#::The Gossamer Priest::

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Fairytales

AM Shine: Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Pals, I call this tale the return of the fairies Shine: In our last episode, our heroine had just escaped the forest where the evil fairies lived Shine: but turns out Shine: the evil fairies aren't just in the forest Shine: now they're everywhere!

Shine: so our heroine is in hiding Shine: with the yellow one King: oh, the parrot? Shine: Shine: that's what i said, didn't i? King: yeah i was just confirming that Shine: what else COULD "the yellow one" possibly refer to, steve?

King: i thought that the parrot was named Darwin Shine: that's only in the film adaptation!! Shine: that's not canon! Shine: in the book, it's the yellow one!

Shine: you can't go by the film version! Shine: there were major creative differences with Ishana Night Shyamalan! King: oh really? like what? Shine: Shine: mostly just the parrot's name, actually Shine: i mean that was pretty much it, i guess

Shine: our heroine is hiding out in a little village Shine: if a bird looked down at the village, it would look like a big spider web Shine: with the church at the center and the town priest a big spider Barker: damn this bird capable of some abstract thinking Shine: SHUT UP it's called a metaphor!

Shine: the fairies look like big weird misshapen monsters with scary long limbs Arthur Conan Doyle: i'm gonna stop you right there Doyle: that's clearly not true, everyone knows that fairies look like sweet little ladies with gossamer wings Doyle: they wear acorn hats and drink morning dew Shine: Doyle: I've done a lot of research Doyle: i'm something of an expert on fairies, if i do say so myself

Doyle: look, i have dedicated my life to proving the existence of Doyle: [flailing wildly] FAIRY GOD PARENTS Doyle: so i think i know a little bit about what to look for Shine: Doyle: fairies are real, by the way

Doyle: fairies are real Doyle: and I've got the proof right here Doyle: look at this cookie box Doyle: or as we call it in Britain Doyle: a biscuit tin

Doyle: the pictures on this tin are incontrovertible proof that fairies exist Doyle: also, this ancient document Doyle: novelty vinyl "Spring Morning shindig," by Ed Twilley and the Creepers (1952, Goon Records) Doyle: proves that, yes, fairies have parties

Doyle: the important take-away here is that fairies are so beautiful and amazing Doyle: that once you see one Doyle: you will never be satisfied by a mortal woman Shine: see, that's how you get changelings Shine: do you want changelings???

Shine: here's the thing Shine: fairies can change form Doyle: no they can't Doyle: Arthur tell him they can't Arthur Machen: actually i think he might be right Doyle: shit Doyle: this changes everything!

Arthur Conan Doyle: [into tape recorder] note to self Doyle: fairies can change shape Doyle: at this moment ANYONE could be a fairy Doyle: even Doyle: [turns to audience] YOU!?!?!?!?

Shine: now evil fairies are loose Shine: and let me tell you Shine: this WON'T be no spring morning shindig Doyle: b-b-but the ancient documents! Shine: the ancient documents were wrong!! Doyle: noooooo!

Koontz: but the parrot's gonna be ok right?! Shine: yes the yellow one's fine, dean Koontz: good cuz i was worried for a minute there Koontz: i was worried something might happen to Darwin Shine: IT'S THE YELLOW ONE!!!!

[isaut]

glancing over at diluc, you watch as he tenses his jaw for just a moment before relaxing, the way he rolls his shoulders back slightly. he looks dashing, per usual, with the curls of his hair defined and wearing his nicest suit. the gossamer diamonds of your veil cause the stained glass sunrays to speckle rainbow across your vision. you want nothing more than to reach over and squeeze his hand.

the priest has been droning on for too long.

diluc catches your gaze and glances over at you, a wash of calm flushing his face. his brows soften, his jaw slacks just enough.

"you look beautiful," diluc whispers.

the priest doesn't miss a beat.

"so do you," you whisper back. then, you mouth to him: "i love you."

the corner of diluc's mouth ticks up. "i love you too," he whispers instead.

the corner of the priest's mouth ticks up as he continues reading from the book before him.

diluc's hands are gloved and steady, as he takes your hand and slides this grandmother's ring on your finger. it's diamond and sapphires, artfully laid out. he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

you don't let go.

when the priest announces-- finally-- that you could share your first kiss as a married couple, you follow diluc's hands up to your veil. instead of letting it cascade down your back, you rest it over both your heads, as an illusion of privacy from the majority of mondstadt who sit within the church's halls.

diluc presses his lips against yours. keeps his hands at your waist for as long as he can. dreams, as he cups your cheek, about sliding his tongue against yours.

instead, he pulls away while the entourage cheers, still willingly captured under your veil.

"i love you," you whisper to him.

he nods, a faint smile on his lips that reaches the tears in his eyes. you reach up to cup his cheek, and kiss him one more time.

[avrorean]

The sun rose in the Frostbacks delicate and pale over the Skyhold gardens. Only the serving staff, Ambassador Montilyet, and the Chantry priests were awake at this hour, though only the priests gathered in the gardens to pray.

Someone else haunted the railing along the upper rooms that faced the gardens. Solas leaned against the cold stone railing, peering down into the gardens proper. A warm, freshly baked loaf of sourdough laid on the railing beside him, and the clean towel it had been wrapped in laid open. It helped to be friendly with the kitchen staff, who always set some sort of breakfast aside for him even before the rest of the fortress woke.

