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thetomorrowshow · 5 months

Text

the night got deathly quiet

a secret side storyline is resolved in this update. Can anyone tell me what it is?

cw: violence, mild gore (lots of dead people), death

They hadn't expected the war so soon.

Jimmy had figured they at least had a couple of weeks. It wasn't exactly public knowledge that Scott would be touring Rivendell and therefore not available to make battle decisions, but Lizzie and Joel had both sent extra troops to strengthen Rivendell in case of an attack from fWhip.

And then the attack came from behind.

They hadn't received any reports that Mythland was even doing more than preparing armies, let alone mobilizing them. In order to surprise them, he must have moved fast.

And maybe, that's what Jimmy gets. After all, he's the one who decided to rebuild the Capitol right next to Mythland's border. Of course Sausage was going to attack, when Jimmy's certainly the weakest empire and the least likely to be prepared—and of course he managed to do it without alerting anyone, what with the Codlands right next door.

And when he does attack, it goes badly.

"Codfather, you’ve got to leave," insists Belgio, a senior member of the Cod Council. Two of his advisors had shown up at his door less than an hour ago, out of breath and terrified, to inform him of the coming armies. Emil had left almost immediately, still young enough to fight, but Belgio (old, his scales flaking in places) and remained, in some attempt to evacuate Jimmy.

Someone screams from far away, clear over the shouting of so many warriors—because all the normal noises of the city have gone silent, and even so far from the battle, in his small house at the dock, Jimmy can hear the war.

It calls to him, almost. The screams of his soldiers call for his help.

He isn't going to run from them.

"I can't," Jimmy says firmly, pulling tight the side buckles of his chestplate. "I swore an oath to protect this people—I carried them out of the clutches of the salmon, and—"

"And that is why you've got to be saved," Belgio says. "If you're to save us again, you have to make it out!"

"I can't let them die alone!"

Belgio falls silent, the rings of Jimmy's shout echoing in the small house, floating away like the dust that dances in the window's light.

Jimmy bites his lip, shifts his chestplate a bit.

"Can you get the buckle on the back?" he asks quietly. Wordlessly, Belgio moves behind him, tightens the strap and buckles it.

Jimmy lets his eyes flicker shut for a moment, almost in a wordless prayer. To whom, he doesn't know.

He just begs for the strength to defend those he loves.

"When I first saw you, I knew you were our leader," Belgio says after a moment, patting Jimmy's shoulders and snapping him out of his moment of piety. "We know that you've had lots of doubts over the years. Blood doesn't matter, Jimmy. You're our Codfather."

Jimmy nods, a lump in his throat. He doesn't know what he can even say, what he can do to make any of this situation better.

He's probably going to die, isn't he?

A year ago, he would have been more than happy to die for his country. A year ago, he would have marched out into battle without a care, only hoping to take down as many of Sausage's people as possible.

He wouldn't say he has more reason to live now. Sure, he has Scott. And Scott is . . . Scott is wonderful.

But he's always had his people.

The difference is that now, he knows the price of sacrifice. He knows that if this kingdom falls (if he leaves them without a leader), no Codlands will remain.

He has to go out. He has to try.

If he'd woken in Rivendell this morning, Scott would have stopped him from returning to the Codlands. And what good would that have done? Let it be conquered, let these people be utterly destroyed, and (being an imposter king) have no way to carry on their legacy?

At least if he dies here, he'll die a martyr.

Yet here he is, the noonday sunlight filtering in through his cabin's windows, dressing in the armor that has never seemed to fit quite right, and he wishes he were anywhere else.

He twists the ring on his left hand, once, twice, three times for good luck. He's probably not going to survive. Not a full-scale invasion. Unless he's taken prisoner, which he thinks would be unlikely—he still doesn't have the Codfather head, and his face is a little disfigured from the loss of his scales. As far as he knows, he isn't anyone recognizable. And even if someone does recognize him, the only reason he would be taken prisoner would be to gloat at Lizzie and Scott, or to torture him.

He doesn't plan on being taken prisoner.

With the addition of a wooden medallion that Belgio reverently lays around his neck (Jimmy lets him do so, shrugging away the guilt—if he remembers correctly, it signifies some prayer of strength, and he needs all the strength he can get), he's ready to leave.

He steps into the kitchen, checks his reflection in a pan hanging there. Awkward tan armor, his earfins swirling, his good old leather boots, the patchy scars on his face. Jimmy nods at himself, sweeps a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

This is it.

"I'll see you," he says to Belgio, who looks at him for a long moment before nodding, stepping out of the way of the door.

"At least think about escaping, all right?" he offers half-heartedly. Jimmy tries for a smile.

He's not going to do that.

He picks up the Codfather sword, leaning against the wall in its scabbard, and belts it onto his waist. He swallows back his anxiety, takes a deep breath, and pulls open the front door.

The dock is empty. A scrap of cloth blows through the street, the wind whistling just slightly in his ears.

And louder now, in the distance, Jimmy can hear the clashing of swords and the shouting of soldiers.

He hikes up his chestplate and starts running in that direction.

It doesn't take long at all to find the fight. He runs into some twenty of his soldiers soon enough, regrouping behind a cornerstore. The battle has already nearly reached the square beyond, and Jimmy can see more of his soldiers surging forward through the streets, weapons drawn and captains shouting.

This squadron has paused, their captain organizing them, when Jimmy runs up to them.

"Jimmy!" one of them gasps out, standing from where she's crouched behind the wall. "We thought you'd gone to safety! Why are you still here?"

"I won't abandon my people," Jimmy says, even as her face twists in distress.

"This isn't a fight, Codfather," she says urgently. "This is a massacre. We've sent as many children as we can to the Ocean, please join them and g—"

"I'm not running away." Jimmy pats her arm in what he hopes is a comforting manner, before turning to the captain of the group, identified by the blue ribbon tied hastily in their hair. "What's it like out there?"

"Mythland soldiers crawling all over the place," the Cod replies, giving him a quick salute. "They started with catapults, taking down the city walls. They've been moving in, forms of . . . thirty or forty, I'd say. Just one right after another. It's endless, sir."

"Any weaknesses?"

They shrug. "Their backs are unprotected," they suggest. "They're only in half-armor. But we haven't been able to get behind them."

They're wearing half-armor. Because of course, the Cod Empire isn't enough of a threat to bother with their backs.

It burns at Jimmy to know that they're right.

"Right. Well, we probably shouldn't sneak around behind them, we'd get surrounded," Jimmy says, turning the matter over in his mind. He thumbs the hilt of his sword consideringly. "Maybe a point formation? Break through their front line, then stab them in the back?"

"It could work," the captain concedes, glancing at a tall Cod, who shrugs hopelessly. "We'd need more numbers. Is there another group we can join up with?"

"I saw some running over there," a young Cod pipes up, pointing to the left of them, her too-big helmet slipping into her eyes. "Maybe twenty soldiers?"

"Forty isn't enough to wedge into Mythland's armies," another soldier says. "There's got to be thousands of them."

"If we can get a hundred, I'm willing to try," the captain says decisively. "There should be more on the east side, I heard from Mela that they're holding their own over there."

The east. That's the most populous part of the city. It would be best to head there anyway, make sure there aren't any more people who need to be evacuated.

"What do we know about the towns and provinces further inland?" Jimmy asks, suddenly struck by the question.

The captain shrugs. A soldier looks uncertainly at his feet.

Probably fallen or going to fall, then. There's rivers and canals running through most of the Codlands, so those could be a quick escape if the soldiers of Mythland aren't used to fighting fish hybrids. If someone could warn them. . . .

"You," Jimmy decides, pointing to the young girl. "Take the canals, go warn as many towns as you can that the war has begun. Get them out of there. Queen Lizzie or Lady Katherine will accept them as refugees, whichever empire is easier for them to get to. Got it?"

She nods, takes off at a sprint. Jimmy turns to the others, squares his shoulders.

He can do this. He managed about ten years of peace, which he thinks is pretty good for a war-ravaged kingdom. He can save it again now and lead it back into peace.

He doesn't know who he's trying to fool. He isn't even the righteous heir of this kingdom. Arguably, it's his rule that brought about this war with Mythland.

It was his rule, though, as illegitimate as it might have been. And he swore an oath when he took it upon himself to protect this people.

"To the east!" Jimmy declares, and takes off.

The east is chaos.

Yes, there are plenty of Cod defenders in the streets, but there are also hundreds Mythland attackers flooding the area. There's a house burning down (smoke is thick in the air, and those around are choking and tears stream from their eyes), a window being shattered, children screaming and running, someone is dying on his left and someone is killing on his right—

"Jimmy, behind you!"

Jimmy turns around, somehow has the ability to dodge a swing from an axe and draw his sword. He doesn't really know anything about facing off against an axe (his combat instructor had always told him to flee), so he just jogs half-backward, drawing the warrior in, until one of the soldiers in his group can stab the man in the back and take him down.

Then they keep moving, further into the battle, avoiding fights but gathering random Cod where they can, calling for soldiers as they go until they've collected a fairly large group. Probably a hundred, right? That looks like about a hundred.

"Form a wedge!" Jimmy shouts, for once glad of his naturally loud voice. The Cod soldiers obey, and they move down the large main street toward Mythland's advancing lines.

