no acknowledgement, and no indication that you’re aware he’s here. 

He feels hollow, invisible, a ghost to forever haunt an unbeliever. 

Bandages nearly obscure your face and now he feels horrible for leaving you and the others to fight the demon spawns of some alien race. He may have made a terrible mistake there but he couldn’t comprehend how you could ignore him so well. 

He couldn’t understand how you frosted over in one day and now you were an impenetrable block of ice that no amount of warmth and care and heat he produced, you wouldn’t crack. 

He was supposed to be the heartless one, not you. This was wrong.

…

“Why are you avoiding me? Why are you trying so hard to be as far away as possible?” He breaks the tension in the air, splitting the unspoken rule of silence established when it was just the two of you in a room. 

It wasn’t like him to talk about motivations or ideas behind doing things. It wasn’t like him to bring up conflict. He was doing a lot of things he wasn’t used to doing now. 

You glared. There was nothing in your eyes that gave the inkling of a promised answer. 

He took two steps forward and you crossed to the other side of the room. 

He felt it then. The split, the divide, the chasm that had opened between the two of you. 

You wanted nothing to do with him. Nothing at all. And he was still holding onto who you used to be. Both stuck in limbo. Both trapped in each other. 

Instead of saying anything, you exited the room and Loki just stopped and stared. Maybe it’s time to give up. Maybe it’s time to let go. 

…

You fall through the air. 

And you smile. 

That’s the first thing he finds strange. The second is your obvious lack of concern for your own safety. Because you used to warn him all the time to protect himself and be careful, always with a hidden undercurrent in your words. 

Loki wasn’t good at emotional attachment so he brushed away your warm eyes, easy to fall into, and did whatever. 

Now he feels what you must have felt when he was being reckless. Uncertainty. Fear. 

The wind whips your hair and Loki only hesitates a second in horror before catching you and teleporting you to solid ground with him. 

He holds you firmly, but you still refuse to pay him any mind. “Don’t—“ he breathes raggedly, as if he’d run a mile in the past few seconds. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He watches you fragment. The walls you’ve carefully built fall for a moment and only a moment before those soft, open eyes shift into a predatory, hateful gaze. 

You shake out of his arms and weave out of his reach. “You should have let me fall.” You toss over the back of your shoulder and it’s the first time Loki can remember the echoing staccato of hurt. 

…

He doesn’t leave. Not this time. Not even when the whole team is beaten senseless. 

Not even when his skin is turning all shades of black and blue and his legs crumple under the strain. Not even when this battle is going so far left that he’s certain that you’ll all be overrun.

He bites back the bile worming its way through his throat and cuts down another monster, a twisted creation he likely had some involvement in sending there. His fingers ache from gripping harder than necessary on the handle of his knife. He lets them flex, breathing against the tight cage he forced them into.

He’d missed it. It was too late for any reaction as it sunk into his abdomen. 

He couldn’t scream. Oh no. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a whimper or a plea for forgiveness. He was already light years past that now. 

Besides the quick response of his limbs that move on their own to drive his weapon down to the hilt into their throat, the pain is still there. Blooming. Spreading faster than he anticipated. 

The monster had gotten him good. Better than he could have done while he was paying attention to you.

You were like Tyr himself, a devastating figure of little remorse and brute strength. He knew what that power could do to a person. Its fuel lies in the deep recesses of the mind, midnight ebony and bloodstained red colliding to produce a substance of deep scorching pain. Yours spilled right out of you; it was like he could see it. Like it had a tangible shape, a shadow that clung to you, echoing your movements like a spectral warrior.

And it was impressive and so out of character for you. 

Loki was awed by you once again and that awe led to his own demise. Figures.

He’s not bitter about it all, hitting the ground, watching vermillion soak his clothes and bury into the earth. He’s not devastated that his one true wish might not be fulfilled. 

He’s thankful. For the first time in his life, he’s grateful to watch you become the force he knew you always could be. 

He’s just sorry that he might have been the catalyst for such change.

…

“Loki.” Your face contorts in determination and a firm pleading. “Loki, can you hear me?” He would have thought this was the afterlife, the final test, the final trial to make everything right before he would inevitably be sent to hell. Then he saw the red smeared against the corner of your mouth and knew, oh, I’m still breathing.

He sees no traces of real concern on your face and his own falls at the absence. He just wishes he could make it all right. That he could change that stupid wish he’d made so many weeks ago.

But he was bound. 

There was nothing he could do to get out of it all. He’d be stuck until the plan was fulfilled. 

“Don’t die, okay? Just-” He watches your face contort in a mixture of pain and anxiety. For the first time in a while, he believes that he may be able to peel the darkness back, beat his doubts and the voices in his head warning him that all this will be for nought.

But they always return, always creep along in the back of his mind, circling like one of Odin’s devout warriors, ravens ready to devour a meal.

He’ll lose you, one way or another. 

And that terrifies him more than the blue skin and red eyes he knows he has. It scares him more than his brotherhood with the giants of old and their unnatural complexion — his unnatural appearance.

He’s doing this all for a reason, a purpose that he can see, but others can’t. He doesn’t fool himself that you’ll be able to see it too.

“Hold on.” Your words warm him. He doesn’t feel the sting of the cold when you’re near. He can trick himself and believe that he’s human, not the being of frost that hides beneath the pallor of his glamour.

And when your hand slips into his own, bolstering ice with flame, he breaks in two. He’ll lose you. He knows you’ll leave him too.

…

He can feel you there, right next to him in recovery. He’s well aware of the scorn that the members of earth’s defenders have given you. 

