#twin dark/upon the tainted sorrow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maries-gallery · 9 months

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wc: 1,7k

Licht had always hated his name.

Licht, meaning Light.

A pretty ironic name for someone whose existence is laced with sin and bathes in blood. For someone who has committed the irreparable at such a young age.

Indeed, Licht has nothing luminous nor bright. Nothing but his name, that hangs over his head like a dark halo, dripping blood in the back of his mind so he never forgets his sins. His name, an omen heavier than any crown. Heavier than any throne.

A reminder that inside of him, darkness brews. Nesting and rotting, waiting for him to open the Pandora box. Its putrid flowers blooming in the deepest parts of him, visceral and rooted in flesh.

People thought twins to be a bad omen. They all thought one of them was destined to be good and bring prosperity. The other meant to bring sorrow and chaos in a kingdom full of hope.

The evil one, the cursed twin. The bad one.

That’s what his brother and himself had been taught too, as children. That one of them would be the downfall of Rhodolite if it ever came down to one of them bearing the crown.

So people prayed, held their breath. For any other prince to take the crown. Maybe that’s why Yves cared about Licht so much. He understood what it felt like being shunned by your people.

To Licht it had always been evident that if one of them had to be cursed it was him. For it could never be his brother, right? Nokto whose hands had known blood well after his own. Nokto whom is so confident and outspoken. Nokto whose name means Night but who has always shone brighter than the stars and the moon. And whose wings had always spread over Licht’s head to give him shelter from his own thoughts.

Indeed, if there had to be a monster in their story, Licht would take on this role. Hands already slick with too much blood, mind crowded with too many brooding clouds.

Licht would never forget the fear and the hate in their eyes. The very people he was meant to protect. The very eyes of his mother, too.

His own mother he had loved with all his heart.

His own mother he had-

Licht. The cursed twin.

For so long he had kept everyone at arm’s length, even sweet Yves who had tried everything to get him to open up, to get him to smile like he once did. But Licht could never find it in himself. The taste of happiness and joy foreign to him. Emotions blended in a colourless sea of sadness and self hatred. Years of isolation had made him colourblind.

And he had tried to keep you at arm’s length too. You were too bright, eyes too pure and your smile too kind. Your voice, like Heaven singing in his ears, heart in his chest clamouring at every word falling from your lips like a prayer.

An angel fallen from grace.

You were too good for him. Yet, a part of him found itself constantly drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. Like a man lost at sea to the comfort of a lighthouse.

Nothing good can ever come from this.

She’ll get hurt. She’ll get hurt. She’ll get hurt.

I’ll hurt her.

She’ll be miserable. She’ll be miserable. She’ll be miserable.

I’ll bring that upon her.

He desperately tried to keep you from the dark corners of his mind. Aching for you to hold him and find him into the dark, yet crying out and cowering back in fear every time you took a step his way.

He wouldn’t pardon himself if he were to taint you, light incarnate. Scared the beast inside of him would burst from within and snuff out the light in your eyes, claw at your heart and rip it to pieces.

I can’t make her happy. I can’t let her love me. I can’t love her but I cannot not love her.

I cannot be indifferent anymore.

Let me follow. Please let me follow you into the light. Bring me back.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. But hurting is the price I pay for my sins. The price I pay in blood and in-

Yet, when he looks into your eyes and meets his own reflection there, he sees nothing of the monster he claims to be. Nothing but a man. A man whose pain has turned into a lone wolf. A man with a beating heart, a man who loves, and a man who craves for nothing else but tender affection.

Who craves to be seen and found. To be touched and brought back from the land of desolation he’s built around himself.

And every time, you take his hand, and lead him out of the dark forest of his mind. Every time, you bring him back to the light. Bathe his scars in love and soothe his aching heart with warmth.

For the first time, he wants to believe. He wants to believe monsters like him deserve redemption in the presence of an angel. He wants to believe that maybe he can be worthy of your love, of his name. That maybe, some of the light can be for him too.

Licht had always hated his name. But when it falls from your lips nothing sounds purer, sweeter, holier.

So now, as the two of you lie down in his bed, moonlight showering your entangled forms in divine glow, his crimson eyes seek yours, gentle fingers caressing your cheek ever so gently. Afraid to break you.

Pure love flows through his veins as you gaze back at him. Your skin like silk against his own, and his heart catches fire.

Your fingers comb back a strand of white hair from his forehead, and he is putty in your hands.

“I love you, Licht.”

There it is, the words that make his heart swell in his chest, the words that make his lungs ache for air. His thumb draws circles on your soft skin, crimson eyes burning with a mix of unshed tears and raw desire as he hangs over you. Lips hungrily nipping at the skin of your nape.

“Say it again.” He whispers against your skin, “Please, say my name, again.” Despair laces his tone as his hand guides your legs around his hips, fingers digging in the butter of your thighs.

A moan falls past your lips as he grinds his hardened bulge against your core. Fire waking up inside of you and licking at your inhibitions. You want more. You danced too close to the Sun and now you want to taste its flames.

“Kiss me first.” You ask and he complies. Your legs tighten their hold on him to bring you closer and closer still. Until no space is left between the two of you and your lips are so close you can taste his breath on your tongue. “Licht.”

Air catches in his lungs, his skin burns, and every fibre of his being aches for you. For all of you. For a taste of Heaven.

“Again.” He repeats, length prodding between your slick folds. And he loves the gasp that falls from your lips as he pushes in, the way your eyes flutter close as he stretches your walls and comes to sit inside of you.

“Uungh-! Licht!” You cry out, nails digging in the skin of his back as he grinds his hips against yours, teasing at your sweetest spot. “Please-Please, more!”

Of course he listens, sliding in and out of you in slow and languid thrusts, bringing you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips. Your vision blurs as your core melts in a puddle of need and desire.

Licht’s brows knit together as your walls clamp down around his length, sucking him in. And he wishes he could stay inside of you all day, warm and snug in your heat.

“You’re so warm-” He sheathes himself in your walls to the hilt, so deep you taste him in the back of your throat. But you don’t care, not when it feels so good. Not when you’re on the edge of breaking. “So-So good-”

He leans down, lips caressing the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning over your heated skin but doing nothing to extinguish the fire inside of you.

“Say my name, again.”

“Ah-! Licht! Licht!” Your eyes flutter close, the tight coil inside of you lashing out flames as your release washes over you in tides. Powerful and merciless, thighs quivering around him under the weight of pleasure.

Licht.

His name you sing over and over again like a prayer to the gods above, until your throat hurts from overexertion and your moans become nothing but murmurs for him only to hear.

And he bathes in it, head tilting back as his hips earn a mind of their own, letting his sins be washed away by your light. Bathed in the cries of an angel.

A sound between grunt and a moan escapes him, warmth flooding his veins as he sheathes himself inside of you and gives you the fruits of his own release. Panting above you as exhaustion crashes over the both of you.

He leans down, burying his head in the crook of your neck, reluctant to pull out from your warmth just yet. And he wants this moment to last forever. The two of you united as one, your arms around him and his head busy with thoughts of you.

He enjoys the idea of his seed remaining inside of you. The idea of filling you with his love, like you do him on the daily with your mere presence.

A tired smile graces your lips as you look up at him, “Licht…”

His name rolls off your tongue and it tastes like honey. And in that moment he finally feels whole, blessed by the Gods.

Is it a sin to adore you? To want to be near you, to feel you, to touch you?

Maybe. But for all it’s worth, Licht does not care. If Hell was another one of your angelic kisses then he’d be a sinner.

taglist: @aquagirl1978 @randonauticrap @pockcock @ikesimp100 @ikemen-writer @chaosangel767 @nightghoul381 @o0aj0o @kisuxmalfoy @elleplaysotome @lichtluv

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ellastre · 1 year

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First post on tumblr hahaha I have no idea what I'm doing, so I'm just gonna shut up and paste some random writing project I had on hand while trying not to die of anxiety because of that horrible thing called 'Real Life' (ew.)

A (fake) Goddess' love

Laughter, tears, words and colors, and half-faded memories; those were all that remained now.

Skin and hair, clothing and fetters, everything about her was colored in a pure, unnatural white as if someone had leeched every color out of her. In her arms, an old grimoire rested with her.

Within her tomb of cold stone, she dreamed of abstract memories, kept pristine by her slumber, and surrounded herself with the feelings she gathered along the way, thorny flowers that left her palms bleeding, pure crimson drops dying the unfeeling white snow with all the colors of life.

She was thirteen when she started letting go, tugged and led around by bonds too tight for her to breathe.

"I forgive you." She said to him. Her own brother. Her other self. His betrayal still hurt her, but she refused to let it destroy her. Amber eyes widened in shock and she smiled, her heart still bleeding from the loneliness and abandonment. But she would move on because she wished to become someone she would be proud of.

Her teacher often taught her to value herself, after all.

She, who could not afford to love, lest it invited its hideous twin hatred. Care and admiration trodden upon by the visceral monster called envy, souring and spoiling and tainting all it touched by revealing one's abhorrent nature. Yet, with pride as her guiding light, she walked on, hissing snakes seeking to bind and imprison her back in the darkness.

She was twenty when she realized that a world bleached white by the light would die without the darkness of the night allowing it to sleep.

She bore witness to the completion of all of their dreams. To absolute power, to absolute justice, to absolute change, to absolute passion, order, curiosity, serenity… All of them fell when the answer was within reach.

But at least they tried, not like her cowardly self who ran away from 'beauty'.

Compassion, she chose to call it. Despite her reservations, they flocked to her, who extended her warmth to the people around her, who remained strong and steady in front of adversity and raised her as an idol she would have to destroy. The worst test would come soon, but for now, she would enjoy this fleeting camaraderie amid a decaying world.

She was thirty when it was time to say goodbye to the only man she ever loved, her mind was grown up but her body was forever stuck in time.

"I love you." He said, lips twisting in a faint smile.

"I know." She said, breath heaving, choked words tearing themselves out of her throat, her sorrow burning her and coloring even the happiest of memories pitch black. Her hands gently landed on his chest and she came closer, closing her eyes and letting her forehead rest against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of mint and ice. He didn't hug her, mercy his idiotic, too-kind self offered her freely.

If he asked her to stop…

If only he asked her to stop…

"See you in the next world." She whispered, a desperate prayer accompanied by burning eyes and sobbing. His arms wrapped themselves around her for a moment and she yanked onto the glimmering rope of his life.

He fell bonelessly into her arms and she wailed, cradling his lifeless body against her chest.

She, who unknowingly loved, and willingly walked down the path of destruction. Complacency and hugs that felt like chokeholds, too-warm and suffocating affections. A scorching haze bringing down all barriers, exposing the deepest of one's self and devoting it to the altar of the other, a lovely idol promising unforgettable joy and sorrow in exchange for unending devotion. Yet, with tears and sorrow, she brandished a sword and raised it high, a blackened blade embedding itself in the idol, pitch-black spider webs of cracks still failing to turn this sorrowful love into cold, unfeeling ash.

And yet, when she stood winner over the rest, she realized, hands covered with the blood of the one who most deserved the name of 'father'…

The last enemy left to defeat was herself, before she, too, fell like all the others.

Because in the end, she loved this world. She loved the people who did their best, the ones who crumbled under the weight of their own sorrow, the ones who struggled desperately to claw their way out of the darkness. She loved the people who enjoyed the world around, the ones who made things better for others, and even the ones that most would frown upon because nobody deserved to be so utterly alone. That's why she, the fake goddess that brought nothing but ruin and sorrow would allow the world to move on without her, without them, free from the chains and fetters that came with them.

This was the path she chose, for herself, for others, for everyone, in hopes that someday, someone would appear and save her too.

Until that day, she would slumber within that cold stone tomb, surrounded by shades of memories and fragments of dreams.

#grimoireofanathema #goa #anathema #love #anasoangstyhaha #writing project

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obaewankenobis · 3 years

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for forever — obi-wan kenobi

pairing(s) : obi-wan kenobi x reader ( mostly focused on obi-wan’s character, not the relationship because i am a hoe for this man )

summary : after the fall of the jedi order, you can finally be together. alternatively, obi-wan needs therapy/deserves happiness.

word count : 2.1k

warning(s) : character death, a bit of angst i guess but it’s mostly fluff.

notes : roughly edited so i apologize if things don’t make sense, i honestly came up with this on a whim and have No Idea what was going through my head when i wrote this. the povs also switch a lot but enjoy </3.

The sand bit at his fair skin, the grainy winds of Tatooine ruffled through his auburn locks, peppered with strands of grey, as Obi-Wan Kenobi stood, rigid and grief stricken. Kind wrinkles framed his eyes, eyes weighed down by exhaustion and desolation, the memory of a thousand wars flickering in the brilliant blue reflection. Without speaking, the woman looking at him from afar knew he had suffered a lifetime of hardship and grief, his aching heart not given a moment to mourn the loss of those closest to him. The mahogany cloak billowed around his body, covering the burnt, tattered tan robes he wore, as the wind picked up, signaling there would be little time before the twin suns set and it was much too dangerous to be outside. Snuggled between the lone man’s arms, swathed in soft cream blankets to shelter him from the cruel and unforgiving weather, was a baby. With sea blue eyes and the sparse tufts of pale blonde hair, the newborn was the mirror image of his father — that in itself was bittersweet.

Fire. That was all Obi-Wan could remember, the smoldering lava confining him and his enemy — once his friend, his brother — inside a tight circle of flashing blue and blazing rage. Now, things were blissfully quiet, as if the universe was trying to give him peace of mind after what it had taken from him. With heavy shoulders and hollow eyes, Obi-Wan was a shell of who he used to be: a great warrior and an excellent negotiator, all gone. His last mission was here, on Tatooine, to deliver the baby to his aunt and uncle: Owen and Beru Lars. Then, he would spend the rest of his years wasting away in a sandy prison, languishing in his defeat.

“Is it true?” The woman from afar, who had taken to staring at him from a distance, finally approached him, awaiting his answer with bated breath — Beru. Is it true? The words reverberated in his head, as the reality came crashing down upon him. The woman in front of him needed certainty, she needed answers, answers Obi-Wan could not give her.

“Yes,” came the final reply. Who knew a single word could hold such heavy meaning? Yes. An entire government who’s history spanned hundreds of years prior collapsed within a single day? Yes, that had happened. His religion, who he had devoted his entire life to and poured his soul into, gone? Yes, decimated without a sliver of mercy. The baby’s father, the hero of the galaxy, the crown jewel of the Jedi Order, killed? Yes, murdered in cold blood.

Beru finally brought her attention to the boy nestled within the robes of the man. “Is he . . . ” She seemed to only speak in half questions, as if finishing the sentence would make it a harsh reality, and leaving the query to hang heavy in the air would somehow leave her life in a fairytale.

“Yes,” he replied again, nearly choking on his words as the boy let out a tiny coo, as if he sensed they were discussing him.

“Oh.” There was a pause, a flicker of hesitation, before the woman decided to continue her pattern of half inquiries to form her own story. “May I?” With shaking arms, Beruu reached forward to take the boy from Obi-Wan’s grasp and welcome the baby into her own warm embrace. Part of him didn’t want to let the child go, for once he did he would have no real connection to his past life. Letting go of the boy meant letting go of everything, from his first steps in the Temple, to his meeting with his apprentice on Naboo, to the countless, sleepless nights in a war torn galaxy, it would all be gone. The woman’s tender smile and patient gaze was nearly patronizing, she was trying to sympathize with something she couldn’t possibly understand. No one could. A wave of fury washed over him, trapping him in a cage of his own emotions. Obi-Wan had never felt such an intensity roll over his body, preferring to keep his temperament a tranquil, emotionless pit. But this raw, uncontrollable fury was soon washed out with an even more overpowering bout of sorrow, shaking him with such force it made his knees wobble and threaten to give way. For over thirty years he was taught emotions were the enemy, by being detached and aloof he would survive, and look where that had gotten him.