He can see the proper lines of soldiers, now, not just a mob of men in red with shining silver armor roaming the narrow Cod streets. It looks well-directed and terrifyingly intimidating, and surely far more impressive than his own small troupe must appear.

And it goes on forever. There's—the lines are endless, wave after wave of footmen rushing forward, killing Cod and barging into homes and destroying the town.

Jimmy stares for a moment, utterly overwhelmed.

His people are dying. They're being wiped out entirely, all at the will of a power-hungry king. Their culture had barely survived the centuries of subjectivity and war with the salmon. It won't survive this.

Jimmy shakes himself. It could survive this! He just has to . . . he has to save it.

"Wedge formation!" the captain from before shouts, then begins leading the pack, past individual battles and destruction and to the main lines.

It all gets blurry after that. Jimmy runs with them, storming toward the enemy, yelling instructions to his people, ignoring the way his voice shakes.

He fights. He raises his sword against people, stabs some in their unprotected backs, fights some head on. Face after face blends together as Jimmy almost mindlessly swings his sword (he's been training with it every week for the past ten years, and while he isn't perfect he's certainly a force to be reckoned with), one thought running through his brain on repeat: save them. Save them. Save them.

He isn't sure how long it is before he hears calls of retreat. The Cod numbers have dwindled around him, his soldiers collapsing one by one under the weight of just how many Mythlanders there are. And more are still coming—Jimmy looks up at some point and sees so many footmen, so many knights on horses, there's too many the world is going to end—

He falls back with everyone else, weaving into the smoky streets among fleeing and screaming people, shouting soldiers, a fry crying for its mother, all hazy and uncertain—

Then a shout rouses him from the depths of his mind.

"That's him! That's the Codfather!"

He whirls around, trying to spot anyone who might have—there. A smug-looking knight on horseback, pointing to him and shouting to his comrades, and now there are five or six or seven Mythland soldiers moving toward him.

Jimmy curses under his breath, wipes a trickle of sweat from below his ear.

He doesn't really want to die here, but maybe he can draw enough Mythlanders his way that he can distract them from his people.

It's not suicide. Maybe he can get to his cabin, grab his elytra off the hook by the door and get away—or jump into a canal and swim out.

A glance into the nearest canal tells him that others have tried the same thing. Bile rises to his throat; dead Cod are floating, belly-up, arrows piercing them all over, the canal running red with blood.

He hopes the young girl he sent made it out. He hopes she didn't have to swim by any bodies.

He fears that neither hope has any truth to it.

An arrow whistles past Jimmy's ear, and he takes that as his cue to start running.

Sausage's men must have a line of bowmen behind the main advances, and if one has shot for him, it must mean that the endless sea of red soldiers has an end, and behind that end is the archers. If Jimmy could gather another group, sneak in behind the lines, they could get the archers. Bows aren't really made for hand-to-hand contact, so they could probably just take them all out and stop any more airfire from hitting his soldiers.

But then that group would surely perish. Every one of those soldiers would be surrounded. Jimmy doesn't know if their wedge did any real damage—he couldn't tell from the thick of it—but they'd had a way out. Killing the archers would cost more than it would save.

And now he really has to get going, because there are more soldiers coming in droves and several of them are aiming for him.

He turns on his heel and sprints off, dodging the battle at every turn. There are still too many citizens among the fighting, why haven't they fled—there's an older gentleman that he shoves into a house, a child that he picks up with one arm and carries a short distance until he finds a fleeing man who can get her to safety.

He rounds a corner in a winding street (skipping over bodies all the way down, he knows he's headed toward more death) to find two Mythland soldiers fighting one Cod soldier, the Cod's energy clearly flagging. Jimmy leaps into the fight, stabbing one soldier through his unprotected side.

"Go!" he shouts to the Cod, and xe stumbles away, sword hanging loosely at their side.

Jimmy makes quick work of the other Mythlander, kicking her in the knees to get her down before knocking the hilt of his sword against her head. Then he continues down the street, covering his mouth as the stench of smoke grows stronger, until it opens up into a plaza—the plaza that Jimmy knows to be the center of the city.

The plaza is destroyed, entirely unrecognizable as what was surely once a pleasant hub of energy—there's people screaming everywhere, shattered pottery and trampled food and bodies on the ground, a dog barking, soldiers killing without consideration, market stalls burning and in disarray, horses rearing. . . .

There's so much, and Jimmy moves to go forward, eye catching on a Mythlander about to kill a defenseless Cod, when a hand catches his arm, pulling him back into the doorway of a shop.

"Codfather," this new soldier begs him, a Cod instantly recognizable as part of Jimmy's Rivendell guard, shouting to be heard above the turmoil. "Leave! Free us later, you can't save us now!"

Jimmy can't leave, though.

Not when his people are dying before his very eyes. Not when he can save at least one life.

He promised to be willing to die for these people. He has to keep that promise.

Anyone can lead a country—he's living proof. But not everyone will lay down their life for another, no matter their station. And the latter is the kind of Cod that Jimmy wants to be.

He claps the soldier on the shoulder. "You get out," he tells him. "Will you abandon your country in this time of need, or keep fighting to save those weaker than you?"

The soldier looks down at his feet, then back up, teary determination in his eyes, soot and dirt dulling his scales (as if the battle has drowned his light). "I fight with you," he says.

Jimmy grins. "Good. What's your name?"

"Micah."

"You've accompanied me to Rivendell before?"

Micah nods.

Jimmy squeezes his shoulder. "Well, Micah," he says, "maybe we'll both get to see those mountains again."

And with that, he hefts up his sword and charges into the fight.

He dispatches a Mythland soldier immediately, striking down a second one as soon as he gets near enough. Jimmy's blood is pounding in his ears, his heartrate elevated. He knows how to fight. Better than many rulers, probably, forced to fight since before he was even declared Codfather, and expected to defend if there was ever an attack.

He licks his lips, twists his sword around in his hand before plunging it into the back of another enemy. Maybe they can barricade off the plaza, only leave one street open so only one soldier can get in at a time? It wouldn't be permanent, but it might last long enough for them to hold their own until they had a chance to flee, or until some sort of back-up arrived.

There isn't back-up coming, though. Nobody knows this is happening. Nobody knows the Cod Empire is falling.

Jimmy fends off a spearman, knocking the spear out of their hands before slamming the flat of his blade into the side of their head. He's got this. He knows how to dance this dance, knows how to look for weak spots.

This soldier relies too heavily on his shield, blocking every one of Jimmy's hits with it rather than his sword. Jimmy goes for a wide cut on his unprotected side, takes him down, then spins to the side to dodge a swing from a man whose balance is off, feet too flat. He steps in past his range, shoulder-checks him to knock him back, then stabs him through the shoulder.

"The Codfather!" the next soldier greets him, smiling sharply. "I"ll be honored for killing you."

"Not if you're dead," Jimmy grunts, swinging his sword into the soldier's neck and partially decapitating him, his body collapsing instantly.

There's another one waiting behind, and Jimmy steps back to dodge a strike and something rolls under his feet—he slips back and trips, barely manages to catch his feet under him before he falls into the canal behind him. He glances down—just for a moment—and sees the arm of the Cod's body that he'd slipped on—

Then, with a burst of blinding pain, a sword drives its way around his chestplate and into his shoulder.

He gasps a little bit, the world slowing around him.

There's a sword in his body.

It cut through his flesh like a knife through butter, straight into that space between his shoulder and his chest, and there's metal separating tendons and flesh and he's going to die—

The sword is drawn out, and Jimmy stumbles forward with it, the shiiick of the sword being removed echoing in his ears.

He's—he's fine. It's not a fatal wound. It's just—just blood, soaking his tunic, sticking to his skin. He's bled before. It's not too serious to have it outside of his body.

"I got him!" a woman—the person who stabbed him—shouts. Jimmy glares at her, the world around him coming starkly (too starkly, everything just a little too bright) back into focus. Nobody who's smug about it is going to kill him.

He hefts his sword back up, ignoring the pain shooting out from his shoulder, ignoring the slight wooziness that tugs in the back of his mouth.

He swings at her, more precisely and accurately than he expected, cutting down into her shoulder and neck.

She collapses when he yanks his sword out of her collarbone, but her call had brought others. There are three more approaching, lifting their weapons.

Something that Jimmy would say is one of his worst qualities is his stubbornness. Lizzie has got on him time and time again for never backing down from a fight he can't win.

And this is one with no hope.

So Jimmy takes a deep breath and fights.

He takes down two of them before the third gets past his defenses, slashing a sword deep across his thigh.

His leg gives out, spurting blood everywhere, the cut burning somewhere beyond Jimmy's consciousness. He falls to his knees, stabs up under the chestplate of the soldier—and there are four more behind her.

His arm shakes as he stabs the knee of the first soldier, then hits them in the side when they twist downward. He adjusts his grip on the sweat-stained leather of his sword, adds his other (heavy, near-useless) hand to it.

He manages to kill the next soldier before he gets hit again—he dodges, bending to one side, but the sword swinging at his head manages to clip his earfin, neatly slicing off a piece of it that falls to the ground beside him. He aims up, stabs that man through the chin—

His back stiffens as cold metal shoves down in the back of his chestplate and pierces into his flesh, stabbing through his back—through—through—through his body and angling down, in his back and down, and Jimmy can't move, he's skewered on this sword, he chokes on nothing as his eyes go wide and it hurts—

Another shiiick with a tiny little squelch, and the sword is removed with a jerk that pulls a sound from Jimmy's lips that's something in between and grunt and a whimper.