He almost wishes that you would run away from him, cast him off like everyone else does. But a bigger part is thankful that you stayed, even if it’s selfish, even if the end will be bitter.

Your hand is right there next to him. It lies limp on the bed, your head lolled to the side in your slumber. His hand crosses the space separating you from physical contact and grasps your hand in his.

You stir, eyes blurry and dark, waiting, coiled and ready to spring. Gently, he brings your hand to his lips. He feels the darkness stir underneath and in a few days time, everything will fall into place.

He’s just sorry it had to be this way.

“I love you.” He’s not lying when he says it. He’s not saying it because it will win you over, not because he feels obligated to. He’s saying it because it’s the truth. 

There’s no grin to hide behind, no smile to cover up a trick. Just him and you and the truth.

Your eyes widen but the guard is still there, the walls are still up. He notices the black splotches in your irises recede for just a moment and then the moment’s gone.

The Avengers think it’s a side effect of a monster bite and the black veins, spiderweb bruising, and your general temperament will return to normal. But it won’t. You’ll be consumed and if you don’t fight your way out, you could die.

But he doesn’t see that in your future.

You’re too strong.

Your eyes watch his, waiting for the trick, for the moment the cat is out of the bag. When you don’t see one, your hold on him tightens. The words never come out of your mouth and he’s not sure that you can fully reciprocate his words, but you feel something and it’s strong enough to keep you within reach.

He’s thankful that you’ll share this moment together, that maybe this memory won’t be soiled when the change happens.

…

You’re gone.

The change came a few days later and Hel was right there, as was originally discussed, ready to take you for when the time came, when the final days of asgard were in sight.

He flashed that charming smile at his sister and tired to bargain with her. He knew that not seeing you was apart of the plan, that for this to work in accordance with the frost giants he would have to avoid seeing you.

But that wasn’t enough for him. He was greedy, what could he say?

It’s why he was doing this all in the first place.

For the greed of power, of recognition, of the world paying attention to the insignificant brother next to the heir to the throne. It was for the world to forever know his name. He was greedy and selfish; he wouldn’t deny that.

But he was even more greedy when it comes to you. He didn’t want to let you go. He would fight, tooth and nail, to hold onto you.

But Hel, holding your almost completely corrupted figure from falling to the ground, refused. She said no.

You were her warrior now and you’d be a powerful force at that.

And then she sank into the underground, dragging you, her slave, down with her.

The hole in his chest grew that much larger and without trying to, he fell to the grass where you just stood, gripping it firmly in his fingers, feeling the gap between you grow that much larger.

…

It’s been years now. Odin is dead. Ragnorak has begun.

His face is bloody and he no longer hides who he is, no longer denies his true self from the world. 

His skin is a deep cobalt and his eyes burn like rubies set ablaze. He runs with his brothers, no longer ashamed, no longer afraid of the wrath of the Asir. He’s free to burn down his false home as he chooses and Hel has brought her warriors.

The thought of you crossed his mind a few times, wondering where your face would be in the crowd, what powers you would have, how dark and twisted you might have become.

He still feels horrible, but it was for a purpose.

Somehow he hopes he’ll live long enough to see you again, when this is all over, when he’s able to explain everything.

…

“Loki?” He cradled your broken body against him, smoothing the hair and grime from your face. The black lines receded from your face and you were no longer a demon. Loki now looked like the frost giant he was. It was truth to truth, no cover ups or falsities. “Why did you abandon me?”

Abandon?

No, he didn’t abandon you. He helped you work towards a higher purpose. He endowed you with something greater.

“No, no. I didn’t abandon you, (name). I helped you. I made you something greater.” He watched your eyes unfocus and waited before you were able to speak again.

“You lied and corrupted and hurt me. You made me a monster who does horrible things. You dragged me into a war that had nothing to do with me.” You lolled your head over in his direction, the ebony lines weaving in and out of your pupils. “You killed me. My death is your fault.”

He almost dropped you. This was nonsense, slander. You couldn’t be serious. You had to see it his way now. This was necessary. The world was evil and abandones others, but he was there to make it right again.

The world needed a new world order. He was going to give it to them.

“No, (name).” He pulled you closer and gazed deeply into your eyes. “I love you. I want greatness for you. I need you here with me.”

You laughed, laughed harder than you should be able to while on the brink of death. Your hand came up to cup his cheek. “You were always the gullible brother.”

You transformed in front of his eyes and in your stead, Hel stared right back at him. “Like my little performance? I thought that your broken human would be a great way to fool you.”

She streaked against the ash on the ground and Loki stood up, watching her with malice. As he made a dash in her direction, he ran into a bubble, a forcefield of power locking him in. A cage. Another cursed cage.

“You didn’t really think that you’d come on top of this battle.” She smirked and then scoffed at the shock on his face. “You’re too weak brother. You’re too naive. You think you know everything when the person you should have been asking about death was me.” His eyes burned and stinged. “If you want to wipe the slate clean and rule this new world, at least pair with the right person to accomplish your goals. The frost giants never needed you; they needed me. I am going to rule this new world while you sit here in this prison for the rest of eternity.”

He slummed, defeated, tears of shame ready to coat his face. “Oh, and while we were on the subject of your precious little human, you should know that she was wonderful. So much potential, so much power and strength. It’s really a shame that she fell. I was fond of her.”

She smirked when he crumbled. “Tootles, darling.”

Waving, she walked away into the darkness, into death, what she lived and breathed, while Loki sat, in the remnants of Asgard, wondering how he could have thought that this was going to end up any differently.