Another soft cry from the baby jerked Obi-Wan back into the present moment, as his tiny arms reached for the woman, drawn to her sunny kindness and comforting aura; he realized a place to call home or a comforting shoulder to cry on was never something he could offer as the baby grew older. The woman made a small clicking sound with her tongue, looking up at Obi-Wan with an expectant gaze, and yet his grip on the baby remained the same. Although his mind seemed desperate to listen to logic, to reason, his body remained motionless, following the dull ache and painful longing in his heart. The battle between his mind and emotions lasted a fraction of a second, and at last, as it had time and time again, his mind won.

Like he had done all his life, selflessly sacrificing himself for thee good of the galaxy, he let go.

The woman took the baby in her arms, and began her journey back to her homestead, pausing just slightly to exchange one last parting smile and a word of comfort. “I think someone wants to see you, Master Kenobi.” With that, Beru began walking, a happy baby in her arms, to her husband, just as the sky merged from clear blue to salmon pink and hazy orange, the twin suns beginning to disappear over the horizon rapidly. As the light dimmed and dusk settled in, the man could make out the shadowy figures of Beru and Owen Lars, holding Luke Skywalker in unmoving content.

Here to see me? Obi-Wan frowned, reflecting on the woman’s words. This was not his home, his very identity was supposed to remain a secret, who could possibly want to see him? Unless . . .

No, that was impossible. He had mourned your death just as he had mourned every other Jedi’s death the moment their own clones turned against them, and he would not allow even a tiny sliver of hope to crawl its way back into his heart. Because in the end, he could only cling to the belief that things would get better, and false hope in such a desperate time would be his undoing.

—

You wondered how long you could stand in the shadows before he noticed you, standing awkwardly by his dewback as he delivered Padmé and Anakin's son to his new family. Like Obi-Wan, you had suffered the loss of everything and everyone you knew, your entire life destroyed in the span of a second, and all you could do was stand there, watching everything burn. The Jedi robes you once wore with pride, robes that were once a symbol of humility and hope across the galaxy, now put a priceless bounty on the head of anyone who wore them.

“Obi-Wan?” The name was dry in your throat, mouth parched and lips cracked due to the harsh Tatooine heat.

Though he was always subtle, you could see his entire demeanor change, the way his shoulders became straighter, the way his hands, once balled up into fists of worry, were now relaxed and laying loosely at his side. In a moment, he had turned around and closed the distance between the two of you, caramel boots growing dull and scuffed as he stepped through the unforgiving desert surface beneath him. “You’re alive,” his voice came out in a hushed, cautious tone, disbelief still tainting the edges. “I thought — Yoda and I — the only ones left — ” his words grew more jumbled with each passing phrase that left his lips.

“But I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” you cut him off, the calm gentleness of your tone making him stop in his tracks. Slowly, each movement pained and deliberate, you stepped closer, inching your way forward until he was right in front of you. Neither of you could look away; with the Jedi Order dead, there was no reason to hide in secrecy now.

—

To realize he was not alone was comforting, but to know it was you he could seek company in was freeing. In that moment, with the distance so close between your bodies, Obi-Wan dared not breathe, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out the smallest of breaths — this was all he had ever wanted, and still, despite everything, it was something he believed he could never have.

He wouldn’t allow himself to believe it. Not after he spent all those years repressing the desire that burned so deeply within him it began to rot within his heart, trapped with no release in sight. At one point, he had every reason to deny the yearning stirring within him, but now? Now there was no war, no Council, no code, no nothing to stop himself from unleashing decades of pent up turmoil within him.

And stars, it was suffocating.

He couldn’t do this.

“You know you don’t have to push me away any more.” A suggestion more than a factual statement; voice thick and barely audible.

Was this a dream, a fantasy meant to be chased after in his sleep? Or some sick, twisted premonition the Force was trying to convey to him? So many nights he had spent languishing in his loneliness, dazed in a delusion that remained but a figment of his imagination.

“I know.”

“What?”

“The Jedi are no more. We . . . We don’t have to pretend we don’t have — ” The words were bittersweet on his tongue; even with no one there to watch and scold him, he could not betray his way of life so easily. That everyone I have ever loved, I have watched die in my arms? And throughout all of that, I have never been tempted by the dark side, but if I lost you, I would be afraid of my own morality? Those were not easy thoughts to formulate into a coherent sentence — there were no words Obi-Wan could say that would even begin to describe how he felt.

Instead, in a tender gesture of vulnerability, he reached out through the Force, and all at once it came crashing down on him.

This feeling . . . it was all consuming, and he was drowning, struggling to keep his head above water and not surrender to its frosty depths. He was submerged in an endless stretch of icy ocean water so frigid and numbing, that he felt nothing and everything all at once. It was terrifying to think — and let you know — you held so much power over him, but in the same instance, he felt at peace, like a weight he had dragged around for decades was finally lifted off his shoulders. I love you, rang as bright as the city lights on Coruscant and as clear as a Nabooian waterfall. I love you.

“I love you, too.” He heard your voice in a soft whisper, swelled up with emotion as you took in everything. Chills erupted down his spine; he couldn't quite tell if it was from the inky blanket being tugged across the sky as dusk descended into nightfall, or if it was the four word phrase that left your lips.

—

“I cannot live without you,” Obi-Wan let out a shaky exhale, breath fanning across your face just slightly, your foreheads making contact in the lightest movements. You felt dizzy, in a dreamlike trance, for you had never been this close to him. You could see every horror he had survived in his glassy blue eyes, notice every perfect imperfection that blemished his skin and made him all the more real. In a moment, his face had become blurred as he closed the distance and finally, finally, his lips were on yours, and you connected in a long awaited, eternally sought after kiss. You could feel his hands, calloused but gentle, cupping your face, as your own fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, the kiss grew more fervent and needy, every rule you had ever lived by crumbling as you melted deeper into his touch.

After a long moment, you broke away, breathless, your face still tantalizingly close to his.

“I will never leave you, Obi-Wan,” your lips parted in a determined vow, a promise you would keep to your dying breath. The Jedi were dead, and yet you never felt more alive.

#obi-wan x reader #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi #star wars #angst #probably should edit this #obi-wan needs a hug #and some therapy too #post order 66 #revenge of the sith #prequel trilogy #star wars prequels #one shot

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jaysunderwear · 3 years

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BSD PLAYLISTS 1-3/? | dazai , chuuya , skk

sample track lists:

upon the tainted sorrow hustler's withdrawal - pitbull jenny from the block - jennifer lopez street fight - adam jensen supermassive black hole - muse no church in the wild - jay-z

twin dark tolerate it - taylor swift oh well, oh well - mayday parade why didn't you stop me - mitski no children - the mountain goats partners in crime - finneas

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #soukoku #skk #bsd playlists #q #jays spotify

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esmeraude11 · 3 years

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The Unknown is Nearby

Summary: "Our mother yet lives." Her own voice firm Findis watched, grief in her heart and pain tearing through her fëa, as her sister jerked away with a noise of disgust.

"Do you bear so little love in your heart, sister, that you would not avenge our father?" Írimë's voice was hard and cold. Her eyes were bright and pointed with her fury.

"Of course not!" Findis swallowed heavily. Her voice low with upset. Her throat was tight with tears as she stared down at the younger woman. "I will not go, Írimë, because I love our father so. Would you have me deprive our mother of all her children? Do you think he would want me to? My own son plans to go with you. Our eldest brother who loves our mother not but whom our mother cannot help but love-"

Word Count: 8188

on ao3

"Our father is dead!" Írimë's voice was sharp and keen and echoed in her rooms like the clarion bells of Valmar at high noon. Her cheeks were flushed red with emotion, her eyes bright with tears, and Findis could not help herself. She stuttered forward a step and paused. Arms rising to- what, Findis did not know. All she knew was that she ached to wipe away her younger sister's tears. To take her in her arms and rock her calm and still as she had once so long ago in their youth when Irimë had been but a babe in arms.

Findis had been easily delighted then.

She had been the youngest of two for several decades and then suddenly elder sister to a pair of toddling babes within a few short span of years. She had taken to the task with a readiness that had mirrored her elder brother in all he did.

Írimë had followed Ñolofinwë into the world within a handful of years.

Her younger sister had been a surprise to Findis but she had been known to their parents. The two had been close enough in age as to be alike to twins and had been treated as two halves of a whole. The royal nursery had housed her younger siblings just as it had once sheltered Findis and Fëanáro when they had been the children's age. The pair had always been close. Closer than grief and bitterness could ever have truly allowed Findis to be with her elder half-brother.

Írimë's temperament had always complemented Ñolofinwë's. But her younger sister had never resembled Fëanáro more in that very moment. It was a troubling thought and yet comforting in its own way.

Írimë's sorrow rang so clear and true that it spilled out into the very air itself. But at the very least it was there in the open between them. Not burrowed deep within to fester.

Findis would not deny her relief at the sight.

Írimë would never struggle in quite the same manner as their elder brother did and Findis could not help but be grateful for that. Fëanáro's inability to recognize the complex tangle of emotions that haunted his every step had made every interaction fraught with tension. His difficulties relating to their younger siblings had led to Fëanáro eventually pushing them away in a variety of ways.

Her brother's grief and insecurities had led to much heartbreak within their family and it had poisoned his relationship with their younger sister. Findis need never fear the thought of a blade in Írimë's hands as she'd feared Fëanáro's. Írimë would never turn her grief towards her family.

Findis' thoughts turned towards the bundle she'd left on her bed behind her hidden under the coverlets. It was not yet time to reveal them. There was much that needed to be said first.

"Our mother yet lives." Her own voice firm Findis watched, grief in her heart and pain tearing through her fëa, as her sister jerked away with a noise of disgust.

"Do you bear so little love in your heart, sister, that you would not avenge our father?" Írimë's voice was hard and cold. Her eyes were bright and pointed with her fury.

It was an old grievance and one that had become bitter with time once the sweetness and innocence of youth had passed her by.

Her mother had always loved Finwë's eldest child even when Findis' half-brother had spurned all of her entreaties and affections after her marriage. She knew that her mother and brother's relationship had never been the simplest affair.

It was fraught with grief, fury, and tension. Serindë's memory would always linger between them. Her death would always taint what might have been.

Fëanáro, Findis could not help but think, had to have cared for her mother once.

Perhaps he had even loved her. For his grief and rage to be so profound as to carry on for centuries well into the next generation. For Curufinwë Atarinkë had inherited his father's disdain for Indis Vanimeldë and Morifinwë Carnistir had become restrained and distant with her mother where once before he had studiously learnt wordcraft and arithmetic at her feet just as Kanafinwë Makalaurë had once studied songcraft at her mother's side.

Findis would not deny that she cared for Fëanáro. He was, no matter what he thought, her elder brother. Half or not, he still called Finwë father and she had been raised to consider him as her sibling. She had known naught else for so long. It had been only the pair of them in those early sweet years of childhood.

She still remembered the young ellon, little more than a boy, who had allowed her to follow him about the palace. The elder brother that had tolerantly suffered her at his side pestering him with questions and giving answers in turn. He had been patient. Smiled often despite himself and tugged curious questing fingers away from certain danger.

He had taught her much in those days. She had learnt of the stars at his side. Her mother had sung to her the songs that had been sung by the Minyar in the long dark days by the Lake of Cuiviénen. But it had been Fëanáro that had taught her the Ñoldorin constellations and whispered to her the stories that had been passed down among their people from the days before the Great Journey.

A quiet and lonely child when not seeking validation and affirmation in a myriad of ways Fëanáro had clung to this unwanted and unasked for sibling as he would never do with the ones that would come after; once childhood had run its sweet course and adulthood had bitterly set in.

She had learnt metalworking at his side. Curiosity and a desire to be near her only sibling had driven her to study it. Findis was still capable of crafting fine jewelry and finer jewels but the craft had never been a true passion of hers. Not as songcraft and wordcraft were.

It had merely been a means to forge ties with her elder half-brother.

Fëanáro had been good with children even then. All while scarcely more than a child himself.

He had been kinder to her in those brief sweet years than he would later be to their younger siblings. Findis suspected that she had been more playmate than sibling in his eyes. For all that her father and mother had encouraged her to think of him as her brother, Fëanáro himself had been a contrary boy at times.

Rare were the days when Fëanáro called her sister. But she cherished them nevertheless.

Perhaps he had not yet known to hate her for her mother's blood.

Her brother had not yet feared the thought of losing his father's love. A sister was no threat in the way that a brother was and Fëanáro, motherless child that he was, had ever feared the loss of their father's love. Of his affection, perhaps.

Indis had been Fëanáro's mother in all but name.

Her mother had raised him. Cared for him and tended his hurts in the absence of Queen Míriel. Findis remembered the stories her mother would tell of far-away Cuiviénen; of laughter and love beneath star-filled skies; of ancient friendships and long-gone but ever-missed friends. She remembered a small dark-haired boy, older than her by several years, tucked against her in the nursery of the palace.

Fëanáro had never been too old for fussing. Not like other children.

Findis' own son had claimed to have outgrown hugs and kisses at that same age.

Fëanáro had never squirmed and complained when Indis had helped him into formal clothes for court. Nor had he complained then to find himself in clothing matching Findis. They had been two halves of a whole for such a short period of time.

The Statute had changed that.

Her brother had never feared her presence in his life. Not as he would come to fear Ñolofinwë.

They had been too young to fuss about the throne and their father's crown. But Fëanáro had been older when Ñolvo's upcoming birth had been announced.

Not yet an adult. But old enough to worry. Old enough to hear the rumors that had plagued the city in those days. They had shaped his views and had driven her brother away from them.

He had never thought to fear Findis because she was a daughter. Their father could not possibly replace him with a sister. Daughters filled a different space in one's family.

A son was not a daughter.

One might love them all the same. But they were not interchangeable.

Findis had never desired the weight of her father's name for all that it was hers.

Her mother had named her. Findis’ name was in homage to the love that had been allowed to flourish between Ñoldoran and Vanimeldë at long last so many years after their fateful journey across the lands of their youth. But, Findis knew, it had also been meant as a means to signify that they were two halves of a whole. One, the son of Míriel Serindë. The other, the daughter of Indis Vanimeldë.

Half-siblings, yes. But siblings nevertheless.

Írimë, alone of all her siblings, had escaped the token of burdensome affection that their parents had lain upon their children.

Findis had been content in the knowledge of her parents' love. Of the peace and gentle pleasure of her life in Aman. Findis would never fear for her life the way her parents had once. She would never need to worry about her next meal in the uncertain evenings of the land east of the sea.

Hers had been a charmed life. This she would readily admit. But it was one that had also pleased her parents.

Her father had named her Írien. And yet, desired or not, Fëanáro had not thought to fear her in those days. Not as he would their younger brother. The first of the sons to come that would share their father's name.

Findis had never cared for the throne and Fëanáro had not yet come to equate their father’s crown and throne with his love. For all his faults, Finwë had not yet been torn between his children's affection. Findis had been Fëanáro’s shadow in those early years. They had both been too young and sheltered to come to blows as Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë would in later years.

She did not think that Fëanáro himself had ever truly desired them. The question of who was to bear the crown was to acknowledge the possibility that their father might die. For what else could ever necessitate the need for any son or daughter to inherit the rights of the King of the Ñoldor?