The enemies around him (for they truly are surrounding him, at least five, hazy and out-of-focus) go still, their weapons lowering.

Jimmy's arms drop to his side. His grip on the sword loosens. Someone screams in the distance, distorted by his uneven ears.

No.

One of the Mythlanders—a man with a grey beard, his armor old and unpolished—kneels before Jimmy, puts his hands on either side of Jimmy's head.

There's something proud about the way he holds his chin, something . . . something different in his eyes. Jimmy doesn't know what. All Jimmy knows is that he suddenly feels cold.

"You fought admirably, son," he says, voice low and gravelly. "There are those of us in Mythland yet who respect a warrior, despite the actions of our king. Go into the next life without fear, for you will be honored."

Jimmy stares blankly at him. There's hot blood pooling in the back of his tunic, running in rivulets down his back. He can't move his left arm, blood caking under it. His thigh is wet with the stuff; blood trickles down the side of his neck.

He's so cold.

The man tips Jimmy's head forward, places a scratchy kiss on his forehead. "Rest easy," he murmurs, before standing, picking his sword back up and turning away into a blur of color.

Jimmy slumps forward against his will, slowly falling onto his stomach, cheek landing against the dusty cobblestone. He doesn't feel the way the fall jostles his wounds. He doesn't feel anything but cold.

The boots that stand in front of his eyes are new, splashed with blood on the toe.

"Finally," the person says distantly. "I've been chasing him for twenty minutes. Fought like a dog."

And then, with a noticeable plop on his back, he spits on Jimmy.

One of Jimmy's other worst qualities, in his opinion, is pride. And somehow, his pride is stronger than the cold darkness pulling at him.

And his sword is still in his hand.

Gathering every last ounce of strength that he has, Jimmy strikes out to the side, slashing through those new boots and cutting into the calf.

The man curses, leaps away. Jimmy can't help but smirk a little, lips feeling numb. His fingers lose grip of his sword, his vision blurs further.

"Why isn't he dead already—"

A boot slams into his head and the fuzziness goes black.

"Just roll them into the canal. We'll have the Cods fill it up with dirt."

"Glad we don't have to carry them all the way to the fields. The savages fought hard, I heard they're still loading the wagons with ours."

"Have you heard anything about Daniel?"

"No, haven't seen him. Whose squadron was he in?"

"Twenty-third, Hal's group. He's my wife's brother."

"You'll probably have to be the one to tell her, then. If he's dead."

"And his husband. They'll be heartbroken."

"Mm. Oh, urgh—their weird scale things always grossed me out."

"It's the ears for me. Every time I went to market there'd be one of them selling something stupid. My daughter thinks they're terrifying, would scream when we passed by."

"She's right. They're freaky-looking. I was glad to kill a few."

"Are you two working, or talking?"

"Milord!"

"Working, sire, our apologies."

"Your majesty, what brings you out here?"

"I received an urgent report from one of my captains. You haven't seen a Cod body—hehe, Coddy—with scars on his face? Blond hair, tall, lots of scars?"

"None that match that description yet, sire. If we see one—"

"No need, I'll search with you. Are we just rolling them into this river-thing?"

"Yes, milord. Allow us—"

"Oh—"

"There it goes!"

"Right, and now the next—"

"Oh! Is this the one you're looking for?"

". . . Well. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Scott wasn't here to save you this time, was he?"

"Is that. . . ?"

"Friends, this is—or, was—the Codfather."

"Looks like he put up quite the fight. There are so many bodies around him."

"He's drenched in blood. Must have been painful."

"It was supposed to be fWhip to kill him, I think. He always wanted to. He isn't going to be too happy about this, let me tell you!"

"Do you need the body?"

"And stink up my kingdom by bringing back a dead fish? Roll him into the river with the others. But give me a second with him, all right?"

"Yes, milord."

"Of course, your majesty."

"Honestly, Jimmy, I think this look is an improvement! You think Scott is into this, all this blood and guts? You never know, elves are a little freaky! . . . Well, I can't say I'll miss you. I loved messing with you, but I can find a new game. Look, if you get to heaven, tell 'em to let in your old pal Sausage! And if you end up in hell . . . tell 'em the same thing! Covering all my bases, you know? . . . I guess this is goodbye! See ya, Jimmy!"

"It's close enough to the canal, we won't even have to touch it, really."

"Just kick it in."

"You two take care of that! Oh, I can't wait to tell Scott. . . ."

"All right, I'll just—"

"And I'll—"

"There it goes! Which one next?"

"Let's keep going along this way, and when. . . ."

That night, the Cod Empire is deathly quiet.

Smoke hangs like a cloud over the Capital, some buildings still burning (pointless from the beginning, yet even after the battle had been won there were celebrating soldiers setting fire to cabins and shops, destruction just a mark of victory). Bodies line the streets, half the canals filled with the dead.

There are some still living. Soldiers who had surrendered, children and caretakers and disabled who weren't able to escape but were able to hide. They do not sleep, fearing what the morning will bring. Will King Sausage order their deaths? Will he move through their land to the ones beyond? Will he demand slavery of them, even the children?

A father bundles up his baby and waits for a change in guard at the docks, then slips into the water and swims away, heading for the Ocean Kingdom. Another Cod tries the same thing and is caught with an arrow in their throat.

Those who remain hide in their homes, curtains drawn, and hold each other, too fearful to try to contact friends and family to see if they still live. They daren't go outside, lest they join the bodies in the streets.

They all know that their Codfather has fallen. That news had been shouted through the town, on every gory street and dock, until all in the town silently despaired and knew that they were doomed.

Lord Sausage, King of Mythland, returns home and writes a gloating letter of conquest, which reaches all of the empires before the night ends. One day of battle, and the Codlands has been conquered. He doesn't write of the fate of the Codfather, relishing the opportunity to tell the Ocean Queen and Lord Smajor in person.

In the canals are hundreds of bodies. An older Mythland soldier on guard frowns as he stares down at the disturbing piles of dead, on top the pale body of a guard named Micah, and shakes his head in disgust.

In the canal near the center of town, under two other bodies, completely submerged in the dirty water, is the body of the Codfather. His hair floats in the water, his face almost unrecognizable, bloated in death, painted with blood and mud.

It's the dark of midnight, not even lit by the moon, only the dim stars twinkling down. The body of the Codfather rocks a little bit with the shift of the water, little ripples coming from seemingly nowhere, traveling down each canal.

Something rumbles, deep underground.

The water picks up, tiny ripples becoming actual waves, crashing against the land and shoving the bodies from side to side, piles spilling over and sending dead Cod flopping to the land—almost as if a storm is brewing, though the skies are clear as can be.

The Mythlanders on guard around the town laugh nervously, step away from the canals, as the bodies seem to thrash in the choppy water.

And in the canal near the center of town, the Codfather lies in the water.

His eyes flash open.

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aria-ashryver · 2 months

Text

Woven Threads and Winding Roads (Pt 1&2)

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow Pairing: Tyril x f!human!MC (Raine) Words: 2.2K Ratings/Warnings: General; mention of (Nesper) pregnancy

Summary: Five times Tyril attempts to braid Raine’s hair; and one time those threads begin to come together again as they should.

A/N: Written as a gift for @thosehallowedhalls as a part of the Choices Secret Admirer event! It was such a delight to write for BOLAS again. Also participating in Choices February 2024 with the prompts Eros, Philia, and Pragma. Thank you Caro for letting me borrow your lovely Raine! 🌷🎀

Raine bit down on a laugh as Tyril strode into their bedroom, a scowl biting deep into the angular lines of his face. She rose to meet him, settling a hand against his cheek.

‘There’s the frown I fell in love with,’ she teased, laughter bubbling out of her as his brow furrowed further at her words. ‘We’ve had so little to trouble us these past few weeks — I was beginning to worry you’d forgotten how to brood.’

‘I am not brooding,’ Tyril brooded.

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her waist, closing his eyes and leaning into the kiss she pressed to his jaw.

‘Thank the stars Adrina has the stomach for these tiresome nobles and their courtly swill. The entire Venesterium seems determined to vex me. The sooner we escape this evening’s ball, the better.’

Raine grinned. ‘Mal and Imtura have been rubbing off on you.’

Tyril’s eyes snapped open. ‘How dare you.’

‘They have!’

‘I… forgive me.’ Tyril paused, stepping back to take in the sweep of silver-blue silk swathing Raine from head to toe. His face softened. ‘Here I am complaining about the nobility, when I should be telling you how utterly radiant you look. You are dazzling spring water beneath the noonday sun, a pure vision of Bakshi come to life. You are the very stars themselves, beloved.’

Raine’s chest glowed. She tangled her fingers with his, swishing her shoulders back and forth.

‘Look,’ she said proudly. ‘My dress has a cape!’

Tyril chuckled.

They were still getting used to life in Undermount. To peace.

To not being woken by Imtura’s snores, or the quiet cadence of Nia’s morning prayers; to the soft bed linens they’d traded up from hard-packed earth; to days that held no more danger than social faux pas and politics, instead of threats to their lives, to their friends, to the realm itself.

Well. Realms, plural, Raine thought.