And as he turned, he found you, sprawled on the ground, a hole in your chest, eyes staring right at him asking, how could you, how could you, how could you? 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

…

100 years have passed and he still sits in this forgotten cage in a forgot era. He’s let out from time to time, completing one job or another, but he’s eventually locked up again, doomed to live a lonely existence.

He still sees that face. He still sees your eyes that used to shine.

Loki knew you were aware that he was up to something, that he’d betrayed you somehow, that your story and his were intertwined forever. 

And then he sees the darkness take shape, how you’re taking risks you didn’t used to, how your nature changed.

He realized that’s love. That’s what it does to people. Love won’t save, love will corrupt. The name of love means nothing, trust means nothing, and he was foolish to think that you would understand.

But he would find another.

Maybe someone a little stronger, a little purer, and a little more in love with him. Maybe he’d find someone who understood and in the next 500 years, he’d be able to win this time.

Maybe the 6th attempt would be the charm.

a/n: hi, it’s been a while. I hope you’re taking care of yourself and taking the time you need.

I love you. It’s good to be back. 

~Ruby

#wintershade #loki fanfic #loki fic #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #loki laufeyson fanfic #loki/reader #loki x reader #loki x you

[covrtofnightmares]

&&. cauldron above, ( ronan ludolf ) was just spotted in the fae lands — word has it ( he ) is affiliated with ( the wild hunt ). ( he ) is a ( 480 / physically 42 ) year old ( wild hunt fae ). it’s been said that ( he ) resembles ( idris elba ). ( he ) has been said to be ( practical & observant ) but also quite ( distrusting & skeptical ). ( he ) is currently serving as ( the spymaster of the wild hunt ).

— ❝ i’ve had to burn your kingdom down. ❞

name: ronan amari ludolf

birthday: august 22nd | leo

scent: vanilla, fresh pine, cedarwood, jasmine, the earth after its first frost

appearance:  standing at 6′3″, ronan wears his years of experience and training on him like a tight-fitting glove. being a spymaster is physically demanding work and his physique reflects that. he tends to keep a bit of a beard, now flecked with bits of gray with age, and keeps his hair cut close to his head.

current familial / relationship status: ronan’s entire family has passed away as of present, leaving him effectively alone, so to speak.

biography: ronan ludolf was born to a bright, vibrant, and bustling wild hunt family. he was the middle child, with two elder siblings (an older sister and brother) and three younger siblings (two younger sisters and a younger brother). his parents were poor, but loved each other dearly; together, the ludolf family settled on the fringes of the widowed oak, keeping to themselves while the nightborne family ruled the isolated lands around them. their happy family was not meant for long, however; as darkness settled over astralis and erik newblood fought for control of the spring court, skirmishes broke out across the fae realms. the widowed oak, being as isolated as it was from the dealings of the seasonal and solar courts, was relatively safe. ronan’s family, however, was not. his father was a tradesman, and as the entire family traveled towards the neutral territory to sell their wares, they were attacked by members of erik’s legion. the fight was bloody and brutal, and at the end, fifteen year old ronan ludolf was the only surviving member of his family. he only narrowly missed detection from the enraged warrior fae by pretending to be dead, covering his face and abdomen in his family’s blood so that he would go unnoticed by the creatures who had terrorized, robbed, and destroyed his family.

after that, ronan’s entire world changed.

when news of his family reached the wolf queen’s ears, jade nightborne was quick to take ronan under her wing. he was given lodgings in the royal palace and began work, first as a servant, and then as an apprentice to the queen’s legion of soldiers. ronan grew up and allowed his anger and grief to mold him into a weapon; he would live and die by the throne, no matter what it took. when the queen welcomed her first child into the world, a smiling little baby named laurent morningstar, ronan felt something akin to awe and wonder. ronan loved laurent, and swore on his life that he would do whatever it took to protect the queen’s newly prized jewel, no matter what court he was in. but no matter how much ronan loved and cared for laurent, as though he was a missing piece of the family the jaded young man had lost so many moons ago, it wasn’t enough. laurent rebelled against the very idea of the wild hunt, seeking solace in his father’s home of the day court and all of its wares. he rebelled against jade and against his parents’ fractured relationship. and try as ronan might to support the young prince unconditionally, ronan could not make laurent love himself and honor his title of the lupine throne if he didn’t wish to. 

when jade beget another son, this time to her bonded mate, kieran nightborne, young pup lucien became the sort of heir jade had always envisioned for the wild hunt’s throne. ronan continued to serve as a faithful soldier, committing espionage and mercenary work on behalf of the crown, as he sought out information on the men who had killed his family so many moons ago. though the nightbornes had become a sort of makeshift family for ronan, he could never forget the laughing, happy faces of his parents and his siblings. most nights, ronan felt that he didn’t deserve to live while the rest of his family was dead. he swore vengeance and retribution for the crimes committed against them, even if it was his final act. kieran supported ronan’s thirst for vengeance, supplying the spy with the information and tools necessary to protect and defend himself against any assailants. one by one, ronan tracked down each and every warrior fae responsible for the death of his family on that fateful evening on astralis’ dirt roads, and after he pulled their secrets from them, he tore their hearts from their chests, just as they had done to him so many years ago. an eye for an eye. one heart for another.

by the time ronan returned to the wild hunt, tension and unease had descended upon the royal family. ronan had tried his hardest to keep his favorite boys--his pseudo-children, frankly, if he was being honest--together, laurent and lucien had created a rift between each other that would eventually culminate into the downfall of a prince and the dejection of a king. he might have been uncle ronan to them, but they were also so much more to each other. ronan’s skills and prowess were rewarded, and he climbed his way up to the coveted rank of spymaster. ronan was quiet, cool, and assessing; he had more scars than he could count, but he also had the grit, determination, and fierce loyalty required of the job. 