Fëanáro was insecure in their father’s affection. Ñolofinwë longed for Finwë’s regard. The pair craved his affection and wallowed in their own anxieties.

Her father loved his sons. But he had always failed to understand them. He knew not the resentments that flowed beneath the currents of their love. Finwë failed to soothe their tempers and prevent arguments from turning violent.

Fëanáro loved their father too much to ever wish him dead. He would never desire Finwë's death for he knew all too well the grief of a parent's loss.

Ñolofinwë was stubborn and proud and every inch Fëanáro’s brother.

Those proud fools would never see eye to eye. But they loved their father too much to imagine a world without him in it.

She loved him, yes. But Findis could not say she liked the elf Fëanáro had become.

Fëanáro's fears of losing his father had come as a direct consequence of the Statute.

His mother would never return from the Halls of Mandos. Her promises broken, Findis' mother had been made a liar by the Valar's declaration. Ñolvo's birth had only exacerbated that. For their younger brother had been born in the wake of the Statute amid the spirited discussions of Marring and whether a Marred marriage meant Marred children.

The question had, of course, gone back to what exactly constituted Marring and what exactly a Marred child could even be.

Fëanáro's place in Tirion, in Aman , had never been more uncertain. Findis and Ñolofinwë’s own status within their society had been affected. Not quite to the extent as their elder half-brother’s but they were the children of a second marriage. Neither of them could have escaped being the subject of such scrutiny.

She could still remember the quiet conversations Uncle Ingwë had had with her mother during their stay in Valmar.

Exchanges had been held in the shadows of Taniquetil by people low and high as her father argued his case before the Lords of the West.

Ñoldor. Minyar. Teleri.

People had come from far and wide. From the forests and mountains that her mother's people had built their golden city upon and called home. They had come from the hills and dales that surrounded fair Tirion-upon-Túna. The city of the Ñoldor a jewel unlike any other settlement of the Eldar. They had come from the sloping beaches and marches that the Teleri had tamed and upon which sailed their swan-ships.

All come to witness the King of the Ñoldor kneel before the foot of Taniquetil and petition the Lords for the return of his first and still-beloved wife. For Finwë had ever loved Míriel as much as he did Indis.

Her father would have had his family whole and happy if the Lords would be so kind.

They were kind.

But they could not grant him this.

The people talked in the end. Of the Marring and the Marred. For her father had refused to name his marriages marred. To denounce a son or daughter as marred themself. The late Queen herself had refused to return. Citing illness and exhaustion and plain unwillingness as her reasons.

Still the people talked. For the question had been raised and could not be put back whence it came.

Uncle Ingwë had been torn between his faith in the Valar and the knowledge that his dear friend's son's place was threatened by these proceedings.

Her aunts were not so kind. Nor so understanding.

Ingwë's treatment of her elder brother had never changed. He loved Fëanáro's father too much to do so. But her cousins had not been so inclined. Nor had they any such fond feelings to hold them back.

They had been children then. Perhaps they should have known better. Ingwion had been of an age with Fëanáro, after all. But children could be cruel in their own ways and they had chosen to torment Fëanáro under the guise of friendship.

Her uncle had been furious. Had taken her cousins to task for their actions. But, she knew, Fëanáro had kept to her mother's side and shied away from interacting with others outside of their father's delegation ever after. Father had been cold towards Uncle for the duration of their stay in Valmar. She had been, perhaps, too young to understand the things that had been said between them. But she knew that mother had been upset.

Her father had thereafter refused to speak to her aunts beyond niceties for they had taken offense on behalf of their own children and had seen nothing wrong in their behavior to Fëanáro.

Uncle had not been the one to distress Fëanáro. He had not even known until after the damage had been done. But her parents had been angry nevertheless for her cousins’ mistreatment of her brother.

It would be many years hence until a rapprochement had been achieved between the High King of the Eldar and the King of the Ñoldor.

Findis knew that Ingwion regretted his actions now. She knew too that Fëanáro would not come to the palace of Valmar outside of official business. Nor would he speak with her elder cousin outside of his capacity as Crown Prince of the Ñoldor.

Never let it be said that Curufinwë Fëanáro did not hold to his grudges. Minyacáno would never be held in close confidence by the Crown Prince of the Ñoldor.

Mother had always been of the mind that Findis should be allowed to attend meetings at Valmar. She and father had carefully ensured that Fëanáro would not be left alone to navigate her uncle's court.

Indis loved her sisters. But the Queen was well-aware of their views. Naltarë had always been kind. There was no other more goodly or gracious woman in all of Valmar than her uncle’s wife. Of all her cousins, Findis had always held Naltatári in the greatest esteem for she was the most like her mother and their tempers complemented one another.

But Findis knew the sorts of views that her aunts, Ingwairë and Calimë, had infected her cousins with.

Her mother had scarcely allowed Fëanáro to wander the palace without a diligent servant at his side.

Ingwion would never accost him. Nor would he allow their cousins to do so. But Fëanáro's trust had been broken as a child and for all that he was welcome in the palace he would never be comfortable within her uncle's golden halls. Not as Írimë and their brothers could.

Findis had often intercepted her cousin so as to allow her brother to gracefully flee the area. Ingwion could not deny her polite conversations nor would Fëanáro ever accept an apology from him for childhood cruelties thoughtlessly given.

It was, perhaps, an unwanted kindness. But it was one that she was capable of giving him.

Findis had taken up the majority of such functions over the years and had become her father’s ambassador to the Court of Ingwë. Arafinwë had always favored Olwë's court above the other great cities of Aman. Her brother could now be found in Alqualondë more often after his marriage to Alquawendë. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Ñolofinwë was not so fond of Valmar as their mother and that he clung fiercely to the white marble of Tírion's court.

Fëanáro would not have taken kindly to their younger brother leading the Ñoldor's meetings with the Minyar. Even so he had taken a dim view on Ñolofinwë's easy manner in Tírion.

No, Findis did not like the elf he had become. She would always mourn the boy he had been.

But... Findis thought she could understand. She too understood the longing and anxiety that distance between parent and child wrought upon one. Finwë Ñoldoran had loved them all. But their father had always favored Fëanáro most of all his children.

Nothing could ever have changed that.

"Then why? " Írimë's voice was rough with anger and filled with confusion.

Findis gentled her voice as she continued.

"Fëanáro is leaving and he takes with him all his sons, Írimë. Ñolvo has pledged himself to our brother and his children will follow. Arvo himself has chosen to join you. His children are eager to cross the sea and step foot on the land our own parents once knew. Artanis will not say. But I know she desires a crown of her own.

"Our mother is with child. It...." Here her voice betrayed her. Fleeing as tears spilled down her cheeks. She did not sob. Did not wail with abandon. No. Her shoulders remained straight, her spine firm, as she met her sister's disbelieving gaze.

"I-I did not know." Írimë stuttered. Her bright eyes widened with surprise.

"No one does. Just you and I. Ammë did not know until recently. Long after Atar's last visit to their summer home on the foothills of Valmar. I will not leave her to grieve alone in our uncle's court and bear her child, our youngest sibling, alone. Father cannot be there and so I must."

"I am sorry." Her little sister faltered then. Írimë's expression fell. Her mouth growing thin and tight. Eyes soft and shiny with unshed tears. Her unhappiness was visible on Írimë's face as she stood before Findis.

Findis found it difficult to refrain from comforting her.

Something within her ached deeply at allowing such feelings to go unacknowledged. But Írimë would not welcome her comfort. Not now. So soon after their father's death and not as Findis explained their mother's plight to her.

"As am I, sister." Findis paused here. She laid her hands across her belly, fingers folded together, and sighed. "You cannot ask me to join you. Our father no longer has need of us. But our mother does.” Írimë’s mouth opened.

“Sister-” Írimë’s voice crackled with outrage. Her grey eyes flashed silver as ire stiffened the proud set of her shoulders. Findis paused, and her hand rose, her sister faltered at the sight.

"No, listen to me, Írimë." Findis’ voice hardened, and her eyes closed, the faintest stirring of a growl curled at the edges of her voice, as the other shifted away. Her sister's mouth snapped closed, her face flushing slightly at Findis' tone.

"I cannot sway you from your path. Nor will I even make the attempt. You are an adult and many centuries have passed since your majority. You can make your own choices. But you cannot begrudge me my own.” Her tone softened and her hands parted in supplication, "I do not know if we will meet again after this. Certainly, I cannot say that we will reunite as we are. I pray that you will not die across the sea. That Mother and I need not wait for whatever word Morimando might deign to share or your re-embodiment from the Halls. But I would not have us part on such unhappy terms." As she spoke, Findis took in the sight of the elleth before her.

Írimë was dressed in tunic and trousers.

Gone were the purple gowns and the gold-embroidered blue mantle that her sister had favored at court. Her boots were the practical sturdy sort that travelers and smiths wore. Neither likely to fall apart or allow an injury should something heavy fall onto her feet. The fabric of her tunic was purple still. Lightly embroidered with shimmering golden thread their father's crest was emblazoned proudly across her breast.

Findis recognized it as a piece that she had made herself. A gift for Írimë's last begetting day. She had toiled long over the tunic. Learnt the Minyarin method of dyeing at Naltatári’s instruction. She had spun and braided the threads that had gone into the tunic whereas her cousin had made the fine embroidering thread that Findis had worked into the fabric once the tunic had been pinned and stitched in place.

Purple had always been Írimë's favorite color, Findis knew. It was something that she shared with Fëanáro’s second eldest. She wore it now in memory of Finwë for their father had often preferred it himself.

Her younger sister often wore blue in solidarity with Ñolofinwë. Írimë would always favor Ñolvo above Fëanáro. Not that Findis would ever begrudge Írimë that. Írimë had never known the boy that Fëanáro had once been. She only knew the elf that he had become.

She would never know the ellon that had caught the attention and affection of Aulendil’s eldest daughter. The Fëanáro that Nerdanel loved was the Fëanáro that Findis had known best in her youth.

Findis had always been fond of the older elleth.

Nerdanel Istarnië was perhaps the only person in all the land who could match Fëanáro word for word. She was a deft hand at wordcraft and Findis had spent many evenings in the other's workshop as she worked her way through sheets of parchment and vellum with Nerdanel’s low even tones helping to pave the way to understanding.

Nerdanel was known for her gentleness. Her even temperament. Few knew that the woman was as fierce and steadfast in her way as Fëanáro.

Nerdanel’s friendship with Indis Vanimeldë was no well-kept secret. But Findis’s own actions in ensuring that it endured her elder half-brother’s hostility towards her mother was.

Fëanáro was proud and stubborn and an absolute fool at the best of times.

But his wife was not the kind of individual to bend before pressure. Nor was she the sort to allow another to dictate her actions for her.

There was a reason, after all, that Istarnië had decided to remove herself from Formenos and returned to her father’s house in the eastern quarter of Tirion. Had things not gone on as they had, Findis was certain that her brother would have reconciled with his wife in short order.

Fëanáro could never outlast Nerdanel in an argument. His wife simply had to wait for his temper to cool and for the man to miss her enough to return and beg her forgiveness.

Well it would never happen now. Too much had changed and Fëanáro would not turn away from his path.

Findis smiled sadly at the thought and drank in the sight before her.

Írimë's long dark hair was drawn into a thick braid. Pin-straight locks carefully woven with the delicate silver threads that their father had once favored. Findis knew their mother had often helped him weave his hair into thick plaits.

She knew very well what the silver thread had represented to him. To them.

Írimë wore them now in memory of their father. The heavy plait was allowed to curve over her right shoulder and down her front. Findis knew that soon enough her sister would lift the braid and bind it so that it curled around the back of her head.

A darkly gleaming crown to grace Írimë's head. A sight that would no longer complement courtly dress but would soon favor armor and leather.

Írimë looked as though she were the common journeyman that Fëanáro had once freely traveled around Aman as. There was little of their mother on her person.

But....

The Queen of the Ñoldor shone through on her youngest daughter's face in the smallest of ways.

Írimë's bright laughter was hers. The shape of her nose and the delicate arch of her brow was Indis the Fair's. Her jaw was Finwë's but the lop-sided curve of her smile was their mother's. Her sister's hair was the same glossy black of their father's but she shared their mother's sharp green eyes with Arafinwë.

For all that Írime was so very proudly Ñoldor in her bearing and appearance. She was still a daughter of Indis' line and she would never deny it. Same as Fëanáro would never deny his own mother.

Findis knew that her mother could not quite bear to look at her now. Not when her pain and grief was still far too fresh. She could not help the bitterness that fluttered through her at the thought. She knew that there had been days where Indis could not bear to look at Fëanáro.

Not because of his bitterness or his hatred of her.

No. Her elder half-brother was said to closely resemble his mother, the late Queen Míriel. The dark sheen of Fëanáro's hair and his silver-bright eyes announced him as their father's son. But Fëanáro's smile had grieved her mother's heart as much as it had gladdened it.

And yet...

Her mother had done her best to push past her own grief so as to offer what comfort Fëanáro might be willing to accept from her. Which had been far too little in the end.

Findis knew that she could not compare this new grief to the one that had long-haunted both of her parents.

For she knew that her father had sought to lavish his eldest with the love and affection that he had been unable to offer in the beginning of Fëanáro's life. He had thus neglected his younger children by doing so. Unintentionally. Unknowingly. But it had been so.

Indis' grief had been borne of loving a woman that had been a dear friend. Findis could not say what her mother had shared with Míriel Serindë. But it was strong and deep enough for her to take the other woman's child into her heart and to keep loving the heartbroken boy despite the hardship of such a task.

Findis bore her mother's golden hair and fair look. She shared the Queen’s love of green fabrics. These she paired often with Minyarin cloaks so bright and rich a gold that they were near indistinguishable from her own golden locks. These cloaks mirrored the beautiful golden mantles and half capes that her uncle had gifted her father in the Eldar's earliest years in Aman.

Her siblings had all adopted the particular shade of gold that belonged to their father alongside their own preferred colors. She, in turn, favored cream alongside her greens and golds.

Though her mother was known to wear a splash of brilliant red from time to time. Much to Fëanáro's unhappiness. That particular shade of red that he had long since claimed had once been Queen Míriel's preferred color, after all.

Findis shared with her father the silver-gleam of his eyes.

She was her mother’s mirror-image. Findis need only stand by the Queen’s side and none would be able to tell them apart. The shape of her brow was her mother’s but Findis arched it in the manner of her father. Her smile was a mirror of the King’s. Her laugh echoed his.

Every inch of her had ever marked her as Indis Vanimeldë's daughter. Despite this, few were the ones who would say that Findis was anything other than a daughter of the House of Finwë.

Her mother had once jested that should she dye her hair Findis might be mistaken for Finwë by all and sundry. She took so clearly after her father.

Her father had been delighted by the jape. But Fëanáro had not been well pleased and Indis had regretted it deeply. He had not spoken to her for days afterwards.

Fëanáro prided himself in his resemblance to his mother. But he could never deny his own feelings of inadequacy at the lack of such towards his father.

Ñolofinwë took so strongly after their father that many had easily mistaken her younger brother for the King of the Ñoldor. This had not helped temper Fëanáro's insecurities.

Arafinwë, however, was made in their mother's own resplendent image. The sharp golden beauty of the Minyar shone through his face. He too had Indis' delicately arched brow and her fine mouth. His laughter was the Queen's bright effervescent trill. His hair fell in a delicate wash of waves as rich as the light of fair Laurelin. He was Ñoldor in character and bearing. But he carried their mother's Minyarin mannerisms as well as the cuts of cloth and colors that she favored.

That same lovely temperament that Findis had taken so much pride in growing up was the reason why her mother could no longer bear to look upon her now.