Part of the bread he’d torn off and set under a section of the towel, preserving some of its warmth for whenever Nanna roused from her room. The rest, however, he held out over the railing. Periodically, he tore off a small piece and discreetly tossed it over the edge. Leliana’s ravens - those that were not caged, at least - cawed down in the gardens as they followed the trail of breadcrumbs.

A trail that methodically led them to led to where Mother Giselle was just beginning her recitation of Andraste 1:7.

Solas turned slightly when Nanna left her room, a devious and not remotely apologetic grin on his face. “In a betting mood this morning?” he asked by way of greeting. “I wager I can maneuver a raven onto her mitre by the ‘song-weaver’ verse in 1:14.”

Having been raised in the Circle, where Sisters and Mothers wandered the halls in their prayer as readily as any mage or templar, tuning out the chanting of priests was relatively simple skill to call upon when the familiar thrum echoed outside of her room in Skyhold. It was, at worst, ambience for one who had already woke with the dawn, but it did make Nanna more inclined to miss the distant roll of the sea in Amaranthine that the prayers had replaced.

And yet the slow mornings that the Inquisition allowed to even take such deep notice of the difference was, in her mind, a fair trade off. She had been taking her time undoing the silk wrapping around her hair when she noticed the familiar shape of him outside her window, the inspired curiosity chasing the remnants of sleep from her, and Nanna only bothered with a shawl for her shoulders before cracking the door and being met with the morning chill and the smell of fresh bread. Nothing wrong, then. Solas handed her the loaf, and before he said a word, that toothy grin of his told her everything she needed to know.

"The sun is barely touched on the peaks and you are set to making mischief?" she said lowly, but it was a tease, not a scold, in Nanna's smile as she took her spot beside him on the railing, appreciating the warmth beneath her fingers as they watched the little conspiracy of ravens hop across the leaf patterned grounds of the gardens in hunt for the next sign of their falling treat. "I am just familiar enough with the art of gambling to recognize that you sound far too confident for this to be an even bet."

"Is that a 'no', then?"

She gave a long, ponderous hum at the question, ignoring his raised brow to tear off a small piece of the crisp crust as though it were the most interesting thing in the world in that moment. Then, instead of eating it herself, the bread sailed through the air and landed just in sight of the raven he'd so carefully been guiding. A spot that was, notably, in another direction. Just a bit of sabotage as the first gossamer shades of pink begin to flit across the sky. When they met eyes again, Nanna's grin mirrored his.

"Counter wager; the birds will not reach it before the mount sermon at 2:10."

[dionysia-does-stories]

The Midwinter Player

Cringetober2023, Day 2: Self-Insert

On AO3

Rating G - 1,282 words - Tortall - Keladry of Mindelan

Summary: Kel reluctantly decides to accept a walk-on roll in Corus's Midwinter Plays

Story:

A massive sunbird flew past Kel. It’s wings were made of fine gossamer fabric dyed in fiery shades of red and gold. When she fell back into a fighting stance at its closeness, the puppeteer made a cawing noise.

Kel laughed and nodded her head to acknowledge the joke (especially since it was at her expense). The puppeteer carried on moving the great bird as though he were a living, flying thing.

Kel turned the opposite direction walking through the busy square. Players rehearsed their lines, committing the words to memory. Tumblers twisted their bodies into impossible shapes. Their costumes were sewn and textured to mimic rock. Kel remembered Lalasa mentioning that a friend of hers was sewing the costumes this year.

Kel walked past a player who was dressing up a live bull calf in a pair of fake horns. The calf was completely uncooperative with the proceedings and flicked them off. Kel caught one mid-air, handing it back to the beleaguered player.

Kel marched on. She had been told to report to the big tree at the back of the event space. She wished she was reporting for duty at a fort. There all she’d be asked to do is bash in heads and come up with military strategies. But no, she was in Corus for Midwinter and she had been asked to appear in the annual Midwinter plays. 

She would have refused immediately, but both the King and the First Daughter of the Goddess’s temple had asked her to at least consider it. She still wanted to refuse but a valid (although extortive) point had been made about how happy all the little girls in Corus would be to see her. She was trying to have an open mind.

Kel had been told the playwright would meet her at the tree, but she hadn’t expected the woman to be sprawled out on the ground. She was surrounded by individual stacks of paper. Each stack had a rock on it, presumably to guard against the wind. There were quills stuck straight into the earth beside ink wells that had clearly spilled some of their contents onto the dirt.

The woman stared off away from the chaos of the rehearsal square and into the distance of the city. Her eyes were unfocused but still sharp. As soon as Kel’s footsteps were in hearing range, the woman whipped around.

“You have good hearing,” Kel called, trying to be friendly.

The woman quirked half her lips up in a sardonic expression. “For every sound except words which is all in all a not the most useful ability.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone here,” Kel said. “A playwright named Diot?”

The woman was shoving her stacks of paper and quills into a plain leather bag that looked large enough to hold a small library.

“That’s me!” Diot’s tone was too enthusiastic for the banality of her words. Kel saw her wince. It was the same wince Neal made when he regretted what he’d just said. 

“I got here very early and sat down to do some work,” Diot explained. “If I don’t put a lot of effort into being early than I’m always late. And I’m a huge admirer of yours. And I didn’t want to be late. Because I figured you would be on time what with the military training and all.” The woman fell abruptly silent.