throughout his travels, he found solace in a woman made of fire and ice. kamali was both similar and different to ronan in nearly every single way, and together, they burned bright enough to split the world in half. the two tumbled into a passionate love affair with one another before eventually producing a child together. kamau, a bouncing baby boy, was the light of ronan’s life. finally, for the first time in what felt like forever, he had a family. a family to call his own. kamau was the light of ronan’s life; a boy who grew up to become a young man full of passion, love, light, and promise. when kamau was in his late teens, still a pup in the eyes of ronan and kamali, the wild hunt received word that the human resistance was planning an attempted infiltration of the widowed oak. kamau and his friends, hearing this news, decided they wanted to do right by their parents and make them proud. the fledgling pups, having recently ascended into the hunt as full pack members, attempted to ward off the blossoming human resistance. however, having next to no control over their powers and lupine abilities, the young wolves were slaughtered by the rebellion before the humans descended back into the hidden underbelly of the underground of cloverwood forest. 

kamau’s untimely death devastated ronan, and what remained of his kindness and humanity retreated back into him like a shell. his relationship with kamali frayed apart as well and the two, burdened by grief, fell apart. kamali disappeared in the dark of the night, and ronan has not seen or heard from his son’s mother since.

years and years have passed since ronan lost kamau, but not a day goes by that he doesn’t remember the bright, burning flame that was his son. he keeps a chain with the family ring kamau had inherited around his neck at all times, tucked underneath the lining of his clothing, pressed against his chest. throughout it all, ronan has had lucien and the other members of the wild hunt. though he tends to keep to himself, a quiet, lone wolf, he is fiercely protective of his pack. even laurent, who was banished so many moons ago, holds a special and close place in ronan’s hardened heart. he has also taken the blackthorn brothers under his wing, working alongside lucien to train them into the double agents they serve as today. ronan ludolf has known nothing but strife, pain, and despair at the world raging outside of the wild hunt and the garden, and there are only two thoughts that guide him through life.

first and foremost, the other courts must suffer for failing to protect their own. second, and perhaps most potently, the human rebellion must be obliterated.

affinity: ronan is a wild hunt fae, so he possesses their lupine skills and talents

wings: similar to the wings of predatory birds found in most all wild hunt fae, ronan’s wings are reminiscent to that of a breed of forest falcon.

#RONAN // #shadowstalker: ( intro ) #ptsd tw #death tw #trauma mention #blood tw #violence tw

[sidhelives]

I'm sorry I ruined your party 👀

Hope everyone is ready for a new OC and some serious canon-divergent bullshit

Kirkwall was burning. Yellow-orange flames licked the sky, high and bright enough to reflect in the murky water surrounding the city until even the harbor appeared to be on fire. Over the creaking and crumbling of scorched timbers Hawke could hear screaming; haunting hollow sounds of anguish and fear that reminded him too much of Lothering. His jaw tensed, his guttural growl of anger lost in the cacophony of destruction, as his greatsword crashed through the guard of another Qunari warrior. The enemy's howl of pain cut through the tumult, before being sharply silenced by Hawke's savage thrust.

He was not going to lose another home.

Hawke surged up the steps towards the Viscount's Keep, vision tunneled by rage. Arrows and bolts shrieked by him, the deadly aim of his companions maiming and staggering enemies who lined the stair. The sharp coppery scent of blood preceded even sharper cracks of lightning that set his hair on end as they ricocheted between the Qunari. Frost rimed his blade as it shattered frozen invaders, ice exploding into razor-sharp shards that sliced hairline fissures into his skin. Before they could even bleed they were gone, the tingle of healing magic the only evidence that they had ever existed.

Hawke barely heard the thunderous pounding of sword against shield, hardly saw the flashes of lyrium blue and swathes of hot red it left in its wake. His focus was filled up by the adversary before him, then another, and another all leading to the immense doors, behind which lay the end of the madness that had overtaken Kirkwall.

The septet methodically cut down the guard, a wave of vengeance ripping violently through their ranks, until nothing but air stood between them from the Keep's entrance. Hawke did not take the time to enjoy the victory, the steel of his boot splintering the doors with a vicious kick that sent them crashing into the inside walls. The boom of wood against plaster reverberated through the empty marble hall, the fine imported Antivan carpets doing nothing to smother the echoes. Thick stone insulated the Keep's interior from the maelstrom of devastation beyond its walls and the tread of fourteen feet resembled the footfalls of an army in the eerie silence. Leading with a pace that invited no argument or discussion, Hawke took the stairs two at a time.

The Arishok would pay for the carnage he had brought down upon the city. No matter what the Qun may have demanded, Hawke required retribution.

Skittering, dashing footsteps careened into the Keep through the wide-flung doors. Seven sets of eyes snapped to the entrance, hands drawing bowstrings and beginning complicated gestures of spell weaving. It was only due to Hawke's halting arm thrown up as he recognized the figure which saved her from the attack.

"Isabela?" Hawke would recognize those legs anywhere. There were other, equally identifiable parts of her anatomy, of course, but they were hidden behind an enormous tome which the renegade clutched tightly to her chest.

"Hawke!" She skidded to a halt, relief washing over her features. "Andraste's tits, this is a shit show, isn't it?"

A smile cracked Hawke's stern set features. "What are you doing here?"

Isabela rolled her eyes. "I didn't come back for you if that's what you're asking."

Hawke tried to not look disappointed. "Then why?"

She sighed, climbing the stairs to join the others on the landing. "My hitherto unseen conscience reared its ugly head."

"Is that it?" Varric nodded toward the book she held.