She was glad that of her siblings Írimë was the only one among them that had chosen to see her in Valmar.

"I don't.." Írimë's voice was soft now. Findis could hear the frustration that thrummed within.

"I cannot go with you, nettë." Findis sighed and reached out to grasp her sister's hand. Fingers running gently over the hard curve of the ring that graced Írimë's hand. A smile touched her lips as eyed it.

It was a slender thing. Made of pale shining silver. A deep blue stone, finely carved and shimmering in the meager light of Findis' rooms, was set firmly within the molding. One could see the delicate lines of their father's crest shimmering through the stone from the bearing of the ring.

The jewel had been cut in such a way as to allow light to glimmer through its facets down to the engraving without damaging the beauty and clarity of the gem itself. It had been a gift from their father. A magnificent piece of Ñoldorin craftsmanship and gifted to Írimë on her hundred and fiftieth begetting day.

Írimë never left her chambers without it on her finger. Just as she never left home without their mother's starling clasped on her riding cloak.

"Findis...you could if you wished." There was no plaintive whine in her sister's voice but Findis could nevertheless hear the grief that clung to the younger woman's words.

"Our mother is in a delicate way now, Írimë. She was our father's strength. She gave all she had to keep our father in Aman in the wake of Queen Míriel's death. And now....she must grieve her husband and suffer the loss of children and grandchildren all at once. I pray that she will not have cause to truly grieve you and the rest of our family. But it would surely break her to lose me alongside you all."

Írimë's mouth was drawn into a thin unhappy line. Her skin wan and waxy in the flickering light of the candles scattered about Findis' chamber.

"You will watch over her?" There was a plaintive note hidden within Írimë's voice now.

Findis smiled.

"Of course, Írimë."

"Lalwendë." Her younger sister laughed. Her eyes brightened. The lines of her face lightened as she lifted Findis' hands to press a kiss against her knuckles. "How many times must I remind you, Findis. I would rather that you call me Lalwendë."

"At least a baker's dozen more, I should think. I will need the reminder after all." She allowed her smile to soften and eased a hand from her sister's hold. She pressed the palm of her hand against the curve of Írimë's jaw and leaned in to kiss the curve of her sister's brow. "You were and are and shall always be Írimë to me."

Írimë's smile faded in return. A solemn air surrounded her as she straightened. Her fingers closed more firmly around Findis' hand as she worried her lip. Warmth suffused her, however, and Findis could see fondness in the curve of her eyes and feel it in the light touch of her sister's mind against her own.

"Then...I will simply have to remind you a dozen more times before I leave. So that you might keep me in your memories and remind yourself in my absence."

'I love you.'

Írimë did not say aloud. But Findis could see it in the gleam of her eyes and the worried quirk of her lips. In the set of her shoulders and the strong grip of slender fingers around her own. She could hear it in the touch of Írimë's fëa against her own. It brought to mind the rustle of leaves and the silent steps of slippered feet on polished marble.

Írimë had ever loved dancing and Findis could feel the echo of it within her sister's fëa.

"I..." She faltered here. Tears gathered in her eyes. Mouth quivering slightly as she struggled to speak the question that burned at the back of her throat.

Her strength nearly failed her then.

But Írimë released her hand to grip her arms by the elbow and leaned forward.

"I will watch over Laurefindelë for you." Her younger sister's mouth was curved into a faint grin. Eyes bright and reminiscent of the emeralds that their mother had long favored. Of the jewels that Findis had packed away for Írimë to take with her. Things to gift her own sons and daughters should she have any beyond the Sea. Gifts from an aunt that they might never meet. "I will treat him as though he were my own."

Tension that she had not quite realized was there fled in the wake of her sister's promise. Findis nodded, relief filling her as she allowed herself to be drawn into an embrace.

"Thank you." She breathed against the delicate curve of her sister's ear. She felt more than saw the smile that softened Írimë's mouth.

"We will meet again. Just you see, Findis. We will avenge our father. Perhaps Ñolvo and Fëanáro will have finally made amends. Arvo will return triumphant to Eärwen's arms and they will have a half-dozen more little golden cygnets in celebration. Atar will have returned from the Halls in the meantime and Fëanáro will be too overjoyed to declare war in return at the realization that he's been beaten by Arvo in the goal of a dozen children. And perhaps..."

Írimë's voice was filled with warmth and joy for the future as she tightened her grip around Findis. Arms curled snugly around Findis' waist and lower back. Her breath ticklish over the shell of her ear. "Perhaps I'll have a husband or wife for Atar to meet. Or, more novel a thought, no spouse at all!"

Findis smiled and squeezed Írimë tighter and laughed in return.

"Perhaps."

"All the more gifts to shower your own children with upon my return. For I fully expect you to give me more nieces and nephews to spoil rotten." Her sister's voice had grown softer. The touch of her mind light and happy against her own. Findis pulled her younger sister closer and sighed into the curve of her neck. Wistfulness filling her as Írimë's hands wrinkled the gold-embroidered green brocade of her skirts. A familiar action that had infuriated her when she had been younger. Findis had lost many fine dresses to Írimë's clumsy hands.

Findis drew back.

"I have a few more gifts for you, dearest." Írimë's eyes brightened at that. Sorrow giving way to curiosity.

"Oh?"

Findis could not quite keep her smile at bay at the eagerness that clung to Írimë's voice. Her younger sister had always looked forward to Findis' gifts. It seemed that would never change no matter how old Írimë became.

"I am not Fëanáro. Nor can I boast Curufinwë's own skill with smithcraft. But I too once studied forgecraft in my youth. Fëanáro was my first teacher. Back in the early days of our youth when all griefs were nearer and yet furthest away. And once our brother began to wander further afield from Tirion in his journeys I advanced my knowledge of the art in Aulendil's guild."

Írimë straightened. Her sister's eyes widening as Findis stepped back and bent to lift that which she had kept hidden until now. Oiled leather gleamed in the lamp light as silk slid off the surface like water. The delicate blue-tinted light of her brother's creations glittered across the embossed sigil that had been worked onto the scabbard.

"Is that..." There was fear and awe in Írimë's voice now. It thrummed underneath the shock that permeated her being.

"I would have you bring this to our brothers. I cannot go with you. But I will not allow you to go unarmed. Never will I step foot on the lands our parents once knew. But you will not go without me." Findis turned and met his sister's gaze. Solemnity lay across her shoulders and she could see the moment Írimë took stock as she in turn straightened and nodded.

"Findis..I-Thank you, truly."

Findis felt herself soften. Sorrow leaching into the air around them as she ran her fingers over Ñolofinwë's heraldic star.

"Do not thank me, dear one. These were forged in secret. The art of swordcraft was one that I painstakingly studied in Fëanáro's own home when Nerdanel was free to let me come. He never knew and surely would have denounced me as a traitor and thief if he had. But long have I known that there would come a day when the need would arise for such things as these. I find no pleasure that the time has come for our people to bear arms against another. Alas. That it must be done at all."

Findis gripped the pommel tight with her left hand and pulled. The blade slid cleanly from within the metal core of the scabbard. The blade was revealed inch by inch heralded by a light ringing aria until Findis could hold the blade up to the light.

The blade caught the fine blue light of her half-brother's lamp. She was as bright and radiant as the stars outside the window. Findis' smile caught the sharp edge in reflection and she peered down at her sister. There was a delicate sort of pattern that ran down the length of the sword's blade. One highly reminiscent of her elder brother's own craft. But where Fëanáro's sharp steel showed banding and mottling in the fine rose patterning that had been the talk of Tirion after the fright of drawn blades and banishments, Findis' was like flowing water and rippling ice.

"The blade I hold in my hands. It is to be named Ringil, after the tower of old, and I would ask that you deliver her to Ñolofinwë. These are the finest works of my hands. Greater even than the songs I have sung or the poems I have penned and the histories that I have spilled like ink across newly bound books. I have poured much of my own fëa into her creation. She is not the least of that which I would offer you for I would know that you and Arafinwë carry these into the lands beyond the sea. I cannot follow but I would still offer you what protection I can." Findis laid Ringil down against her table and turned.

She drew the next set forward.

"Two blades?" Írimë's voice was filled with curiosity and Findis heard the shuffling of feet as her sister stepped closer.

"A matched pair that I saw in a dream." Her voice soft as a psalm Findis sent the other a smile. Her palms laid flat against the winking star atop the fine purple dyed scabbard. "Turëahromë and Elesilmë I named them. They will serve you well I should think."

Írimë's eyes lingered on the pair. Her eyes were bright and hungry as they peered down at them.

Her sister had never counted herself among Lord Oromë's great hunters for she had always been faithful to Lady Vána. But it was not Fëanáro for all his journeyman wildness that had taught Tyelkormo the beauty of the woodlands surrounding fair Tírion. Nor was it Anairë, passionate hawker that she was, that had taught Írissë to ride a horse with all the grace of a dancer.

Her sister enjoyed the hunt. She was the fairest dancer in the city and had learned to dance with horses as well as her own feet.

Many forgot, however, that her laughter heralded not only her joy but also the excitement of the chase.

Findis shifted aside. Her hand rose to sweep across the room. Her attention riveted to the glittering spear that leant heavily against the tall frame of her bed.

"Almamaurëa is to be Arafinwë's own weapon." Írimë's gaze left the delicate silver-gleam of Elesilmë's blade to catch on the newly revealed weapon. Findis' Songs of Power had left the metal stained a delicate shade of rose as though she had poured rose-gold into the molten concoction that had formed the base of the steel.

"Oh? It is lovely!"

"Beautiful as the dawn." Findis agreed. "She will serve our brother faithfully and nobly across the sea."

'I hope. I wish....'

She could not help the feeling that not all would be well. A doom lingered on the horizon. Darkness lay before the paths of those who would leave Aman's fair shores.

But her sister stood before her still. Her mother, unhappy, unwell, but safe in her uncle's home. Her brothers were all preparing themselves and their followers for war. But they were still here. Hale and whole and not entirely happy but they were alive . Which she knew was all that could be asked for now.

Her son and nephews and nieces would soon leave with their king.

Findis had studied and written down the stories of her parents and those who had chosen to make the Great Journey from Beleriand to Aman. She knew all too well that safety did not lie on the horizon.

Fëanáro would not be greeted on the shores of Beleriand with glittering gems on white sands.

Her family was battered and soon to be separated by far-reaching waters and overbearing darkness. Findis had done all that she could. Fëanáro would never accept a weapon forged by her but Findis could and would at least see her younger siblings armed. They would bear some piece of her beyond the sea. Something that would remind them of her and her love.

She would await their return. She would pray and petition the Valar in their absence for their continued good health.

She could not follow them but Findis would not abandon them. Not so long as she yet drew breath and the pride and fury of her family's line coursed through her veins.

Írime and her brothers would all return in some fashion. This she was certain of. She would see them all again one day far in the future. Findis would await that day eagerly.

She hoped that someday she might introduce them to the child her mother would bear. She would care for those of her family that remained in Aman and would do her best to keep the memory of her siblings and their children alive for those who remained.

She had hope. Bright and effervescent and frail.

But hope, nevertheless. And Findis would not doubt. Not now. Not when the darkness had only begun its encroachment.

She had faith that all would be well in the end.

Írimë would return and Findis would kiss her cheek and greet her son with great cheer. That was the vision that she would cling to during the dark days ahead. She would sing of Fëanáro's rare smiles and Ñolofinwë's brilliant grins and Arafinwë's laughing eyes to the babe in her mother's belly.

How could she imagine aught else but that?

Findis' heart could bear the wait. She would bear it.

Findis' smile brightened. She cupped her sister's face and hummed a sweet gentle note.

"Come back to me soon, dear heart. Ammë and I will wait for you. Bring our brothers with you. For we will wait as long as we need."

"I will try." Írimë's sharp emerald eyes flashed with amusement. Her voice echoed with laughter as she tilted her head into the curve of Findis' palm. "Fëanáro is stubborn, however, and staunchly refuses to acknowledge our relations. It will no doubt be easier to bring Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë to Tírion once the war is over than to draw our half-brother from the Hither Shores after all is done and over with."

There was only the barest hint of bitterness in her younger sister's mirth. Her grief a shadow as she met Findis' gaze. Findis smiled in return. Pressed a kiss soft as a butterfly's wing against Írimë's crown and hummed.

"That is all I ask."

She would carry the memory of this moment with her for as long as she needed to. Until her sister's return.

The darkness would not linger. Nor would it drown them.

The Enemy would fall and their father would be avenged. This she felt deep within her bones.

They would be victorious and all would be well in the end.

This Findis knew.

She welcomed that day and hoped to see it soon.

But for now she would cherish this moment and she would do her best to imprint it deep within so as to never forget. Írimë's crooked smile, her glittering eyes, and gleaming dark hair. Her sweet scented embrace and the rich cloth of her tunic beneath her hands. The silver-gleam of a sharp blade held loosely confidently in a fine-fingered hand. The star upon breast and scabbard glittering under the wan-light of the lamp in Findis' chamber.

Findis would never forget and the day would come that she would no longer need to cherish such memories.

'I will always love you.'

She allowed the shape of the words to form within her mind and imparted them upon her sister through the lightest touch of osanwë. Írimë buried her face in Findis' neck. Fragile joy fluttered through her mind and Findis' smile widened. Her hands wrinkled fabric as she tugged the other closer.

The future was forever in motion. But her love was eternal. It would not falter.

She would never falter.

'The day will come' , Írimë's voice filtered into the very corners of her mind. It will come and we will be together once more. Her sister's fëa filled then with a tenderness that warmed her. It echoed of laughter and innocent joy. Of determination and wide-ranging devotion. Findis could not help but take comfort in her sister's words.

Findis would wait for them.

She could do nothing else.

#My Fic #Findis #Lalwen #Fëanor #Finwë #Indis #Fingolfin #Finarfin #The Silmarillion #most of these are background characters #and not actually in the fic #but they're still very present #it is Long thus the cut #I spent months on this thing #it's time to move on #God knows I absolutely fell in love with Findis and Lalwen's voices throughout the story

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virlath · 4 years

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environmental lore ~Dirthamen and Falon’Din

Part 1 - origins and the four armed statues Part 2 - their alliances

===

Part 3 - the origins of humans

This is getting to crackpot territory so byo tinfoil

Falon’Din and Dirthamen each have their own elven statue representations in the form of an owl and a raven, however they are also represented around Ferelden as hooded, almost human-styled figures. This is because I think there’s a strong possibility they themselves had a hand in the origins of humans and may have taken human form themselves.

In the Hinterlands, a statue of Dirthamen can first be seen at Calenhad’s foothold.

Note the artwork on the wall underneath this statue, which is repeated at the back of Blackwall’s stable in Skyhold.

Personally I think this artwork is probably related to the backstabbed, weeping Dirthamen statue in the Fade.

I’ve speculated on this previously, but I’ll reiterate again there is a lot of evidence Dirthamen, Falon’Din, and Fen’Harel were once close allies which makes this all the more interesting.

Hooded Dirthamen statues can be seen in the first camp you arrive at in the Emerald Graves.

Falon’Din is also represented in the graves as a hooded, pointing figure. Both he and Dirthamen feature prominently at separate Inquisition camps, and interestingly, all these locations are guarded by wolf statues which also happen to depict Fen’Harel.

Consider the fact Solas says “my people built a life here...it must have been something to see” right before Elgar’nan’s Bastion where the Din’an Hanin is located. This dungeon features an abundance of repeated imagery of Mythal, Falon’Din, Fen’Harel(gilded! so you know its important), and even June, further hinting at an alliance between all four.

