#storm spirit kin

[arcielee]

The Past and the Pending

Summary: Aemond will find you and bring you the fuck back to Westeros.  Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count:  3790 Warnings: Smutty smut, possessive Aemond (you know you love it, I do too, no judgement) dubcon, oral (female receiving), fingering, p in v, all the goodies.  Author's Note:  We are coming to the end of this depravity and there is one last part after this. I cannot express enough thanks to @f4ll-for-you for all of her help! I literally posted, “Hey, this is my first ever Reader Insert attempt, does anyone wanna read it?” And she was the only one willing and the friendship that has blossomed has absolutely changed me for the better as a writer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart ♥  lēkia - brother Tags (kindred spirits): @glitterandgoldfinds @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @fan-goddess @welcometothelioncage @hueanhdang @sahvlren @heavenly1927 @missusnora @lemonivall​ (I have never had a taglist before, but if you are bold it is because Tumblr has betrayed me and it will not allow me to tag you, I’m so sorry)  Series: Call It Dreaming 

Prince Aemond Targaryen was a quiet force that would sweep through the Red Keep, his dark presence engulfing every room he entered into. His temperament would be described as obsessional, almost consuming, whenever his meticulous mind was set on something or someone. His traits and his drive would have been admirable in a firstborn son, but instead he learned early on his fate was predetermined, understanding that his title would forever be superseded by the fact he was only a second son. 

On the night he returned from Storm’s End, he came to realize that his power dynamic had shifted. Aemond was ushered away into the small council chamber, not even able to change from his clothes that hung heavy from the rain. He saw the change in the expressions around the table, the disappointment in both his grandsire and mother’s expressions, but Aegon did not share their concerns and found optimism within his err, boldly stating how his brother had, “the true blood of the dragon.” 

Aemond was grateful his brother stood at his side with the new alias Kinslayer tacking onto his legacy and, in return, he devoted himself to serve his king, no matter the personal opinion on his drunken addled reign. 

He was a formidable ally to Aegon, quick to push his grandsire and his self-serving counsel aside, while suggesting for Daeron to return to the Red Keep at once, which would allow Tessarion to be added on the battlefront. 

Aemond then turned his focus to the retaliation he knew would come from his sister, pouring over tomes and books to scrutinize battles past and best predict the impending. It did not prepare for the attempt made, but the gods showed favor as Daeron happened to be visiting with his mother when two brutes slipped into her quarters by one of the many ingresses that lined the castle walls. The prince’s yells were quick to bring the attention of Ser Criston Cole and together they were able to subdue the would-be assassins. 

The two men with the monikers Blood and Cheese were beaten until they were unrecognizable, until the needed confession spilled from their broken teeth and bloody lips: that they had been sent by Daemon. 

An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

The outrage for the attempt on the little Targaryen princes allowed the uproar needed amongst the seven realms to capture and bring Rhaenyra and their uncle to trial. They were convicted and their execution was a show for the smallfolk, thus ceasing any more murmurs of who Viserys had wished to be his heir. 

This led to present day, with the seven realms now under the unquestionable rule of his brother, King Aegon II, who proved to be an insipid drunk with access to the royal funds, which was used to throw extravagant revelries that allowed him to wag his cock at every woman within Westeros. 

Yes, he was the king and he was kin, but Aegon was still insufferable. 

His brother’s incessant celebrations left Aemond numb to their victory, with an emptiness that replaced the consuming vengeance he had felt since that fateful night on Driftmark. He always assumed when it had been rightfully served, that a sense of peace would take over but instead he found a gnawing want for something more. 

“You need a woman, lēkia,” Aegon had told him with a giggle.

In that regard, Aemond had an insatiable appetite but only once it had been awakened. The last woman he took to bed was when they first claimed Harrenhal and slaughtered every Strong within, save for a bastard who served as a wetnurse.

Their chemistry was explosive, burning bold and passionate until the inevitable end of the wick. Alys spoke often of her purpose, stating the gods have given her a new destiny to fulfill, whereas Aemond was respectful of the old gods and the new, but found he often preferred the process of coming to a conclusion with thorough research, as opposed to an unseen deity’s say-so. 

When he told her this, she clucked her tongue and touched his cheek. “My prince, I know your destiny and you just need to find her.” 

Instead, Aemond returned to the Red Keep and fell into the mundane routine of small council meetings, training with Ser Criston, and riding Vhagar. The only time he felt a sense of purpose was backside the massive she-dragon, allowing her freedom to soar over the seven realms and trusting the gentle pull of the reins and a word utterance would return them to King’s Landing.

To return to nothing. 

He had always preferred seclusion, but it wore on him as of late. His sister was busy with the twins and her new babe, a young princeling named Maelor, while his mother was devoted to breathing down Aegon’s neck and upholding his royal reputation. Daeron found his purpose within the Citadel and was forging his chains and Ser Criston allowed time to train with him, but he was dedicated to the shadows cast by his mother and brother. 

So when his day’s tasks were done, he would retreat to his room and allow himself to remove his eyepatch and the façade it held, choose a book from his growing collection and seat himself in front of the fire to read. 

This was how you found him. 

His agitation was apparent by the rush of color to his cheeks; he could not fathom how you managed to enter without him realizing. He watched as you made a soft noise of surprise, your backside was to him and he knew, from what you wore, that Aegon had picked some whore from the Streets of Silk and slipped her in. 

His tone was sharp when he questioned what you were doing and he saw you jump. Aemond was in a sour mood and he knew he was projecting, but his temper flared and he glided across the room to take hold of you by the throat, though he was careful with his hold. 

What he had not expected was the beauty that seemed to glow from you, your look so exquisite and unlike anything he had seen before within Westeros. The embarrassment of you seeing him so intimately tightened his expression and you returned his look with an unabashed regard that held no tremor of fear, but your eyes seemed to brim with a sort of adoration. 

His gaze rolled over your shapely legs that peered below the hem of your queer clothing and the gnaw of lust began to form in the pit of his stomach. He watched with rapt attention when you removed that flimsy piece of clothing to show the small clothes that fit with your figure with the most delicious flattery to your curves.

His passion had been awakened; he had to taste you, he had to touch you.

His fingers trailed your skin, soft like silk to his touch, and your scent warm and subtle. Your body fit so well against him and the noises that spilled from your kiss swollen lips was a sound he always wished to hear. The moment he finally sheathed himself inside your wet warmth, you mewled so pitifully and he shuddered from how your cunt molded so perfectly around his cock. Aemond struggled to pace himself, but your tightness clutched so sinfully and he swore the world anew when he spilled inside you. 

Aemond pulled you beneath the covers, unwilling to have you return from wherever his brother dragged you from. He loved curling against your soft backside and how you felt pressed against his chest; there was pleasure from watching you sleep, with the subtle rise and fall of your bare chest with your every breath, while cradling his arm between your breasts. 

He regretted falling asleep, for when he awoke you were gone and all that remained was the queer clothing you had arrived in, your fragrance still lingering on the thin fabric. 

Aemond went to find his brother and confront him about you, only to learn that Aegon had been bedridden since late the day prior with stomach pains. “You swear you have not left this bedchamber, lēkia,” he questioned. 

“Speak softer,” Aegon moaned, dark circles that amplified the purple of his eyes. “I swear to you I did not leave my room for anything last night, save the bucket.” 

But if she was not his, where did she come from?

He called for Ser Erryk and together they searched every brothel within the city, questioning every madam and giving the description of your beauty. There was no lead and they tried to entice him with what they had available, but Aemond did not want the touch of anyone but you and you alone. 

You had become his new sense of purpose, consuming his every thought.

It was weeks before he saw you again; there was the familiar soft gasp falling from your lips and you were back, flesh and blood, in his bedchambers. His temper flared and you were coy with your reply. There was the question that had tormented him for weeks, “Where are you from?”

“I cannot say.”

He wished for an answer, but his body betrayed him and the ache he felt only began to subside once he grabbed onto you, feeling your soft flesh and enveloped in your warm aroma. He pulled you close, appreciative of the black, simple dress that complimented the curves of your body; your nipples peaked beneath the fabric and your body arched, the soft flesh of your ass pressing into his crotch. 

You were intoxicating and he was mournful with his words, “I imagine you will leave me again.”

“I will need to,” you replied, your eyes doleful. “But I will stay as long as I am able to.”

As long as I am able to.

Your words remained with him, a soft echo in his mind as he returned to the monotonous tasks of his every day. They rolled away and one night, in the quiet of his bedchamber, he laid back and stared at his canopy above his bed. His gaze held nothing, but beneath his pillow he held a grip of his dagger, the fabric of your shirt touching his knuckles. 

He ached for your touch, the clothing left behind had lost your smell, and he mourned that he did not hold onto you, refusing to allow you to return from wherever you had come from. 

Aemond did not remember falling asleep, but he felt the shift at the edge of his bed and the realization he was not alone in his room. He had an automated response, only to fully awaken once he saw the hold he had around your neck and your wide eyes. 

The passion remained the same and how perfect your body was against his own. A sense of ataraxia washed over him with you wrapped in his arms, a comforting calm until he felt your body tense every so slight. “What is it?” He was quick to ask, wanting to resolve whatever vexed you in this intimate moment.  

You turned to face him, your eyes glassy and the tip of your nose red with your words, “I only wish I was able to stay longer with you.”

Morning came and his bed was empty again, but he now understood what must be done. He returned to Harrehal and sought out Alys. When he entered the throne room, he looked up at her and she wore a wicked smile on her painted lips, but her focus was on the mortar in her hand. “What do you seek, my prince?” She asked with the lilt of her Riverland accent. 

“Who,” he replied, his gaze watchful as her hands continued the motion in front of her. There was a collection of mason jars, marble bowls brimming with herbs from all over Westeros, and the wispy smoke of sage hung heavy in the air.

Alys lifted her kohl smeared eyes, a twinkle to the blue that bore into him. “You finally found her,” her tone was playful, almost teasing. “You know that I need something of hers to locate.”

He handed over your vintage shirt.

“The White Duke,” she grinned. “Is this dear to her?”

“I hope so,” he answered. 

She tsked and took just a shred of the fabric, dropping it onto the marble slate in front of her before sprinkling a powder on top. A flame sparked and it reflected in her eyes. “Fate is peculiar,” she began, her tone still teasing. “She is not of this world, my prince.” 

Aemond remembered your reply, I cannot say, and he asks, “Am I able to get to her? Would I be able to bring her back here?” He swallowed. “She has visited me before.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Alys continues. “I can create an access that will allow you to retrieve your destiny, as well as a potion that you must give her so she can return with you, with whatever she carries.” Her eyes focused on him, her lips drawn into a thin line. “We cannot traipse back and forth this plane of existence, my prince. I can give you two days, but after that the portal will be closed so on one else can cross.” 

She paused for a moment. “This, of course, will cost you, my prince.” 

But no cost could compare to the opportunity to see you again. Aemond returned that evening and noticed a chalk symbol on the cobblestone. Alys handed him a small vial with a soft purple glow emanating from the glass. “This is what she must take to be able to cross over and stay within Wetseros,” she instructed. “Where you arrive will be the same way you must return.” 

He nodded, his jaw clenched. 

“I will close this portal in two days, whether you return or not,” she repeated and she gave him a kiss. “Good luck, my prince.”

Aemond Targaryen found himself in your room.

Where he stood was a soft, iridescent glow beneath where he stood and it faded away. A purple lucent light remained, casting from your bedside and allowing enough light for him to look around. It was apparent the space was intimately yours, an almost chaotic cleanliness and your fragrance touched everything. He noticed a velvet chair with clothes folded on top and to his right, by the door, were your shoes neatly lined up. Aemond bent over and removed his boots, placing them alongside. 

He saw a shelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor, littered with literature and small trinkets; on the wall were pieces of artwork that hung. His gaze then fell towards the bed where you were sleeping; you were wearing a thin, white tank top and the blanket was halfway down your hips, your lips slightly open with the soft breaths of your slumber. 

There was the curl of his lips as Aemond took slow steps around your bedside, his eye taking in your relaxed form in the sheer top, and he reached to gently pull the quilt back further to show the black cotton underwear that hung on your hips. His hand reached out to you, his fingertips pressing into your soft skin and his touch elicited a sleepy moan from your lips, your nipples pebbling in response. 

He felt the tightness in his trousers and he pulled back to remove his tunic before moving to climb into your bed, pressing closer, his nose trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your neck, his mouth opened slightly as he took in your smell. 

You shift beneath him with a sigh, goosebumps spreading over the skin that shows, and he was quick to place his palm to cover your mouth; your eyes widen and it takes a moment to recognize it was Aemond Targaryen, bare chested and pressing up against you. He relaxes his grip and your hands move to touch his face, your fingers soft on his jawline, “Aemond-?” Your voice is a harsh whisper and he moves forward to take your mouth with his own. 

You moan into the kiss as his tongue massages against your own, shifting himself to move on top of you and brace his elbows on each side of you, caging you in. You move to open your legs and cradle him against your hips, your hands tangling in his silver hair.

His lips move downwards, tracing your jawline to your neck and kissing your chest. He shifts his weight to one side, reaching to grab your neckline with one hand and pulling to allow your breast to spill. His hot mouth suckles and bites into your soft flesh and you moan louder, grinding your hips upwards for friction. 

You see the curl of his lips as he reaches for your stretched neckline and tears it down the center. “Hey,” you push to your elbows, your voice low. “I would have taken it off if you just asked.”

“I do not ask for what is mine,” he replies and pushes you back into a bed with a kiss that removes the air from your lungs and all thoughts from your mind until all you can think is the sensation of his lips trailing lower, his kisses sprinkled over your chest, your breasts, your ribs and lower. 

You lift your hips and peel off your underwear that is soaked with your anticipation; Aemond moves to your center with a greedy lick of your silky folds, the sensation sending shivers throughout and your clit blossoms in response. “Vok,” Perfect, he praises into your cunt and you shiver again with his Valyrian. 

You feel his slender finger curl into you, a tentative touch to your velvety walls until you clench in response. He hums his satisfaction before adding a second finger for a come hither motion to massage that spot within you; you mewl pitifully and bring your hand to your mouth to smother your noise. 

He pulls back to look at you and you are quick to whisper, “I have roommates,” he probably does not know what the fuck that is, “I live with others here, they have their own rooms… I-I don’t want them to hear me.” 