All that time running back and forth across not one but two different planes hadn’t exactly left much time for updating her wardrobe — that, at least, was one aspect of their new life together that Raine had quickly adapted to. Every last seamstress and tailor in Undermount was vying for House Starfury’s patronage. Raine had wasted no time taking advantage.

‘You’re looking rather handsome yourself,’ she told Tyril, running her fingers over the ornate metalwork embellishing his robes. ‘What’s all this?’

Tyril’s face flattened into a frown again.

‘Adrina’s doing,’ he groused. ‘House Starfury has been steadily regaining our former standing. Our coffers are stable, our contracts are shoring up, Father has been able to rehire the staff he let go with considerable bonuses. My dear sister, in all her brilliance, has decided that means I needed to look suitably ludicrous for our re-entry into elven courtly society.’

‘I think you look lovely.’

Tyril’s face pinched in distaste. ‘Have you seen the size of this ring? It’s a House Starfury heirloom.’

Tyril flapped his hand before Raine’s face — rather unnecessarily, in all honesty; there was little chance she’d have missed seeing the ring, given that it was the size of a small continent. There, on his left pointer finger, was a sparkling affair of curlicued silver and diamond, set with a sapphire so immense, its sale could have supported the entire population of Riverbend for a solid year or more.

‘Can you imagine what our roguish friend would say if he took one look at me in this get—up?’

‘Mal would call you a prissy elf boy and probably wet himself from laughter, yes.’ Raine pursed her lips, trying not to grin. ‘I take it Undermount’s finery and flattery isn’t to your liking any more, then?’

‘The flattery never was,’ Tyril said, his eyes trained on Raine as she slipped into a seat at the vanity and finished applying a kohl liner to her eyes. ‘The fineries?’ He hummed thoughtfully. ‘I’ll admit, the novelty of clean sheets and dry boots is wearing off faster than I’d expected.’

He stepped up behind her to run a brush through the silken gold of her hair.

Raine closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, remembering for a moment the mornings Nia had done the same. She had no problem braiding her own hair, of course, but sometimes she and Nia had helped each other tease away the tangles and road-dirt, fixing one another’s hair in readiness for travel and combat.

It had grounded them both. Anchored them in the present, in the living pulse of their Light. Soothed them on the days when the darkness was too heavy to speak through.

Raine met Tyril’s piercing, blue gaze in the mirror over her shoulder. He raised a brow in silent question.

‘Would… would you braid my hair for me?’

A soft smile lit his face.

‘Whatever you would have of me, I would give to you.’

The minutes passed in silence as Raine gave herself over to the gentle touch of her lover’s hands. He’d almost finished a passable —if slightly uneven— braid, when his ring snagged on her hair, pulling a section loose at the front.

‘Drat! Apologies, this ring is impossible. I’ve never seen a piece of jewellery so cumbersome — Gods forbid it’s wearer deign to lift a finger to do anything for themselves. Though, I suppose that’s rather the point, isn’t it?’ Tyril clicked his tongue. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea how I am supposed to hold a sword with this monstrosity on my finger.’

‘Tyril…’ Raine caught his hand, holding his gaze for a long moment. ‘You don’t need to anymore.’

‘Oh.’ His eyes grew round, unguarded. ‘I suppose you are right. Yes, I don’t… right.’

Standing, Raine fixed the end of the braid with a simple leather band.

‘You’ve no wish to fix the snag?’

‘No, it’s fine. I rather like it.’ Raine glanced at the fall of hair that had tugged loose. ‘We don’t want to be too put together for the smarmy nobles, do we?’

‘We do not.’ Tyril cupped Raine’s face, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone, sighing fondly. ‘You are exquisite, Raine. Do you know that? You are perfect. Celestial. I almost want to keep you all for myself. You know… we could just stay here, tonight.’

Laughing, Raine swatted at Tyril as his gaze grew hooded.

‘Tyril!’

She was rewarded with the sight of one of his rare and dazzling smiles. A secret sight, just for the two of them. It still caught her stomach up in swooping knots every time Tyril smiled.

‘Fine,’ he said, warmly, ‘let us away. But we are leaving as soon as the dessert courses are over.’

Raine’s hand found his.

‘Deal.’

‘Why do you get a cool half-cape?’ Raine grumbled, as they wound their way through the cool expanse of the public gardens. ‘I want a cool half-cape. Instead I get idiotic, too-long sleeves.’

Tyril’s face remained impassive as he nodded at a passing head of house; the gardens were bustling this morning, the lush greenery offering a cool respite from the late-spring sun. Raine greeted the elf in kind with a cordial wave —or, she tried to— the gesture botched by the yards of gauzy fabric tangling about her hands.

‘I hate everything!’ she shrieked under her breath. ‘I am this close’ —Raine raised a hand, snarled when her sleeves got in the way again, flailed her arms about until her hands were free, and pinched her thumb and forefinger before Tyril’s nose— ‘to ripping these awful sleeves off and shoving them into that fountain.’

Tyril smiled, tucking his hand against the small of her back and steering her neatly away from the aforementioned fountain. They walked instead toward a cluster of chatting nobles whom Tyril would rather have avoided, but knew he ought to greet.

‘Adrina is close to closing a significant contract with House Moonchaser,’ Tyril said quietly as they neared. ‘It would be a shame to offend their head of house by destroying the gift she bestowed upon you. Damaging such a gift would be perceived as a deliberate snub.’

‘Godsdamn it all to the blackest reaches of the Three Hel— ah, that is— hello, Lord Frostcrow! Yes, the gardens are looking splendid this morning, you are quite right.’

Their welcome ball had been pleasant enough. Raine had bewitched the gathered masses with her effortless radiance —not that Tyril was surprised; his lover stole his breath with every passing heartbeat— though none had been more taken with her beauty than the Lady of House Moonchaser. The elven matriarch had insisted on gifting Raine a custom-made dress from her personal seamstress as a show of welcome from their House.

It had been delivered late that morning — a heavy concoction of lurid pink velvet and silver embellishments, complete with decorative pearls, ribbons, and something Raine had described as “a headache masquerading as fashion” to be woven into her hair to match.

Raine had thought the whole thing garish… but, it would do well to be seen wearing the garment publicly at least once, so here they were.

Tyril had tried his hand at braiding her hair again that morning. Raine had humoured his attempts —there was something intimate and tender in their stolen moments of quiet together as he worked the ribbons through her hair— and for a time, he’d been rather proud of his efforts.

At least, until they’d made the journey from their small manor in the hills and into Undermount proper, and the whole thing had begun to unravel under all the weight. The imperfection irked him. Damn it all, he wouldn’t stop until he was the single most talented personal hair stylist in all of Undermount!

‘Stupid elven politics,’ Raine muttered, blowing a strand of hair from her face as they continued on with their stroll. ‘I look ridiculous. I’ve slept in war tents with less fabric than this dress. How am I supposed to defend myself in a swordfight with these sleeves?’

‘Were you not the one reprimanding me for my obstinate refusal to relax?’ Smiling, Tyril dropped a gentle kiss to the top of Raine’s head. The braid sagged a little further. ‘Perhaps you might take your own advice. We are safe, beloved. There aren’t any agents from the Ash Empire hiding under the magnolias, waiting to ambush us the moment we—’

‘A MISSIVE! A MISSIVE FOR YOU, LORD STARFURY!’

Heart in his throat, Tyril spun on instinct to find the point of his dagger hovering mere inches from the face of a wide-eyed courier. Beside him, Light crackled in Raine’s palms, her stance poised to strike, her expression nothing short of thunderous.

‘Apologies!’ The courier squeaked. He pinched an envelope between his trembling fingers, prodding it meekly toward them as the colour drained from his face.

Sighing, Tyril flicked his wrist in a practised motion; the dagger slid smoothly from his palm to tuck itself inconspicuously in his shirtsleeve.

He really ought to thank Mal for showing him that particular trick, Tyril thought. He wouldn’t, of course, on account of that would mean actually thanking Mal for something, but the gratitude was there all the same.

He tugged the letter from the courier’s hand. The shiny, wax seal bore a small paw-print in the centre.

‘An urgent missive from the most humble Threep Percivacurus Pompedorfin and the magnanimous Loola Coriandropolis Dupopodolis, dispatched via high-speed drake-courier service out of Whitetower,’ the courier recited breathlessly. He swayed on his feet.

‘I think you should go and sit down for a minute or two, buddy,’ Raine told him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Drink some water, catch your breath. Maybe have a think about whether or not it’s a good idea to sneak up behind people who were recently involved in the harrowing trauma of saving the entire Godsdamned realm from certain doom and yelling at them, you know. Turn that one over in your head a couple times.’

‘That— I— yes. Sound advice, my lady.’

Bowing stiffly, the courier departed, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.

‘By the Light,’ Raine muttered. She sounded as tired as Tyril felt.

‘Every day I think to myself, “the general populace couldn’t possibly grow any more dense”,’ Tyril murmured, watching the terrified courier wobble away, ‘and every day, they find new and fascinating ways to prove me wrong.’

‘Um… Tyril?’

Caught by the horror in her tone, Tyril turned to see a sheepish Raine inspecting her hands. Two smoking, fist-sized holes burned clean through the trailing sleeves of her dress.

She winced. ‘Just how important was that contract with House Moonchaser, again?’

Feeling a headache coming on, Tyril scanned Threep’s letter. His mouth dropped open.