Looking uncharacteristically sheepish, Isabela nodded. "Keeping Castillon off my back didn't seem quite as worth it when I saw the flames." She held the book out, thrusting it towards Hawke's chest. "They want it so bad, they can have it and fuck off back to Par Vollen."

Hawke raised a brow. "So why are you giving it to me?"

Isabela scoffed. "Well, I'm not going in there."

"You have to apologize," Hawke stated firmly.

Varric chuckled. "Yeah, time to make nice, Rivani."

"An admission of fault would do well to prove your contrition," Fenris agreed.

Isabela looked at them like they'd collectively sprouted second heads. "You have got to be kidding. They'll drag me off in chains."

Hawke's expression hardened. "I'm not going to let that happen."

Their eyes met, and Isabela slowly pulled the book back. "You really mean that."

He nodded firmly. "I do."

A roar ripped through the hall beyond them which lead deeper into the Keep and everyone's attention snapped to the closed doors at its end.

"Well, that doesn't sound good," Merrill remarked.

"Let's go." Hawke didn't wait for the others to agree. He marched off, driven on by deep growls and furious noises of exertion emanating from the closed-off throne room. 

Whatever the Arishok was up to, Hawke intended to put a stop to it.

He raised his greatsword higher, prepared to strike, and planted the sole of his boot just below the doorknobs, dropping into a defensive stance as the doors swung open. 

Hawke took in the scene in a flash: Nobles crowded around the edges of the room, their expressions overcome in equal parts with horror and awe. Qunari warriors stood as sentries among them, their stern visages and imposing figures acting as a barrier between the masses and the center of the room. In the middle of it all, commanding the attention of all other occupants, were two figures. The Arishok was on his knees, bloodied, bleeding from dozens of small cuts, and his weapons lay scattered across the ground. Beside him a petite female elf with hair so black it appeared blue where the light hit it and a deadly curved sword held in one hand was midway through a whirling swing, and as Hawke watched the momentum of her movement carried the razor edge of her blade through the massive neck of the Arishok, severing his head from his body. 

The doors crashed into the inner walls at the same moment the head bounced unceremoniously to the floor, and the attention of the room was immediately focused on Hawke.

His shoulders slumped dejectedly as the Arishok's body flopped to the ground. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" He yelled, dropping his greatsword with a clang.

The elf lowered her blade and narrowed her eyes at him, one brow quirking up in confusion.

"Hawke here really wanted to have it out with the Arishok," Varric explained, wide smile betraying his amusement at Hawke's outcry. "You beat him to it."

"Oh," she replied simply, glancing at the corpse then back to Hawke. "I'm sorry I ruined your party."

#fanfiction #dragon age #ask prompt #florence + the machine lyrics #sorry for the long text #please leave kudos if you like #please comment for more #fuck canon

[bikmui]

.in all his majesty, emperor of khaenri’ah, to whom the very stars bow

it was a role he knew he was born to take; the peacock in his stars but a symbol of the heavens smiling upon him; their eternal eyes firmly upon him as one who would bring this rotten kingdom he was born to serve from the brink of darkness and despair. yet hatred coiled within him still, the knowledge of the past a bitterness upon his tongue such that years later, he would prefer wine sweetened lest it remind him of that awful truth. 

why should he save those who brought fate upon themselves? 

they were those who once dared approach the argent tree; to reach the place of the gods and elevate themselves thus. yet the gods, in their eternal throne, looked upon such insolence with righteous anger, and who was he to question those above? had he not sacrificed this eye of his for their eternal knowledge, acknowledging their place in the sky, and his upon this earth? 

yet this peace, he knew, would eventually shatter when khaenri’ah waged war against the heavens and earth both. 

their message was truth. 

and he, with truth spun upon his fingertips, golden and blessed as if set aflame, set aside his promise to the gods, turned ashen in the ambrosia of truth. and he, with this crown of argent upon his head, wore darkness as his cloak, and took his place upon the rightful throne. 

khaenri’ah was a nation of darkness, laid to waste by passing centuries. yet there was beauty within withered spires and the resilience of a people who waited for his stars; for he to return to the throne. his blood was the promise of freedom from the flames of the world, sent from the skies above to cleanse sin which was but a lie of those who would remain upon a stained throne. 

if flame was their desire, then flame he would bring. 

and his blade of ice, shrouded in truth and a desire to protect a people who always believed, would cut from them withered hearts, lay to waste a kingdom of gilt marble, for retribution would bring frost upon the wind and he, with hoarfrost heart, had no heart left for mercy. what would the earth see then, gilt palace aflame in the sky the way they once set fire to a kingdom innocent? 

how the stars would shine then, for they prophesised his return. the throne’s cold embrace but a reminder of the duty which haunted him always and his crown, truth turned a blade. 

and he, inspiring those of darkness, would rise then to claim all that was stolen. 

#.hc (kaeya) #.emperor (kaeya) #//previously prince

[aydriis]

Mortala

'It didn’t have to be this way, you know.’

.

The stagnant darkness, always muddling visions and caressing ears with thoughtless whispers was a familiar sight. Despite having none to look into endless depths that swirled and convulsed mindlessly.

.

There was no solidity to brace on, yet she found herself standing all the same in what felt to be the center in the shadowscape that her body currently resided in. Dim eyes flickered against the darkness in a knowing manner; she had to endure. She always did.

.

 ‘Why do you not return?’ 

.

 An almost mournful whisper hissed against the lobe of Aydri’s ear, curling around in a leeching way. There was no physical presence other than her apparent body, but she knew better. It could still feel. It could still cause damage if it desired. Her hand moved to brush it away like a fly, swatting aimlessly towards her shoulder with a disgusted curl of her lips. 