“I do not fucking care,” he growls and he dips lower until his mouth is on your cunt. You gasp at the simultaneous ministrations of his mouth and his fingers within you; your thighs begin to shake and you nearly cry when he quickens his motion, the pleasure crashing over you and your cunt clenching desperately around his fingers as he coaxes you through your orgasm. 

There is a wet squelch when he pulls his hand back and you weakly look, face flushed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean, his grin wicked. “As sweet as last night,” he says and he moves to unlace his trousers before returning to nestle in the cradle of your hips. 

Your eyes are glazed and you sigh with the pressure of his chest to your own, his hard and warm and still somehow molds so perfectly against you; he moves his hips and you feel his cock pressing against your slick slit, tantalizing your swollen lips. “Aemond, please,” you beg, your nails biting into his toned shoulders. 

He reaches his hand to line himself with your entrance, the gentle thrusts of his hips to fill you and you moan at the stretch of your walls as his cock sheaths into you. He begins to rock against you, hitting deeper within, and the soft pants of pleasure spill from your lips with his every thrust.  

Aemond leans forward, his mouth finding yours with a gentle kiss that does not match to the powerful pace of his hips. “Wait,” you breathe and he pauses, his expression curious as you push him back and he follows you lead to lay back onto your bed. 

You take care to prop your pillows behind his back and his gaze watches as you climb on top, your touch gentle to guide his tip between your wet folds. He reaches to grip into the softness of your hips, lifting to ease the entirety of his length into you; your head tilts back with a cockdrunk grin to your lips and you slowly begin to rock against his hips, while Aemond presses to meet your motion. 

You look down at the prince and his gaze is intense in return, one sapphire eye and one lavender eye that bore through you. The lighting of the room gives him an ethereal beauty and your eyes admire how the shadows spread across the rivets of his chest and abdomen when he flexes to meet you with the motion of his hips. His silken hair spills on both sides, a contrast to your dark sheets, like a silver halo for this deity clenched between your thighs. 

“Aemond,” your voice is so low, but he is rapt to your attention. “Jenigon nykēla.”

Touch me.

He releases one hand and reaches between your thighs, his thumb gentle with his touch until the slick on your cunt coats his tip. He finds your pearl and moves in circles to match the rhythm of his hips, his touch igniting the passion that coils in the pit of your stomach. Your nails bite into his chest, leaving creases of red crescent moons on his pale skin; you bite your bottom lip, quickening the movement of your hips.

Aemond returns your passion, rutting upwards until your breath hitches and your velvety walls begin to clench around him, coaxing his own release with a guttural groan from the back of his throat; his arm pushes himself upright and the other moves to slip around your waist, burying his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, soaking in your scent. 

He falls back and pulls you with him, his arms wrapping around you and you nestle against his chest; your smile is unable to leave your face as you press a kiss to his chest, moving to press your lips to his neck. He hums, his cheeks dimpling with a closed lip smile, and you whisper, “Aemond, how did you find me?” Your voice is soft. “This has to be a dream.” 

He hums again, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I will tell you everything in the morning,” he promises, nestling with you beneath the quilts on your bed. 

Your fingers trace the hard planes of his abdomen, the softest touch to test if he was really there. But in the morning you will be gone, you don’t say and, instead, his steady breathing lulls you to sleep. 

#the past and the pending #Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x modern!reader #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #thanks for reading #and thanks for all the love #♥

[theladyregret]

Drow Name Tables

Something I did as a special favor to @kimmurielsscryingmirror (@eldritchmist ) who showed interest. Because it’s...pretty big I decided to make it into it’s own post.

These are a few Drow naming tables that were originally found in an issue of Dragon Magazine. It’s two d100 tables of prefixes and suffixes commonly used in first names. The second couple of tables is a list of common house name prefixes and suffixes.

EDIT: Just a little something for those who care which I didn’t add before because it took me so long to finish the transcription I just wanted to post it lol. The gender difference is noted in the related Dragon Magazine article as being significant. Non Drow may not notice but a Drow will notice the difference. Female names sometimes borrow parts that are normally only considered male and this is considered fine...but a male with a name that borrows a typically only female part would be seen as extremely taboo.

Prefix (Female/Male) - Meaning

Akor/Alak                 beloved, best, first

Alaun/Alton             lightning, powerful

Aly/Kel                     legendary, singing, song

Ang/Adin                  beast, monstrous, savage

Ardul/Amal               blessed, divine, godly

Aun/Ant                   crypt, dead, deadly, death

Bae/Bar                      fate, fated, luck, lucky

Bal/Bel                       burned, burning, fire, flame

Belar/Bruh                 arrow, lance, piercing

Briz/Berg                    graceful, fluid, like water

Bur/Bhin                     craft, crafty, sly

Chal/Chasz                earth, stable

Char/Kron                  sick, venom, venomed

Chess/Cal                  noble, lady/lord

Dhaun                          infested, plague

Dil/Dur                         cold, ice, still

Dirz/Div                       dream, dreaming, fantasy

Dris/Riz                        ash, dawn, east, eastern

Eclav/Elk                      chaos, mad, madness

Elvan/Kalan                 elf, elven, far, lost

Elv/Elaug                     drow, mage, power

Erel/Rhyl                      eye, moon, spy

Ethe/Erth                    mithril, resolute

Faer/Selds                   oath, sworn, vow

Felyn/Fil                       pale, thin, weak, white

Filf/Phar                     dwarf, dwarven, treacherous

Gauss/Orgoll              dread, fear, feared, vile

G'eld                              friend, spider  

Ghuan                           accursed, curse, unlucky

Gin/Din                         berserk, berserker, orc, wild

Grey/Gul                       ghost, pale, unliving

Hael/Hatch                   marked, trail, way

Hal/Sol                           deft, nimble, spider-like  

Houn/Rik                       magic, ring, staff

Iiv/Dip                             liege, war, warrior

Iim                                   life, living, spirit, soul

Illiam/Im                         devoted, heart, love

In/Sorn                           enchanted, spell

Ilph                                  emerald, green, lush, tree

Irae/Ilzt                           arcane, mystic, wizard

Irr/Izz                               hidden, mask, masked

Iym/Ist                            endless, immortal  

Jan/Duag                       shield, warded

Jhael/Gel                       ambitious, clan, kin, family

Jhul/Jar                         charmed, rune, symbol

Jys/Driz                         hard, steel, unyielding

Lael/Llt                           iron, west, western

Lar/Les                          binding, bound, law, lawful

LiNeer/Mourn            legend, legendary, mythical  

Lird/Ryld                   brand, branded, owned, slave

Lua/Lyme                       bright, crystal, light

Mal/Malag                     mystery, secret

May/Mas                         beautiful, beauty, silver

Micar                                lost, poison, widow

Min/Ran                           lesser, minor, second

Mol/Go                            blue, storm, thunder, wind

Myr/Nym                       lost, skeleton, skull

Nath/Mer                        doom, doomed, fate

Ned/Nad               cunning, genius, mind, thought

Nhil/Nal                 fear, gorrible, horror, outraged

Neer                                  core, root, strong

Null/Nil                             sad, tear, weeping

Olor/Omar                       skin, tattoo, tattooed

Pellan/Relon                    north, platiunum, wind

Phaer/Vorn                      honor, honored

Phyr/Phyx                        bless, blessed, blessing

Qualn/Quil                        mighty, ocean, sea

Quar                                   aged, eternal, time

Quav/Quev                        charmed, docile, friend

Qil/Quil                               foe, goblin, slave

Rauv/Welv                         cave, rock, stone

Ril/Ryl                                 foretold, omen

Sbat/Szor                           amber, yellow

Sab/Tsab                            abyss, empty, void  

Shi'n/Kren                          fool, foolish, young

Shri/Ssz                             silk, silent  

Shur/Shar                          dagger, edge, stiletto

Shynt                                 invisible, skilled, unseen

Sin/Szin                              festival, joy, pleasure

Ssap/Tath                          blue, midnight, night

Susp/Spir                           learned, skilled, wise

Talab/Tluth                        burn, burning, fire

Tal/Tar                         love, pain, wound, wounded

Triel/Taz                           bat, winged

T'riss/Teb                           blade, sharp, sword  

Ulvir/Uhls                           gold, golden, treasure

Umrae/Hurz                       faith, faithful, true

Vas/Vesz                            blood, bloody, flesh

Vic                                       abyss, deep, profound

Vier/Val                               black, dark, darkness

Vlon/Wod                           bold, hero, heroic

Waer/Wehl             deep, hidden, south, southern  

Wuyon/Wruz                      humble, third, trivial

Xull/Url                                 blooded, crimson, ruby

Xun                                       demon, fiend, fiendish

Yas/Yaz                       riddle, spinning, thread, web

Zar/Zakn                             dusk, haunted, shadow

Zebey/Zek                        dragon, lithe, rage, wyrm

Zes/Zsz                              ancient, elder, respected

Zilv/Vuz                             forgotten, old, unknown

Suffixes (Female/Male) - Meaning

a/agh                  breaker, destruction, end, omega

ace/as                                savant, scholar, wizard

ae/aun                             dance, dancer, life, player

aer/d                                    blood, blood of, heir

afae/afein                         bane, executioner, slayer

afay/aufein                        eyes, eyes of, seer

ala/launim                          healer, cleric

anna/erin                            advisor, counselor to

arra/atar                             queen/prince

aste                                      bearer, keeper, slaver

avin/aonar                           guardian, guard, shield

ayne/al                       lunatic, maniac, manic, rage

baste/gloth                         path, walker

breena/antar                   matriach/patriarch, ruler

bryn/lyn                               agent, assassin, killer

cice/roos                             born of, child, young  

cyrl/axle                               ally, companion, friend

da/daer                                illusionist, trickster

dia/drin                                rogue, stealer

diira/diirn                             initiate, sister/brother

dra/zar                                  lover, match, mate  

driira/driirn                         mother/father, teacher  

dril/dorl                                 knight, sword, warrior

e                                           servant, slave, vessel

eari/erd                                 giver, god, patron

eyl                                       archer, arrow, flight, flyer

ffyn/fein                               minstrel, singer, song

fryn              champion, victor, weapon, weapon of

iara/ica                                 baron, duke, lady/lord  

ice/eth                                 obsession, taker, taken  

idil/imar           alpha, beginning, creator of, maker

iira/inid                                 harbinger, herald

inidia                                     secret, wall, warder

inil/in                                     lady/lord, rider, steed

intra                               envoy, messenger, prophet

isstra/atlab               acolyte, apprentice, student

ithra/irahc                         dragon, serpent, wyrm

jra/gos                                 beast, biter, stinger

jss                                          scout, stalker

kacha/kah                            beauty, hair, style

kiira/raen                              apostle, disciple

lay/dyn                               flight, flyer, wing, wings

lara/aghar                         cynic, death, end, victim

lin                                         arm, armor, commander

lochar                                   messenger, spider

mice/myr           bone, bones, necromancer, witch  

mur'ss                                   shadow, spy, witness

na/nar                                 adept, ghost, spirit

nilee/olil                             corpse, disease, ravager

niss/nozz                           chance, gambler, game

nitra/net                              kicker, returned, risen

nolu                                 art, artist, expert, treasure

olin                                   ascension, love, lover, lust

onia/onim                           rod, staff, token, wand

oyss/omph                       binder, judge, law, prison

qualyn                                 ally, caller, kin

quarra/net                           horde, host, legion

quiri/oj                                  aura, cloak, hide, skin

ra/or                                     fool, game, prey, quarry

rae/rar                                   secret, seeker, quest

raema/orvir                         crafter, fist, hand

raena/olvir                            center, haven, home

riia/rak                       enchanter, mage, spellcaster

ril                                 bandit, enemy, raider, outlaw

riina/ree                     enchanter, mage, spellcaster

ryna/oyn                         follower, hired, mercenary

ryne/ryn                      blooded, elder, experienced

shalee/ral                 abjurer, gaze, watch, watcher

ssysn/rysn          artifact, dweomer, sorcerer, spell

stin/trin         clan, house, merchant, of the house

stra/tran                             spider, spinner, weaver

tana/ton                           darkness, lurker, prowler

thara/tar                             glyph, marker, rune

thrae/olg                          charmer, leader, seducer

tree/tel                         exile, loner, outcast, pariah

tyrr                    dagger, poison, poisoner, scorpion

ual/dan                                speed, strider

ue/dor                                  arm, artisan, fingers

uit/dar                                  breath, voice, word

une/diin                         diviner, fate, future, oracle

uque                              cavern, digger, mole, tunnel  

urra/dax                       nomad, renegade, wanderer

va/ven                             comrade, honor, honored

vayas                         forge, forger, hammer, smith

vyll punishment, scourge, whip, zealot  

vyrae/vyr                     mistress/master, overseer

wae/hrae                           heir, inheritor, princess

wiira/hriir                           seneschal of, steward

wyss/hrys                          best, creator, starter

xae/zaer                             orb, rank, ruler, sceptor

xena/zen                         cutter, gem, jewel, jeweler

xyra/zyr                             sage, teller

yl                                          drow, woman/man

ylene/yln         handmaiden/squire, maiden/youth

ymma/inyon                      drider, feet, foot, runner

ynda/yrd        captain, custodian, marshal, ranger  

ynrae/yraen                       heretic, rebel, riot, void

vrae                                   architect, founder, mason  

yrr                                         protector, rival, wielder

zyne/zt                                finder, hunter

House Name Prefixes - Meaning

Alean                        the noble line of

Ale                             traders in

Arab                          daughters of

Arken                        mages of

Auvry                        blood of the  

Baen                          blessed by

Barri                           spawn of

Cladd                         warriors from

Desp                          victors of

De                               champions of

Do'                              walkers in

Eils                              lands of

Everh                         the caverns of

Fre                              friends of

Gode                          clan of  

Helvi                          those above

Hla                              seers of

Hun'                           the sisterhood of

Ken                            sworn to

Kil                               people of

Mae                           raiders from  

Mel                            mothers of

My                              honored of

Noqu                         sacred to

Orly                            guild of

Ouss                           heirs to

Rilyn                           house of  

Teken'                        delvers in  

Tor                               mistresses of

Zau                              children of

House Name Suffixes - Meaning

afin                              the web

ana                               the night

ani                                the widow

ar                                   poison

arn                                fire

ate                                the way

ath                                the dragons

duis                              the whip

ervs                              the depths

ep                                  the underdark

ett                                 magic

ghym                            the forgotten ways

iryn                               history

lyl                                  the blade

mtor                             the abyss

ndar                              black hearts

neld                              the arcane

rae                                 fell powers

rahel                             the gods

rret                                the void

sek                                 adamantite

th                                    challenges

tlar                                 mysteries

t'tar                                victory

tyl                                   the pits

und                                 the spider's kiss

urden                             the darkness

val                                   silken weaver

viir                                  dominance

zynge                             the ruins

#Dungeons and Dragons #Drow #The Legend of Drizzt #dnd #dark elves

[mylackoffaith]

Dragon's Dreamer - Part II

Summary: Daemon does not like Hightowers. Especially the perfect little hightower bastard girl, who was sleeping in his bed.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x modern!reader word count:1497 words

Daemon always believed the Hightowers were the epitome of dullness and arrogance, parading around as if they owned the Seven Kingdoms with their highborn noses reaching the heavens. The memory of the day he encountered the insufferable cunt—right after the death of his father, Baelon—still lingers vividly in his mind.