‘Oh! Never mind that — Raine! Threep and Loola are expecting!’

Raine clutched at his hands, giddiness sparkling in her eyes. She squealed.

‘You’re joking. Baby nespers?! How adorable!’ Her eyes bugged in her head. ‘Oh, Gods, wait. An army of Threeps…’

The budding warmth in Tyril’s chest flipped to alarm. ‘Oh no… Oh, we need to start stocking the larder, yesterday.’

Stricken, Raine nodded. ‘I’ll place an order for a few bushels of dried anchovies.’

‘Whatever number you are thinking,’ Tyril said, ‘double it.’

Click here for: [Next - Pt. 3&4]

Tagging: @choicesficwriterscreations @choicesfebruary2024 @choicesfandomappreciation @thosehallowedhalls @lilyoffandoms @stars-are-within-me @jerzwriter

#blades of light and shadow #choices blades #tyril starfury #tyril x raine #tyril x mc #playchoices fanfic #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #choicessecretadmirer2024

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talonabraxas · 8 months

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Pagan Gods from Across the Ancient World

From Zeus and Jupiter to Poseidon and Geb, there were many pagan gods around the world. The word “Pagan” derives from the Latin “Paganus”, which was reappropriated by Christianity, first in the fourth century AD, to alienate those who did not adhere to the Christian religion.

Invocation of the Horned God by Doreen Valiente

By the flame that burneth bright O Horned One! We call thy name into the night O Horned One! Thee we invoke by the moon lit sea By the standing stone and the twisted tree Thee we invoke where gather thine own By the nameless shrine forgotten and lone Come where the round of the dance is trod Horn and hoof of the goat-foot God By moonlit meadow on dusky hill When the haunted wood is hushed and still Come to the charm of the chanted prayer As the moon bewitches the midnight air Evoke thy powers, that potent bide In shining stream and secret tide In fiery flame by starlight pale In shadowy host that ride the gale And by the fern-brakes fairy-haunted Of forests wild and wood enchanted Come! O Come! To the heartbeats drum! Come to us who gather below When the broad white moon is climbing slow Through the stars to the heavens height We hear thy hoofs on the wind of night As black tree branches shake and sigh By joy and terror we know thee nigh We speak the spell thy power unlocks At Solstice, Sabbat, and Equinox Word of virtue the veil to rend From primal dawn to the wide world's end Since time began--- The blessing of Pan! Blessed be all in hearth and hold Blessed in all worth more than gold Blessed be in strength and love Blessed be wher'er we rove Vision fade not from our eyes Of the pagan paradise Past the gates of death and birth Our inheritance of the earth From our soul the song of spring Fade not in our wandering Our life with all life is one, By blackest night or noonday sun Eldest of gods, on thee we call Blessing be on thy creatures all.

Pan 'The Horned God' 'Pagan Gnosis' Talon Abraxas

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erstwhilesparrow · 1 month

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i have a secondary prophecy, confesses the rat to those who stay behind and peer down into the dark of the subway tracks. the light grows sharp. the prophet is already gone, gone, gone... singing three notes like an open-mouthed kiss in the tunnels. and the digital signs blare, warning that soon the entire noonday sun will descend the escalator, one hand on the handrail, to flood the dirty tiles with the thin, scalpel touch of a winter day. the rat takes a moulding slice of apple, the soft fruit mush like a token of prayer. the light grows sharp. diluted meltwater drips down the stairs.

#sparrowsong

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walkswithmyfather · 1 year

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“He will make your righteous reward shine like the dawn, your vindication like the noonday sun. Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; do not fret when people succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes. Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret—it leads only to evil.” —Psalm 37:6‭-‬8 (NIV)

“He will appear as your righteousness, as sure as the dawning of a new day. He will manifest as your justice, as sure and strong as the noonday sun. Quiet your heart in his presence and wait patiently for Yahweh. And don’t think for a moment that the wicked, in their prosperity, are better off than you. Stay away from anger and revenge. Keep envy far from you, for it only leads you into lies.” —Psalm 37:6‭-‬8 (TPT)

“Our Responsibility to Rest” By In Touch Ministries:

“Life can bring frustrations, but knowing that God’s timing is perfect, we can ask Him to help us wait patiently.”

“Yesterday we started reading Psalm 37 and discussed what we must do to receive our heart’s desires. But if we keep reading that chapter, we find the psalmist encouraging us to rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him to act.

Rest sounds easy, but sometimes it may require supernatural strength. Our natural tendency is to scramble, fret, and push our agenda, and those habits turn our mind away from delight and trust in the Lord. The stronger our desire is, the shorter our fuse. Sometimes we may even try to give God a timetable, but true rest occurs on His schedule. Only He understands every circumstance and knows the precise moment when answering our prayer is best.

So, the basic tenets of Psalm 37 are interrelated: We must spend time enjoying God in order to learn to trust Him and commit to His way. And doing so then frees us to rest in His control and patiently wait for Him to act.

Take a moment to pray: Father, thank You for giving me the desires of my heart. Today, help me to delight in You, commit everything to You, and rest in the knowledge that You have everything under control. I will wait for Your perfect timing. Amen.”

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inquietstrength · 6 months

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just got rear ended on the way to Noonday prayer. Fuck my life.

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sealrock · 3 days

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gate - for the generator drabble prompt!

cw: discussions & depictions of blood, violent death

(ty for the ask @gatheredfates!)

Two tombstones sat before me, weathered by harsh rain and blistering heat. This is my last stop for the week. I need not look at the faded inscriptions, for I knew who lay underneath the baked earth of the High Seraph's acre. Another tombstone in a forgotten corner of the field belonged to someone I once knew, someone who had gotten too close to my sister. I already gave my respects to him; I told him that his son, my nephew, was growing into a beautiful young boy who took after him. It's such a shame Nestor never got to see him. Father murdered him. Nestor was never a family member, but Mother treated him like one of us. I convinced Father to allow him a proper burial here, for it was what Mother would've wanted. Briseis will thank me later when her time comes. In about a week, that is.

Since I was a little girl, the vision of five empty graves troubled my thoughts. My father stood in front of them, shovel in hand. I gingerly knelt in front of my mother's grave and let my parasol rest beside me now that noonday sun had passed, the clear blue skies now a rich and vivid mix of reds and oranges. I emptied my bag of supplies, no longer heavy enough to strain the muscles in my shoulder now that I offered services to every tombstone. No one in the family would dare travel here during the dryest part of the day since the trek to the graveyard was taxing enough on the body without running the risk of heatstroke. But the threat of dehydration never stopped me. It's my duty to tend to the graves of the dearly departed, all seven and ninety of them. I clean the graves, offer food and drink, and weekly prayers for each, even if I only know a handful. Most have been here since before I was born.

"Hello, Mother," my words came out in a hushed tone, as if not to disturb the eternal rest of long-gone strangers, "I brought more Galbana lilies for you, fresh from your favorite florist. This year has been good for the flowers, I believe. They're much redder than usual."

I pushed the thought of how much they reminded me of blood from my mind. I used to see visions of blood as a child, gushing waves of blood that flowed from the grand entrance of my home towards the gilded gate that separated us from the outside world. My loved ones walked through that gate, not knowing what fate would hold for them, no matter my attempts to stop them. It became an unconscious habit of mine to walk through the gate first as if to spare someone else I care about the pain of death. People have called me overly superstitious, but they'd fail to understand the reasoning. It's futile of me to try, but try I must.

My mother, a beauty beyond compare with the name Hecuba, was ready to storm through that gate after one final argument with my father before he shoved her down the staircase. Her long and thick black hair obscured the disturbing crookedness of her neck. I was only eight years old when that vision, a 'shimmer' as my mother called it, troubled my dreams a few days before the incident. My mother knew what was about to occur, for she also had the gift. She accepted her death with a sad smile as I sobbed the tale to her, gathering me up into her arms and squeezing me tight. If I focus hard enough, I can still smell her elegant perfume of citrus and spices, and suddenly I'm a little girl again, safe from the outside world as long as I stay close to her.

I brushed away the dust and dirt from her grave and uprooted stray weeds. It's the least I could do for her, for she could rest assured knowing that her only surviving daughter was tending to her final resting place. I placed the lilies on the surface of her grave and lit a few incense for my prayers. My elder sisters lay next to her—well, one sister did. The body of the eldest remains missing from the wreckage of her final voyage at sea. My father fell to his knees and unleashed a deep, mournful wail at the gate of the manor when the tragic news reached him. My sister's treasured medallion necklace, a nameday gift from our father when she was twelve, was all that remained of her. His tears were genuine then, and he was beside himself more than he was at his wife's funeral.

I knew she wasn't dead, for I receive visions of her to this day. Even all these years later, my father refused to believe me. After a harsh slap to my cheek from his heavy hand one night, I was told to never speak of Andromache again. Andromache was dead, that much was certain since we had the memorial service, even if her grave held an empty coffin.

Andromache... My dear sister. That was the name she chose for herself. The inscription over her empty grave holds an identity she discarded, the identity our father spoke of with swelling pride and affection. The firstborn of our family, the spitting image of Priam, Andromache had our father wrapped around her finger the minute she came screaming into the world. Deiphobus and Idomeneus were too young to remember her, but Briseis and I idolized her as children—she could do no wrong in our eyes. As much as we adored our sister, Andromache ran away soon after our mother died. Her death had the worst impact on Andromache, and I caught glimpses as to why as I sat through my piano lessons the day leading up to the accident: fleeting images told me that Andromache witnessed everything. Father had forced Andromache to make it seem like our mother took her own life by leaving her to hang from the balustrade. Poor Deiphobus, just five summers old, found her body an hour later; his scream rings clear in my head to this day.