.

“Don’t ask questions that you know the answers of, Kaz’fi.” 

.

The words echoed throughout the endless chamber, spite resonating in each word that passed through her lips as her legs willed themselves to move forward. There was no destination, there never was here, but still she moved. Restlessness began to creep along her spine and give way to the paranoia that was valiantly fought against. It seemed the Kaz’fi was almost bemused, a feeling giving way to a more sinister hiss of laughter. 

.

‘Always so turbulent, yet never welcoming. You wound me.’

.

Dark teal tresses almost floated in the action of Aydri’s head twisting around, glaring at nothing in particular but with intent. “If I could inflict the fantasies of ending your pathetic existence, maybe I’d finally have a good fucking night of sleep.” Teeth ground out the words, non-existent patience giving way as her footsteps echoed heavier, thudding against the murkiness that surrounded.

.

Suddenly, everything froze. 

.

An all too familiar cold shiver ran through her core, and it took everything to keep a straight glower into the mirror image of herself that appeared, keeping her in place and curling maliciously with a few clicks and jolts of its wispy form. Eyes that belonged to her peered at Aydri unnervingly and too wide to be natural, jaw almost unhinging with how dislocated it became as the Kaz’fi wheezed out. 

.

‘You worked so hard to receive your blessings, and yet you threw them away. How can you hold a candle to me when you refuse to even see into the depths of your soul?’ 

.

Still held in place, she stayed. Unrelenting and determined with a glint in her eyes. They always played this game when she faltered, let herself truly rest. It was the way the Kaz’fi worked, and it surely lived up to its masters wishes. A deep exhale was almost snorted through her nostrils, focusing on breaking the invisible bonds that held her in place. This caused the mirror of herself to completely unhinge its jaw, a shrieking and hair standing cackle resonating around the chamber that held them. A finger rose in a chastising manner towards Aydri, tutting. 

.

‘I always have to remind you, don’t I? Even the most devoted shall be executed through His will. It is the way.’ 

.

The words had a cold simplicity, as if merely whispering facts that a child would know. Words that made her want to shut her eyes and block it all out, yet wide open they stayed. The Kaz’fi shifted, the form of Aydri no longer in front of her, but rather a large reflective pool of water suspended above. Tendrils of dark liquid crept towards the ground and around her body, wrapping with frost biting touches that burned her skin. Small wisps circled around her head and struck themselves into the temples, leeching on as a soundless cry emitted from her throat against closed lips. 

.

A plethora of images and sensations came rushing through, overstimulating even the strongest of minds.

(TW: blood, violence)

.

.

...Cries of anguish as the wet slaps of spiked whips flayed the skins of the tributes; men, women, and children dressed in the purity of white that was stained with the devotion to the gods they were meant for. Scales of cobras wrapped around the necks with a hiss, glowing eyes peering right at her. 

.

‘You did this to them.’ 

.

....The taste of blood poured out from her lips to let past devotions flow down her chin and onto her chest, coughing and choking as the imagery of a Darkspear woman began to carve and stab into her skin. Mutterings of Zandali echoed throughout, reverbing and shaking the darkness into a cacophony of suffering--of power to be obtained. 

.

‘You achieved this through them.’ 

.

...Ceremonial robes with chiming footsteps passed on either side, gliding along to meet at an altar. Carved masks of bone and sinew let no expressions be known as heads all tilted to stare. A large basilisk slowly rose from the shadows, scales glimmering with wisps of shadows that curled around the apostles that knelt before its form. Sharp eyes seemed to stab her, her own beginning to bleed and create markings on her cheeks that flowed over her scar. 

.

‘You were blessed by them.’ 

.

...The tendrils moved about, destroying the shapes created and slowly forming into something more. From the depths rose a tall figure of authority. One of charm and promised wishes, lips curled into a deceitful smirk that accented the glow of eyes underneath the skull mask that shrouded his face from obscurity. 

.

‘You betrayed them.’ 

.

...His hand reached out to cusp her cheek, caressing before it plunged into her chest and gripped her heart with the burn of retribution. A choked gasp sounded from the cavity of her chest, unable to sound out past blocked lips of blood that accompanied the rigor mortis running through her limbs slowly. The hand was retracted, bloodied and holding the visceral organ that it had sought to claim. With a dark chuckle, the shadows consumed it. Aydri’s body then convulsed and shook, twisting this way and that with unnatural jerks that made her grit her teeth and groan. Eyes stayed trained on the figure, contempt of the purest nature running deep in her hues. 

.

‘You will face consequences.’ 

.

...The figure waved his arm, revealing a scenery of utter destruction and death. Buildings were torn down and bodies littered the streets, ships were sunk and many familiar faces were twisted in the cold grips of death. A trail of blood led to a large gathering of ceremonial robes and the devoted with flames licking along the outskirts of a ritualistic circle, multiple bodies crucified against stone pillars and mutilated. 

.

‘You will be found.’ 

.

...They made her hurt to look at, and all made tears glimmer against the corners of her eyes. Dreadful feelings of failure and guilt came in waves, threatening to drown her very being as her lips so desperately wanted to part in protest. 

.

...Then, he was there. Strapped upon a table and struggling to break free. Her eyes met that gaze, one that was usually so full of life now shrouded in fear and pain made her want to collapse. The familiar glint of a dagger was all that was given before the screams of agony rang through her ears. Fury and affliction ran through her body, willing herself to bite her lip and twist herself forward from the tortuous noise. 

.

‘You will be the harbinger of death to them.’ 

.

“NO!” 

. 

. 

. 