The day had been gloomy, the kind that matched Daemon's foul mood on the occasion of his father's funeral. The cunt had been going around, collecting congratulations for his new position as the Hand, and offering condolences with the same fake smile.

Daemon's patience, already as short as a summer night in the North, reached its breaking point. Frustration brewed within him like wildfire, and in a fit of dragon-worthy impulse, he decided it was time to put an end to the Hightower's act.

So, with the grace of a storm, Daemon did what any Targaryen worth his dragon would – he took Otto down, fists descending on the cunt's face.

His grandsire had been furious, as had been Viserys, but Daemon wore his rebellious spirit like armor. The scuffle became the talk of King's Landing, whispered in the shadows and shared over goblets of Arbor Gold in the Red Keep. Otto Hightower, the lofty Hand of the King, humbled by the Rogue Prince in a brawl.

The twit strutted around the Red Keep sporting a black eye like a badge of honor, and Daemon? Well, he earned himself a new moniker—The Rogue Prince. And that marked the beginning of the brewing feud between Daemon and Otto.

The feud continued, each encounter turning into a play. Daemon, with his smirk as sharp as Valyrian steel, takes a certain pleasure in needling Otto.

To this day, Daemon has no idea what his aunt Viserra had seen in the Hightower prick to bed him, but he figured it must have been some twisted sense of humor.

Now that he thinks about it, his aunt was fond of charity. Perhaps, in her charitable moments, she thought the Hightowers needed a dash of Targaryen blood to liven up their dull, highborn lives.

That charitable act resulted in the birth of the eldest daughter of Otto Hightower, a bastard by name but cherished enough by Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and Viserys to be deemed trueborn. So much that the Hightower girl, while in Viserra's womb, was gifted a dragon egg from his grandsire.

Her arrival, however, bore a bitter sweetness. On the very day this Hightower girl opened her lilac eyes to the world, the realm mourned the loss of Daemon's beloved aunt, Viserra.

The girl's motherless fate left an ache in the hearts of the Targaryens, but Alysanne and Jaehaerys, in their grief, found solace in the babe with ginger locks and white streaks.

It had stung when there had been no celebrations for Daemon claiming Caraxes, but when the girl's egg hatched in her cradle, the old King and Viserys didn't put her down for days on end. The small room echoed with the laughter of a king and the coos of an infant dragon.

Daemon, still young, didn't quite warm up to the girl. In fact, he harbored a dislike for her. She seemed to steal away the attention that was once solely his.

Before her, Daemon was the youngest Targaryen, the darling of the family, and now, this Hightower girl had shifted the spotlight. It wasn't just his favourite aunt Viserra he lost; it was the undivided focus of everyone around him.

Days melted into nights, and the halls of the Red Keep echoed with the laughter of a king and the coos of a dragon-blessed child. While Daemon brooded over the lack of attention, the little Hightower girl grew up under the watchful eyes of her Targaryen kin.

Jaehaerys, in his grandfatherly pride, declared her the "realm's jewel" when presenting her to the people of King's Landing. But for Daemon, she remained a constant reminder of what he was compelled to share—his place in the sun, his family's gaze, and the undivided attention he once claimed as his birthright.

Pious and pretty, she was the ideal princess of the Red Keep, a vision that Jaehaerys delighted in showcasing. To the people, she became a prized possession, a radiant gem adding luster to the Targaryen legacy.

Yet, for Daemon, her brilliance cast shadows over his own accomplishments, leaving them diminished in the face of her grace.

Whenever Daemon voiced his discontent to Viserys, his brother's response was a dismissive eye-roll, steadfastly aligning with the girl. Daemon found himself pitted against the perfection she effortlessly embodied, his protests falling on deaf ears.

To make it worst, Caraxes, Daemon's dragon, seemed infatuated with the girl's dragon, Stormsong—a stunning, pure white dragoness with hints of pale blue that could steal anyone's breath. Painfully, Daemon found himself conflicted, for, despite the rivalry, he couldn't deny the beauty of Stormsong.

It was downright comical how Caraxes would gallantly soar across the skies, hunting for prey like a knight on a quest, all to lay the spoils at Stormsong's feet.

The absurdity reached its peak when Stormsong, regal and nonchalant, would casually accept Caraxes' offerings. No grand displays of gratitude—just a quick nibble, a dismissive flutter of her massive wings, and a return to her stoic disinterest. Caraxes, the poor love-struck fool, was stuck in a loop of hunting, presenting, and being ignored.

"She's just one dragon, Caraxes, not the damn Queen of Love and Beauty." Daemon had tried to convince his blood wyrm.

Caraxes rumbled in disagreement, his gaze never wavering from Stormsong, who was being groomed and licked by her mother, Dreamfyre. Stormsong was a dragon version of the little Hightower, if there ever was one.

The peace was short-lived as Stormsong grumbled at her mother, pulling away. With a soft thrill, the dragoness took flight, her wings cutting through the air with grace that made even Daemon paused momentarily.

But he quickly shook off his distraction, turning to confront his blood wyrm. "Do not even think of—" Daemon's words were abruptly silenced as Caraxes took flight in pursuit after Stormsong.

Caraxes was nothing if not determined. It was embarassing to see his dragon reduced to one of those pitiful lovers in those books Aemma reads.

Everything in Daemon's life was affected by the girl. A constant thorn in his side. The Hightower girl, despite being a bastard by name, had the uncanny ability to steal the limelight.

Stumbling in after a night of indulgence in the finest wines, Daemon was greeted by a scene that would make even the most seasoned warrior question reality. There she was, the little Hightower, lying in his bed like she owned the place, completely in the nude.

Daemon, not one to be easily flustered, blinked a couple of times, wondering if the wine had played a trick on him. But no, there she remained, sprawled across his bed in all her ginger-haired glory, softly snoring like a dragon who'd had a few too many sheep for dinner.

A mix of confusion, irritation, and a hint of amusement flickered across Daemon's face as he surveyed the unexpected guest. Can he have one day where this girl doesn't create havoc in his life? Apparently not."

"Did you lose your way to the sept and mistakenly wander into a dragon's lair?" he quipped, his tone a blend of sarcasm and genuine curiosity. The girl remained blissfully oblivious, undisturbed by the chaos her mere presence was causing.

Daemon considered waking her with a nudge or a shout, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation or the wine still coursing through his veins, but he found himself oddly captivated by the sight of the girl in his bed.

Just for tonight. He can deal with her for one night.

taglist: @justaproudslytherpuff @naty-1001 @juskonutoh @ammo23 @beebeechaos @fabimaou @w3ird11 @pet1t3 @moongirl27

[glitch-karma]

Chuuya Birthday Oneshot

Happy (Late..) birthday to the best boy, and my highest kin <333

The day was cold and rainy in Yokohama as you sat there in your small shared apartment. Your boyfriend, Chuuya Nakahara, Executive of the Port Mafia, had been gone for weeks on some mission. Today was his birthday. And it was the first that you two weren't together for.

You sighed as you set the wrapped presents you had for him on your table, along with a handwritten poem that you'd made for him. Birthdays were always hard for Chuuya. He'd always put up a big fuss every time you talked about it. You had a nagging feeling it was because of the incident with Paul Verlaine a few years back. Chuuya was never quite the same since then.

You wanted to be with him so bad. Just to feel his soft lips pamper your face with kisses as you run your hand through his messy orange hair. The feeling of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, as if he never wants to let go. The way he'd whisper in your ear that you two would stay home instead of going out to celebrate. You craved his touch.

You stood up sadly, making your way to your room to grab your phone. You and Chuuya were originally off today, but since he wasn't here you figured you may as well stop by Mori's office to see if there was any work to be done.

As you walk back into the kitchen you sense something, or rather someone, was watching you. You stop walking for the door for a second. Looking at your surroundings. You very slowly reach for your back pocket, pulling out a small semiautomatic hand gun and pointing to the celling above you.

"Jesus Doll!!"

You immediately recognized the voice as you stared up at the celling. The man you missed the most.. And you were pointing a gun at him.

"Oh my god Chuuya!" You yell, dropping the gun as he deactivated his ability, getting down on the floor. You immediately jumped into his arms as he laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in tight. "that's not the reaction I was expecting from that, but it sure was a good one," Chuuya joked as he kissed your forehead lightly. "I missed the hell out of you, y'know?"

His grip on you was just as expected, like he wanted to hold you and keep you safe in his arms forever. You two stood there in silence for a few moments before you lightly pulled back, taking his hat off of his head and tossing it on the table beside you.

"Happy birthday. I'm so glad your home for it." You said, placing a hand on his cheek, observing all his facial features. His beautiful blue eyes, his almost feminine eyelashes, the small amounts of freckles that dusted his face, and of course his smile that never left his mouth.

He chuckled, kissing you again. "I couldn't stand being away from you today. All the men on the mission kept singing happy birthday and doing all this extra shit"

You laughed as you imagined how annoyed Chuuya must've been. He's never been one for big parties. He's not really one for any big celebration unless there's wine involved. Speaking of wine.

As Chuuya pulled you back into his grip, he noticed a pretty bottle of wine with a red ribbon wrapped around it sitting on the counter. His eyes lit up as he grabbed it, still keeping his grip on your waist nice and tight. ""Brunello di Montalcino Collosorbo".. You really went all out." Chuuya read the name of the wine out loud, putting his head into your collarbone, his breath lightly tickling your neck.

You chuckled, fluffing his hair. "And after we're done with that, I may draw us a nice bath.. Maybe open up that nice 87' bottle?" You said lowly, making Chuuya shudder lightly. "I am so lucky I have you." He said, standing up and pulling you into a passionate kiss. Everything was just, Perfect.

"My partner Nakahara Chuuya, A tempestuous storm, fierce and true, His fiery spirit burns so bright, A force to be reckoned with in every fight. His words cut like a sharpened blade, Yet with me, his kindness is never swayed, A complex man with a heart of gold, In his embrace, I feel safe and bold. We walk the streets of Yokohama, Side by side, no need for drama, Our bond is strong, unbreakable, Together, we are truly formidable. His crimson cloak billows in the wind, A symbol of his power, of the life he's been, But I know the real man beneath, A soul that's suffered, yet still believes. Chuuya, my partner, my love, In your presence, I soar like a dove, I am proud to stand by your side, Forever with you, through every tide. Happy birthday, Chuuya. Y/n."

(I hope it was worth the wait!!! Happy birthday Chuuya <3)

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #chuuya x y/n #chuuya fanfic #happy birthday chuuya #chuuya nakahara #chuuya x reader #glitchs✧works

[genshinemblem564]

Sagau: Power

A list of powers and physical attributes you gain as your power awakens in Teyvat.

Cont.

_______________________________________________

As Teyvat's creator, you have several unique abilities that can be categorized as elemental, passive, physical, and divine.

Elemental: extensions of your simple control over the elements.

• Blitz: like the Shogun, the creator has the ability to infuse their own body with electro, enhancing their speed.

• Storm Call: the ability to conjure a storm of any kind, from a whirling hurricane to a light drizzle, as such it is used to both punish and bless the people of Teyvat.

• Solar Cannon: the ability to call down the light of the sun in the form of a pillar of flames to smite your foes.

• Herbal Potency: any and all plants you cultivate are of the highest quality, medicinal herbs grown by you end up being highly sawt after by pharmacists and alchemists. (Could also fit under the passive category)

Passive: powers that act without any input from you.

• Mind's Eye: this power translates whatever you're reading to your first language, from simple letters to ancient hieroglyphs. It does not help with writing unfortunately.

• Core Temperature Control: this power adjusts your body temperature so you can withstand even the harshest conditions, whether it be the scorching desert or the frigid Dragonspine. You will still feel minor changes in temperature, such as when swimming or enjoying a gentle breeze.

• Regeneration: your wounds heal faster than anyone else's. This power is not instant and it has its limits, as it cannot revive you if you suffer a fatal injury, so caution is still advised.

• Anemo Attunement: like Kazuha and Venti, the wind communicates with you, guides you, warns you, and just over all aids you.

Physical attributes: changes in your appearance due to your powers awakening.

• Wings: a set of feathered wings that grant the ability to fly. These wings can change colors or have certain patterns if you so desire. While the wings can be put away at anytime, this does not remove any built up grime, so proper care is important.

• Markings: appearing mostly on your arms and upper back, these markings glow with elemental energy, not too brightly though, as clothes can still hide them from view.

• Glowing Eyes: these mostly occur when making use of your powers, glowing with the colors of the elements, occasionally giving you artificial heterochromia when using multiple elements at once. Outside of elemental indication, you can control what color they glow, certain colors seem to have a calming effect.

•Aura: when using a great deal of power, a golden aura encompasses your body, this seems to have no effect other than aesthetics and coolness factor. While not being a physical attribute, it's lack of effects lands it in this category.

Divine: powers exclusive to you and your kin, if you have any in Teyvat.

• Wishing: before your arrival in Teyvat, this was used to obtain weapons and new vessels and you were unable to specify your wish, after your arrival however, these wishes are much more powerful, capable of changing the landscape or even fusing worlds together, and while you can specify your wishes now, one must be VERY specific to avoid unintended effects.