Even more interesting is the fact that Falon’Din’s statue points away from the path lined with Andrastian imagery, and that some scholars believe it to be an elaborate elven joke.

Historians have been unable to identify the mysterious and cloaked pointing figure in the Emerald Graves. Some believe it a representation of the elven god Falon'Din, known also as the Friend of the Dead, or the Guide. Others believe it an elaborate elven joke, its punch line lost to time.

—From A Journey through the Dales by Lord Horace Medford, "Adventurer"

A statue of Dirthamen can also be found at the Citadelle Du Corbeau in the Exalted Plains, which was formerly an old elven fortress.

This mysterious hooded figure in Citadelle du Corbeau was nicknamed "the Raven" after the second Exalted March. The human forces - unfamiliar with elven iconography - saw the shadow the statue cast upon the courtyard, and imagined dark wings spread over the keep. Some years later, scholars of elven history hypothesized that the elves may have intended the sculpture as a representation of Dirthamen, the elven god of Secrets.

The Exalted Plains is considered the dirthavaren by the elves- land promised to them by Andraste. Despite this I believe the meaning of dirthavaren can be traced back to the promise Fen’Harel made to his people- that someday they would be able to live in freedom on land they could call their own.

We can assume Dirthamen likely had an active role in Solas’ rebellion because a double raven standard is clearly shown within the weaponry at the elven ruins in Trespasser.

The fact that Dirthamen’s statue features so prominently at the Citadelle Du Corbeau which is also guarded by several large Fen’Harel statues suggests he was also actively working in the Exalted Plains, possibly to help plan or direct settlements of rebels.

However it’s clear something happened along the timeline that caused the alliance to fracture. It could be Mythal’s death or it may even have been earlier, perhaps to do with the Sinner and Dirthamen’s relationship with Ghilan’nain.

Dirthamen and Falon’Din’s actions in Ferelden are also muddied by one thing, and it is that their statues closely resemble human sculpture. Much like the human/elven ruins in DAO, I believe this is because these hooded statues are also of human and elven origin, suggesting that D+F’s followers were at some point in time, human and elven.

Dirthamen’s hooded statues are very similar in style to the Guardians of the Path landmarks in the Exalted Plains, which is clearly influenced by humans and Andrastianism.

The plaque on the statue reads: "Let the Light of Andraste lift your spirits"

The plaque on the statue reads: "Let the Eternal Flame purify your soul."

Not only do these statues mimic Dirthamen’s hooded pose (kneeling, holding aloft a brazier), these statues interestingly also echo each other alongside the path into the plains, reiterating the concept of D+F being two aspects of the same being. Knowing these gods walked the shifting paths beyond the Veil, ‘Guardians of the Path’ seems like a subtle nod (and perhaps even another elaborate elven joke) to Dirthamen/Falon’Din.

And if you compare these statues to the archer statues at the elven ruins, the difference is night and day. Elven sculptures seem more abstract and symbolic, whereas human sculpture is more figurative and has a more ‘human’ facial expression.

Much like the human and elven architecture found in DAO, this is further evidence to me that Dirthamen and Falon’Din had a significant history with humans, possibly even taking on the human form themselves.

To take it a step further, I theorise the human form was actually created or willed into manifestation by the elves to better survive the unchanging world. Much like how the elven form is more suited to the Crossroads-like worlds, the human form suited the physical world and ensured better physical survival.

The reference to the Guardian with regards to these statues is also interesting. The Guardian is a spirit from DAO who questions you and your party when trying to enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes. When questioned by Zevran on how he knows so much about their lives, the Guardian simply answers that “he is allowed” this information. Which sounds pretty similar to a spirit bound to the service of a god like Mythal’s well of sorrows...

These same Guardians of the Path statues are reused again at Suledin Keep after you claim it for the Inquisition. This in itself is notable, because no other claimed building in the game changes this much in scope and detail with regards to religious imagery.

Based on initial detailing found within the keep, I think it once may have been Falon’Din’s fortress due to the prominence of the owl statues. After it’s claimed, it simply looks like Orlesians have taken over and dragged in their Andrastian symbolism. However, I think the environment change could also be a hint that the elven gods have a lot more to do with Andraste’s life and death than we think.

There are already many hints Mythal/Flemeth/Solas were actively influencing events during Andraste’s time. Throw in Falon’Din and potentially Dirthamen into the mix (I’m expecting the entire pantheon to show up in DA4 tbh), and it’s almost like the evanuris have been playing chess with each other and the mortal beings of Thedas are quite literally pawns in the evanuris’ constant struggle for dominance and attempts to one up each other.

Further evidence of Dirthamen and Falon’Din’s meddling with humans can be seen in DAO’s Brecilian forest ruins, through the very human like statues flanking next to the tainted eluvian. I believe these figures also depict Dirthamen and Falon’Din in human form.

I’m inclined to believe D+F took on human form before the veil, simply because Tamlen mentions the ruins look ancient and he suggests the architects definitely knew of the old elven gods.

If the above winged statue represents Falon’Din (which is found directly opposite the eluvian), the two figures standing next to the tainted eluvian must also be of equal importance- particularly so since it is very strongly hinted at that it leads directly to the Black City. Considering they mirror each other like twins, it makes sense these statues also represent D+F.

Also remember, the eluvian in these ruins was active when Tamlen and the Warden discover it for the first time. This place was also only previously accessible by this eluvian, and the only reason it is discovered is because somehow a cave has magically opened up and a wall was broken into, probably by the darkspawn themselves.

This means the eluvian was unlocked by someone or something and darkspawn were probably using this eluvian and coming from the Black City itself. That someone or something could be associated to any one of these gods, considering they somehow managed to access the eluvian to their temple.

The same tainted eluvian design is also reused again in the Dragonbone wastes, where Morrigan makes her escape to the Crossroads to raise Kieran.

The Dragonbone wastes was clearly a very significant site to the ancient elves because a varterral guards the entrance.

The varterral was supposedly created by Dirthamen, bound to protect elves from danger for eternity.

In the days before Arlathan, there was a city in the mountains beloved by Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets. Its people were wise beyond measure, thanks to his counsel, and the city flourished.

Then a high dragon settled in the mountains, and her hunger threatened the city. The elders cried out to Dirthamen for protection as the dragon's rampages struck ever closer, and for three days and nights, the people shut themselves in their homes and watched the skies in dread.

On the fourth day, Dirthamen heard them. He whispered into the mountains and the fallen trees of the forest gathered, shaping an immense and agile spider-like beast. It was the varterral. With lightning speed, vicious strikes, and venomous spit, it drove back the serpent. From then on, it was the guardian of the city and its people.

Many years passed. The gods were trapped by Fen'Harel and the people left to gather in Arlathan, but the varterral kept its everlasting vigil, guarding Dirthamen's city as it eventually crumbled to dust. To this day it stands there, watching over the rubble. Any travelers foolish enough to wander there find themselves face to face with wrath incarnate.

—From The Tale of the Varterral, as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of Dalish elves

If this location is guarded by a varterral it implies the Dragonbone wastes is under the protection of Dirthamen himself. And given the fact that the eluvian at this location leads directly to the crossroads, it does suggest humans existed and helped created these ruins before the veil was created.

Entering the lair to the eluvian, two of these statues also guard the entrance. Notice the sealed mouths- they are very much like Dirthamen’s mosaic in DAI, symbolising secrets and Silence.

===

theory: humans were originally spirits/elves

Based on evidence outlined above, I theorise D+F had a significant role in the origin and affairs of humans and probably took on human form themselves. Like the elves, I think humans were originally spirits that manifested as humans to withstand the unchanging world.

Knowing that Falon’Din hungered for worshippers, perhaps gathering human followers ensured they would be able to stand up to forces beyond his control in the unchanging world - the world the evanuris declared was their “right”.

When the veil was created, I think a schism formed between humans and elves because of differences in ability. Like the elves whose form allows travel through the Crossroads with ease, humans suddenly prospered post-veil because their form was better suited to the environment.

I also think the veil had a large part to play in making everyone ‘forget’ the most significant parts of themselves and their connection to the fade, which is why no recorded history exists before the veil.

In any case, I think it’s likely Dirthamen and Falon’Din are now playing the long game just like Mythal and Solas, and they have been somewhat successful because they're knowledgeable of humans. I also believe they are the masterminds behind the whispers of the old gods- Dirthamen as the keeper of secrets aligns with Dumat, Dragon of Silence, and Falon’Din, friend of the dead and master of the dark aligns with Lusacan, Dragon of the Night almost too perfectly.

Whether or not D+F knew about Solas’ plans for the veil remains to be seen, however I think it’s likely they had fail safes of their own regardless. And despite all the environmental lore suggesting a strong alliance once existed between Dirthamen and Fen’Harel, Solas says himself ‘only an ally can betray you’.

With the teaser images and foreshadowing of an encroaching darkness and darkness cloaking all realms, I think Lusacan will likely make an appearance in DA4 on ‘wings of death’. Ultimately, I think he’s so corrupted his ultimate goal may be to taint every living creature on Thedas to reinforce his/his and Dirthamen’s divinity (much like Corypheus’ own aspirations, he had to have gotten the idea from somewhere after all). The kicker in this is that it’s also likely **TN spoilers

Ghilan’nain is also tainted and amassing her own blighted army. It remains to be seen what she intends on doing with it, but I can’t imagine it’s anything good.

===

Part 1 - origins and the four armed statues Part 2 - their alliances

#dragon age #da4 #da theories #dirthamen #falon'din #environmental lore #drabble #origins of humans #human history

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rf3r3r4g · 3 years

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Show me your king

And so we left it. And this is what happened within the year. In the first place, they were protected by legjobb kutyaruha esőkabát law from personal violence. There were no seals now. The smoke and the soldiers had novolux 60 led frightened them away. Brandon was never shy about taking what he wanted. The road home. Then there was nothing beneath them but grass rippling in the wind.. Alyosha’s enthusiasm was beyond all bounds. She was very intelligent, and improved her advantages so rapidly that when he visited her again he determined to marry her. “We used to drag the dead down into the cellars. All the vaults gioco cubo di rubik amazon are flooded down there. Let us now look at another. At the time of the Reformation, chattel-slavery had entirely ceased throughout all the civilized countries of the world;—by no particular edict, by no special laws of emancipation, but by the steady influence of some gradual, unseen power, this whole vast system had dissolved away, like the snow-banks reebok reverse jam low of winter.. If he had not gone into Duskendale to rescue Aerys from Lord Darklyn’s dungeons, the king might well have died there as Tywin Lannister sacked the town. Like his sire, Young Griff had blue eyes, but where the father’s eyes were pale, the son’s were dark. His own mother had abandoned him as well. She cried for Bump, but she never cried for me. Each had brought a tail of fighting men—five for kimono long femme grande tailleOld Flint, twelve for The Norrey, all clad in ragged skins and studded leathers, fearsome as the face of winter. Eight days ago Asha had walked out with Aly Mormont to have a closer look at its slitted red eyes and bloody mouth. It is only sap, she’d told herself, the red sap that flows inside these weirwoods. If the weather holds, they could be on us in a fortnight. And Crowfood Umber marches down the kingsroad, whilst the Karstarks approach from the east. Grazhar, Azzak, the door is yours. Do you hear, impossible, such confidence! And he was so affectionate, so sweet to me. I was simply amazed. How clever he is, Ivan Petrovitch, if only you knew! He has read everything; he knows everything; you’ve only to look at him once and he knows all your thoughts as though they were his own. Besides, the innkeep at the Merchant’s House had warned him that traveling afoot would taint them in the eyes of foreign captains and the native-born Volantenes alike. Show me Stannis, Lord, she prayed. Show me your king, your instrument.. Tyrion found the plain fare a pleasant change from all the rich food he had eaten with

Mens ADIDAS ORIGINALS

Illyrio. “Those chests we brought you,” he said as they were chewing. You may beat her, or you may let her alone, she won’t speak. By the time the hour of the wolf crept upon them, the rain was falling steadily, slashing down in a hard, cold torrent that would soon turn the brick streets of Meereen into rivers. The three Dornishmen broke their fast in the predawn chill—a simple meal of fruit and bread and cheese, washed down with goat milk. Bran squinted, to see her better. “It may be that we can use this trouble to our advantage. I know where we may find answers.” Haldon led them past the headless hero to where a big stone inn fronted on the square. I meant today galeb spodnjice to tell you of my projects for your family, which would have shown you. The greatest affliction I have is the reflection of the sorrow and anxiety my friends will have to endure on my account. But I can assure thee, brother, that with the exception of this reflection, I am far, very far, from being one of the most miserable of men. “He’s a silly boy with no backbone, no backbone, and he’s cruel, I always said so,” Anna Andreyevna began again. Those tales are false, as you can see. Serve me as faithfully as you have served my cousin, and no harm need come to any of you.”. In truth, he was here because Melisandre had asked salomon prezzi scarpe sportive for him. The traders brought on board four quadroon men in handcuffs, to be stowed away for the New Orleans market. An old negro woman, more than eighty years of age, came screaming after them, “My son, O, my son, my son!” She seemed almost frantic, and when we had got more than a mile out in the harbor we heard her screaming yet.. It was too late. But Mace Tyrell could not seem to see beyond the threat to his own daughter. “His Grace retros kabátok named Ser Robert to the Kingsguard,” Ser Kevan reminded him, “and Qyburn vouches for the man as well. Be that as it may, we need Ser Robert to prevail, my lords. But Bubnov had better not dare meddle in such doings. She wants to dupe the police, too; but that’s rot! And so I’ll give her a scare, for she knows twin set cardigan outlet that for the sake of old scores . If Tommen ceases to be a king, Margaery will cease to be a queen.” He let Tyrell chew on that a moment. 'Fifteen years ago, there were still distinct borders in fashion, and that's all gone,' he says, referring to the impact of a social media universe where everyone is a fashion critic and likes on Instagram can be as important as shoots in glossy magazines. Fifteen years ago, remarkably, he was just opening his first store, in New York. He now has 509 stores worldwide, 13 of them in the UK and Ireland, including a brand new Sloane Street branch in London. Not the man I would have chosen. And Quent was going to ride one.” He looked at his bandaged hands. “The moment we got in, though, you could see none of it was going to work. “The freedmen work too cheaply, Magnificence,” Reznak said. Men passing out of one state of society into another encounter a thousand things to which they feel that they can never be reconciled; yet, shortly after, their sensibilities become dulled,—a change passes over them, they scarcely know how. They have accommodated themselves to their new circumstances and relations,—they are Romans in Rome..

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suicidefrantic · 4 years

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Name: Chuuya Nakahara

Alias: Arahabaki, King of Sheep (Former), Twin Dark (former with Dazai Osamu), Slug, Ability User A5158 (Special Ability Department)

Hair Colour | Eye Colour: Orange | Gray (Former) , Bright Blue

Birthday | Birth Place: April 29 (Taurus) | Yamaguchi, Japan

Gender: Hermaphrodite (Identifies as male)

Age: 22 , Merged with Arahabaki at age 7

Height: 160 cm (5'3")

Sexuality: Pansexual

Likes: Hats, Fighting, Alcohol, Rock music

Dislikes: Claims to hate Dazai Osamu

Ability: For The Tainted Sorrow

Affiliation: Port Mafia, Sheep (Former)

The quest to find a vessel for Arahabaki….