Kel blinked. “I can appreciate using your time wisely. I’m sure you have a lot to get done at this time of year.”

“I do, thanks,” She gestured to the Mithran temple. “I asked the priests if we could use one of the rooms in the temple to talk.”

Diot led the way down a narrow path to the back part of the building. She brought them to a little room, set up with a table and chairs. Diot had already been lingering here before she moved to the tree. The evidence was obvious in the stacks of paper on the floor and heavy cloak draped on the back of one of the chairs.

“So, this year our play cycle will be the birth of Mithros.” She clapped her hands together at the declaration, again followed by that regretful wince. She gestured for Kel to sit and plonked down in the other chair herself.

“The King mentioned that. He didn’t specify what exactly it was that I was going to be doing?”

“Of course! Of course.” Diot reached into the giant bag and pulled out a book of Mithran stories. Several pages had the corners folded down and Kel could see writing in the margins. “Don’t tell the priests that I’ve done this,” Diot whispered, loudly.

“It’s your book,” Kel pointed out.

Diot flipped to a page, showing an illustration of Mithros at a table with the sun, a fire, the scales of law, and a war horn. “We’re looking to offer the roles as the personification of Mithros’s areas of power to notable individuals. War has already been taken by the lord sponsoring the cost of the plays. Which is what it is, even though I doubt he’s seen a war in his life. The Law will be represented by Duke Turomot, the magistrate.”

“I’m familiar with him,” Kel said.

Diot nodded. “With our current casting leaning somewhat toward a conservative direction. I was very hopeful you would be the Sun.”

Kel thought about the many piles of papers she had seen so far. “How many lines would I have?”

“I’ve written some beautiful lines for the Sun,” Diot rushed to grab a specific paper. Kel had no idea how she knew where it was among the many identical sheets. “I wrote an entire monologue that you can—“ Diot noticed the Yamani stone of Kel’s expression. “—You’re asking because you don’t want any lines.”

“Yes. I don’t have any destiny that includes being an accomplished player. I think it’s best to save the fiery speeches for someone else.”

“What about one line,” Diot negotiated. “So, the audience can hear you speak?”

Kel imagined the little girls in the audience and forced herself to say, “Fine. That’ll be fine.”

“Great!” Diot exclaimed, this time without wincing. She was fired up and producing papers at an alarming rate. “I just have to change this one section, but I have an idea that I think will make it work.”

Diot began to scribble lost to the world. 

Kel rose from her chair. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Diot looked up, eyes widening in distress. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I really appreciate you coming.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have long before Midwinter.” Kel pointed out.

Some of the color drained from Diot’s face.  “No,” she said. “I really don’t”

Kel left. She wondered out through the main body of the temple. The priests nodded to her as they walked by, respectful greetings of “Protector,” coming from their hushed voices. Being a knight hand chosen by the Chamber of The Ordeal was a venerated title in the temple of Mithros.

She stopped at the Mithraeum, looking into the cave like structure. At the far wall, there was a statue of Mithros. He held his golden shield aloft, a victorious expression on his face.

“Are you happy now?” She asked it expecting no response.

The statue turned to face her and smiled.

A few weeks later, Kel walked the stage as the Sun to thundering approval, an experience that she remained uncertain about until the most popular guising costume that year proved to be the Sun. Little girls ran wild over the streets of Corus with painted faces and sunbeams coming out of their hair.

[venushorned]

the vast oblivium and the eye tyrant

Deep within the Underdark, in a section famously known as the Wormwrithings, a beholder called Karazikar was fashioning itself as a god. Using its disintegration eye ray, it constructed a horrible lair and called it the Vast Oblivium: consisting of ten 30' wide, 100' deep, vertical shafts surrounding a central, 500'+ deep chasm known as "Karazikar's Maw," the Oblivium was, indeed, vast.

The Saints of the Eye were not the Saints of the Eye yet when they descended into that pit. The party was hot off their meeting with Menzoberranzan's exiled archmage who had hatched a plan to end the Rage of Demons, and this mage (Vizeran DeVir, probably Viconia's distant uncle) sent them on a hunt for a central Beholder eye. It was necessary for the ritual that would finally stop the Demon Lords.

They knew that they had to kill it. There would be no other way to take its central eye, but that begged the question of how, exactly, the party was expected to descend into a cult pit, kill their god, desecrate and steal pieces of its flesh, and then make it back out alive. It would be dishonest to say that they had a plan when they began their descent. They most certainly did not.

Now, Karazikar had discovered through a captured modron that the Maze Engine—the reality-warping machine that powers Baphomet's Labyrinth—was in the Underdark, and it was searching. It wanted to use the Engine to make itself into a God, properly, so the party was in luck. They knew where the Engine was, and so talking their way to Karazikar was as simple as a few of Gossamer's bullshit +15 persuasion checks.

There was not, at least that the Saints ever saw, a bottom to the Vast Oblivium. The battle with Karazikar occurred deep, deep within the chasm depths, but there was nothing but black void beneath them still. Karazikar floated; the party fought from rickety rope bridges and Floating Disks. It was a wonder no one died.