• Shapeshifting: while shapeshifting does exist for others, your ability is boundless, you can shift into anything, a wolf, rabbit, falcon, or a dragon. This power can be finicky however, as you have woken up to many strange looks only to realize you have an extra set of ears or a tail.

• Conjuration: as the creator, you can conjure anything you may need at you fingertips, the only caveat being you have to have intimate knowledge of whatever you wish to create, a lack of knowledge can lead to rather bizarre outcomes.

• Purification: the ability to purify any being of harmful energies, such as curses or demon or spirit possessions. In other writings this is often displayed through the removal of Xiao's karmic debt. This has also lead you to attend many funerals to ensure that the departed actually pass on instead of being bound by these negative energies.

Illusions: projections of your memories that have multiple uses from analyzing past events to using your memories of combat to train, you have gotten many eager requests from Tartaglia due to this.

• Reformation: the ability to change your form permanently. Unlike shapeshifting where you merely change your appearance and voice, reformation changes your true form's whole anatomy. The only downside being, you need to demanifest in order to do this, so make sure you know what you want beforehand, if you're gone too long your followers will have a panic attack.

_______________________________________________

Note: these are all major powers and don't cover normal powers like shields and healing. As stated previously, these are free for anyone to use in their own writings, I'm sorry if I'm being a broken record, I just feel the need to say this because I've often worried about using some else's ideas in the past because they never specified. Looking back I realize that was stupid of me, but a panicked mind can hardly think straight. Anyways, I didn't mean for this to become a rambling, I hope you enjoyed this post.

#sagau #sagau headcanons #genshin impact

[dulcewrites]

Seek and Destroy

Summary: Alicent swears she is not naturally a cruel person. Any semblances of cunning or coldness has been taught, slowly and surely. A gift bestowed to her from the age of ten and five. Something she was weened onto like a babe that suckles for milk from its mother. She has learned at the feet at the best - or maybe the worst. King’s Landing has fallen to Rhaenyra. Her children are scattered around the realm. Lives have been lost already. Alicent’s heart has finally callused. Nothing left but a shell and the venom that seeps out of it.

A/N: This is just something I have been working on. It is not finished obvi. I don’t know if I will expand on it. If I do I will probably post it to ao3

Her father’s blood had splattered into her mouth when she cried out. At first, Alicent did not want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her body shake in worry. Bones rattling together under neath sheathed of silk. Green silks. Or let them take glee in seeing fear in her eyes. She wanted to stand tall as the execution begun. Her father being first to go was for a reason.

Even in his doom, Otto Hightower managed to make his presence looming.

Alicent wanted not to shed a single tear. But then she felt ten and eight again. Just a girl with two children, and burden pressed firmly on her chest to the point where it was hard to breathe. He was unruly and fickle but without him, she would be alone… again.

Her brain settled between ‘This is all his fault. His debt comes due, as it should’ and ‘Daddy, please look me. Tell me you love me, that I made you proud despite of how it ends for us’.

But all her father told her was to look away. As if to shield her from a terror that had already came. A terror he brought. The horror was on their doorstep now. She was rutted in each night against her wishes; she bore four children - ones she could not save. They bore her grandchildren that she loved in a way she was not able to love her own children. Maybe if she could not help her own, she could do better with the littlest ones.

Jaehaerys. Oh, my poor Jaehaerys.

Everyone is gone. If not in person, in spirit.

Gwayne is gone. Her brother dragged into this mess. When he had arrived in King’s Landing, she has almost missed him amongst the other Oldtown knights. Her heart had sunk lower that she thought it could at the thought of not even recognizing her own kin. His face was one that was no longer burned in her brain.

Helaena’s mind and heart has been rotted from the inside out. On a good day, Alicent can force her to eat and drink. She bathes her daughter as if she still a babe. There is no light in Helaena’s eyes.

Alicent’s mouth feels as if a pile of sand has been dumped in her mouth if she thinks too long about how cold she was when Aemond left for the Riverlands. He gave her a kiss a cheek and muttered a pitiful sorry.

It was all he had said since coming back from Storm’s End. Different variations of the same thing. He never begged for forgiveness from the Gods but from her.

Sorry, mother. I’m so sorry mother.

If she could crush skulls with her bare hands, Alicent would. Not off strength, she’s always been a slip of a woman. But off the hatred that seemed into her bones.

She was prepared to die. She thinks she has been from the moment Viserys said he would marry her. From the moment the maester congratulated her on being pregnant with Aegon. Death had been a thing she even welcomed at times. When the lonliness felt too deep, when she could not stomach being called to Viserys chambers at night, when she had to look at her children for too long. She eyed Criston’s sword one too many times to admit. So, when Daemon leers over her with that cruel, ugly smile of his, she straightens her back and sniffs away her tears. He, of course, got the honors to kill her father; a task Alicent is sure he has wanted to do for decades.

It was Daemon who pushed her hair to the side with such gentleness it made her a bit sick. The coolness of Dark Sister pressed softly against her neck.

Alicent says a quick prayer to the Mother for her children. She knows it is to no veil; they were doomed the moment they came out of her. Mayhaps, this is her punishment for bearing them.

She does not sob over herself. Her lot in life has been well accepted. But Alicent wants to claw at her own face, peel back her own flesh so she is frayed out, when she thinks of her kids.

Let the Mother keep them safe as they do what is only imaginable in their wildest nightmares. May the horrors committed not leave them too soiled.

“Wait,” Rhaenyra’s voice calls out in the Grand Hall. It echoes so loud that Alicent flinches, the blade swiping gently against her neck. She still shivers from head to toe.

Daemon huffs, before removing the blade cautiously.

Alicent peers up at the stairs that lead to the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra gestures softly to her husband to come up the stairs. Daemon does not fully sheathe Dark Sister but complies anyway. A piece of Alicent’s hair obstructs her view, but through it, her eyes stay trained on Rhaenyra. Or whoever the person wearing the crown is.

The woman looks like the Rhaenyra. The same long silvery blonde hair styled elaborately on top of her head with the rest hanging in a braid. Her long riding dress is a deep black with red stitching and a red dragon collar. Red and purple dragons snaking their way up her sleeves. The woman has Rhaenyra’s eyes and nose, but Alicent has never felt more confused about who stands at the feet of the Iron Throne. The woman’s mouth pinches the way a young Rhaenyra’s would when she was distressed.

Rhaenyra’s look makes Alicent think of the stories of warrior queen Visenya. Rhaenyra would often laud the might and cunning of her ancestor. After the pain, humiliation, and anger post Aemond’s losing his eye, Alicent had chucked softly to herself, in the privacy of her chambers. at the thought her son riding the Conqueror Queen’s beloved dragon. Because of course it would be one of her kids to claim the old bitch.

But despite the styling callback, a warrior Rhaenyra is not.

And based on the look of disgust settling on Daemon’s face, he thinks the same of his wife.

He will never see you as an equal, she wants to call out. It does not matter how many crowns you put on your head, how many dragons you claim - you always just be his little niece… a silly woman. The means to his end.

Their conversation reaches a cacophony and Alicent desperately wants to know what it being said. Is Rhaenyra asking him to make it as gruesome as possible? Maybe they will drag her body out in front of the castle for all the small folk to see. A warning for what can happen if they defy their queen. Alicent already knows the heads of those that helped Aegon and his kids escape will be next once they catch them.

Rhaenyra reaches out to grab Daemon’s arm, but he is already down the stairs muttering expletives out his mouth. Alicent hears the word whore, and scoffs internally. She fights back a sad smile that almost forces itself on her face. Not the first time she has heard that, and surely will not be the last. Poor Daemon has never been clever with his insults. They are as simple as he is. She is the nasty deceitful, whore that seduced Viserys and ruined everything. Used her wily, womanly magic, her cunt, to lure the King of the Fucking Seven Kingdoms into submission. She always noticed how Daemon always acted like she stole Viserys from him.

The same way the maidens whose virtue Daemon stole must be whores too. The same way Queen Aemma must have been inadequate since she did not give Viserys what he wanted. Something must have been wrong with Rhea and Laena too. Maybe even Daemon’s own daughters are not enough. Surely, something is wrong with Rhaenyra. Something that makes Daemon’s stomach curdle. Such is the way with men like him.

Viserys will be remembered as a peaceful king, and a gentle man. A king who was so averse to conflict that he raped Alicent for children he then neglected once they came. He was so kind he made sure his first wife died in a pool of blood with nothing but screams of agony and pleas of mercy dying in her lips.

She wonders if Rhaenyra knows that charming story. Would she still have felt safe under the patronage of Viserys if she knew such? Imagine the horror that Alicent felt when she overheard maesters whispering of such when she was pregnant with Aegon.

Alicent is sure Daemon will die being known as a ‘true’ and ‘honest’ warrior. Apparently, there are those that think there is some sort of honor in being upfront about ones rotting heart. As if his cavalier attitude negates the atrocities on his hands. The world has taught Alicent that type of ruthlessness is only tolerated at the hands of a man.

And Alicent, in all her attempts to do right, to keep her head above water, to appease and break herself down into a small enough package that all can accept her, will be known as a whore. A seducer, a scheming bitch that stole the agency of a grown man. She will die being blamed and accused.

It only seemed right she supposed.

Viserys the Peaceful. Daemon the Honest. Alicent… the Whore.

Her confusion mounts when Daemon does not come back to her to finish the job. Instead, he continues walking, right past and leaving the hall in a fit of anger and rage. Alicent knees have begun to ache from being crouched. Rhaenyra clears her throat, and Alicent eyes slowly go back to her. Dark bags rimmed Rhaenyra’s eyes, only drawing more attention to the extremely dark limbal ring that surrounded deep amethyst. When Alicent heard about Lucerys’ death, it had shaken her to her core. Frankly more for Aemond’s sake than for Rhaenyra’s or the boy’s. The thought of peace still naively in her mind. Alicent always seemed to the last one to arrive at the right conclusions. A fatal flaw of hers unfortunately.

You were already ill-fated, you foolish boy! Why make yourself accursed as well!

But when Alicent heard of Jacaerys’ death, she knew what was to come.

There are few things a parent loves more than their first born.

…. Alicent had never known what the smell of burning flesh was like till Aegon.

“I have decided to spare your life,” the few people that stood in the hall, her council, begin to whisper to each other. Rhaenyra shifts uncomfortably at the eyes on her. “For the sake of my father, who loved you once.”

Alicent blinks once, then twice, then three times. She is almost a bit disappointed. Rhaenyra has taken so much and now she has taken death off the table too.

And is that what they are calling what Viserys did to her? Love? Rhaenyra could not possibly believe that. Not now after everything. After the way Rhaenyra would so seamlessly twist the knife when she had the chance, when she was backed in a corner. Rhaenyra knew there was no love there. Not for Alicent and definitely not for her children.

The words crawl up her throat before she can stop them. She must know. “And what of my girl? What of Queen Helaena?”

The queen part slips out truly on accident, a panicked slip of the tongue, but Rhaenyra’s mouth curls a bit in a sneer.

If her Helaena is to die at the hands of one of Rhaenyra’s butchers, to meet the same evil fate Jaehaerys did, then Alicent might beg for the sword. Or a rope and one of the high ceilings of the Red Keep.

Something cold and numb flashes behind Rhaenyra’s already hallow eyes. As if she is just now remembering that she had a sister that still occupied the castle.

“The princess will be spared as well.”

Rhaenyra waves a ringed hand at the guard to have Alicent taken away. Before she can even register was has happened, she is dragged away by the arms.

“Let her be bound in a manner fitting of her new station,” Rhaenyra sits in the Irone Throne elegantly as Alicent goes.

Alicent’s frantic eyes look at her father’s limp body one last time. His blood spilled on the ground. His head separated from the rest of him. It is the first and only time Alicent has ever seen her father so… small.

If Otto was alive now, and they were alone, he would tell her that he was right. He said as much after Jaehaerys was killed. Right before Aegon snatched the hand pin off his grandsire’s jacket and screamed at him that all that cunning had gone to waste by Otto being a ‘bastard that was too thick in the head for his own good’. Otto would say they should have had mercenaries go to Dragonstone and do the deed while they had the chance. He would still be alive. As would Gwayne and Jaehaerys. Helaena would not be in a fugue state beyond repair. Alicent’s boys would be home, and well. Daeron could have come back to King’s Landing for a coronation that was not rushed nor interrupted. Aemond would not have blood on his ledger.

Aegon would be king with no one in his path.

You know it. You're no fool and yet you choose not to see it. The time is coming, Alicent. Either you prepare Aegon to rule, or you cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy.

She stumbles all the way back to the Holdfast with thoughts swirling in her head.

Alicent did not prepare Aegon, the way she should have. But she was not prepared for such things; so how did anyone expect her to know better. How can a child help a child. How does the blind lead the blind. She may not have done what she needed for Aegon, not in that moment. But she refuses to cleave now. Mercy is not a luxury she has been granted for some time.

Have you ever imagined yourself on the Iron Throne?

No, of course not. Alicent can be naive, but never stupid. Never foolish or too hot on herself. Her veins have turned ice cold. She does not have her children the way she would want to. Alicent has never had a dragon to threaten others with. The army at her disposal is elsewhere fighting a futile battle. Not even Criston is here.

She just has herself, and right now that has to be enough. It must be enough.

#im very interesting in her queen in chains era #I don’t even know the ending part of this #it would be mixing book lore and hotd tho #there might be rhaenicent… maybe idk #but it will maybe be from Alicent and Helaena’s pov #pro alicent hightower #alicent hightower #alicent hightower fanfic #alicent hightower imagine #pro team green #hotd imagine #queen alicent #I am writing a different Alicent thing but that one is almost done I think #Alicent imagine

[witchofthesouls]

I've had prime predacons on the brain, do they have mating habits? Do they lay eggs? Since predaking is the leader of the last 3 predacons does that mean he gets first dibs if a lady dragon/predacon shows up or would it be a battle of suitors? Do predacons make good parents even with the fact they're technically clones and only have vague genetic memories of their culture to pass on?

I got sooooooo many thoughts about Predacons and their influence on Cybertron's modern-day frame-schematics, especially with that throw-away line about Seekers. Like I'm running away with it~!! 🏃‍♀️

Seekerkin can trace their frame and coding quirks back to the Predacon species that delved into the Rust Sea. Unlike their exclusive land and air kith, the sea hunters were able to escape the catastrophic radiation by diving down into the depths.