Chuuya was born to two loving parents, they were accepting towards their child, and wished to give him the very best of the world. Chuuya showed no signs of being abnormal at his birth aside from him being born a hermaphrodite rather than one specific gender --- though his parents would have happily allowed their child to choose their ideal sex when the time came. However, that time would never come. It was all due to the appearance of Chuuya’s ability that began to draw unwanted attention to the small ginger who didn’t know much about the world. He was two years old when his ability first manifested itself. The ability was harmless, simply throwing small fits if he didn’t get his way and floating up to the ceiling and away from his parents--- sometimes just being found sleeping up on the ceiling rather than where his parents had left him (this was how they had discovered Chuuya’s ability.)

Chuuya’s parents had two names picked out for their child, for a boy Chuuya--- for a girl Chiyura. Though they had decided they would let the child choose once they became of a decent age where they knew what they felt most likely, but decided on calling their child ‘Chuuya’ until that time came. They were loving and accepting parents, but life wasn’t meant to be simple nor loving for Chuuya. By the time he turned five the government had set their sights on the young gray eye boy, seeing potential in him. In fact they had a firm feeling that this child was the one who would bond with the god, Arahabaki, in the future. They sought to make a deal with the child’s parents, offering to buy the ginger from them--- only for Chuuya’s parents to refuse. The government were forced to take the child by force instead and to do so they made sure they disposed of Chuuya’s loving parents. What was worst was the young child could only watch as he was carried away and the sound of gunfire was heard and the spray of blood. Something inside Chuuya broke that day , he couldn’t fight back as he was forced to sleep soon after he saw the blood fly up into the air.

When he awoke he found himself completely stripped of his clothes and in some weird testing chamber, submerged in water with a tube shoved down his throat. His body was pressed tightly into a ball and he couldn’t move. He continued to fade back and forth into consciousness,fluids were pumped into his veins to test his body to see if it was in fact compatible with Arahabaki. Chuuya was not known as his name but rather as Ability User A5158 . He was branded with that ID upon his neck , a fact that Chuuya was not completely aware of. By the time he turned six, that was when he began to hear a voice in his head. At first, he believed he was hearing the men in the white lab coats talking to him through some odd device, but it was different. He didn’t feel alone, it was like someone else was with him. Yet at the same time, they weren’t the same either. Though all of this changed when Chuuya turned seven and the entity got stronger.

His body couldn’t handle the sudden burst of power and the gravity manipulation only grew more and more until finally an explosion happened. Chuuya blacked out, though he could only vaguely remember being tricked into saying some passage or saying--- “ Oh, Grantors of Dark Disgrace, Do Not Wake Me Again.” That was enough for the small seven year old to break out of his prison and create mass chaos. Though since the merging was still new, Arahabaki fell asleep leaving Chuuya freed and very confused. Arthur Rimbaud was the one who had truly been responsible for trying to use Arahabaki--- thus freeing both the God and the child that was now his vessel. This is the main cause for why Chuuya and Arahabaki both lost their memories of anything prior to this--- though not many of Chuuya’s original thoughts had remained behind to begin with as Arahabaki had been feeding upon the child trying to absorb him and make him into his own body--- thus making the child’s existence fade away.

Chuuya could recall the existence of Arahabaki ,which was surrounded by blue-black darkness and sealed away-- though only vaguely. He however has no clue how the seal was removed, he could only vaguely recall someone’s hand pulling from the seal and freeing him (a thought that later appeared after he got over the shock of all that had happened prior to him being free.) Chuuya decided he would do anything in order to find the truth about his origins.

-Chuuya was brought in to Sheep by one of the council members by pure accident. It was a happy accident, especially once word got out of what Chuuya’s ability was. This led most of the Sheep members (who were old enough) to take turns raising Chuuya and training him how best to fight.

-Chuuya had no memories, but it was another happy accident that he could recall his original name, Chuuya Nakahara. This only happened after a nasty blow to the head during training one day. Prior to that, he was simply going by the name of “Lost Boy.” Chuuya didn’t really care for that name and honestly thought of just making up any name, anything was better than Lost Boy. He didn’t know why he hated it so much.

-He continues to claim he will grow, but deep down knows he most likely will not. He secretly hates himself due to his hermaphrodite status. Thus claiming he would rather not get too close to anyone, shamed by how his body didn’t look like what he believed a ‘normal’ male should. Yes, a little Chuuya was curious one day.

-He used to like milk, but now can’t stand the taste of it due to being forced to drink it so much . Milk did not help him grow.

- Being merged with Arahabaki is why he has such a low tolerance towards alcohol. He doesn’t understand such, though he loves the taste of wine and doesn’t consider himself a lightweight.

-Once when drunk he declared he was a God while standing on top of the bar. This did not go well for him in the end.

- He can sometimes hear Arahabaki and actually has conversations with him, or attempts to. The God is protective enough of his vessel to not allow him to die too easily. Though figures if he did happen to die within the right conditions, he could snag his body. Chuuya hates Dazai because he can easily allow Arahabaki the right conditions if he let’s Corruption last longer than fifteen minutes. Arahabaki’s strongest times where they can converse is when Chuuya is asleep.

-Chuuya’s dreams are typically filled with chaos and destruction. He however does wonder what the life he forgot was like.

-He has a collection of Fedora hats, because he has come to like the style. His favourite besides the hat that used to belong to Rimbaud is a white fedora with black around it.

-He feels most at ease around Kouyou (Ane-san), especially when she strokes his hair. It easily calms him down, even when he is in extreme anger like state. She is also the only one he has ever confined in about his ‘self image issue.’

- Chuuya was once forced under a psychiatrist’s care, prior to Mori stepping in to ‘sort things out’. Chuuya was diagnosed with paranoid personality disorder and antisocial personality disorder. Chuuya was not happy being held hostage. He was drugged and could not use his ability, and it was the only time he could not hear nor feel Arahabaki. He was there for exactly a week. He couldn’t help but feel like Mori might have done this on purpose, at first he had blamed Dazai though. He didn’t share either thought out loud.

-Chuuya’s eyes used to be gray, but upon being poked and tested on(not to mention merging with Arahabaki) they turned bright blue.

-He has a really good singing voice. He is typically embarrassed about it unless singing drunken karaoke.

- He is one hell of a cook, something he downplays a lot.

- Because he had no memories of his childhood, he tried to give himself a childhood (which he was robbed of). He came up with this on his own, and even kept it a secret from everyone (until later when he told Kouyou about it.) Growing up in Sheep was a blast, but he knew deep down that Sheep was not exactly a normal childhood.

- Since he lived like he did when he was in Sheep, he enjoys the finer things in life. He especially loves lobster.

-He does sometimes get lonely when he is in his place alone. He was used to Sheep for the longest time and sometimes this causes nightmares.

-He keeps a journal (diary) , as well as writes and sketches from time to time to center his mind.

-He once made a drunk video once and sent it out. He still doesn’t know who has the video and who has seen it. Dazai was the first person whom he sent it to. This was one of the very reasons why Hirotsu started supervising (babysitting) Chuuya when he went out drinking--- even taking his phone away when he tried to call Dazai.

- He is very competitive, especially when it comes to games.

-He has had some very interesting dreams, that were nightmares. He calls them the what if dreams or exploration. They make him wonder about his life, and his choices. He typically will begin to ponder about his life after waking up from these dreams.

-He has a strong fear of dogs, he doesn’t know why.

-He has a tendency to bite the inside of his cheek … a lot.

-He has slight issues with his vision. It isn’t anything noticeable as he has perfect vision--- though he believes it is a side effect from Arahabaki being merged with him. He sometimes gets dizzy spells and his vision gets blurry. He keeps this to himself , as he doesn’t need people to think he is weak.

-He wonders sometimes how long he has to live before Arahabaki takes over him and he dies. This is a recurring nightmare for him. He doesn’t allow it to change how he goes through life. If he dies, he feels like it might as well be going down fighting rather than sitting around doing nothing. At least he was free.

-He has a fear of enclosed spaces , thanks to certain flashbacks he gets from time to time in them.

-He has a tendency to break things he touches sometimes.

#I got a reason to fight (Chuuya Nakahara)#(He is finally here officially \o/ )#tw: long post #tw: death #tw: blood mention #tw: mental health #tw: human experimentation #tw: fears #tw: nightmare #tw: alcohol #tw: drugs #tw: self loathing

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theron-darksunder · 5 years

Text

When Shadows Wake:

In conjunction with [ Part 1 and Part 2 ]

In the Heart of Witch Country ... Drustvar:

Memnoch turned dark blue, sapphire eyes to the elf that was currently shaking her. Still unfocused, she stared mutely back at the Kaldorei. “Nochy...” The Kaldorei said softly, fingers digging into Memnoch’s shoulders quite painfully.

“What...” Memnoch finally said, her tone cross. “How many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt me, Shalyssa?”

“You were shaking.” The Kaldorei retorted with a sour look on her face. “And you stopped breathing.” The Night Warrior’s dark eyes narrowed on Memnoch as if she was trying to make sure she was alright.

“Did I?”

“Mhmm... I’m not about to have to tell your Father that you died on my watch.” The Kaldorei pointed to the scroll in front of Memnoch. “I hate being on watch when you do this.”

“Convulsing can happen. You might as well get used to it. Father is not wont to change his mind when he has spoken.” Memnoch murmured, looking over what she had written in her trance.

In sorrow and screams, the darkness reigns.

Ne’er too far from misery and despair.

Beware the Light in this hour.

Bar the saviours with kind hearts.

Nothing but bloodied paths for them remain.

Bloodied crowns shall bow once more,

Torn asunder and ravaged by war.

Wings and claws fleeting hope will grasp.

The sovereigns will rise once more with resolve.

Kingdoms forsworn will once more prosper.

Blood and death they doth cherish,

A task long ago tainted by those Beyond.

The dead shall rise, thirsty for the living.

Vengeance and death reaped upon the flesh,

An ocean of anguish for the shadowed reaper.

Let the devil serve his careless purpose,

Let him rouse the Mother’s ire and might.

Make the divine come back to witness.

For dying on the edge of wisdom

A tortured soul may find the Light.

Crush the progeny that are tainted.

Show no mercy to the pure.

Rely on arms that are crude and cruel

Else shall the shadows reign supreme;

Else shall this blood reign no more.

A small frown spread over her young features. “Get Father.” Memnoch bit on her lower lip as the Kaldorei left her room.

She still could not get the sight of the giant avian out of her mind. It had been large enough to blot out the sun if it flew overhead, large enough to pick her up like she was nothing with its ebony beak. Shadowed dread raven with angry black eyes. But there had been no sun or light. There had been only darkness. Blackness so dark she could not even see her hand in front of her.

Yet she had been able to see it.

The scene was not a place she knew but the elegant estate was being overrun by the dead. She could still feel the power of a powerful necromancer wash over her skin as if she had been present. It sent a chill down her spine. One like that could raise an army.

And that sickening scent of roses.

With the dying light of the day and the chill of night sweeping forth, Memnoch felt the shift of darkness over light before seeing it. Opening the window shutters to a setting Drustvar sun, she bowed her head. “Bless me again with your Light on the morrow, Father Sun. For now, I welcome you, Mother Moon. Lend me your wisdom this evening to see clearly and protect me from the unsanctioned dark.”

“What is it?” Her Father’s voice drew her from the window only to give him the scroll. Shalyssa quietly made herself unknown in a corner, watching the High Elf and his daughter with apprehension. “And?” He had the tone of a man who had always been answered promptly.

“It’s the ravens again.” Memnoch said softly. “You told me that if they ever made an appearance...” She watched her father purse his lips, perusing the scroll for what seemed to be like the fifth time.

“Lord Ravenloft. Is there a problem?” Shalyssa broke her silence.

“No.” He curtly replied. “Bring me the names of the best marksmen and assassins you know. This is a farce of a prophecy that should have long ago been buried in the annals of history.” He crumpled the scroll in his fist.

“Father?” Memnoch frowned slightly, watching the High Elf’s dark violet eyes glow in frustration.

“You saw The Darkling, one of the Shadowed Seven. The raven is it’s favored form but it is a shapeshifter. It can be anything... We must find the others and put an end to it, once and for all.” Lord Ravenloft shook his head. “The Darkling may be immortal but it needs an anchor to this realm. Destroy that anchor and it goes back to the abyss once more.”

“But we do not know who or what that anchor is.” Memnoch answered with growing concern.

“We do.” Lord Ravenloft grimaced. “The twin Ravensdawns were the last born to the cursed line, to the Keepers of the Seven. Their birth was foretold by the Oracle of the Veil as an omen. If I am correct, only one remains. Commodore Ryssa Ravensdawn should not be hard to find.”

For other moving parts/stories and relevance as well as forgetting things (I am bad):

@alextriathedragon / @ryssa-ravensdawn / @bloody-loyalties / @miah-ambershade / @saimbere

#the darkling #I swear I have #direction...#stories #and look..my alliance side people

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no-confidence-to-write · 5 years

Text

The Wild Hunt Chapter Two: Let’s Play A Game (2/6?)

“I said Are you ready to play the game?” the little blonde girl asked loudly. She had a little doll next to her with cracks in its porcelain skin with eyes that blinked at the same time as its owner.

“Who are you? Are you…” Aethelswith glanced back towards the door she leaned against with all her weight trying to prevent the creature from entering. “Are you with him?” she whispered

“ Oh no,” the little girl paused to think,” well not really. But you don't have to worry about him right now. I have to explain the rules first.” the girl came closer kneeling down to Aethelswith wiping the tears from her eyes. Although to any other person this might be a soothing gesture, there was something horribly off about this little girl.

She looked like a little girl, acted like a little girl, but something wasn’t human about her. Her skin had a translucent quality too it and eyes seemed hollow yet fragile much like her doll’s appearance. Worst were the marks on her neck. Purple bruises that were strikingly visible against her pale neck. An Angry yellow mark colored her throat as if to say “This is what killed me”.

“Don’t worry it doesn’t hurt anymore. It hasn’t hurt for a long time ” she said sweetly, noticing Aethelswith’s pitying looks.

“The man who did this can’t hurt me, my sisters, my mother, or anyone else anymore. I made sure of it,” she whispered darkly, her eyes were no longer hollow but instead showed a sinister wrath of hellfire that promised vengeance to her enemies.

In a strange way, Aethelswith was not scared of this little girl, rather she felt great sorrow for her. This little girl had been stuck in this place for who knows how long and hadn’t been allowed to past peacefully into the next life. Instead, the burning rage of her death had left what she had assumed to once be a happy little girl into an empty porcelain doll. Grabbing the little girls hand she gently squeezed it she stopped her crying. Hell, it was much better to be with this girl than to be out there with that creature

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to cause you to worry,” Aethelswith replied, “My name is Aethelswith, what’s yours?”

“Oh, I already know your name and your friends' names and the names of your family. You see I had to for the game. But I suppose if you need any help during the game you can call on me.’ she stated as it was the most normal thing in the world for a dead Victorian girl to know the interpersonal details of several teenagers living in the 1980s.

Doing a little curtsey, she introduced herself,

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Marjorie Hamstead.” grabbing Aethelswith’s hand she dragged her from the foyer, “Come on, I’ll take you to your friends. They’re waiting for us to come upstairs.

They passed elaborately decorated walls with dark green wallpaper lined with knickknacks and framed family photographs. With each step they took the facade of the house started changing. Although it appeared like a loving family home blood splatter covered the walls, knocked over items remained on the floor, and bloody handprints stained the door handles. It appeared more like a crime scene than a home. The carpet underneath her feet felt wet to the touch as if the blood was still fresh. An unassuming white door stood before the pair. Slowly opening the door Marjorie pushed her inside.