For two years, Andromache couldn't take the guilt of her actions, and her vow of silence ate away at her insides. She assumed we would hate her for participating in the act, for not saying anything about how our mother died. I didn't blame her; I told her what I knew and that Andromache had nothing to fear. But she left anyway. In the dead of night, she slipped through that rusty iron gate with nothing but a saddlebag of meager provisions and kissed my heated forehead goodbye. Andromache wouldn't look at the stream of tears that stained my distraught face as I frantically begged her to stay, my trembling hands pulling at her tunic with all my might. I told her she would die in deep water; she just smiled at me—the same way our mother did. She whispered this to me before vanishing into the inky blackness of the night, her hand gently pressing against my ribs, my racing heart pulsing against her palm:

"I will always be here with you, little sister."

Barely a fortnight later, we learned of a boat to Limsa Lominsa capsizing after a treacherous storm, a boat my sister was last seen boarding. My father would rest his tortured brow against the gate after each search party ended with empty hands. I never thought she had survived. The fact my vision turned out to be wrong gave me hope that Andromache would return someday. I wish to see her again. I desperately wish to see her push open that gate and pretend nothing happened. I want my big sister back.

"Forgive me, Andi, for I did not bring anything for you this time. Please accept my prayers of safety and good travels in exchange."

I conducted the same routine with the empty grave: I brushed away the dirt and pulled the weeds. I poured the drink and prepared the food. It's methodical and mechanical work. I forgot when I stopped crying. It must've been once I married my good husband and welcomed my beautiful son into the world. I no longer have time to cry. All I can do is sigh over how the two most important people in my life missed out on two wonderful moments I couldn't share with anyone else. Most people in my family believed me spoiled, that I clung to my mother's apron strings too tightly or hid behind my sister's towering form the older I grew. I can't help that I miss them. My brother Deiphobus, my equally clingy younger brother who thinks himself wise, chides and chastises me like I'm still a child. Idomeneus has no recollection of the people we talk about—they're ghosts without a face to him.

Once I cleaned the graves, I began my last prayers, my hands squeezing the meat of my thighs beneath my dark-colored dress. The desert birds and insects seemingly fell silent around me in respect. A cool summer breeze fluttered through the low-hanging branches of a great willow tree, the scent of mourning incense tickling my nose. I prayed to the High Seraph that my loved ones were at peace; I failed them because my warnings were unheeded. A task like this would've fallen to the eldest child—that would be Briseis now. I'm not as close to Briseis these days, as much as it saddens me to say. We drifted apart through the years as I became a second mother to our brothers while she pursued other interests. Briseis wasn't ready for the strain of responsibility. And so she fought back against our father's rules at every turn. That's how she ended up with Evander. That was one of the many nails in her coffin.

I've become more of a surrogate mother to Evander and his brother Patroclus than an aunt these last few moons. It's in my nature to care for others—it keeps me from rattling my mouth about my 'hallucinations,' I suppose. Despite how far we've drifted, I still care for her. She's the only sister I have left. There's a patch of dirt next to Andromache's fake grave, and soon, it will be home to two more coffins. The images disturbed me: my sister and brother-in-law assailed by an unknown intruder. Black blood poured from their gashes and wounds, their faces twisted in terror. The trembling form of a shell-shocked Patroclus nudging them to wake up rattled me the most. He would be witness to the bloodletting.

I cannot do anything to stop it. They will come through the gate within the week and argue about something to Father. Father would punish them with death. I cannot warn Briseis, for I know what she'll do. Briseis will smile at me, half sad and half patronizing, and hug me gently. She's oblivious to what would happen to her. Her children will be orphaned and made to fight each other like dogs. The murders will never be solved, for I do not know who killed them.

I sighed as I got to my feet, my dress covered with sand and clay. It's dusk now, I've tarried long enough. My husband will grow worried if I arrive home after dark. I must prepare myself to look after more graves of the ones I love soon. I have no other choice.

#inbox #gatheredfates #writings.#aaaAAH this took forever a thousand apologies #ngl this word stumped me for a while so i let it sit until i came up with whatever this is #the word pops up a lot here but in a symbolic sense i guess #but anyway. a first-person drabble ft. cassandra and the tatlonghari family #the family deals with death in a rather detached way. give or take #this is set before paris arrives to the household. so a few months before hector's 'death'#i had to go back and look at my notes about the family tree :lulz:#bear in mind this hasn't been proofread because i wrote this very early this morning orz #there shouldn't be any glaring issues here

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scobbe · 2 years

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I loved how the third episode of this season of Gentleman Jack opened with her reading/writing what I assume was an actual journal entry of Anne Lister’s, and she mentioned prayers in the morning and at 12:15, as well as I’m guessing going to Mass around 2. I’m assuming the morning prayer was Morning Prayer, and just looked at my Prayer Book and thought, “She had a Prayer Book, too - Anne Lister had a Prayer Book just like me.”

A little different from the 1979 Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church, I’m sure, but I also have a copy of the 1662 Book of Common Prayer from The Church of England, which would have been in use then (and is still in use today) and the prayers are the same, word for word with our Rite I. I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, the thread of connection throughout history via these words, this theology, which is precious when you’re someone who has felt disconnected for a long time. But Anne Lister, reciting the same words I read with our priest every morning? That’s special.

#Anne lister #Anglicanism #I’m thinking 12:15 would have been Noonday prayers but they’re not in the 1662 BCP #I wonder what her favorite collect was #that was one of my favorite bits in the first season #her speech about how God made her this way and anything else would be unnatural to her #how ballsy in her time #still being patient with S2 #gentleman Jack

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malukeando · 1 year

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Fasting.

It comes from the Greek "nestheia" = not to eat, to abstain from food. Fasting is a time when the pain of hunger sharpens our sense of penitence and reminds us of our weakness and dependence on God. It is dying to our fleshly passions, it is humbling ourselves before God. It is accompanied by prayer, it makes us grow in our relationship with God, it brings deliverance and breaks bondage. In the Bible we see various reasons for fasting:

To be attentive to the voice of God (Matthew 4:2)

To know God's will in a particular matter (Judges 20:26; Acts 14:23).

To show repentance (1 Samuel 7:6; 2 Samuel 12:16, 21-23; Nehemiah 9:1-3; Daniel 9:3; Joel 1:14, 2:12-15; Jonah 3:5).

For protection from God (2 Chronicles 20:3; Ezra 8:21-23; Esther 13-16).

As a part of worship (Luke 2:36-37; Acts 13:2-3)

When there is sorrow (1 Samuel 31:13; 2 Samuel 12:16; Daniel 6:18).

Deliverance (Matthew 17:21)

How to fast correctly? Do it quietly and sincerely, not to boast or seek the approval of others (Matthew 6:16-18). Fasting is not to pressure God to meet our demand, fasting changes us, not God.

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter— when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness[a] will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.

Isaiah 58:6-10

#christian girl #christian faith #christian blog #christianity #christ #christian #god #jesus christ #lord #faith #faith in jesus #fast #fasting #prayer #holy habits #habit of grace #godisgood #discipline

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 11 months

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“There is not a more blessed and powerful weapon for the children of God, than that they should give themselves to prayer. For thus they can have the power of God on their side—the almighty power of God. And by making use of this power, through the instruments of prayer in all things we need, we can have the infinite wisdom of God brought to work for us, and have God Himself at our side, as children of God. Therefore we should seek to make a far better use than ever we have clone of prayer. And you, my beloved Christian friends, who are in the habit of meeting often at the noonday prayer meeting, expect great things at the hands of God; look out for wondrous blessings, and you will find how ready He is to give those things which we ask for.”

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dzgrizzle · 6 months

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Today I went to Noonday Prayers & Holy Eucharist at The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany in Atlanta. We were visited by a lizard who came inside and stayed for the service. Perhaps he saw the statue of St. Francis outside and knew he’d be welcome. The officiating priest said she would count the lizard in her attendance numbers for the service. 🦎

#episcopal church #st francis of assisi #lizard #all creatures great and small

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ravnloft · 6 months

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wicked turns #1-3.

what's up everybody guess who's writing fanfic again lol. amma theylin (drow rogue/fighter, neutral) and astarion ancunin (high elf rogue/bard, leaning evil) get into Some BullshitTM

“So, there’s a monster hunter down by Auntie Ethel’s place,” Amma says.

It’s midday. No one’s really injured, but after the tension of negotiating with goblins and tea with a hag, the group agreed it’s best to turn in early. Shadowheart is off doing something with incense and murmured prayers. Karlach is already half-naked and wading into the lake, and she gives a loud sigh of relief as the water steams up around her massive shoulders. Gale, without an item of acceptable enchantment level (to him) and worthlessness (to Amma), has decided his talents are better used here in camp, doing… something. Nothing? Whatever. As long as he’s not pestering her for loot, Amma couldn’t care less. Astarion said he’d watch over the poor dear, which is just as well for everyone else, because then they won’t have to deal with his antics, too.

But they’re all back at camp now, and there is a discussion to be had.