When Karazikar and its circle of priests fell, the other Saints harvested the eye while Gossamer devised a plan to get them out. No one could teleport, and Vizeran wasn't responding to sending requests to grab them, so it was going to have to be on foot. There would be no hiding the slaughter. They had to either stealth or lie, and they had a fully-armored paladin and cleric clanking around in their ranks.

Fortunately, delusions of godhood created a relatively elegant solution. The entire cult knew that the party had talked their way inside claiming knowledge of the Maze Engine and the Abyssal Lords, and so when they began their ascent out of the maw, the story came together easily.

Karazikar the Eye Tyrant was dead, willingly martyred by the enemies of Baphomet, so that He might ascend to lay claim to the Maze Engine. We were His Chosen, Gossamer insisted, He honored us with the glory of spilling His godly blood, His eye must remain with us as a Holy symbol on our travels into the Engine. We must plant the eye in the heart of the Engine so He can Watch everything.

These people were mostly refugees, exiled drow and lost souls from the surface. Anyone who stood a chance against Gossamer's +15 Deception died with their god.

They called her High Priestess. They called the party Saints.

[bricxbrac]

"What if they kissed?" Abel and Otiice???? :3c

Send "What if they kissed?"

and I'll write a scene where our muses kiss, even if they aren't shipped together. it is it's own thing and doesn't have to lead to an official ship. a "what if scenario"

As the crown prince, Abel had been prepared for the greater part of his life to be arranged to marry for the good of the kingdom. Though he had always hoped, of course, to be able to meet his bride-to-be beforehand to establish some semblance of rapport rather than be thrust headfirst into a lifelong binding contract with a complete stranger.

Things don't always work out how we wish them to, however. And so, here he stood at the alter, listening to the priest orate his wedding. His unknown fiancée stood before him, obscured by her flowing gossamer veil, and Abel held a pleasant smile upon his face, quashing the nerves he felt deep within his breast. Though he couldn't control the anxious stuttering of his heart.

This was his duty as the prince, and he was more than prepared to fulfill it. Had he often daydreamed of marrying for love rather than necessity? Of course. But he knew such freedoms had never been in the cards for him, and with their two kingdoms on the brink of a war that would tear both nations apart, he could not have been more relieved and proud to be a part of the coming peace.

He was a bit distracted by his rambling thoughts, truth be told, and nearly missed the cue for the sealing kiss. He delicately lifted his bride's veil...only to freeze, eyes widening in surprise to find instead a beautiful groom standing before him, decorated in luxurious jewels, smiling back at him, yet...it didn't seem to reach the other's eyes. Or perhaps it was just his own doubts playing tricks on him.

It was very rare for two kingdoms to be joined by a marriage that could not result in an heir. Often only considered as desperate attempts at peace in dire situations, as blood heirs were considered superior. Adopted children, or those born out of wedlock to consorts and mistresses, were looked down upon by most royals and nobles. And for his own wedding to be one such event, unbeknownst to him...

Abel was shocked, yes. But more than that, he was hurt that his own parents had kept this a secret from him. He was a loyal prince and a dutiful son. Did they think he would refuse if he'd known the truth? Abel held the other prince's gaze, cutting his own stunned pause short before it became noticeable and inappropriate. Then he leaned down, gingerly cupping the other's cheek, his lids lowering over shadowed golden eyes as their lips met in a binding kiss. A kiss for peace and prosperity for both of their kingdoms as one.

A kiss for a lifetime spent discovering if they were a fair match, or if this marriage of convenience would be filled with the games scorned lovers played in the upper echelons of society, behind closed doors but never hidden. He hoped so desperately that they could live a lift together filled with happiness and fidelity, if not passion or heartfilled devotion. And he poured that ardent desire into a chaste yet tender kiss, willing his feelings to reach his new husband. Praying that the other felt the same.

The cheers of the kingdom fell on deaf ears, muted by the whirlwind of emotion finally breaking through Abel's subdued thoughts. Blood rushed in his ears, his heart pounding wildly now as the reality of his new life settled within his mind. And he parted from their kiss, meeting his groom's gaze with another soft smile, hoping the fear he felt in his soul didn't break through the mirrors of his eyes. If ever in his life did the prince need the full strength of his will, it was now.

@cuteteacakes

[devoutpriest]

whereherloyaltieslie:

In the many ages since Sigyn’s birth, there had been many different ages of mankind. She had seen those who prayed to the gods rise and fall like the tide, watched other beliefs bloom into life one moment only to wither and die in the next. There were the magical creatures in the woods, which Old Nan told stories about to Bran. All this and more taking place while the gods watched, only on occasion coming before those who worshiped them, choosing instead to work in other ways. Other faiths would come and go, but they stood tall none the less. Then the Christ God came. Soon people from far and wide abandoned their true gods, either by force or their own natural favor, and turned to this new god. She had seen it far too often, her worshipers mistreated, belittled, slaughtered or worse all for holding to the gods instead of the Christ God. These “Christians” as they called themselves, often claimed themselves loving, accepting, but all too often they turned on their words when met with ideals that did not match their own. Israel and Ephraim were two such entities, they being cruelly exiled. She was the wife of the god Loki, whom she loved, yet wished he could not argue with his brother, Thor. To loss worshipers in this manner had become almost normal at this pint in time. To see the reverse, however, was something far more rare.