The nursery was in faded pink flowered wallpaper print surrounded with dolls, books, a little tea set, and two lily-white beds. There stood all her missing friends along with slightly altered copies of Marjorie. Ainsley had burn marks along her nightgown and seemed the most frazzled out of the girls. She laid on the bed snuggling a large stuffed bear as a little blonde girl showed off her collection of dolls. This little girl had twin blonde braids and a large bloodstain on her nightgown from her slit throat.

Joan was pacing back and forth in the playroom while several strands of red hair were covered in ice. Heluna was at the tea set with another little blonde girl with blue eyes that a stab wound through her chest. While Sarah sat on the other bed with the final blonde girl playing cards.

“Aethelswith your here” Joan voiced in relief hugging her. Noticing the scratch marks and blood coming from cuts Joan’s face darkened and whispered, “What did that bastard do to you?”

“Nothing, I managed to get away and hid in this house. What happen to you guys?’ Aethelsiwth questioned

“ Well, I went to the bathroom to check on Ainsley and I get there shes crying about some creature stalking her. Out of nowhere, the bathroom mirror starts smoking and the center is melting and this freaky hand, I swear it was made of half monster half fire and brimstone, grabs Ainsley. I tried to pull her back but some fucker with sickly ice cold hands grabs my ass and pulls me through some portal. Then I land here in the haunted mansion from Disneyland entertaining the Grady twins from the shining.” Joan ranted with visible annoyance.

Soon all the girls were back together talking about what had happened to them. Sarah saw the disaster in the bathroom and saw swallowed by a hole that dropped her in this house. Ainsley quivered describing the hell she saw as a fiery demon dragged her from the bathroom. Heluna wasn’t taken violently at all and was rather shocked at what had happened to her friends. She simply stated that is was Sigurd at the door waiting for and starting apologizing saying “This isn’t how I wanted us to be together”.

An irritated voice interrupted their catching up,

“ I have to explain the rules by midnight so if you please sit down, I’d like to get started,” Marjorie stated but one of her younger sisters interrupted her,

“ Can’t we play with them some more? It’s been so long since we’ve had any company” one of the girls pleaded towards Marjorie, but was met with a sharp rebuke.

“No, we have a job to do.” Marjorie snapped but soften at the youngest’s sniveling.

“If they get captured we can invite them over for tea, okay Florence,” Marjorie said softly and motioned the girls to begin the ceremony. The youngest, Florence placed a little white embroidered bag in front of Ainsley. A slightly older girl placed a similar pink bag in front of Sarah and a green bag in front of Joan. The final girl a gave a fur-lined bag was given to Aethelswith and a leather purse was given Heluna.

Hidden in a little purse sat an item that had each been taken from them previously. Ainsley pulled out a family photo that edges had been frayed with fire. It was the Burke’s Christmas card photo. Her mother, father, and her sister Ashley all stood smiling with her on the beach. It felt tainted like some creature had defiled the memory of this happy family with a horrifying obsession of a teenage girl.

“Oh my God, this is last year’s Christmas card! Does this mean this creep has been watching me since then?” Ainsley squeaked out eyes searching for an answer.

“Of course, each player will have taken an item of their intended target before the ceremony. It item must remain with the target. Should the target escape and the item is captured by the player, the player may reattempt capture until the target’s 21st birthday.” Marjorie stated as if she had done this a dozen times before.

“Wait a second, who are these players? Why are we the target? All we did was play with a Ouija board!” Sarah exclaimed with worry etched on her face. Marjorie cut her off and made a motion for silence as her sisters made a ring around them.

The light in the room began to dim as the scene around the girls changed. The wooden floor had turned into a rigid mass of stone. Behind the girls, the wallpaper peeled off slowly showing an ancient clock painted in blood moon hues. The haunting clang of midnight played ringing before them as time began to slow.

Instead of sweet little girls, small bubble-like orbs were above the girls heads each filled with light. Marjorie even looked more sinister now with eyes shaded in a glassy hue and body stiff and rigid. An eerie cold voice sang out in sync with the former sweet voice.

“You’re here to play a game with us. You have been specifically chosen as the target of the kings of the Others domain. You may open your bags now if you have not previously opened them.” the creature that had replaced Marjorie spoke.

Heluna pulled out a gold ring. Aethelswith recognized as a Christmas gift from Heluna’s father. A blue scrunchie came out of Joan’s bag and a large pearl earing out of Sarah’s. Aethelswith hesitated for a moment before slipping her hand into the purse. Feeling a feathery soft lace fabric she pulled it out. Before her stood to a piece of fabric she had lost her freshman year of high school. It appeared largely insignificant to others but her grandmother had given her just before she passed. Aethelswith briefly wondered if her friends' items had any specific value to them.

“ Place these items upon your person, if you cannot you may use the bag given to you.” the creature inside of Marjorie spoke quickly and continued,

“ You will have until sunlight in the domain to escape the maze we have set up for you. Should you escape the maze but not reach the replica of the place of original capture and close the portal a new maze shall be chosen the following night. If there are any questions, I will now answer them” the creature finished its spiel waiting for the shock to pass the girls.

“God, it’s like we're in some shitty gothic romance novel!” Sarah cried out not believing the gravity of the situation.

“More like a B-list horror flick” Joan muttered under her breathe as the second chime of midnight sounded. Jokes aside several questions flashed through their minds.

“What is the portal? How do we close it? How much time do we have to complete the maze” Aethelswith asked, thinking to herself that clarification on what they had to do was the best course of action. Who knew how much time they had left?

The creature’s head turned with its empty eyes turning toward her and began answering with surprising straightforwardness.

“The portal used tonight was done with the Ouija board given to you. A least one target must reach the board and say goodbye to all hunters using their names. You will have until sunrise, that is seven hours starting at midnight, to close the portal.”

Ainsley found her courage and squeaked out her questions.

“Why are they doing this to us? We haven’t done anything to deserve this treatment. We didn’t want them to take us or to play this stupid game.” she ranted quietly, as she nervously wrung her hands together, only quietly whispering to herself, “what happens if they get us?”

“Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in this matter.” the voice coming out of the girl said mockingly, “Some people are chosen simply because they are physically appealing and the creature enjoys the hunt. Most of the time, targets are chosen to become the mate of the hunter. This way the object of their affection has a slim chance of going back home, especially if their human.”

Darkly, her face contorted into a gleeful grin before them as her voice chilled them to the bone.

“As to what to expect when they capture you, well” she giggled, “ when a man has lust in him he’s rather hard to stop. He will take you back to his kingdom and consummate the relationship where you will likely become his wife or concubine.”

Another chime of the clock rang signaling the coming of the game, even the orbs above their heads began to dim as the air around them became colder.

“Any more questions, your time is running out’” the voice inside of Marjorie sang out in sadistic glee, sealing the conclusion that Marjorie's body was only a conduit for this ceremony.

“How are we supposed to fight them off? Doesn’t it seem they have an unfair advantage?” Joan hissed, visibly enraged at the unfairness or their predicament. The voice made an annoyed huff and spoke

“They will take turns, only coming to their target one at a time. The first target must be taken before the next hunter can begin. They may work in pairs of two or hinder-” but another chime came from the clock.

The spirit possessing the body of Marjorie began gleefully clapping with vigor as if she had been waiting for this spectacle all year. The room began to warp into another landscape. No longer were the girls in the clocktower nor at the Victorian mansion, instead, a dark room devoid of light greeted them. Vaguely medieval looking with its stone walls, floors, and arched windows.

“It’s time to begin!” the voice cried out cheerfully no longer using the body of a young girl to lure them into a sense of peace. Taking in the frightened looks of the girls it did not seem to understand their hesitation.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s play a game.”

#King Harald Finehair #horror #OC x OC #hvitserk x oc #sigurd x blaeja #harald finehair

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the-silver-peahen-residence · 3 months

Note

Also Chuuya it's Blades birthday!

"Yeah, i know. I am trying to work on something to give to him." Chuya sighed seeing their son Kenzo drawing something for Blade while he was humming. A smile seen on his face.

#IC #silver roses #ask answered #muse answered #curious peahen and peacock #chuya nakahara #twin dark/upon the tainted sorrow #ask-the-monster-nest

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duraxxor · 6 years

Text

Wasteland

[[ This is a tale that transpired during the Siege of Lordaeron. Warning: This story contains potentially gruesome violence. Viewer Discretion is advised. ]]

Tirisfal Glades. Many historical events have taken place across these hollowed lands. Even in the cases of an individual such as myself. From the very first meeting of the Sanguine Sorceress to the passing visits towards the Gravekeeper Anna, I’ve had many new beginnings take place in the undying heart of these lands. One could even say I would call this a safe haven in my case. However, what I did not expect to see was the plagues of war infect the very lands. Brill has been decimated and seized by the Alliance who would call this territory their own. Yet, I had only continued my visit for one purpose: To find and seek out one of my eyes by the name of Benjamin Lewinters.

As many know, he plays a key role in guidance upon the living remnants of my family while I tend to my duties in Panzer. He is a Forsaken and a gentleman at that. Many times I had found myself being covered during my lordship. However, never did I expect to find myself being the savior of this man deep within the bowels of the Undercity. While the Dark Lady had chosen to primarily have her troops up top, there was an opening for those SI:7 dogs. Unfortunately for them, I decided to leave them as nothing more than a trail of corpses until I found Benji needing a hand... or foot rather.

“ It’s about time you got here... Milord... “ The Forsaken sputtered with a chuckling fit while sitting up on the ground. Those hollowed eye sockets stared at the masked vigilante. Most would be terrified by the presence of the leather-bound reaper. Yet, Benji saw through this visage and regarded Dura as the Lord he served.

Duraxxor reached forth, wrapping a supportive arm around his robed body. “ It seems I have the tendency to miss the beginning of every battle now. Are you injured? “ Already, the limping posture was noted with the Forsaken finally able to stand as straight as his body would allow.

“ Caught me by surprise, lad. They busted up my foot pretty good... “ Benjamin examined his left leg, noting the severed flesh and bone that had been torn asunder, leaving nothing more than a boney nub as support.

“ Lean, old friend. We will have to improvise. “ Duraxxor croaked with the mechanisms that altered his voice in secrecy. Quickly, he searched the surrounding corpses of their boots. At long last, he found what was declared right in his eyes. A few sickening crackles as flesh and bone severed from the force of a blade, the Forsaken found that the former Lord Daevara had obtained a makeshift foot. Field dressing and quick stitchwork followed while the explosions and quakes of battle rumbled above their heads, causing debris that was small and large to fall in the bowels of the Underbelly. “ There. Do you have it prepared? “

Benjamin lightly tapped and stamped his temporary fix upon the molded, stone flooring as a test of leverage and support. “ Yes sir. I have secured one of the experimental plague bats that you requested. Now that I am able to walk and concentrate... I’ll teleport us to where you had originally instructed to meet at. “

Benjamin may have had his quirks, but I remember a time where the man was very much alive. He was one of very few of the humankind that I shared a diplomatic respect for back in my high elven days. In life and undeath, he shared an affinity with the arcane that disciplined his personality in a unique way. I watched as particles of the chaotic magics began to wrap tightly around our forms in the channeled cast of a teleporting spell. Our destination was the hills between Brill and Agamand Hills. What we would see, however, would be something we would least expect.

Benjamin materialized along with his ally within those pale slopes. Though his attention had originally been to check on the gargoyle-like monstrosity behind them, his hollowed eyes basked in the ruins of what was once Brill in the distance. “ My home... they... desecrated it... “ The gravely voice was hindered by shock that even one such as a Forsaken could feel.

After a thorough examination and a brief calming administered to the spooked beast, Duraxxor brought his sights to the fields of battle in the distance. Fire and Ice littered the field from the various firepower the Alliance forces had unleashed upon Lordaeron. Even he could tell that the battle was lost by the situation. Alliance forces were swarming the breached wall in formation. “ Benjamin... “

“... Daevara… do not worry about my grief... “ He responded with a guttural croak. “... It was only a matter of time... The Dark Lady... she was the one and only who put the torch to Teldrassil… it was only a matter of time before the Alliance would march on Capital City. “ The undead gentleman turned, gazing upon the masked visage of the undead elf. “ I have a few things that I need to speak with you about before we depart... time is precious. “

The plague bat released a light shriek at the time that Duraxxor set his sights on Benjamin’s face. “ Go ahead, Master Lewinters. “

The forsaken choked up a laugh at the sudden title. “ Your son grows, as well as your daughter... not a single day passes that those children don’t miss you in their life. However, with recent events, Lady Maraschiano may not continue to live in Silvermoon City with Xanthariel and Lord Silverfury. “ Benjamin settled onto his wooden cane with both hands, one palm upon the other. “ Your father has returned from the dead. Though he is a quiet and peculiar knight, he had taken on the mantle of acting as your son’s mentor and bodyguard. “

My father. A man I had never met, only seen in pictures. I had heard many tales of his assistance in the Troll Wars. He had always been a man of honor. To hear Benjamin say that he was alive and mentoring my son was truly interesting news. Yet, in the pit of my black heart, I could not find myself to care for a reunion with the man that created me.

“ Interesting... will that be all? “ Duraxxor replied after brief consideration.

“ No... no I... have nothing else to report. I have no idea what the young lord nor his sister plan to do in the coming tides of war. “ Benjamin cast his gaze towards the deprived grass before asking him a question. “ Why do you continue to hide your existence, lad? “

Duraxxor took a few steps towards Benjamin, his eyes slowly fixated on the man’s face. Another thoughtful moment passed before the Forsaken found the Faceless’ gloved talons placed on the boney shoulder. “ Without me in the picture, Benjamin, they have room to grow. They have the motivation to fight the Daevara’s age old enemy. If I were to reveal myself to them now, then the element of surprise would be cast aside. None of us are ready for that yet. “ Dura slowly pulled the man towards Undercity’s latest experiment and handed him the reins. “ Besides... I have a cause I still serve in the shadows. “ For a brief moment, Benjamin’s eyes could see a remnant of the former Lord’s face through the veil of shadows. “ Now then... I need you take the plague-bat and deliver it to a woman off the coast of Silverpine whose hair is a crimson flame. Her name is Tiramina Quel’Renori and she will take the creature off of your hands. “

The forsaken protested whilst tightly handling the reins of the beast. “ You’re not going? You can’t tell me you are going to fight for a lost c- “ Suddenly, Benjamin and Duraxxor both found themselves looking back towards the shattered walls of Lordaeron. Explosions thundered across the landscape. However, in the midst of this firepower, the source wasn’t coming from the Alliance attack force. “ No... it cannot be! “

“ Windrunner… “ Dura muttered under his breath as he bore witness to the revelation that plagued both his mind and Capital City. Hazardous green gas radiated from deep within the depths of the Forsaken homeland. This blight expelled through the frontlines, reapplying an even more potent disease upon the land. “ Get out of here, Lewinters… I have something I must do before I leave Tirisfal… “ That being said, the Faceless’ disappeared as a swirling mist of black smog.

“ Durax-xor… “ The Forsaken was too late to stop him from his swift movements. His mind knew that he had a duty to fulfill and he would see it through to the end. With grief and sorrow, Benjamin took flight onto the mighty monstrosity and flew southwest. Looking back, he saw the image of Brill at it’s finest moments, slowly twist into the horrific sight of plague smog that crept towards it’s burning ruins.

Hours after the Second Fall of Lordaeron…

I was too late. They had already done what I would’ve never expected. The Gravekeeper Anna had suffered from the massacre that followed with the sacking of Brill. All that remained was a freshly dug grave, a tea cup set upon it in tribute, and the rune-scribed shovel that belonged to the Gravekeep herself. Despite disbelief, the Void that inhabited my tainted flesh made it a point to show the cruel truth of it all...