These particular subspecies of Predacon passed many traits to their descendants, including but not limited to: the sexual dimorphism of larger, powerful femmes to agile, brightly-colored mechs, the trine-protocols and flocking mechanisms, multiples in carriage, prey-drives, and superior senses akin to beastformers and mechanimals.

The Wilder tribes still use vocalizations and have behaviors that can be traced back to their ancient kin and kith via oral traditions from Keepers. This leads to a lot of tension with the Seekerkin city-states that try to erase and rewrite the history of their frames.

While Vos is framed for their trine-protocols and being a strange breed of aerials onto itself, Praxus refined the hunting tactics and flocking behavior, and Polyhex's wetlands and underground labyrinths kept polished the traits that made them formidable sea predators.

The Predacons eschewed Prima's Call and his Guiding Hand for the established city-states to remain in the Wilds. Capable of speech and sharp intelligence, Predaking's kith were the apex predators of the sky, hunting down others for food, and were terrors to the young mecha prior to T-cogs.

This is due to claims of superiority. Unlike the other frames, they didn't require the immediate protection of the Primes. On top of their massive size and strength, flight and fire capabilities, advanced nanite colonies, thick armor, and heightened senses, the Predacons have a very unique quirk: collective unconscious.

Predacons are proud of their closeness to nature and beastly frames. In their opinion, they are the second closest to Primus, outside of the Thirteen, because of it. "A gift," they decree, by the Creator to give them such wild frames suited to the planet with the capabilities to shape it.

In the oral traditions of the Wilders, it's said some of their ancient kith could bend "cold fire" aka lightning. And that's why certain landmarks in the Wastelands still stand in defiance of Time and Prima's "Forceful" Hand. It was also said that they often crossed with "the Shadow of the Light" and the "Lord of Beasts."

Out of all the Primes, they respect the inescapable strength and spirit of Megatronus, Solus' forging and might, and Onyx for his understanding of their kind as he, too, ventured to the edges of extremes. "Lord of Beasts," indeed. They are creatures suited to an untamed Cybertron.

The social structures of the land hunters are very loose and minimal. Adults are mainly solitary creatures with exceptions to mating season, child-rearing, and seasonal gatherings to collectively mine volcanoes for minerals and guide massive storms to ignite new Energon nodes- preparations for the lean portion of the vorn.

The sea hunters are smaller and slimmer than their land-counterparts, so they have strong social ties of multiple generations to maximize the survival of their young, resource efficiency, and hunting tactics.

The mating behaviors of Predacons differ by their type, but there are similarities. Do they do not feel shame over cycles; heats and ruts are simply a fact of life. Much like beastformers, Predacons have reproductive heats.

There's courting gifts of fresh kills, raw ores, and chunks of minerals as well as showing off skills.

If there's an uncourted or unclaimed female in heat, then a Dance or a Mating Hunt will occur after competition has been bullied to back down. Females in heat are highly temperamental and incredibly aggressive, so those who wish to remain single and unmated would either cripple or kill persistent hunters.

Among the sea hunters, males show off their bright colors and hues to demonstrate health and virility as well as attempt to groom or nuzzle a female of a different pod/flock. It's common for a binary or triad of males to mate-nap a female from elsewhere: proving their tactics against her and her extended kin.

Whereas the males of the land hunters will show off strength by battling other males in the vicinity to prove their worthiness among his nearby neighbors before battling her for breeding rights.

If a female Predacon (or Seekerkin) was discovered, then Predaking would bully the other males to establish dominance before stepping up to plate to fight her.

Child-rearing is a shared responsibility. Nest building and bulking it with supplies. Keeping out intruders since baby Predacons cannot properly fly until they reach near mechling stage (adolescence).

Males can't produce sparkling-grade, so females are stuck in the nest until the newsparks gain their sight and actually climb out.

Mechs do help with a special tank in their frames that reguitates a melted slag of nutrients that helps boost the newsparks' systems.

Once the sparklings can eat more solid, the sire and carrier will take turns hunting and caring the nest.

Sea hunters have an easier time as child-rearing is more communal. Newsparks and sparklings are defended and supported by well-established adults guarding the shallow nursery reef, while hunters support the pod with an influx of food.

#ask #transformers #transformers prime #mating behavior #bitlets #tfp #predaking #sparklings #cybertronian biology #cybertronian culture #prima #megatronus prime #onyx prime #maccadam #tf headcanons #my writing #predacons fucking hated prima and passed it on to their Seeker descendants

[gamerwoman3d]

Hey. Y'all wanna hear some crazy talk?

This will probably be the deadliest tornado season on record for the Bible Belt.

Texas is on fire with over a million acres burned. El Niño is on a weird downturn dropping blizzards across California and Colorado. Hot air plus cold air equals big boom. And that's just the science part of it.

CONTENT WARNING: mentions of Death, murder, natural disasters, related to hate crime, references to spiritual practices

The spiritual part of it? Asshole colonizers killed an all-black wearing two-spirit Choctaw kid in Owasso named Nex Benedict.

I'm not going to be surprised if tornadoes rip apart the bigoted governor's house. I'm not going to be surprised if Owasso is ripped off the map. I'm not going to be surprised if that one Senator has to deal with funeral after funeral and a state of emergency for the rest of his term. I'm not going to be shocked if the resultant economic downturn collapses the political power of the red states, and I'm not gonna be surprised if we get a second dust bowl outta this.

To top it off, there's a new twisters film in post production. The first twisters film came out during a weird spike in tornadoes as well. It's like the collective unconsciousness of the artistic/filmmaking world knows what's about to happen.

Now. I do not speak for all natives. As for myself, and some other natives - a tornado is not just hot air plus blizzard air. It's a person. It is an entity. We can talk to that entity, and it talks back. And my understanding was a lot of those entities wore black. A lot of those entities came with more than one spirit. It's possible to have a "family of tornadoes."

One little problem- someone just prematurely sent an all-black wearing Choctaw two-spirit back to the sky.

I don't even know them. I don't have any reason to believe that the spirit of that innocent kid might be vengeful about what happened. But I got a pretty good handle on what the ANCESTORS probably feel about that.

A kid like Nex is a gift. They can understand both sides of the gender divide, can solve problems and make medicine that no other type of person can. Owasso was blessed to have them around - if you believed in a great spirit then you'd know that the great spirit PERSONALLY sent that gift to your community. Rejecting Nex was an act of rejecting the great spirit.

Someone sent that gift back to the sky.

Don't be shocked if the sky is angry.

During certain crises, many natives believed that some ancestors went into the forests to turn into animals in order to feed the starving people when there's famine. Other spirits may go into the forest to become fire, and into the sky to become storms, when there's war. Currently, one million acres of spirit life just left for the sky - ancestral spirits no longer there to feed the people who are hungry, but who went to join the great spirit and the spirit warriors dressed in black on a warpath in the sky.

Over a million acres of Texas just burned. Smoke is how the ancestors carried prayers up to the sky where the great spirit resides. The sky is absolutely chock full of their angered prayer smoke, smokey spirits wearing black.

The sky kept telling me: This is a war. They killed the wrong kid. The ancestors will not listen to anyone who buries the hatchet this year - no true native would try to stop it from happening, because they would know the importance of the gift of a two-spirit in black clothes. They would know the importance of the gift of the animals in the forest that are their own kin relatives. They would know something is wrong, for all that to be in the sky at once, and they will know to take cover from it.

If you aren't familiar with a hatchet burying ritual, don't worry about it. It won't help you right now anyway. The sky has spoken, and believes that no one who is a true native would bury the hatchet in this instance. Man wearing black is out for blood. Move. Get out of its way. Get underground. The houses aren't safe.

It's going to be bad.

A note to natives wondering who tf I am - I don't claim to be part of a tribe but I have o-gah-pah and other tribal ancestry. Some of my non-native ancestors assisted john ross and john watts in hiding native children from the feds in white neighborhoods when shit got bad. You don't have to listen to me - listen to your own elders. Listen to your own wildlife. There are no birds in the photos of Texas wildfires for a reason. If you see them all flying the same direction, try to keep up.

#mini personal rant #nex benedict #texas wildfires #twisters #tornado alley

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

Sol

You just had your birthday!

Sol is a HUGE tortoiseshell tom with thick fur around his neck like a mane, long tufted ears, a long tail with fluff on the tip like a lion's, and brilliant amber eyes.

Sol, originally known as Harry, was born near a junkyard to Cinders and Whispers. Whispers hated his mate, who only ever asked him to hunt for her and their oopsie litter. He belittled her constantly, and resented his children. They had a massive fight one day, he never had a new mate, or kits. When he left, he walked across a very busy road....

Cinders was left full of grief. She still loved her mate, despite everything he put her and her kids through. After a major depressive spell, she gathered up her children, and took them all towards INSERT, meowing at doors, begging an Upwalker to let her and her children in.

Finally, a woman opened her door, and immediately let the tiny family inside. All together. Cinders's old name was Flame, and she is a sunshine torbie with bright golden colors and a white mark on her head. At least, before things got bad. Her coat has dulled, and living alone with her kits for a while left her murky and stained. She looked more gray than anything, hence the woman renaming her Cinders. Cinders took to the name immediately, even after her pelt began to brighten again. Her kits are given names as well; Harry, Sunny, Foggy and Ivy. 

Harry became lazy, and whiny, and spoiled from their new owner. He became bossy with his siblings, and when they stopped wanting to take it, Harry cried to his mother that they were bullying him.

Eventually, Cinders catches him snapping at one of them, swiping at his sister Ivy and connecting his claws with his meek sister's muzzle. Cinders snapped at Harry, and chased him out...

Harry would soon find himself on Skyclan's borders, where he would cause problems with Leafstar and Billystorm's children, making an already bad situation much worse.

Leafstar finds out about him more through his mother, and finds just how dangerous he can be. She boots him out of Skyclan for it, permanently.

He wanders through the land, forcing others to occasionally catch food for him, coasting on the kindness of Twolegs. He wanders into White Hart Woods, or rather, what is left of it. A storm drives Harry into an old cave system, where, at its deepest point, lies an ancient chamber with the broken remains of The Moonstone. It calls to Harry, and, in what will be a horrible turn of events for the Clans, he finds himself resting on the Shattered Moonstone.

I cannot reiterate enough, readers, that you Should Not Do That.

His head is filled with knowledge, things he shouldn't know. Blackstar's Trial and his leadership ceremonies, and how to charm him. Firestar's sacred Prophecy about his Kin, and who their parents are. He knows that Russetfur will be mauled by a Windclan cat and that the Moon will cover the Sun. Harry has been overexposed to a much more raw, archaic place than any Starclan spirit can get to.

He had found The Sky Beyond The Stars.

When he wakes up, he renames himself Sol, after an old, dead god that has now been reborn. And he knows about The Moonpool, too. It's like a beacon to him. He heads down, bullying groups he comes across like Jingo and her friends, but when he reaches Thunderclan territory and tries to climb a tree, he falls... There's a horrible crunch, and Sol falls limp for just a moment...

His father Whispers has been haunting him, and he decides to finally put that spirit to use.

Sol gets up, shakes himself off, and feels just a little lighter before continuing his walk, deciding to stay off of trees. Eventually, he hears a small group of young cats nearby...

He recognizes Hollypaw, Jaypaw and Lionpaw. He is taken to camp, where he makes his infamous prediction. Squilf is nearly killed in the battle against Windclan, and, to be fair, it looks like Sol caused the whole thing. He had forgotten about the WindThunder battle, genuinely.

Firestar exiles him, his heart broken over his Terribly injured daughter, along with his friendship with Onestar having shattered. Russetfur was mauled, his grandson Jaypaw was nearly killed, and Blackstar is almost definitely going to lose a life over this.

Not to mention Lionpaw has just killed someone.

So... Yeah. Bye Sol. Go find a new home.

And Sol does. He knew that Blackstar would be vulnerable. He charms him, speaks to him in that new hypnotic way he has learned to do, like staring at a small mirage created by the sun's heat on the road.

He had been able to get Russetfur out of her comatose state, he said exactly what Blackstar had wanted to hear in a way he knew would get to him...

It is to let Sol help him. Guide him. When was the last time Starclan spoke to you? Gee, it's been a while. If they don't trust you anymore, what's the point of trusting them? Your deputy has been mauled by a Windclan cat who has seen no punishment over it... Seems despite your trials and tribulations... Starclan has abandoned you.

Perhaps it's time to put your faith in a new god.

The next stage is so fast, Lionblaze desperately works with the young new Shadowclan warriors, Owlclaw and Redwillow, to create a fake sign, and while it becomes real, Jay is off fighting with Sol. But now, Jay's got some warrior skills under his belt.

He is about to seriously wound Sol, when the slippery tom speaks once more.

"You look so much like your father. Well, your real one, anyway."

The shock of that statement is too much, and when Jayfeather tries to gauge how Sol is feeling (because, well... He could be full of crap) his mind is filled with the Sun god's horrible blinding light, physically painting him.

"Interesting power you've got there. Mine came from the same place. There's another Sky out there. Beyond Starclan. There is more out there than you can imagine. Spirits, places, power... Did you know you I've died before?"

Poor Jay is left dumbstruck as Sol darts away, not to be seen again until OOTS.

From there, he meets a different fate. Hollyleaf's mind has changed about the code. It's important, sure, but also stupid in places. And it doesn’t account for this.

She kills him, the two fighting in a dusty clearing outside of Thunderclan land, his head smashed onto a stone. She gives him a burial, as a kind thing to do for a body no longer housing a soul. 

The Sun God has had its vessel destroyed, and will have to seek out a new one.

Sol enters the Dark Forest. Most cats dislike him, but he doesn't involve himself with Tigerstar's plans. He keeps to himself in a corrupted version of the dump/Skyclan's camp, an amalgamation fused together horribly that he calls his Sun Kingdom. It randomly grows dark, and cold, and laughter is heard from countless cats until it suddenly becomes blindingly bright, then back to normal. The whole thing is sun bleached and the place stinks of wet cardboard box.

A king sits alone upon his cold, sun bleached throne, decreeing his royalty to a crowd that doesn't exist, and only laughs.

The Sun's Rage is brewing.

#warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats rewrite #wcr #character page #harry WC #wc sol #Sol #wc cinders #jayfeather #lionblaze #hollyleaf #the dark forest #the sky beyond the stars

[whorinsmokenshield]

To the Stone

Summary: Azog the Defiler lays dead by Thorin's hand. Erebor has been reclaimed. Thorin is king, his kin avenged, his sister-sons live to tell their mother the tale.

He should feel complete. He should feel fulfilled. But there is but one more regret he has to untangle, one more shame he must face. For that, he must find Bilbo Baggins, and he must apologize.

He finds Bilbo on the battlefield. Rating: Mature

Warning: MCD (I wrote this as part one of two in a series. Ao3 upload here.)

~~~~

A mist hovered in the sky over Ravenhill. It was scared to come down and meet the carnage beneath. Thus, it left the battlefield clear enough to see what wrath and greed had wrought. Only the cold wind wasn't afraid to meet the dead, and it settled amongst them like lifelong friends. Death and the cold were like brothers, in a way. Born together, one after the other.

Thorin Oakenshield stood alone. His black hair lay limp, matted with blood and grease. The icy breeze was scratching at his eyes. His breath collected in the air with warm fog; it was the only warm thing, as Thorin was very cold himself.

In the distance were voices, muddled and echoey. They called for names, and for survivors. Thorin ought to call back and count himself as one of the living, but couldn't verily remember how.

Blood dripped from the point of his blade. Orcrist had more life in it than its wielder. The blood was cool, slow, but as it trickled down it seemed to sizzle on the ice. Thorin inhaled deeply, deeper than his ribs could tolerate, so that when he released it he made a storm cloud that whispered into the wind.

He dropped his sword to the ground then, and the clatter it made was a hammer on a piece of cold steel. It rang through the valley.

Thorin woke up.

At his feet the corpse of the Pale Orc lay steaming, and it was not a dream. It was his foul blood that warmed the ice below and soiled the gleam of Orcrist. A wound the size of Thorin’s fist was punched through the beast’s sternum where the king had run him through. He remembered the wide eyes when the orc’s liver was punctured, his stomach sundered, the muscles and bone of his back forced to part for elvish steel. Blood and bile in equal parts gushed from the opening, eager to escape the fiend they’d been cursed to feed.

Azog the Defiler, scourge of the line of Durin, lay dead by Thorin’s hand. The spirits of his grandfather, his brother, and each of the honorable dwarves who had given their lives at Moria were laid to rest, and the absence of their ghosts left empty, hollow air in their wake.

Thorin thought of his life. Of everything he’d ever done. Every wrong he’d ever committed, every shame he’d ever faced, every punishment incurred. It all culminated in this, this victory in which he should’ve felt the most complete.

Azog was dead. The firedrake Smaug was dead and rotting. His kin had been avenged, his home reclaimed. He would be king. He had everything. Thorin had everything he’d ever wanted. Every imperfection in his life had been hammered out, every furrow flattened. 

Yet Thorin’s heart sat in his chest like a stone. He could feel its weight, and how every throb pushed against the cracks of his ribs. There was but one thing left. One more regret. One more shame. 

The king moved his feet. The steel caps scraped on the surface of the ice, and he felt his full weight in each step. He grabbed his sword, sheathed it, and abandoned the carcass to the flies. 

Thorin was no stranger to wandering. He’d done it all his life. Wandering in the cold wasn’t new to him either. How it tried to burrow into his legs like worms, bringing pain to his knees and his back. It was familiar. So, it was ignorable. Thorin ignored it for the sake of something more important.

He crossed the battlefield to the east, the direction from which the calls came. Bilbo would be back at camp, getting warm and feeling nervous for the company. Wondering after their fates. Wondering after Thorin’s most certainly. Camp would be in the direction that the people were coming from. It made the most sense. 

The orc filth died like roaches, crushed and guts spilled, black blood sullying the snow. Bodies lay scattered over the field. Each one different, each one dead. Each one dead differently. There were plenty of decapitations. Missing and ripped-off limbs. Hands just a few feet away from the arms they were once attached to. Men, dwarves and elves also lay dead, here and there.

Thorin’s eyes couldn’t stay on only one corpse for long. They skated over the battlefield terrified, in a subtle way, that one of the faces they found would be one that he knew intimately. One of the beards would be one that he’d seen combed in the mornings before they packed up for the road. He recognized none so far, but there were more dwarves among the dead than men or elves.

He saw another man’s corpse and thought to glance over it, but came back as he noticed the stature.

The body was small, too small, and its bronze hair haloed its head on the rocks like a ring broken off a piece of rusted chainmail. Its feet were bare. No shoes large enough to fit it.

Thorin approached. He hit the snow on his knees. The cold seeped up into him, seeking its brother.

It was Bilbo. Bilbo laid there. He wasn’t shivering like he ought to be.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin heard himself say. He didn’t feel as his lips formed to make the words. 

Bilbo looked to be asleep, a rock for a pillow. Some blood dripped down his forehead, and Thorin knew his hobbit would be complaining for a hot water tub very soon. Bilbo hated being filthy. 

“This is no place to be, Burglar,” said Thorin. “It-It’s far…far too cold out here. You should have listened when I told you to invest in warm boots. Erebor is not like your Shire with its temperate weather.”

Bilbo was ignoring him. He didn’t even scoff in offense like he did whenever one of the company suggested he wear shoes. It was less of an insistence and more of a tease once Bilbo explained why hobbits went barefoot, but the rise it got out of him and the flush it brought to his ears made it worth bringing up for fun. Bilbo’s ears were pale now. They didn’t twitch in that adorable way when someone new spoke and he turned to listen.

“Are you still angry with me, my burglar?” croaked Thorin.

That was all he could think of for why Bilbo was so ardently disregarding him. 

“I-I have to apologize to you. I sought you out to- to apologize. For my behavior. For my transgressions against you. I was not of a sound mind, but there is no other fault in what I did to you than my own. I wronged you so terribly. There is little I could do with the rest of my life to atone. But I pray you- you find it in your heart to forgive me. That is all I deserve to ask.”

Nothing. Still nothing. Only nothing. Thorin brought Bilbo closer to him to check for movement.

“Master Baggins?”

Dead weight in Thorin’s lap. Thorin’s hands curled on Bilbo’s shoulders.

Bilbo needed to be warmed up. His skin was like ice out there. No telling how long he’d been out there alone, waiting to be found. So Thorin scooped up his tiny body and lifted him to his chest, and rose to his own feet carrying him.

“Let’s get you back amongst the company. I’m certain Glóin’s got the fire going.”

Thorin began to walk in the direction he’d been heading in the first place. They were still east of Azog’s bloated corpse, and the camp would be where the search parties had come from. Bilbo came with him without complaint. Thorin watched him all the while as he traversed the lumpy field, and waited for him to stir. He never did. They walked awhile, but Bilbo didn't see any part of it. Thorin could see how the sun had limped across the sky in the time it took for he and Bilbo to reach a collection of low hills. Lights and movement came from atop them, and from what Thorin could see there were tents and spits and fires erected wherever they could be fit.

Dwalin saw them coming the moment they crested over the first hill, which was where the company had set their tent poles. Thorin made out his figure in the distance, pacing on the outskirts of a recuperation camp that had been set up on one of the few clean and dry spots, and when Dwalin saw them he broke into a dead sprint.

He would’ve collided with Thorin and Bilbo if not for one last stroke of common sense that ground him to a halt ten feet away from them. In the distance Thorin could see some of the company gathering together, watching and waiting.

Bilbo hadn’t said a word for as long as they’d been walking. He was still sleeping.

“Thorin,” Dwalin said, looking at Thorin’s chest where he had Bilbo nestled. His tone was flat like the sound a stone makes when it thuds into the ground. A flatness he felt in his gut.

“He needs Óin,” is what Thorin said.

Dwalin’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s alive?”

That question did not make sense to Thorin. 

“He’s too cold. I found him on the field. He’s got a cut on his forehead. Óin needs to look at it. Make sure he’s okay.”

“But…he’s alive?”

Thorin trudged on, forcing Dwalin to keep pace and follow. He held Bilbo like the Arkenstone in his hands.

“Thorin.” Dwalin tried to get his attention.“Thorin.”

“What?”

“Would you look at me? Durin’s sake, you’ve been missing for hours. They’ve got dozens out there looking for ya.”

It struck Thorin right then that he’d been only looking at Bilbo, on the ground directly in front of him so that he wouldn’t trip and cause Bilbo to jostle, or else somewhere in the middle distance. Dwalin had to step right up to him for Thorin to see him. He made to put his hands on Thorin’s shoulders to stop him. Thorin’s eyes snapped up to his cousin’s face, wild and accusatory.

“I can’t keep him out in this weather anymore, Dwalin! He’s freezing, and he needs Óin. Don’t try and stop me.”

Dwalin looked at him long and hard. Then he looked down at Bilbo. One of Bilbo’s hands hung loosely in the air, and Dwalin took it up and squeezed his wrist. Thorin thought it was good, that Bilbo needed the warmth. Dwalin’s eyes narrowed, then widened, and his eyes met Thorin’s once more. His expression that was unrecognizable, for Dwalin had never worn it before.

“Thorin…”

“Show me where to put him.”

“Thorin-”

“Show me-” Thorin spoke so tightly that his voice almost broke. “Show me where to put him. He needs to be warm.”

The two of them stood face-to-face as the seconds ticked past, and Bilbo only grew colder. Thorin clenched his jaw, he grit his teeth, he opened his mouth to order Dwalin aside.

Dwalin nodded once and his face fell to something close to pain. 

“‘Course. I’ll show you. Come on.”

His cousin had him by the shoulder. He kept his grip loose and nonrestrictive, but grounding. He guided Thorin towards the camp.

The eyes of the company tracked him while they approached, but once they came close enough they looked instead at what Thorin carried. Who Thorin carried. At once their faces paled and eyes watered, hands flew up to mouths and jaws clenched and some were forced to look away. Bofur ripped the hat off his head and stared blankly. Nori bit down on his knuckles and tried to wake himself up. Ori stuttered on a gasp and clammed his hand over his mouth to stifle it. The princes weren’t among them, they were off in the healing tents, as were Óin and Glóin.

Not one of them said something, except for Dori’s whispered “No”, because they saw Dwalin’s face over Thorin’s shoulder, and how he heavily shook his head and warded them off. He would handle it.

Dwalin pushed Thorin towards a tent off to the side. It was intended to be Thorin’s tent, for private healing. No one knew if he survived the battle, or how, and could only assume that the reason he’d not showed up to the encampment when the rest of them did was that he lay in the field dead or dying. It was Bilbo’s tent now. Thorin would assume that that’s what it was for all along.

It was dim in the tent. Pale gray sun barely leaked through the canvas. Dwalin was quick to light the hanging lantern to cast warmth into the room, if only in the light that filled it.

Thorin staggered towards the medical cot that lay vacant in the corner, feeling his weight and his age and the depth of his sin in his legs, and lay Bilbo upon it. He smoothed his hand down Bilbo’s front to clear the rock dust and grit off of his dwarven robes, then his hand moved up to Bilbo’s forehead. 

“Master Baggins?”

He heard Dwalin inhale.

When Thorin brushed his ragged hair off Bilbo’s stiff face he didn’t so much as stir, or lean into the touch. There was only so much Thorin could take, and he couldn’t take even a moment more of this. Of this cold skin, of this silence. Bilbo wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t flinch. Thorin wasn’t even sure if he’d been forgiven.

“He…he needs…Óin. He won’t speak to me,” Thorin said lowly.

Dwalin said nothing.

Thorin’s hand was as large as Bilbo’s whole cheek when he cupped it, thumb running under the eyes that wouldn’t so much as flutter. Cold as ice. Cold as cold’s brother.

“We need to warm him. He should be shivering. It’s dangerous to be overly cold,” Thorin murmured. “Where is Óin?” 

When Dwalin finally spoke it cracked. “He’s outside. Tending to the wounded.”

“He needs a blanket. He’s too cold. He’s…Bilbo’s cold. He hates being cold. He’s not used to it.”

Thorin swallowed very thickly, like he was swallowing paste. There was something under his skin. Something that itched. Something that burned. It longed to burst out like water from an overfilled skin. Thorin couldn’t name it.

No blanket appeared, so Thorin repeated, more firm this time, “He needs a blanket.”

Dwalin moved slowly so as not to startle. There was a stack of blankets abandoned on a pallet, so he took one and put it in Thorin’s waiting hand. Thorin’s hands shook like strings fit to snap, but he grabbed the blanket in a bloodless grip and swept it over Bilbo’s body. He tucked in the sides, and made sure it reached his feet to cover and warm them.

“Is…” Thorin began to say. “How is the company? Do they live?”

“Aye. The…the rest of the company is well. Few injuries,” Dwalin grunted.

“My nephews?”

“They’ll fight another day. Kili’s got some nasty bruising, Fili’s shoulder’s seen better days, but they’re fit enough to make it everyone else’s problem.”

Thorin tried to laugh, but the air in his lungs was dry.

“Bilbo will be glad to hear that,” Thorin whispered. 

There was tension in Dwalin’s frame that had begun to ease, but it came back just as soon as Thorin said that.

“He…he would be,” said Dwalin.

Inside Thorin’s chest his heart pulsed. His blood felt too thick and heavy in his veins. His heart weighed on him; it made breathing more difficult than it ought to be. The tremors in his hands shook enough from the cold and from the strain of holding themselves up, yet Thorin wasn’t tired at all. There was a lightness in his head. All he could think about was Bilbo.

Despite the blanket, no color had returned to Bilbo’s once-rosy cheeks. 

“Where is Óin? He should not be this cold. He should…he should be…” Thorin’s breath came in short and shallow gasps. The air was thin in this tent.

Dwalin was there suddenly, his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and gripping him overly tight.

Thorin soldiered on. “He should be at home. He should be…he should be home. With his- his books. His armchair. With his family. He should never have seen battle. I should never have brought him here. He should never be this cold. Where is Óin?” 

“Óin is outside. With the wounded.”

“Bring him here. Bilbo’s too cold. Something’s not right.”

How Thorin’s heart tremored. He felt like he was going to vomit. 

“He was alone. I found him alone. He- he never stood a chance,” Thorin said. The sentence stormed in his head, flashing behind his eyes, and as he stared emptily at Bilbo’s ashen skin it was all he could think. “I should never have brought him here. This is my fault. This- it- he-...”

Bilbo was cold. He was so cold. His face wouldn’t move, his ears wouldn’t twitch. Too cold, too cold, and cold had a brother whose name was-

“B-Bilbo?” Thorin stumbled forward. Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder kept him from going far.

-death.

“Alright now, Thorin.”

Thorin woke up.

“What have I done?” Thorin uttered. He felt only the pressure of Dwalin's hands coming under his arms. Little more. “What have I done, cousin?”

“Easy,” was all Dwalin said. His voice rough and grating, but holding onto stability with a white-knuckled grip. “Let's let Óin look at you. Come on.”

“No,” Thorin said. It hit him that Dwalin was dragging him away. “No. No!”

Thorin wrenched from his hands and hit the dirt, injuries jarred and burning. He scrambled to be back at Bilbo's bedside, and threw himself over Bilbo's body.

“Bilbo,” He wept. Bilbo was cold, and he was still, and blood still trickled from his head wound as though it had nowhere else it could go. “Bilbo! Bilbo!”

Dwalin was on him and heaving him off the bed. Thorin fought and thrashed like he thought Dwalin was taking him to his death, heels digging into the ground, shoulders lurching and body twisting with agony and anger.

“No! No! Bilbo! Let me go, let me- no, he needs me! He needs me! Let me go to him!”

“He’s dead, Thorin!” Dwalin barked, succeeding in hauling Thorin bodily through the tent flaps and into the bright of the day. The flaps fluttered shut, and obscured Bilbo from the light and from all eyes.

“NO! BILBO!” Thorin bellowed. He threw his elbow back into Dwalin’s ribs and the sudden release sent both of them sprawling. Thorin got up to his knees and made to sprint back to the tent, but Dwalin had lunged and snatched Thorin by his calf and tripped him back to the ground. Dwalin scrabbled up and threw himself down on top of his cousin to pin him, legs entangling to stop Thorin’s desperate kicks and his arm crossing Thorin’s chest to pull his face up and off the dirt.

“He needs me, he needs me, Dwalin, cousin, please , he needs me! " Thorin could only weep. Tears dribbled off his cheeks and splattered in the dust. He reached out for Bilbo’s tent, but Dwalin grabbed his arms and pulled them both back to Thorin’s chest.

“I’ve got you, brother. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Breathe. Breathe.”

“You don’t understand! You don’t- he- I need to be there with him! He can’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone!” Breaths were hard to come by. Thorin could fill his whole chest with air and still feel hollow, like he was suffocating.

“I know. I know. I’ve got you, brother.” Dwalin forced Thorin to turn, and fisted his hand in Thorin’s hair to hold his face down against Dwalin’s neck. His legs stayed locked around Thorin’s hips and thighs, his arms like iron clasps holding Thorin in place. “I’ve got you brother.”

“No…no, no, he’s- he, please. Please. Mahal, please. PLEASE!”

Dwalin held him tighter. Thorin continued to struggle, but the fight was bleeding out of him like he had an open wound. He beat his fists against Dwalin’s shoulder, but Dwalin held strong for the good of them both.

“Release me,” Thorin sobbed. He writhed like an injured dog. “Release me!”

There were dwarves watching them, surrounding them at a respectful distance. Each of the company, and then some of Dain’s folk. Among the company muffled sobs erupted, stifled in the face of their king’s lamentations.

Suddenly, Thorin went boneless. It was as if he had died in Dwalin’s arms. Dwalin squeezed him with panic, but felt that he still held breath, and so, in the silence that followed, his grip on Thorin’s hair loosened.

“I am so sorry, brother,” he rasped.

Thorin inhaled. He wheezed. No air to be found when he could only breathe grief.

And when Thorin Oakenshield shattered, and it was heard across the camp in his wail of absolute and inimitable despair.