The Priests words of prayer reached her, pulled her from her thoughts and brought her to the moment of his desperation. She felt compassion at his desperate demise. A man , once taken as a slave, now a part of the community, but torn between the gods and the one he grew and once devoted himself to. In a flash of light, she appeared before him, dark green and blue and pink gossamer robes floating through the air to settle around her, auburn hair shown like bright flames in the morning light. Pensive eyes stared down at the man. “ You seek guidance from the Gods, Athelstan.” She began softly, slowly kneeling until she was at eye level with the former priest. “ What troubles your spirit?”

His eyes widened in wonder, at the devastatingly beautiful Goddess whom appeared in front of him.

Her presence, although he could not discern which of the Goddesses she was, confirmed yet again that every SINGLE one of these Pagan Gods were real. She was like the vision of Mother Mary he saw, in blue and white dress, he seeing her after saving a village woman from her husband ; he seeing the scarring on her face.

He did not know how to converse with the Goddess, this being the first proper conversation with her face-to-face. He is wordless for a moment upon hearing her query and her knowing his name, before speaking once again.

“…I do, and I thank you for your presence. I am afraid I do not know how to address you…”

“Much troubles me. I am torn with the Pagan religion and the one I have grown up with nearly all my life.”

Both religions warred inside him, tried to COMMAND his presence, and not always in the most pleasant of ways, especially when they clashed with each other. To try to serve both masters of such prominent religions was proving difficult… He thinks, as he wears a hooded cloth over his head, speaking in his journals.

[lromanus]

My luminary, my morning and evening star. My light at noon when there is no sun and the sky lowers. My balance of joy in a world that has gone off joy's standard. Yours the face that young I recognised as though I had known you of old. Come, my eyes said, out into the morning of a world whose dew waits for your footprint. Before a green altar with the thrush for priest I took those gossamer vows that neither the Church could stale nor the Machine tarnish, that with the years have grown hard as flint, lighter than platinum on our ringless fingers.

—R.S. Thomas / Luminary

[zinbu]

Geto had always seen the world through a veil of sorrow, a gossamer mist that blurred the edges of everything he touched and felt. His eyes, violet and dark as the endless night, held the weight of countless deaths, each memory a testament to the fragile beauty and inherent tragedy of existence. The gentle rustle of Kaen’s arms around his shoulders brought a rare, bittersweet comfort, like the fleeting warmth of a dying ember in a cold, boundless expanse.

Kaen’s touch was a paradox, a mingling of divinity and monstrosity, a union of realms that fate had decreed should never converge. Yet here they sat, bound by an ineffable connection, finding solace in each other’s presence despite the vast chasms between their worlds. The warmth of Kaen’s breath against his hair was a soft, rhythmic whisper, harmonising with the turbulent cadence of Geto’s thoughts.

Kaen’s earnest question hung in the air, delicate as a spider’s web adorned with morning dew. Geto felt a pang of sorrow at the innocence behind it. He lifted his hands, their touch tender and deliberate, securing Kaen’s arms around him, anchoring them both in this moment of fragile serenity.

“More than friends, Kaen,” Geto murmured, his voice a symphony of unshed tears and lost hopes. “We are enemies who lost their paths, yet found tranquility under one tree—half dead and half alive.” His words wore the clothing of sorrow and understanding.

A sad chuckle escaped the priest's lips, a sound both bitter and resigned. He tilted his head, allowing his cheek to brush against Kaen’s skin, a fleeting gesture of profound intimacy. “Tell me, my duckling,” - voice barely a breath above silence, “in a world that has forsaken us both, do you believe we can ever find our way back to each other?”

The question lingered, suspended in the quiet space between them, a reflection of the uncertainty that defined their existence. And in that moment, beneath the tree that symbolised their fractured lives, they held each other, but not as gods or monsters, but as two souls adrift in the vastness of eternity, seeking raw comfort.

This , the ages-old fable manifest of Gods and Mortals.  Or shall we better define it as GODS & MONSTERS ?  But , lo’ , the boundaries are fickle-thinned and the divide is non-existent between two souls well-entangled and most d e v o t e d .  So we better ask ourselves ( & soon ) : which are you , and which am I ?

Immaculate beast only ever existed in IRONY ; it , a deified , exalted creature born to protect , to serve … to l o v e … Only to so find that all humanity could not tolerate its presence , could not begin to comprehend the great entity that so guided mankind across these several thousand lifetimes.  But times change , even if much of humanity has not , and it has found some strange , oddly puzzling sense of companionship in ONE MAN who also stood apart from his ilk , but graciously welcomed the god-curse into his brood.  Perhaps that was where the t r o u b l e began , granting its faith and boon to him so readily.  Who’s to say ?

Kaëltyr , now Kaen , pauses their ministrations , eyes rolling slightly at his gentle prodding , ❝ The thinkin’ or the pullin’ ? ❞  They counter , slowly allowing arms to slip ‘round shoulders , chin propping atop his head as their weight leans against his back.  ❝ I’m always thinkin’ , ❞ Kaen admits , tone muttering , ❝ Can’t help it.  Been alive for thousands of years , so there’s really nothin’ else t’do. ❞  A beat passes , their eyes closing as they simply savor the novelty of being so c l o s e to someone else for a change.  ❝ … Geto , are we … FRIENDS ? ❞  An earnest question , spoken like wistful child to their companion.