Gasps of oxygen starved lungs heaved her chest, hands almost shredding the sheets that were twisted in her grasp as paranoia stricken hues stared open to the ceiling above. They soon darted around the room, muscles tensed and frozen in place as a sense of dread washed through her very core. 

After a few long minutes of heaving breaths and cold sweat running down her spine, the haze lifted. A thick swallow was allowed, and a hand came up to rest against her scalp, running through knotted strands shakily. 

 It was getting more bold, and Aydri couldn’t help but wonder if she was getting more weak. A thought that was quickly pushed down; locked away to prevent the seeds of doubt that threatened to take root. 

 She wouldn’t let it happen. 

 It couldn’t.

#writing #aydri #halloween special #:eyes:

[queer-as-used-by-tolkien]

Character Study: Braham (Part 2: Ottilia)

Prev | Next (Interlude)

We left off with Braham at the end of Flame and Frost: Retribution, with Rox and the Vigil, continuing to raid Molten Facilities, rescuing more 'steaders, but primarily looking for Ottilia, whom he has a crush on.

At some point (presumably while Last Stand at Southsun is going on,) Braham finds Ottilia in Hoelbrak and brings her back to Cragstead. There she says she liked Hoelbrak better because it was more beautiful, "vibrant and alive" compared to Cragstead which is still damaged.

We point out in some surprise that she lives here, doesn't she care about it?

Ottilia acknowledges this, explaining that Braham had brought her back. She tells us that nobody had ever done that for her, and sighs over how amazing he is.

Amused, we say "So it seems," and the conversation ends.

Later, Braham approaches Ottilia and tries (awkwardly) to make small talk, asking if she's glad to be home.

She supposes so, but is more glad that Braham is here too.

Braham tries to answer, but he quickly stumbles over his words and can't find his answer.

Ottilia giggles, calls him adorable, and runs off.

(Teenagers having crushes! Who would have thought this would feature in GW2? XD).

Presumably, Braham tries to start conversation with Ottilia a few more times, which ends in embarrassment, and nothing seems to be going anywhere for Braham until the first Dragon Bash - held in Lion's Arch - begins.

Finally, Ottilia makes her own move and initiates a conversation with Braham, suggesting they go on a hunt.

Braham, presumably caught off guard, is confused and trips over his words until he manages to ask what she wants to hunt, naming jotun and Svanir as possibilities. (Both active enemies of the norn.)

Ottilia replies airily that she wants a new rabbit-fur vest and would rather fight rabbits (weak little creatures, and also very adorable, and who remembers the Bunny Spirit?!).

Braham, confused about hunting them, repeats "Rabbits?"

Ottilia ignores him and brightly informs him time and place, leaving Braham in the dust still scrambling for words.

Braham, of course, still shows up the next morning and hunts rabbits with her, but rabbits aren't really his preferred enemies and he sees it as a sacrifice he has to make to win over Ottilia.

I imagine they don't keep going on rabbit hunts for very long, but I'm sure similar encounters - awkward, Ottilia charging ahead and taking the lead, Braham stumbling over his words and perhaps not being super happy with where it's going - happen between them while the Commander is busy during Sky Pirates of Tyria.

After that, though, during the Bazaar of the Four Winds, there is apparently some sort of Wolf Spirit Appreciation Day, and Braham gets himself a plan, gathers himself and approaches Ottilia with remarkable composure, asking if she wants to go to Wolf's shrine together.

She says no (ouch), and explains that she'd already gone. Most people would take that as a rejection and just leave.

Braham however, is not daunted by this and keeps his cool. His backup plan plan kicks in and he asks if they could eat together that evening.

Ottilia then flat-out tells him she's going with someone else, a fur trader, and asks Braham rather nastily what he does for living, legend, or fame.

He is finally at a loss for words (perfectly understandable) - he'd saved Cragstead, hadn't he? He's spent the last four episodes (several months!) taking care of it! What kind of a question is that? But he only manages to stammer out a confused "what?"

Ottilia sneers that he's just "growing old in Cragstead like all the others." She leaves, calling "I'll send news of my travels. Promise!" over her shoulder.

As far as rejections go, that's a pretty awful one. Braham is, of course, devastated, and during the next episode (Cutthroat Politics), Braham gets to watch Ottilia making plans with her fur trader, telling everyone who will listen that she's going to Hoelbrak with a merchant who travels the world.

Rox visits Braham at some point and finds out about all this mess, and eventually drags him to the Queen's Jubilee to keep Braham's mind off of Ottilia.

For a while, this works - Braham admires the set-up and the show the humans are putting on, but eventually his attitude starts getting more grouchy.

Rox, casting around for something to say, suddenly exclaims "wait, Kuh-bam? This whole time I thought you were saying "Kuh-Braham!" Braham is rather affronted by this, and Rox keeps the dialogue going, eventually claiming that she'll start going around saying "Kuh-Rox" and "Kuh-Frostbite."

Eventually, Rox runs out of things to say and subjects to bring up, and just grumbles, "Try concentrating on the good time we're about to have instead of the vicious harpy who broke your heart."

This sets Braham off and he starts ranting about Ottiiia, saying he'll never love again. He manages to curse out rabbits before Rox takes him to the battle arena.

He likes this and cools himself off, even after the end of the official Closing Ceremony, and he seems to work off his lovesickness fairly well given that we never hear about Ottilia again.

But he also doesn't return to Cragstead. I'm thinking that Ottilia's comment about him doing nothing interesting to build his legend got under his skin.

~oOoOo~

Credit to the Gulid Wars 2 Wiki (and especially its editors!) for the pages on Ottilia and Braham, and also the admirably well-documented S1 story mission pages that detail all the dialogues I pulled from four episodes to know what Braham's been doing!