~~~

Tanks for reading! :) Also posted on my ao3 acc under Sullen_in_love

#the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #fanfiction #my writing #bagginshield #sad #character death

[tribbetherium]

The Middle Temperocene: 150 million years + 1000 years post-establishment

Ashes to Ashes: The Reign of Ashfall and the Outlanders

The long night had come again.

A time where, for many days, the bright-sun hid beneath the sky, peering teasingly below the horizon with faint golden rays, while the darkness ruled in the chill of winter, interrupted only by regular visits of the red-sun that itself did not rise high into the heavens.

And it was, in the faint, ever-dusk glow of the Longest Darktime, that Ashfall called forth his pack to gather.

He was leader of the Firethieves, largest of the Outlander packs, obeyed by many for his strength and power. For the Outlanders were no core family, but an army. A brotherhood.

He was forty-six seasons old, and weary of battle. For the Outlanders lived no easy lives. They were outcasts, and the offspring of such, driven from lands of plenty when their behaviors were undesirable.

Too fierce. Too wild.

Too unconforming of hound-made rules.

The scum of the southhounds, living at the fringes of their lands. United as rejects.

And Ashfall was their figurehead, who drove his pack with his mighty words, and his influence. He was an imposing figure, tall for an Outlander, with bright golden eyes that pierced with their gaze, and a short, scraggly tail with the tip missing from a fight. But most remarkable of him was the white blaze of fur that adorned his face.

For Ashfall was no ordinary Outlander.

Most of the southhounds knew of the silent ones, the soul-starers, the white-eyes.

Strange people with frightening eyes that lived in the distant east. Silent people who told stories in marks, strange marks on caves and trees they could not understand. To many, they were outcasts too. Strange, uncomfortable, wrong beings, to be avoided, and feared.

But to the Outlanders, they were more than that. They seemed beyond this world, to them, almost like one of the spirits of nature spoken of in song and story, made flesh and bone and form. Yet also kin in their exile.

And forty-six seasons ago, an alpha female of the Outlanders left on a pilgrimage to the land of the soul-starers, and begot a single pup of them. Dark of eye, like his mother, and their kin, yet bearing the pale mark of the white-eyes upon his face.

A child half-god, some would say.

Yet his status was no ticket to power, as he had to fight many who envied him and to rise to the top. But he earned his way to his rank. He was a father to his pack but ruthless to his enemies.

And he would bring the Outlanders their greatest victory yet: he stole the fire of the Plainmanes.

This evening, or day, whatever the difference was, in the time of the Longest Darktime, Ashfall stood atop a small hill before his pack, brandishing that very flame. A stolen flame.

"Hear, brothers and sisters!", he howled into the frigid winds, staking the smoldering brand upon the ground.

"You hear tale of Flame-Tamer, who bring fire from the storm and sky-light! Story of the sky-light. Gift...of sky-light."

The crowd of several dozen Outlanders whooped in agreement.

"The sky-light said unto Flame-Tamer: 'I give something greater than tooth. Greater than wood-tooth of the shore-people! I give flame. Flame that burns like small suns on earth. Flame that bites like stinging-insect, but more! Flame that makes you stronger. To fight. To fight...Them."

Them was a word the Outlanders used often.

There was the Us. The allies and companions. Whom their loyalty was devoted. Who were forged together by trials into a brotherhood.

And there was the Them. The not-Outlanders. The shore-people. The beast-herders. The fire-folk. The snow-giants. The ones who had made them, and their forebearers, Outlanders.

"Was not your story wrong?" piped up a raspy growl of a voice from the front of the gathered pack.

It was Dungstain, the most reviled of the Outlanders, cruel, ambitious, fault-finding and the second-fiercest, kept in line only by Ashfall himself.

"Was not the story of the sky-light wrong? Flame-Tamer...a fire-folk? One of Them? And the sky-light never saying to harm?" Dungstain sneered, the ascending whine in his voice a subdued, mocking arrogance.

"The fire-folk...ARE the WRONG!" snapped Ashfall. "They TELL story wrong, they are COWARDS!"

"They push us away, drive us away, think they are greater than nature, but fear truth of story! Power of their gift! Speak of how gift of flame-print is danger, can hurt...but themselves, hate and hurt. They are cowards, who fear truth of story!"

"And what do YOU know of story?" growled Dungstain. "You only rule because of old story! Half soul-starer, are you?"

"Question Ashfall not!" snarled Whitesmoke, Ashfall's eldest son and loyal second-in command, who would not take indignation of one slighting his father.

"You, half-spirit and half-half-spirit, concern yourself too much with weak Thems. You...fear Them. Is it Them, really, who are cowards?"

Without a second word Whitesmoke was at Dungstain's throat while the arrogant one now yelped, pleading, struggling feebly under the grasp of Whitesmoke's jaws around his neck.

"ENOUGH!" Ashfall demanded loudly. "RELEASE HIM!"

Whitesmoke relented his grip in obedience and Dungstain rose to his paws, groaning and coughing, as the others glared at the ragged, brown-hued one in revulsion. It was a name well-earned indeed, they thought. A vile one, he was. Tolerated but for his usefulness, when there were obstacles in the way.

Ashfall turned away from him in disgust.

"Yet you cry for mercy, Dungstain. I am not coward here."

The great leader, silhouetted against the barely-illuminated sky, paced around the smoldering torch.

"So...let ME tell story."

"When I was pup, all I had was mother. She was guard and guide. I was but pup, and knew nothing."

"I met, in play in woods, pup of fold-paw. Small, weak. No parent about. I was but pup too. I thought, play."

"But it cry. And mother come with big stick. And beat fold-paw once, twice, until it cry no more."

"Then I was but innocent pup. Knew not of the world. I ask mother, 'Why you hurt play mate? Only small.' And she said, 'Child of fold-paw. Weak now. Strong later. Will not hurt us now. Will destroy, kill us later. Destroy now, end now, while small. While easy. For it is Them, and enemy.' she tell me."

Ashfall's gaze returned to Dungstain.

"So you see now? Or as blind as digging scale-worm? They not trouble now, they will be."

"All are a danger to our people. My people. Fire-folk wield flame. Great of power. Shore-people, make weapon, can hurt more than teeth. Snow-giants bigger, stronger. Beast-herders with herd-beasts, with meat. Only food around. Yet keep it greedy for themselves."

"Do you see not? How they treated us? Make us live so we must fight, must steal? Must fight for good lands with food? How they have power to harm us? If they wish? With flame and wood-teeth and size and strength?So we must fight them...now. Before they become too strong."

"Let the fold-paw pups not grow."

"LET THE FOLD-PAW PUPS NOT GROW!" came the reply, of dozens of voices, overlaid in wrathful symphony. Voices of rage.

Voices of hunger, and desperation.

Voices of vengeance.

Pride swelled within Ashfall as he gazed upon his people, crying out defiantly, as one. His "Us." The pack that was not family by blood, but saw him like father, brother, leader, mentor. He had united what the other peoples had broken.

And now, together, they were strong.

"The Longest Darktime is upon us, Ashfall-Father," Whitesmoke asked. "We go...now?"

"The Them are divided, but growing. The snow-season is here, less food. And Them keep us away from hunting-ground. Them keep it for Them! We must fight the Them, destroy Them if must, if Us is to survive! Not like Wind-Storm!"

Ashfall paused silently, briefly, in remembered grief at his mate, and Whitesmoke's mother. She had ailed the last snow-season, and there had been not enough prey, in the more barren unclaimed territories the Oulanders were forced to call home, to keep her alive.

"Do you want another Wind-Storm? Do you want many more Wind-Storms?" Ashfall called out, to his pack, to Whitesmoke, and a little bit, to himself. "This is for the Us. We do what we must. For the Us."

"Us or THEM!" he barked loudly.

"US OR THEM!" came the reply.

"The shore-people, and their wood-teeth...are nearest, and greatest threat," Ashfall concluded. "We go when red-sun leaves. We have light of our own."

"I shall lead!" Dungstain growled in eager, cruel anticipation.

"Too FOOLISH, RECKLESS, TO LEAD!" Ashfall snapped at him, and, with a protesting whimper, he stood down.

"Whitesmoke shall lead. Him...I trust." Ashfall said, shooting a scolding, aside glance at Dungstain.

Whitesmoke lowered his head, ears folded back in agreeing, but hesitating, submission.

"I...I will, Ashfall-Father."

Ashfall gently nuzzled his snout against Whitesmoke's pale-streaked face, a rare show of tenderness from the fearsome Outlander leader.

"You must. And you can. I know."

One by one, the Outlanders began to gather around, each carrying branches of the black-bark tree, whose fragrant juices burnt well and burnt long.

"Save these. Not yet." Ashfall said. "Just one, to keep fire going." He had studied the art of this strange power the Plainmanes possessed, but knew not its true might.

The Longest Darktime carried on, the bright-sun nowhere to count the days, and the red-sun peeking above but only now and then.

And the Outlanders, the Firethieves, waited, as they regrouped, readied, and bided their time for their opportunity.

Ashfall stood tall upon the highest peak, overlooking the plains, the great expanse into the distance, with the sea barely glimpsed in the distant horizon.

He gave a weary, grunting sigh.

Conflict was always a dreadful thing. For many of his Outlanders, his Us, would be wounded, would maybe die. He was fighting to keep his pack alive.

But he will not succeed.

Not with all of them.

But they were strong fighters. Brave fighters. He taught them, trained them to be. He ruled over them, as strongest. But he did not trample the weak underfoot, but fought to make them strong.

This was his pack. His Us.

And he would not hesitate to plow through a thousand Thems if it meant even a few Us would live.

The Us will survive, even at the cost of the Them.

At all cost.

------

#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise #the calliducyon saga

[itusebastian]

The Shadows of Malice

A Goblin King's Tale

The stench of damp earth and stale air wafted up from the cave entrance as Torg, the goblin leader, surveyed his territory. The walls were slick with moisture, and the only light came from torches mounted in the cracks and crannies. The lair was bustling with activity as goblin workers scurried about, fetching water and food for their ravenous kin.

Torg's beady eyes darted from tunnel to tunnel, making sure that all was in order. He was the strongest and smartest of his tribe, and they all knew it. He wore a tattered leather vest and a crude iron helmet that he had taken off a foolish adventurer.

As he made his way deeper into the cave, Torg spotted a group of goblin warriors dancing around a stolen treasure chest. They were clapping their hands and chortling with malicious glee, proud of their latest victory against the weakling humans.

Torg's lip curled in a sneer as he watched them. He was disgusted by their laziness and undisciplined behavior. If they didn't have him to lead them, they'd all be dead by now.