“You aren’t going to keep it, arrrre you?” A female Kaldorei asked with disgust as she nodded at the head that he seemingly claimed as a prize. “No, Sisssster.” The twin let the head fall dishonorably to the ground, triggering images of the remnants that lied just below his feet. “ L-l-let it be an example to every monster here that would try r-r-rising again, that Elune means to keep them in their grave at last-last-last...” The maddening whispers added a watered down to the voice of the killer. Though many could not see it, Duraxxor could easily smell the blood of the Gravekeep still stain the gravesite. This act was recent, but not nearly as recent as the visitor’s footsteps that had honorably given Anna a proper burial. The second image revealed a masquerade who had offered the teacup, she delicately placed said offering upon the renewed gravesite. She had even so much as shed a tear of sorrow for the Forsaken. “ R-r-rest well, my friend-friend-Friend! “ The echoes of the woman’s word picked up violently all of the sudden, likely a reaction to the calm rage that settled within Duraxxor’s body.

“ Don’t move, filth... “ The kneeling Faceless found himself greeted by the one who had beheaded Anna. His blade was drawn to the back and at the ready, eager to coat it with Duraxxor’s blood. Even the sister had come along, arrows pulled back and at the ready. “ I allowed one of the Horde scum to get away with this visitation... however, you wreak of death. Tell me, before I kill you, why would you mourn the loss of such a disgusting filth? “

“ … Did you do this? “ The masked mourner asked quietly. “ Did you do this, Arestes? “ Not a single muscle moved on his leather-bound form.

“ I ask the questions here... wait, how do you know my name? “ The male sibling blinked with unease, taking his eyes off Duraxxor for only one second. That second would cost him his chance to strike the kill, dazed by the evaporation of the mourning creature. “ Where did you- “

“ Areste- Ack! “ The female sibling found herself struck in the side of her skull by the flat side of Anna’s shovel. The mortal wound bringing the woman to fall upon the ground with the inability to control her body’s movements. Though the wound was threatening by many degrees, Alethia wasn’t his target.

Arestes quivered with fear and rage all in one standing as he watched his sister become dismantled by this stranger. “ Alethia! You... bastard! “ His eyes had instinctively set on the reaper, charging headlong into this assailant. Despite his speed, however, Duraxxor’s reflexes had him lift his left boot upward and kicked the Kaldorei into the dirt. No words were offered when he followed up with a downward swipe of that rune-scribed shovel directly into Arestes’ right knee. The man cried out from the shattering of bone.

“ Arestes… N-no! “ The sister cried out in her struggle to aid her sibling while he suffered his own torturous pain. Her blood continuing to pool from her own wound, bringing her sight to blur at the vision of the man who placed that same boot firmly on the center of his chest.

“ Why do I mourn, you ask? Why do you kill one who has nothing to do with your war? “ Duraxxor stared down at the man that was shedding tears from the intense pain in his leg. The crimson bead in his right eye socket offered pent-up rage behind the visage of a grim reaper. “ Your sister will not die by my hand today. However, you will not have that mercy... “ The Faceless tightened his grip on the bloodied rune-shovel as he watched the night elves struggle at his feet.

Arestes spat out blood in a cough, attempting to speak. “ Your Warchief… burned down... my home... she took everything... everything away from us... You... AAHHHH! “ Once more, the brother had been struck by the shovel, aimed directly at his right arm that had made an attempt to grasp his blade. His pool of blood began to increase in it’s vile radius. The sister breathed shallowly while weeping over her body’s inability to move when she needed it most. She forced to watch her brother slowly be destroyed by this monster.

Daevara lowered himself to offer this opponent one final glance into the eye sockets that bore into him. This closeness would also reveal a set of teeth behind the ventilations, smiling back in quite the devious manner to most. “ Windrunner may have made the decision to burn everything you loved... but the woman you murdered had no say in that matter. You ravaged this land and destroyed one of the most innocent beings in this graveyard. You gave her no choice but to fight to protect them. Not the Warchief, not the Horde, but the land and those who were lost. I had served under that banner you carry for many decades, almost centuries... thousands of years and none of you have changed. But where was your precious Alliance when my homeland was sacked? Where were your kind when my ancestors migrated because your kind cast them aside for their beliefs? So much history yet the Alliance continue to believe they rule over all of Azeroth. “

Truly Duraxxor’s words crippled the man, breaking all of the logic and reasonings for their vengeful intent. Though, blood loss and shock may have played a role in the breaking of this soldier’s mentality. However, one thing would never been desecrated by the sadistic creature’s words. “... For the Alliance... “ The man muttered from bloodied lips, spitting blood onto the skeletal reaper’s face.

The grin behind that soiled mask sharpened into a crescent smirk. “ I was hoping you would say that... This is for Anna... “ Without a second thought, Duraxxor brought the shovel into the air. The sister’s protests were barely understandable by a series of cries and likely to be no’s, forced to bear witness as this monstrous entity brought that runic shovel down onto her brother’s cranium. The sound of skull crunched along with the spouts of blood that scattered across the graveyard one strike after the other. Twenty-seven consecutive strikes had turned the remnants of Arestes Duskriver into the byproduct of a slaughterhouse. There was nothing left of the Kaldorei’s face to even identify him visually.

Alethia shivered, hiccupping from the inability to speak. She had watched the entire process while teetering to pass out. The scent of her brother’s brain matter and life blood only making the pitiful creature sick to her stomach. And just when she thought he couldn’t be any more cruel, he stepped over and placed his talons upon her cheek, forcing her to look him directly in the eyes. “ Remember this... Death claims us all... One day... it too shall claim you... “ That being said, Duraxxor wasted no time and leaving the scene while holding onto the Gravekeeper’s shovel. Alliance forces were treading within the area and he needed not to engage all of them. Though, it was clear that he had left a blemish upon the weary Kaldorei’s mind.

[[ Mentions large or small: @gravekeeper-anna @sanguinesorceress @storykeeper-wra @viviannamaraschiano @destiny-of-daevara @daughter-of-daevara @horridlittlepoppet ]]

[[ A special thanks to @gravekeeper-anna / @safrona-shadowsun for allowing me to incorporate her characters into my story. Thank you so much! ]]

#Duraxxor #pre-bfa #Benji

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angelavengedinspo-blog · 6 years

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The bridge that crossed the crevasse surrounding the Adamant Citadel was lined with knives. They were sunk, point upward, at random intervals along the path, so that it was possible to cross the bridge only very slowly, by picking your way with dexterity. Isabelle had little trouble but was surprised to see how lightly Jocelyn, who hadn’t been an active Shadowhunter in fifteen years, made her way. By the time Isabelle had reached the opposite side of the bridge, her dexteritas rune had vanished into her skin, leaving a faint white mark behind. Jocelyn was only a step behind her, and as aggravating as Isabelle found Clary’s mother, she was glad in a moment, when Jocelyn raised her hand and a witchlight rune-stone blazed forth, illuminating the space they stood in. The walls were hewn from white-silver adamas, so that a dim light seemed to glow from within them. The floor was demon-stone as well, and carved into the center of it was a black circle. Inside the circle the symbol of the Iron Sisters was carved—a heart punctured through and through by a blade. Whispering voices made Isabelle tear her gaze from the floor and look up. A shadow had appeared inside one of the smooth white walls—a shadow growing ever clearer, ever closer. Suddenly a portion of the wall slid back and a woman stepped out. She wore a long, loose white gown, bound tightly at the wrists and under her breasts with silver-white cord—demon wire. Her face was both unwrinkled and ancient. She could have been any age. Her hair was long and dark, hanging in a thick braid down her back. Across her eyes and temples was an intricately curlicued tattooed mask, encircling both her eyes, which were the orange color of leaping flames. “Who calls on the Iron Sisters?” she said. “Speak your names.” Isabelle looked toward Jocelyn, who gestured that she should speak first. She cleared her throat. “I am Isabelle Light-wood, and this is Jocelyn Fr—Fairchild. We have come to ask your help.” “Jocelyn Morgenstern,” said the woman. “Born Fairchild, but you cannot so easily erase the taint of Valentine from your past. Have you not turned your back on the Clave?” “It is true,” said Jocelyn. “I am outcast. But Isabelle is a daughter of the Clave. Her mother—” “Runs the New York Institute,” said the woman. “We are remote here but not without sources of information; I am no fool. My name is Sister Cleophas, and I am a Maker. I shape the adamas for the other sisters to carve. I recognize that whip you wind so cunningly around your wrist.” She indicated Isabelle. “As for that bauble about your throat—” “If you know so much,” said Jocelyn, as Isabelle’s hand crept to the ruby at her neck, “then do you know why we are here? Why we have come to you?” Sister Cleophas’s eyelids lowered and she smiled slowly. “Unlike our speechless brethren, we cannot read minds here in the Fortress. Therefore we rely upon a network of information, most of it very reliable. I assume this visit has something to do with the situation involving Jace Lightwood—as his sister is here—and your son, Jonathan Morgenstern.” “We have a conundrum,” said Jocelyn. “Jonathan Morgenstern plots against the Clave, like his father. The Clave has issued a death warrant against him. But Jace—Jonathan Lightwood—is very much loved by his family, who have done no wrong, and by my daughter. The conundrum is that Jace and Jonathan are bound, by very ancient blood magic.” “Blood magic? What sort of blood magic?” Jocelyn took Magnus’s folded notes from the pocket of her gear and handed them over. Cleophas studied them with her intent fiery gaze. Isabelle saw with a start that the fingers of her hands were very long—not elegantly long but grotesquely so, as if the bones had been stretched so that each hand resembled an albino spider. Her nails were filed to points, each tipped with electrum. She shook her head. “The Sisters have little to do with blood magic.” The flame color of her eyes seemed to leap and then dim, and a moment later another shadow appeared behind the frosted-glass surface of the adamas wall. This time Isabelle watched more closely as a second Iron Sister stepped through. It was like watching someone emerge from a haze of white smoke. “Sister Dolores,” said Cleophas, handing Magnus’s notes to the new arrival. She looked much like Cleophas—the same tall narrow form, the same white dress, the same long hair, though in this case her hair was gray, and bound at the ends of her two braids with gold wire. Despite her gray hair, her face was lineless, her fire-colored eyes bright. “Can you make sense of this?” Dolores glanced over the pages briefly. “A twinning spell,” she said. “Much like our own parabatai ceremony, but its alliance is demonic.” “What makes it demonic?” Isabelle demanded. “If the parabatai spell is harmless—” “Is it?” said Cleophas, but Dolores shot her a quelling look. “The parabatai ritual binds two individuals but leaves their wills free,” Dolores explained. “This binds two but makes one subordinate to the other. What the primary of the two believes, the other will believe; what the first one wants, the second will want. It essentially removes the free will of the secondary partner in the spell, and that is why it is demonic. For free will is what makes us Heaven’s creatures.” “It also seems to mean that when one is wounded, the other is wounded,” said Jocelyn. “Might we presume the same about death?” “Yes. Neither will survive the death of the other. This again is not part of our parabatai ritual, for it is too cruel.” “Our question to you is this,” said Jocelyn. “Is there any weapon forged, or that you might create, that could harm one but not the other? Or that might cut them apart? Sister Dolores looked down at the notes, then handed them to Jocelyn. Her hands, like those of her colleague, were long and thin and as white as floss. “No weapon we have forged or could ever forge might do that.” Isabelle’s hand tightened at her side, her nails cutting into her palm. “You mean there’s nothing?” “Nothing in this world,” said Dolores. “A blade of Heaven or Hell might do it. The sword of the Archangel Michael, that Joshua fought with at Jericho, for it is infused with heavenly fire. And there are blades forged in the blackness of the Pit that might aid you, though how one might be obtained, I do not know.” “And we would be prevented from telling you by the Law if we did know,” said Cleophas with asperity. “You understand, of course, that we will also have to tell the Clave about this visit of yours—” “What about Joshua’s sword?” interrupted Isabelle. “Can you get that? Or can we?” “Only an angel can gift you that sword,” said Dolores. “And to summon an angel is to be blasted with heavenly fire.” “But Raziel—,” Isabelle began. Cleophas’s lips thinned into a straight line. “Raziel left us the Mortal Instruments that he might be called upon in a time of direst need. That one chance was wasted when Valentine summoned him. We shall never be able to compel his might again. It was a crime to use the Instruments in that manner. The only reason that Clarissa Morgenstern escapes culpability is that it was her father who summoned him, not herself.” “My husband also summoned another angel,” said Jocelyn. Her voice was quiet. “The angel Ithuriel. He kept him imprisoned for many years.” Both Sisters hesitated before Dolores spoke. “It is the bleakest of crimes to entrap an angel,” she said. “The Clave could never approve it. Even if you could summon one, you could never force it to do your bidding. There is no spell for that. You could never get an angel to give you the archangel’s sword; you can take by force from an angel, but there is no greater crime. Better that your Jonathan die than that an angel be so besmirched.” At that, Isabelle, whose temper had been rising, exploded. “That’s the problem with you—all of you, the Iron Sisters and the Silent Brothers. Whatever they do to change you from Shadowhunters to what you are, it takes all the feelings out of you. We might be part angel, but we’re part human, too. You don’t understand love, or the things people do for love, or family—” The flame leaped in Dolores’s orange eyes. “I had a family,” she said. “A husband and children, all murdered by demons. There was nothing left to me. I had always had a skill with shaping things with my hands, so I became an Iron Sister. The peace it has brought me is peace I think I would never have found elsewhere. It is for that reason I chose the name Dolores, “sorrow.” So do not presume to tell us what we do or do not know about pain, or humanity.” “You don’t know anything,” Isabelle snapped. “You’re as hard as demon-stone. No wonder you surround yourselves with it.” “Fire tempers gold, Isabelle Lightwood,” said Cleophas. “Oh, shut up,” Isabelle said. “You’ve been very unhelpful, both of you.” She turned on the heel of her boot, spun away, and stalked back across the bridge, barely taking note of where the knives turned the path into a death trap, letting her body’s training guide her. She reached the other side and strode through the gates; only when she was outside them did she break down. Kneeling among the moss and volcanic rocks, under the great gray sky, she let herself shake silently, though no tears came. It seemed ages before she heard a soft step beside her, and Jocelyn knelt and put her arms around her. Oddly, Isabelle found that she didn’t mind. Though she had never much liked Jocelyn, there was something so universally motherly in her touch that Isabelle leaned into it, almost against her own will. “Do you want to know what they said, after you left?” Jocelyn asked, after Isabelle’s trembling had slowed. “I’m sure something about how I’m a disgrace to Shadowhunters everywhere, et cetera.” “Actually, Cleophas said you’d make an excellent Iron Sister, and if you were ever interested to let them know.” Jocelyn’s hand stroked her hair lightly. Despite everything, Isabelle choked back a laugh. She looked up at Jocelyn. “Tell me,” she said. Jocelyn’s hand stop moving. “Tell you what?”

“Who it was. That my father had the affair with. You don’t understand. Every time I see a woman my mother’s age, I wonder if it was her. Luke’s sister. The Consul. You—”

Jocelyn sighed. “It was Annamarie Highsmith. She died in Valentine’s attack on Alicante. I doubt you ever knew her.”

Isabelle’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I’ve never even heard her name before.” “Good.” Jocelyn tucked a lock of Isabelle’s hair back. “Do you feel any better, now that you know?” “Sure,” Isabelle lied, staring down at the ground. “I feel a lot better.”

#izzy pov.#quotes about isabelle.#quotes by isabelle.#re: maryse.#re: jocelyn.#re: robert.#re: jace.#re: iron sisters.#IMPORTANT*.

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