[sirensdxn]

November DWC Day 3 - Forest/Morality

✧✧✧ Journey into Eromai Epolomono ✧✧✧

Chapter 2

-Written by Ra’hsen

“Ru’lan let go.”

The feathered raptor did not release. Trapped between those sharpened fangs rested an elaborately carved beam of wood once intended to accent the training room walls. Now it proved to be the perfect chew toy for a rebellious ravasaur. 

“Drop it.” Ra’hsen gestured down toward the floor mirroring the basic training he’d been given before the Syl’voran’s disappearance. Part of him wondered if the two would delight in knowing their precious son had helped decorate with his own artistic sense. He’d have to save it just in case, that is if he could get Ru’lan to release. 

The Reverend settled on his knees and stared into those vast but fierce eyes for a time. A fearless hand firmly gripped the beam mere centimeters from Ru’lan’s teeth. Moist and hot breath escaped the creature's nose and mouth before answering Ra’hsen’s command with a snort. Down the beam fell with a thud. 

This hadn’t been the first time the now fully grown raptor had decided to throw a fit, nor would it likely be the last. Ra’hsen picked up the beam and moved it into a spot Ru’lan would at least have difficulty climbing to. His single sliver eye peered at his pacing housemate, those large talons had worn a path into the once grassy play area.  In adults and children alike destructive tendencies were a sign of stress, as was pacing. He stepped forward and held out a flat hand to signal his intentions. After a brief moment of hesitation Ru’lan stepped forward and rested his chin upon the hand. Ra’hsen smiled and ran his free hand over their nose toward the mane of feathers. His expression darkened for a moment as he felt around and pulled away, loose feathers. 

“Seems as if house life is not for big boys now is it, Ru’lan?” The priest continued to pet the raptor for a time. “How about we schedule you a little vacation, hm? A chance to roam the forest with your buddies?” 

Ru’lan’s excited tail swatted against the ground.

Still, it didn’t answer the cause of the creature’s distress. No child be it man or dinosaur thrived without their parents. Ru’lan may have been adult grown but his actions were no better than a teenager first discovering how to talk back. Not to mention his particular species were known to be family driven and extremely social creatures. While Ra’hsen had plenty of experience raising and training avians, raptor’s distant descendants, they were still entirely different species. With a deep breath he walked into the cabin, Ru’lan followed close behind. 

Ra’hsen had finally gotten used to climbing their stairs without second guessing his next step. At some point everything snapped into place, perhaps after his thirtieth day tending to their rose bushes. A distant gaze fell upon the unlit living space as light only trickled in the windows. Specks of dust danced in the evening sun’s rays and reminded the priest of his need to clean. Time for another winter clean it seemed. 

A smirk formed on his lips. It’d be just like them to arrive days before Winterveil with gifts in hand to apologize for their delay. It’d be what, two years without a holiday? The thought left a pang in his chest as he sat beside the table. Two years without Rowan. Two years without his dear friends. Two years spent staring at a bracelet that flickered once every several moons. Two years going on two centuries of endless waiting and stagnation. His loneliness gradually shifted to silent anger as his palm curled into a fist. 

Elven mortality was a funny thought. For some two years were nothing more than a blink of an eye. An entire mortal life could flutter into existence, bare children, grandchildren, and flicker out as an elf barely began their youth. While others mirrored their shorter lived brethren with lives a few years longer than a human’s. The Reverend just happened to be the lucky, or unlucky one who inherited those longer lives. He’d begun to witness his mate lose his life before him. The pale face he loved already showed signs of aging despite elven blood rushing through Rowan’s veins as well. Perhaps Ra’hsen should have counted his passing as a blessing, but his absence still weighed over him greater than the two who’s house he sat in that very moment. The same two who would witness his own aging with time as youth continued to cling to their features. 

Stuck in the Reverend’s mind the already lonely raptor did not handle being ignored. In some ways Ra’hsen could see where his avian friends learned their ego. Perhaps it was in the very same blood that the two species shared. Still, Ru’lan showed more compassion than the priest’s proud birds. Ru’lan pressed his nose against and peered up with confused vibrant blue eyes. Eyes that reminded Ra’hsen of the ocean and his late fiancé. 

“Apologies,” he whispered as his fist unwrapped and once again ran over the raptor’s head. “I didn’t mean anything to you, dear.” 

Ru’lan’s chin rested on the Reverend’s lap and yawned. Ra’hsen supposed Ru’lan wasn’t the only one missing someone. He stared at the quill and paper across the table out of reach. Maybe the sleepy one had the right idea, it was time for a nap. He could write Bellana in a few hours if not the morning. 

Thank you for inviting me to write @konietzko-sylvoran

Mentions: @talthorn-sylvoran @jorithas

Challenge by: @daily-writing-challenge

[creativefiend19]

The Essential Pynch Fics

(This was requested by an Anon and are in no particular order - also there are many more essential Pynch fics, I’m certain, but I haven’t read them yet, so feel free to add your recs)

what useless tools ourselves - @toast-the-unknowing / shinealightonme ‘s LA-verse has everything you could possibly need in your Pynch content.

Laugh-out-loud humour, infinite romance, incredibly intuitive character building and the sexiest smut (with some absolutely impeccable kink thrown in for good measure) that your heart could desire. Toast writes like she just sat down and dashed it all off, but almost every sentence holds a wealth of thoughtful crafting.