Prev | Next (Magic)

#braham eirsson #ottilia #rox #molten alliance #molten facilities #dragon bash #lion's arch #marjory delaqua #kasmeer meade #bazaar of the four winds #queen's jubilee #cutthroat politics #clockwork chaos #tower of nightmares #the nightmares within #the nightmare is over #origins of madness #twisted marionette #Ebbe #<- I'm tagging him out of duty #but I deliberately left him last and didn't mention him in the actual post #just to illustrate how really unmemorable he is compared to Braham #Ottilia's a harpy and I'm glad Braham got over her #but seriously girl #gw2

[ravioverse]

Masterlist

Vex has been officially wrapped up, so now we continue on with Sketch and A Link Between Worlds!

Ravioverse Lore & Other Assorted Pieces

The Four Goddesses of Lorule

The Sovereign Rod

The Timeline & Universe Hopping

The Spirit of the Hero & the Reincarnation Cycle

The Necroi: Tribes, Customs, Traditions, and Beliefs (to be continued...)

The Origin of the Hero:

The Rise of the Demon King

The Hero’s Quest

The Banishment of Demise

Fivefold Flame:

Prologue

The Surface

The Silent Realms

The Triforce

The Dark Mirror:

The History of the Mirrors

The Gerudo King and the Mirror

The Shadow’s Charge

Vicious Retribution

The Shadow’s Defeat

Divine Intervention

Band of Memories:

Return to Lorule

Ray

The Winding Forest

The Great Fairy’s Fountain

A Series of Reunions

Into the Dragon’s Den

The Solstice Festival and the Capiri Crystal

Truths Revealed

Viola of Space:

Discovering the Sovereign Rod

The Spirit Realm and the Sacred Stones

Meeting the Princess

The Temples and Sages

The Fate of Frost

The Fate of Blaze

The Fate of Gust

Twilight Princess:

The Metamorphosis of Lorule

The Politics of the Twili

The Evacuation of the Palace

Bonus Post: The Interlopers

Seeking Refuge

Reconnaissance and Returns

Ravio’s Awakening:

The Deterioration of Lorule

Falling Asleep

The Lucedine Glade

Calming Encounters and the Glade’s Plight

Exploring the Glade

The Mirror Shrine and Discovering Truths

Saying Goodbye

Waking the Earth God

A Link Between Worlds:

Coming soon...

The Adventure of Ravio:

The Triforce Returned and Secret Histories

A New Generation

Atlas’s Quests

Exposing the Governor

Meeting the Ku

The Feud of the Krythos

The Dark Valley

The Aftermath

Oracle of Elements:

Coming not as soon...

Oracle of Dimensions:

Coming even less soon...

???:

Honestly, don’t even think about this one yet...

Storm Chaser:

The Divine Rain

The Outset

Treacherous Waters

The Spectral Compass

The Archives and the Islands

The Tower of the Gods

The Sages

The Sacred Realm and the Triforce

Infinity Key:

Coming a little later than soon but definitely sooner than the other three...

???:

It’s chugging along the edge of the horizon...

Hyrule Warriors:

Prologue

Discovery

The Portals

Omenous Isle

The Southern Swamp

The Mountain of Mun

Return to Lorule Castle

Ikana Canyon

The Final Gate

Call of the Arcane:

The Convergence

The Royal Engineers

The Nivale Ruins

The Anchors

The Goddess and the World Tree

The Wolf of Nemoris

Harmony

On Archive of Our Own (AO3):

Concerning Dragons focuses on Shadow and explains the reason behind his short hair

Concerning Dragons 2.0 –– coming in due time

Tripartite A peek into the VoS trio’s quest, and the consequences of their actions.

Ὁ Πρῶτος Φυλάσσει Τοὺς Ἐπιγιγνομένους (Translation: The First Protects Those Who Come After)

Lore Posts (For those who find reading on tumblr to be Unpleasant) This will be updated as each cycle of posts is completed.

Ravio, Meet Ravio aka a quick oneshot on when Empyrean meets Viola, and the quest begins

The Hour of Twilight a meeting between Shade and his Hyrulean counterpart

A Pair of Lonely Dreamers two chapters centered on Sketch and Legend and their biggest secrets

Ravioverse Art Posts

Psi and the Sovereign Rod

Confronting the Guardian of the Sovereign Rod (Viola of Space-Era)

Comparing Adventures

Atlas

Origin

Shadow and Sheerow

Warp and J3

Group Photo

Names and Photos (for ease of identification)

Early Development Empyrean (1) (2) (3) (4)

Comet

Happy Atlas

Oracle of Truths, Pavhalla

Shipwrecked Atlas

Shade

Melior

A sketch of baby Sketch

Ray doodle 1

Sylvan

Willow (art by Lucky)

Mermaid Compass

Tags

Ravioverse Trivia –– for little tidbits on the lads

Miscellaneous tag –– includes memes, creator shenanigans on discord, creator announcements/comments, and content reblogged from others

Lore & History of Lorule –– for information on things outside of quests, such as origins for certain weapons/tools, the Goddesses, etc.

Tales of the Heroes –– the collective tag for all the informative posts detailing the quests and storylines for each incarnation of Ravio

Ravioverse Crew –– includes anything that involves all of the boys

The Art Tag –– aka where to find all the art

The Ravioverse Adventure –– this is where you’ll find information on the actual group quest

Asks –– aka every ask we’ve gotten and answered to the best of our ability (at the time) lol

#legend of zelda #loz #ravio #linkeduniverse #ravioverse #miscellaneous content