“A Gur,” Amma continues. “Said his name was Gandrel.”

Astarion is laid out on his little nest of carpets and cushions like a cat in a sunbeam. She watches him intently– sees the tendons in his hands tighten on the book he’s holding, the twitch of his shirtsleeve where the muscle tenses in his arm. He’s nervous.

“Told us something rather interesting,” comes Wyll’s voice from over her shoulder. He stands soldier-straight. Closer than Amma would like, but for this conversation– well, she’s just glad he’s not so disappointed in her that he wouldn’t stand beside her now. “About a vampire spawn he’s tracking.”

Astarion does his absolute best to be nonchalant. His eyes focus on the page of his book, he licks his thumb, turns the page.

“Tall tales, no doubt,” he says. “Did he ask for money? That’s a trick as old as Balduran. ‘I’m facing unimaginable evils, but I must have alms to fund my fight’. Might as well just make a wish and throw your coin into a well– you’ll see just as much reward for it.” Then, with a cold, sharp edge: “– You didn’t tell him where we’re camping, did you?”

“Should I have?”

Amma waits half a moment to see Astarion’s eyes stray from the page. That’s all the confirmation she needs.

“He was looking for you,” she says.

Astarion is slow and purposeful to stand. Wyll moves beside her, quick, instinctive– she holds her arm out to keep him back. She can hear the whisper of his rapier unsheathing like it has a mind of its own. Who’s the bloodthirsty one now, she wonders idly.

Astarion is just as tense. He’s standing in a way she’s never seen before: like an animal ready to pounce. But he hasn’t. Yet.

Measured, from between his teeth: “And what did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘You smell disgusting, might want to wash up before you speak with the lady of the house, good luck’. And then I left.”

Astarion turns his head and looks at her sidelong for a moment– a hawk, spotting a mouse– before his attention flashes back to the Blade. A hawk, spotting a mouse, and then the crows coming to chase him from the nest.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” says Amma. “Because you’ve been useful so far. If this hunter’s after you, that’s your business. But if you can explain why– then maybe keeping him away from you will be our business.”

She watches Astarion’s chest rise and fall beneath the fine silk of his shirt, watches the noonday sun blaze against his cheek. Shouldn’t that be impossible? Shouldn’t that have killed him already? Shouldn’t he have killed them already? Something keeps him from it. Not simply the tadpole, nor the artifact, and certainly not sentiment. But then– what?

“I’m not saying anything until you stay your blade,” he says to Wyll.

Wyll actually laughs. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well–”

Amma moves closer to Astarion. He steps back, in turn, one harsh line appearing in his face as his jaw clenches. No longer a hawk– an alley dog. Starved and trembling. She’s suddenly aware that everyone in camp has gathered around them: Shadowheart, still in her chain shirt; Karlach, smelling of wet iron, infernal heat coming off her in waves; Gale, propped up on his staff, sleepless, but still able to shoot ice and lightning from his hands.

Amma has never faced a vampire before. Nor has Wyll, if he spoke true to Gandrel. How fast is a spawn? How fast is a spawn with a mind flayer tadpole? Could they put him down before he strikes? Would he kill them? Would he turn them into mindless, bloodless slaves? Can he be felled by simple blades? Do they need a stake? Holy water? To find his grave and burn it?

“So what if I am a vampire?” He raises his hands, a pleading note in his voice. “I’m just as desperate as the rest of you. I’m– I’m a tadpole-haver first, and– a vampire second.”

“That boar,” Amma says, “in the forest.”

“Yes.” His shoulders lower a fraction of an inch, his face falls with relief. “I’m not some monster, lurking in the dark like all the stories. I’ve never even killed anyone! Well– not until recently.” A beat. “Not for food, at least.”

A strange sensation courses through her, and Amma can feel her companion’s mind unfold, secrets half-revealed. Her teeth pierce thick boar-hide and she drinks deep. She takes in his face. His hair, white, unnaturally so. How old is he, really? How many years has his face looked like this? She imagines the skull beneath it, fanged and terrible. She imagines the blood and veins and meat of his brain. The tadpole turns a figure-eight behind her eye. Astarion’s face lurches. His eyes grow wide and he leans away from her, but not before her mind finds purchase in his own– and bites.

There is no camp, no swamp, no Gandrel. There is nothing but blackness and blood. Others’; his own. Hunger. Terror. Hate. Gargantuan sensations, but all of them eclipsed by the sight of his eyes, shining in the dark like raw, fresh, bloody meat, and his voice, cold, cutting to the core, commanding. Ignoring fleas, ignoring mange, teeth find purchase in a rat, crunching its small ribs against the palate, clumps of fur on tongue, it’s rancid and it’s dead but it’s blood blood blood in mouth in throat in stomach–

Reality returns with a dizzying wave of fear and disgust. Amma sways, and so does Astarion– clutching his temple, shrinking back into the shadow of his tent, reeling like a struck hound. Her vision swims. She can still taste blood in the back of her throat. Is it from his memory? Or is it carnage in the wake of the tadpole’s turn, trickling down from the basin of her skull? She pushes it down. If he’s going to fight back–

– He doesn’t fight back.

She looks into the gloom of the tent, into eyes so red they look flayed; he stares back into her, piercing, unmerciful. The connection has been severed, but the memories remain. The way he looks at her– is it disgust? For his own past? For her intrusion? Does he want mercy? Understanding? She doesn’t know, nor does she particularly care, and she doubts she even has those emotions in her anymore.

(What did he unearth in her while she was digging inside him?)

But of this, she’s certain: Astarion is a monster. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A charming thing that rips and claws and feeds as soon as it can get the chance. From the moment they met, he’s never been anything else, whether his blade was at her throat or in a goblin’s belly. There is no quivering conscience in him– not like the others.

She could use a monster.

“Animals,” he gasps. “Rats. Deer. Kobolds. Whatever I can get.” His face twists as he stands; she feels the psionic strands binding all of them together twist with it.

“Not because you wanted to.”

“I– yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I was slow to trust you.”

He’s moved near to her, again– nearer than before. He looks down at her. The shape of his mouth is still holding onto a grimace, a snarl; this close, she can indeed see the pointed fangs between his lips. The sun hits his eyes like rubies. She imagines him covered in gore.

“But I do trust you. And you can trust me.”

She doesn’t.

From behind her– Wyll’s disdain: “Enough of this.” The sound of his blade unsheathed again.

“Stop,” Amma says sharply. “He stays. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Thank you,” Astarion sighs. In an instant, he’s back to his usual self: he throws his hands out wide, inviting, grins at them all. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And just like that, we’re all friends again. Now, do try to get some rest, will you? You’re all looking somewhat worse for wear.”

Shadowheart simply shrugs and goes back to her prayers. Gale and Wyll walk off together, grumbling darkly. Karlach turns, runs, and jumps back into the lake with a joyous whoop.

Astarion does not pick his book back up. Instead, he starts putting on his boots.

“Thought you trusted us,” Amma says.

“I trust you plenty.”

He whistles a happy tune, picks up his blade, thumbs the edge of it carefully. He makes a little show of gathering his things and buttoning his gambeson. When she doesn’t leave, he shoots her a smile– a real smile, sharp and scheming.

“Which is why you’re invited to help me kill this Gur.”

For a creature that must drink blood, Astarion loves to waste the stuff.

Sure, there’s satisfaction to be found in killing; sure, there’s a pleasure in putting someone’s insides on the outside. There’s bloodlust and delight in violence. He has these traits. There’s also common sense– strategy– not running headfirst into a fight against someone willing to bet their soul on killing him. He does not have these. It’s a lack that Shadowheart was ready to slap him over after removing four arrows from Astarion’s chest and one from Amma’s leg, bless her dark heart.

Regardless– Gandrel is dead, everyone else is alive, and after going through the hunter’s things, Amma is a whole one gold and three silver richer than before. She’s calling it a win.

Before this, Amma was used to traveling with humans, dwarves, tieflings– plenty of strange folk, certainly– but not elves. She’s used to being the only one who needs a four-hour trance instead of an eight-hour sleep. Now, she has Astarion to deal with. She’s not happy about it. She’d use the extra time to study maps or textbooks on the task at hand, sharpen her blades, rifle through other people’s belongings to see if they had anything valuable; these aren’t activities that are aided by having someone else up and wandering around, asking what she’s doing.

For the last few nights, she had been working on a map of the nautiloid crash region– no idea if it was actually accurate or not, but at least it gave them some sense of direction– and trying to ignore Astarion’s existence. Tonight, given recent revelations, she’s opted to leave the camp entirely. Went off to the river with her bedroll and some soap and salvaged linens from the blighted village. (She hasn’t told anyone else she has these.) She’s gathered an untenable amount of blood and muck in her long hair, and she doesn’t want to cut it. They kept it shaved in Ched Nasad. It must be washed.

The water here is fresh and clear and cold. The soap smells so strongly of lavender that Amma suspects it was meant for laundry and not skin, but it’s all she has, so she’ll make do. Soon she sees the current outlined in bloody, pink suds. She lets her mind go blank and dark. She thinks of nothing but the small pains of frigid water against her skin, of pulling snags and tangles out of her hair. Wishes she had oil and a comb. Wishes she had a real tub. Wishes she was back in Baldur’s Gate, spending the night in a nice, busy tavern, full of pockets she can pick and goblets she can down. She stays on the riverbank long after she’s dry. She sets her bedroll out on the grass, curls up, and allows herself to fall into a trance.