He turned his attention to the back of the cave, where the rat keepers were tending to their verminous charges. The rats were almost as important to the goblins as their own kin. They were their eyes and ears, able to scurry through the narrow tunnels and bolt-holes that human-sized creatures couldn't navigate.

Torg grunted in satisfaction as he looked upon his loyal wolf riders, who were tending to their mounts. They were fierce and agile, able to take down much larger prey than the goblins could manage on their own.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out near the entrance. Torg whirled around, his hand gripping the crude sword at his side. He saw a group of adventurers, armed and dangerous, storming into his lair.

With a snarl, Torg barked orders to his warriors, and they sprang into action. The lair erupted into chaos as goblins swarmed out of their hiding places, ready to defend their home.

Torg's heart was pounding in his chest as he charged into battle. He knew that this was a fight to the death, but he didn't care. He was a goblin, and he lived for moments like this.

As the battle raged on, Torg's mind drifted to Maglubiyet, the Mighty One. He knew that if he died in battle, his spirit would join the ranks of the goblin god's army on the plane of Acheron. It was a "privilege" that he both feared and longed for.

In the end, Torg emerged victorious, covered in the blood of his enemies. He looked around at his tribe, proud of their ferocity and loyalty. They were his kin, his family, and he would do anything to protect them.

As he strode back to his throne room, Torg couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. He was the ruler of his own small kingdom, and no one could take that away from him. He was a goblin, and he was proud of it.

Buy me a coffee!

#dungeonsanddragons #goblins #fantasyfiction #darkfantasy #shortstory #flashfiction #creaturefeature #villainous #horde #maliciousglee

[harriertail]

I’ve been thinking about Thunder

(dotc rewrite) The fire-red tom is the last surviving kit. His mother is still alive, but frail- the moorland cats say she is dying of a broken heart, an old superstition regarding queens and their lost kits- Wind and Hawk Swoop both agree to help her settle into the moorland camp, but with no medicine cat, she quickly deteriorates. Her son is named Thundering Storm in honour of her and a reminder of the storm of rubble that nearly killed them both. Tragically, Storm passes, but Thundering Storm is loved and treasured by Hawk Swoop and his adoptive siblings. Grey Wing is a good father- maybe too critical when he sees Clear Sky’s temper flashing in his son’s outburts, but feels Clear Sky should at least come visit his only kit. After the fire, when heat lightning crashes across the sky, a paranoid Clear Sky is adamant; Thundering Storm belongs to him. He is given to the forest and renamed Thundering Sky, now he has proven himself worthy of Clear Sky’s attention. Thundering Sky is one of them, a forest cat, he belongs with his kin. But Thundering Sky has know nothing but love: pure from Storm, gentle from Hawk Swoop and Turtle Tail, tough from Grey Wing, the love/hate banter of young siblings rushing to grow up together, and cannot fit into Clear Sky’s world. He returns to the moor with Frost. His father goes insane. Clear Sky wants boundaries, Clear Sky wants laws and order in a chaotic world, One Eye will help him achieve that. The winters in the mountains have made him paranoid. Thundering Sky is trapped between Grey Wing seeking peace with the others and Jagged Peak seeking revenge, and Clear Sky seeking order, he is caught between the forest and the moor, and his non-mountain blood. 

Even after all of it, Clear Sky’s jabs and comments, the murdering of innocent cats, working with One Eye to strengthen the group, the young tom just wants his father’s approval, truly. He wants his father’s laws to work, for the borders to bring peace, but they cannot. Not with Clear Sky determined to continue leading his group alone, and One Eye looking to take it. 

The mountain cats have brought nothing but trouble and bloodshed, and they fight to the death in the hollow with five trees until a lightning strike destroys one ancient oak and brings the dead back to life- over what? Over the rights to hunt? Over the land? Over him? Thundering Sky returns to the forest, seeing his father quiver before the spirits of their dead. They both just need someone to prop them up. He can temper Clear Sky’s rage, Clear Sky can make him into a cat he will be proud of.

He will not learn, even after One Eye is gone, Clear Sky is certain his way is right- after all, he and One Eye united the forest, the moor, and the strays. Unite or die, says the spirits, they must all come into Clear Sky’s control. You are a forest cat- you belong with me. He speaks of wanting a group, a set of rules and regulations to strictly keep the peace and honour, but he has no honour. None of the mountain cats do. They can all take their groups to the other side of the world. When the time comes, you will make it right, and Thundering Sky knows what he must do. He storms from Clear Sky’s camp in the dead of winter, he is nothing like his father, or his kin, he will make his own group. A group where the ill are tended too, the young trained, the evil punished. He sheds his name and becomes Thunder, not a forest cat, not a mountain cat, his own cat. He is not one of them. A new age is beginning, he vows, and sets to make his camp.

Clear Sky is furious, humiliated. His mother disowns him when she travels from the mountains, she curses Clear Sky so that he will never succeed in his bloodthirsty plans. He unites with Slash, regathers what is left of One Eye’s rogues and rogues from beyond- he has so much power he can gather cats from places beyond the forest, beyond the mountains. He makes one last push to unite the five groups, he bleeds into the ground by the river. Thunder gets word- Grey Wing is dying too, pushed to the edge by his brother’s actions. His last kin is gone. The new age is truly beginning. ThunderClan, RiverClan, WindClan, ShadowClan, and SkyClan- led by Sparrow Fur, will rule the forest. Five Clans around Four Trees. Thunder’s code, the warrior code, will grow and spread, and the Clans will grow. Leaders will get their nine lives, their medicine cats will learn to harness the power of the living and dead. All is well with the world. In the future, they will wonder about the fifth tree, decayed by time, and if Quiet Rain’s curse has anything to do with the monsters rolling across the SkyClan border.

#the heatwave has broken. etc etc #Thunder rejecting his tribe/ancient name and setting up a precedent for ThunderCLan to be the goody two shoes #as they created the warrior code in response to the atrocitie of the mountain cats. #skyclans exile as divine punishment for clear skys actions but not really. #warrior cats #btw this is both anti clear sky and grey wing like none of them are good lads. #neither is thunder tbh he gets his fathers stubbornness and insists his way is right too. i love how fucking wrong the dotc characters can #be sometimes so we embrace it. #btw blazing star kinda doesnt exist here #and thundering sky/storm is called thundering in honour of fluttering bird. it would have been thunder sky/storm otherwise #i just think clear sky shud have been more Bad becoz its fun and Thunder being the one to create the warrior code in response to his fathers #bad behaviour is like. a commentary on how thunderclan fucking love correcting behaviour #i posted a comic about this on insta but ill post it here soon

[lady-maryann]

In moonlit shadows and demon's embrace The Devil finds solace in a Lady's grace A gun-wielding warrior, fierce and free Mary, my love, you are the key

Through battles fierce, you stand tall A hunter's spirit, a protector of all In the dance of chaos, you wield your might Lady of darkness, my guiding light

Your eyes reflects a tempest within A tale of loss, vengeance, and kin Yet, in the storm, you stand unbroken A testament to words unspoken

In the symphony of war, our love resounds A melody of strength that forever surrounds Mary .. my Lady, in this world we roam You are the anchor that calls me home

#devil may cry #lady #dmc #mary ann #dmc lady #devil may cry lady

[zmasters]

Vera The Bloodfly, Khornate Arch-Revenant/Master of Executions Proxy: 2 Characters, 1 Model

Age of Sigmar Lore: Vera was an Arch-Revenant created by Allarielle during the Soul Wars. She was primarily tasked with defending a realm gate connecting Shyish and Ghyran alongside a garrison of freeguild warriors and sylvaneth. The gate was quickly overwhelmed by the undead forces, with Vera being the sole survivor.

Covered in the blood of her allies and surrounded by the shattered corpses of her kin, Vera felt nothing but lament. She'd only survive because she was pinned under the body of a slain treelord and the necromancer in charge of the horde of zombies just assumed she was dead. She lamented to have failed her mission, only surviving because of a fluke. She prayed to her goddess, begging for forgiveness and a chance to redeem herself. But she wasn't answered by Allarielle, but a Khornate priestess.

This priestess, Gorestained Rose, came from a tribe known as the Blood Woods. The Blood Woods practiced what they called "Blood Druids," warrior monks who used prayers to Khorne to harness the power of nature. The tribe held nothing but respect to Allarielle and her children, seeing the Sylvaneth as nearly perfect warriors needing a little bit of direction.

Rose offered her hand to Vera, giving her a chance of redemption. Vera will prove herself to Allarielle, and to Khorne. Afterall, they're both gods of the hunt, and there's nothing a sylvaneth is better at than hunting.

40K Lore: House Hellebor was a minor knight house of the Imperium. Through Alpha Legion manipulations, a warpstorm formed over their home world during Vera’s birth. The youngest child Sven Hellebor III, lead knight of the House, was born mutated, having insect wings and horns. When the storm subsided, Sven refused to give up his daughter, and Vera became a catalyst to a civil war.

As their home was being destroyed by Imperial forces, Sven IV, Vera’s older brother, took his sister and fled. The Alpha Legion agent returned to his master, his mission successful, but later died of his injuries. He left behind a knight desecrator and a promise from his friend, the warband’s warp-smith Narvik.

Narvik will protect Vera.

She thrived within the ranks of the Alpha Legion. At six years old, she awakened her latent psychic potential. At twelve, she learned how to move her Throne Mechanicum from one knight to another without damaging it or the spirits within. At age twenty-one, she discovered and bonded with an artificial intelligence by the name of Misery, granting the intelligence sanctuary within her knight and protecting it from Inquisitors. Merely twenty-three years of age, she was granted the title of Master of Executions, and fought alongside her master and his chosen with her glaive if her knight was deemed inappropriate to the situation.

Despite being a psyker, Vera favors Khorne and follows his tenets over the other three gods. (By that, I play Vera as undivided, and ran her knight with pyrothrone in 9th)

#warhammer 40k #warhammer #warhammer age of sigmar #age of sigmar #warhammer oc #chaos 40k #chaos space marines #sylvaneth

[mr-clow]

Overture: The rise of an imperatrix. Part 2:

Carlos was finishing some details with the camera crew while I was standing behind a square barstool covered with a silk sarong over it that gave a really tidy look. He had found a female blazer that suited me, and one of the journalists combed my hair. He might be unorthodox, but he did his job. For my plan, this was the first step, but I knew I would need someone with his abilities, maybe I had found my press minister.

Carlos – General, we are starting now. Three, two, one!

I looked at the camera, letting my madness run amok in my eyes and words, took a deep breath and hoped that this would have the consequences I desired:

I stand before you today not as a politician, nor as a general, but as a mother who has witnessed unspeakable horrors inflicted upon her daughters, her people, and her beloved land. I am Jeanette Iceni, and I carry with me a heart heavy with grief and a soul ablaze with righteous fury.

These invaders from foreign worlds, have shown us no mercy. They have trampled upon our sacred soil, desecrated our homes, and torn apart the flesh and spirit of our families. My heart weeps for what has been done to them, the innocence stolen, the dignity crushed. We have seen our kin subjected to the cruellest of fates, their bodies massacred, their spirits broken, all by the hands of these heartless aliens.

I stand here today, not in grief alone, but in defiance! We shall not bow to the cruelty of these oppressors. No! We shall rise against them, and with the strength of our ancestors and the fire that burns within us, we shall make them rue the day they set foot upon our sacred world!

They thought they could conquer us, subdue us, break us. But they have underestimated the power of a united people who are willing to fight for their freedom, their honour, and the future of their children. We are the descendants of warriors, the sons and daughters of this great world, and we shall not be silenced.

As an old queen of ages, I saw everything that I held dear ripped away by invaders that hold nothing more than greed upon themselves. I will take the name Boudica, as I will not rest until they have paid for the pain they inflicted upon us or until I am dead.

Our vengeance shall be as relentless as the cruelty of the void. We shall strike back with the force of a thousand storms, and every drop of alien blood spilled upon our hands will be a testament to their wickedness and our unwavering resolve.

Let them hear our battle cries echo through the ages! Let them tremble in fear as they face the fury of humanity! We will fight until every alien invader is cast out of our system, cast out of our worlds, until justice is served for the atrocities committed against our kin, our children, and until we can once again hold our heads high in honour.

My people, our struggle is not in vain. It is a flame that shall burn in the annals of history, a beacon of hope for all who yearn for freedom and justice. Let our enemies know that we are not to be trifled with, for we are the indomitable spirit of humanity, and we shall prevail!

Onward, my warriors! Onward to victory and the reclamation of our land, our dignity, and the honour of our children!

I looked at Carlos who looked at me speechless and softly touched the back of the camera man. As soon as he stopped the broadcast, Carlos said “What the hell did I do” to which I only smiled wickedly and fainted.

I woke up with Carlos slapping me, shouts filling the room and a loud sound that made the room reverb. I grabbed Carlos hand instinctively, looked around and pointed to a chair. He helped me to sit, and I move my head towards the door. 

Boudica – Let them in, they are doing their job as you did. Everything else is upon the people you helped me reach and the hearts I touched.

Carlos – You are going to be executed for insubordination. I cannot let you go.

Boudica – You did as you had to. Let them, as I greet death with open arms.

Carlos gave the order to the people holding the door to back off and let them in. As soon as they opened the lock, a brigade of the military forces rushed in, held everyone against the wall and took me as a madman outside the room. I was being dragged through corridors where people saw me with emotions running down their faces. As soon as they stepped into an open space, where refugees were staying, I yelled, for all of them to hear.

“Will this be all? This is the only fight we are going to give? To bow down our heads and dragged ourselves through the mud”

A soldier put his hand on my mouth, stopping me, but it was enough. The sea of people that a second before were lamenting and liking their wounds now had their sight set upon the soldiers that were dragging me. One after the other, they stood up, blocked their path and when one of them tried to move them apart two more appeared to block the path until the soldiers stopped and released me. Scared for their lives, their instinct told them to let me go and retreat.

I won’t say that the revolt was peaceful, but only a hundred lives were lost on it. Less than 48 hours later I was seating on the command room, all the opposition dead and everyone that abandoned their post willingly waiting for a ship to earth.

#humans are deathworlders #humans are weird #earth is a deathworld #humans are space orcs #humans are space aussies #The bloody imperatrix