The only problem with reading this series is that it sets the bar so high that you’ll struggle to find other stories as satisfying, both in fic and in fiction.

A Favour Shared EtoileGarden - @etoilegarden ‘s Pynch kid fics are a genre of their own.

Some of the AU stories with Adam caring for his baby brother, others with Ronan's adopted daughter, and (my personal favourite) those with both kids together, satisfy my visceral craving to see Adam and Ronan building a life together.

Arden writes about Pynch taking care of their little charges in a chatty and intimate way, that will immediately draw you in. The little details, Adam’s struggles, Ronan’s daily life, and above all them interacting with the kids, will break your heart and then mend it, again and again. And keep you coming back for more.

A Love Story in Three Acts - @skyermirth has written one of my favourite Pynch AU’s.

Film star Ronan and scientist Adam will reel you in and keep you hooked. Not only is the romance top-shelf, but the depiction of Ronan as a recovering alcoholic and Adam at therapy for his issues is both riveting and realistic, in a way you rarely see in fic. The entire Gangsey are present and perfect, and all of it will leave you wanting more.

seek ye the living charactershoes @charactershoesfic

The language in this Fleabag AU blew me away! Lovely, delicate, gossamer descriptions of an Adam training to be a priest, and a Ronan whose brother Declan is getting married. The hesitant, understated and charming slow burn is a must read for anyone who prefers their fics to read like literature. 

Red Thread Seek_The_Mist @seekthemist

Mist is the uncontested Queen of the Explicit tag (not just for TRC) according to me. This collection of terribly, wonderfully, dirtily erotic chapters - based on Tumblr prompts - places the bar for mind-blowingly sexy (and sometimes filthily kinky) smut so high, that the rest of us are left gazing wistfully up at her achievements. 

Beyond the Edge of Our Hope Seek_The_Mist @seekthemist

This EPIC crossover AU of Pacific Rim and TRC is truly a labour of love. You don’t need to have watched the original film (I hadn’t), but the true genius of this work is how well the two canons are interwoven, not just with Pynch but also with the Fox Way women and Sarchengsey. This fic has the absolute BEST sex scenes, and a certain chapter is the most satisfying one I have ever read. It literally ticks every single box that I ever had for Pynch, and adds a few that I never knew I needed until I read this. I would cheerfully give over my firstborn to see this work filmed.

Time Isn't Real (but you're a constant) SpiritsFlame @spiritsflame

A time-travelling Adam fic, where he is the Magician but doesn’t know how. And he also doesn’t know why his 18 yo self is yanked into a future where he knows Ronan Lynch a little better than he’d ever imagined. This fic takes place in both timelines, which is my fave kind of time-travel fic. It’s a whole magical journey, in more ways than one.

I Don’t Wanna Know About Your New Man boywholivednotdied @dollopheadsandclotpoles 

Excellent AU set in canon Henrietta, where Adam has a huge crush on Blue, except she’s dating Ronan apparently. He gets advice from a friend (an OC) who knows the Lynch family well, and decides to do his best to break Blue and Ronan up. Things start to get very interesting, in more ways than one. I love parts of this so much that I can quote them to you. 

happy anniversary dipshit djhedy @djhedy

Absolutely IMPECCABLE and ultra-romantic Pynch work, that starts around the time Adam needs to move to Harvard. Ronan’s love for Adam is just dialled up to 111 and he’s written note-perfect. This fic kept breaking my heart and then mending it, so that at the end I looked like a piece of  Kintsugi. Holy fucking shit, I wish I could write like this.

when the frightened cattle break dorypop @hklnvgl

This de-aged Adam fic is a must-read, because so much of Adam’s trauma started in childhood. But don’t worry, he’s with Ronan, and snug in the embrace of the Barns and the Lynches and the Gangsey. This fic affected me so much that I had to take a break from reading it at one point. But I gave myself a good talking-to, reminding myself that both Adam and this story were fiction, and then got back to Dory's unparallelled and realistic way of writing children - also checj out her Fifteen Years Later Dads!Pynch series. 

River Town DubiousSparrow

I wanted to live in River Town so bad, I created my own version. Pynch meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after, in this light-hearted and ridiculously funny series. In my dreams, I visit Ronan’s bar and Adam’s [redacted] and pass Seph and Cala in the street. I wave a hi to Opal in her armadillo Halloween costume, and continue to walk along the Main Street, so happy that Sparrow invented this perfect place. This spot in this fic list was almost going to be the pitch-perfect Wondrous Hypotyposis, that I rec every time I open my mouth, but since River Town lives rent free in my mind, it won.

Just To Be Quiet sksai @babzgordon

This fic based on the verse Unspoken by Sarah Rees Brennan, where Adam and Ronan share a strange psychic bond from when they were kids onwards. And, as we know, a lot happens to these two while they were young. Adam then happens to join Aglionby, and things get even more interesting. 

There is a particular scene in this fic that is so brilliantly and unbelievably sexy, considering no one actually touches the other physically, that I need to sit down and take notes about what actually in the amazing writing makes this kind of magic happen. Epic read. 