Maybe she wakes up because she knows something is wrong. Maybe she just gets lucky.

“Shit,” Astarion mutters, inches from her face.

He stands quickly, holds his hands up, steps away from her. On instinct, she throws a dagger from under her pillow. It thunks ominously into a tree next to his head.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he panics.

As he stumbles through the explanation, she stalks to the tree, removes the dagger, and holds it to his throat.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

He draws his face into the now-familiar expression he gets when he’s trying to look harmless. “Because, I–” And then he swats the dagger out of her hand.

Not one to give up a fight, Amma slams her elbow into his face. She can hear his teeth click together. The pained sound he makes is very satisfying.

“You–” he snarls, then catches himself, tries to act human. “I wasn’t– I’m not here to hurt you.”

Amma takes advantage of his momentary lapse to wade ankle-deep into the stream, grab a piece of driftwood, and snap it over her knee.

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” he says– but keeps his distance. When she doesn’t drop the makeshift stake, he takes another step back. Breathes in deep to calm himself.

“I swear on my own grave, Amma, I am not here to harm you. I just want to talk.”

A long moment of consideration. She watches him– he’s relaxed, as best he can while rubbing his swiftly-bruising chin. He could have killed her, just then. Easily. Could have used her own knife against her. Could have taken a fistful of her hair and smashed her head into a rock or held it under the water until she stopped moving. But he didn’t.

“So talk,” she says.

Astarion looks at her feet in the water and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Then he bends down and retrieves her dagger from the riverbank, holds it behind his back; he walks to the edge of the stream, places one foot on a protruding rock, and extends his free hand nobly to her.

“Come out of there and be civilized, will you?”

Warily, she sloshes over to him. She takes his hand. It’s cold, and soft, and when he closes his fingers around hers, it’s surprisingly gentle. He doesn’t pull her in so much as simply drift along with her. Without letting go, he leans down again and retrieves one of the linens she’d left drying on the shore, hands it to her.

“I’m sorry, I…” His voice trails off as he looks at her. He’s close enough for her to smell the perfume lingering on his clothes. His eyes come alive in the dark, bright and precious. He’s still holding her hand in his, practiced, graceful.

She pulls her hand away.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Ah– yes. About today, earlier… fighting that monster hunter.”

Is it that he’s sorry for charging in like an idiot? He’s sorry for putting the group in danger like that, and it won’t happen again? Thank you, Amma, for protecting me so bravely from all the people who are trying to kill me?

“I just feel so… weak.” His face twists with the now-familiar look of disgust. For a moment, she’s struck with something– pity, maybe? Recognition? “Feeding on animals– it’s not enough. Not if I need to fight.”

That disgust, it’s something she feels, too. A rat in her mouth. A voice in his ear. They both know what it’s like to be made weak and small by someone else.

“If I just had a little blood,” he continues, “I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

“No. Go take it from somebody else.”

“Oh, you mean the cleric? Or the Blade of Frontiers? Or the tiefling that incinerates everything she touches? Or the man who can explode me with his mind? No. It has to be you.”

“The hells it does.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if we had any other choice,” he grimaces. “I need you alive. You need me strong. That’s the only way we’re going to save ourselves from these worms.”

He’s close to her. He’s very close to her. He could just reach out and trap her, but he doesn’t. And that’s somehow infuriating to her: that he would ask to bite her, that he seemingly cares what she would say. It blurs the line of trust– and mistrust– that she thought they’d drawn. It invites– sentimentality.

“Give me back my dagger,” she says.

“No, you’re going to stab me with it.”

“Give me back my dagger, and I’ll let you drink my blood.”

He cocks his head– a hawk, a mouse; a fox, a vole.

He pulls the blade hesitantly from behind his back. Hands it over to her. The way he watches her is predatory, dissective– his eyes linger at her collarbone, her jaw, her throat.

“It’ll only be a taste,” he breathes. “I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”

“No, it won’t.”

Her blade flashes in the moonlight, and she presses it into her own palm.

“Get on your knees,” she tells him.

He does, but slowly. Calculating. There isn’t any worry in his face as he looks up at her (he thinks he’s good at hiding that kind of thing, but he’s not). Wariness, yes, but not fear. Instead, there is… intrigue. Fascination.

With red eyes fixed on the knife against her skin, he says, “You’re making this far more dramatic than it needs to be. You can just lie back. You won’t even feel a thing.”

Amma draws the blade across her palm, snikt, squeezes her hand into a fist so the blood streams thick and hot over her wrist. Holds it out to him.

“Stop talking,” she says.

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes hold of her forearm with one hand, his grip much harder than is gentlemanly, and pries her fingers open with his other. He presses her bleeding palm to his lips with fervor. She can feel his teeth against the base of her fingers, his dead tongue lapping that which spills down to her wrist. It’s nauseating and thrilling in equal measure.

Eventually: “That’s enough.” She pulls her bloodied hand away from him. His grip shifts to her elbow, and his mouth moves to her wrist. He bares his fangs.

“Stop it,” she hisses. Jabs the pommel of her dagger hard into his jaw to try and make him let up. He does– falls back, clutching his jaw. For a moment, they lock eyes. She can see her blood dripping down his chin, coating his teeth, black in the moonlight. He can see the soft, naked pulse point in her neck.

He lunges.

This time, Amma has no chance to struggle– she’s already seeing stars just from what he’s taken at her wrist. When he bites down into her neck, it’s nothing like the hot snikt of a blade; it’s like a shard of ice. Her breath catches, her heart thrums. She can feel her blood racing as it courses through both their bodies. She feels cold.

She panics– acts on instinct– stabs. Her dagger drives easily into the meat of his thigh. He draws his head up from her with a horrible gasp, sending fat drops of blood across their shirts, lowing in pain. When he releases her, Amma’s legs give out. She can’t feel her feet.

“You wretched–” He grits his crimson teeth together and removes the dagger from his thigh. The rest of his sentence devolves into a painful snarl.

Her vision is dark at the edges. She can see him coming back to her as though through a telescope. She fumbles against him desperately, trying to push him back with bloodless limbs.

“Stop–” Her voice is hoarse and weak. His hands close around her wrists and force them to the ground, pinning her easily, effortlessly. “Astarion, stop–”

After that, all she feels is cold. There’s no more fear. No more struggle. Her vision goes dark knowing he’s still on her neck.

There are worse ways to die.

“No, no, you can’t die!”

The voice is muffled, unrecognizable. The world is dark. What happened? Who is this?

“Get up, damn you–”

There are hands at her chest, her wrist, her neck. Someone grips her chin and turns her head and it sends dull, throbbing pain all down the side of her torso. She smells blood, wet leaves, dirt. Back in prison? No, it doesn’t smell right. The wardens gave up trying to keep her alive after the fourth time she removed the bandages, anyway.

The hands leave her and she hears shuffling, rattling. She tries to turn over to her side. It’s hard. She’s so cold. So tired. Dimly, in the back of her mind, one dread thought forms: she failed. The Matron will be angry.

Healing magic shoots through her like a lightning bolt. A pale elven face swims into focus above her. She punches it.

“Agh! Gods damn it–”

Forest. Dawn, or close to it. Old, sticky blood on her hands. Astarion.

“I understand you’re upset, but let’s not get carried away,” she can hear him saying. It’s harsh and tight through gritted teeth. Amma sits up– difficult, painful. An awful, wet, metallic cough seizes in her throat. It makes her vision swim with pain.

“You fucking killed me,” she manages after a moment.

“‘Killed’ feels like a strong word,” he counters quickly. She watches him dab his knuckles under his nose, checking to see if it’s bleeding. It is. He grimaces. “Not many corpses have your vigor. Besides, I brought you back, didn’t I?”

She watches him. He watches her. The feeling of her body is starting to return. Her limbs feel weak, like the joints were loosened. Her neck throbs with every frantic beat of her heart. She struggles to blink stars out of her eyes.

“Now, I admit, I got a little– carried away last night,” he says. He lowers his chin and flutters his pretty lashes at the ground. “I apologize.”

“Take more than an apology,” Amma growls.

“Regardless, look at you now. Perfectly healthy! So let’s not fall out over this.”

She doesn’t feel perfectly healthy. She feels like, if she were to rate her bodily vivacity on a scale of zero to eighteen, with zero being dead and eighteen being pre-tadpole Amma, she’d be at a one right now.

His pale hand comes into view, open, delicate. He’s offering to help her up.

“We still need each other, after all,” he says.

She ignores it. “Do we?”

Clearly offended: “A strong, well-fed vampire? I’m a powerful weapon– you’d be a fool to toss me aside now.”

She’s loath to admit it, but he’s right.

“I didn’t trust you to begin with,” Amma says, “and I don’t trust you now. Go back to camp. We’ll talk about it later.”

He lingers.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asks. It’s– disarmingly soft.

A wave of disgusting unhappiness washes over her. Not just at him, but at the memories he’s reminded her of. The Underdark. The Matron. Failure. Whether he intended to or not, Astarion has her at his mercy, and he’s the first person in over a hundred years to do that.

“Just go,” Amma spits at him.

He goes.

#bg3 posting #amma #mine #fanfic #writing #NOT putting any other tags on this. nobody look at me im shy fhgdfhgfddfh

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