Ronan Lynch: Nanny in Charge tinyarmedtrex @tinyarmedtrex

Ronan as ex-chef and nanny makes perfect sense to me, and apparently to t-rexes as well, because this is SUCH a good set up (and this is not the only time she’s written a Ronan who knows his way around a kitchen). Trex’s fics Always hit the spot, when you need some sexy, in-character Pynch in a perfectly executed AU. And this fic delivers it in Spades. Also, Adam with his kid is So CUte, y’all. 

[dent-de-leon]

I’m not sure if you wanted prompts from that kiss list or it was just inspiration, but if you want writing prompts….. maybe 3 and/or 10 for widomauk? 🥺

Hi!! uhh sorry I took too long on this I got like a couple paragraphs in and then it just kept going. Anyway, here's some Moonweaver festival widomauk. Thanks for the prompt!

“Caleb! You have to come see this! There’s lights dancing in the sky!” 

The Moonweaver’s ribbons wind between the mountain peaks cresting high above, snow capped summit scintillating and shimmering like diamond dust, brilliant beams of neon green cascading into electric blue, opalescent radiance shining brighter than every star. Time slowing to the golden halcyon haze of a lucid dream. 

Heavy wingbeats echo overhead to the chorus of distant roars, wyverns soaring across the sky in dark streaks against the glowing night, their riders threading gossamer rays of light through a sea of stars. Thundering applause and uproarious cheers ring out in all of Lyrengorn, the crowd merry with song and dance as the Moonweaver’s radiance wove through a crystal clear solstice night.

The sight steals Molly’s breath away, leaves him starry-eyed and moonstruck, entranced by the ethereal night above. He throws his hands up in the air and twirls around in the whirling snow, flurrying powdery flakes alighting on his horns and crusting his long dark eyelashes. For just a moment, Caleb can imagine him catching a falling star, winding ribbons of light passing through his claws. 

If anyone could catch a shooting star, it would be Mollymauk. He burned with a light all his own, eclipsing even Catha’s pearly glow. Caleb always loved watching comets blaze across the horizon like a fireball called down by the gods, burning hotter than the Nine Hells. Incandescent. But how fast they faded as they fell to earth, their light snuffed out in a heartbeat. Too good to last. 

Warm, bubbling laughter escapes Mollymauk until he collapses in the snow still reeling with giggles, breathlessly giddy and delighted and so vibrantly full of life. 

“Oh. That’s lovely,” he sighs. And then, tail swinging excitedly at the thought, “Ya think they’d let me ride one of those?”

This is the side of Mollymauk that always brings a smile to Caleb’s eyes. The wide-eyed, easily dazzled wonder; his boundless curiosity and love for every little mystery and simple pleasure this world had to offer. Savoring the taste of fine wines and summer strawberries. Luxuriating in the soothing steam and perfumed bath salts of a lavish bathhouse. Threading wildflowers through tousled dark curls, horns jingling with chains of gold and silver and shiny little trinkets. 

Caleb wants to see Molly catch a glimpse of an airship as it lights up and takes flight, the fanged grin when he stands before a volcano for the first time. Bask in that patch of winter sun Mollymauk always carried with him. 

The Moonweaver herself must have cast her radiant glow upon Mollymauk when he first woke, bathed him in a pool of glimmering moonlight and washed Lucien’s bloody past away. Even now he was haloed in her celestial glow, soft pearlescent rays shining down upon him. 

Caleb was born and raised under Empire rule, burned and bled for it. And for all his life, worship of the Moonweaver was strictly forbidden. But of course Molly would flirt with the temptingly forbidden and mystifying, ingratiate himself to a god who was themself an outsider. It did not hurt that her domain was the easy allure of play and dance, trickery and passion. The keeper of midnight trysts. 

Even among the sanctioned deities, every temple in the Dwendalian Empire was government-owned and run, clerics and priests meticulously vetted to suit their needs—always kept on a tight leash. Religious practice in itself was a social taboo; the empire highly discouraged divine magics, fearing any earnestness in prayer that might turn to treasonous fervor. And yet, Mollymauk had still believed. And hid. Kneeling down under a full moon and carefully tucking his idols of Sehanine away. 

Caleb had never seen Mollymauk Tealeaf worship so freely, lost in a crowd where everyone was so warmly welcoming and happy. The crisp night air was alight with music and laughter and cheer. Dancers twirling their partners as glistening auroras rippled and swirled above. Children chasing after each other howling with laughter. Merchants passing out hot drinks and fresh baked sweets, the scent of gingerbread wafting in the air. 

He’d gone to festivals like this once. Long ago, in the flowering fields of Blumenthal. Wulf sharing a sip of his drink as Astrid grabs him by the arm, steals him away. Leads him off into the crowd of merry dancers and lets her hands fall to his waist—

He can’t linger too long on those stolen moments, the rare smiles and tender touches, gentle kisses in a hidden alcove after the clock strikes midnight. Every shred of cold comfort desperately scoured in the darkness. It bleeds together with all the rest, the gnawing pit of shame and guilt and grief hollowing him inside out. That life and name he can never return to. 

But he isn’t there, buried in the ruins of it. He’s here. He’s Caleb. And beside him, Mollymauk’s joy is infectiously radiant. 

Molly revels in the beauty of the Moonweaver’s star-woven tapestry, the bleeding crescent sliver of Ruidus merely a distant gleam, like a half-forgotten dream. On nights when the faraway moon flared a bright, blazing vermillion, it was far too reminiscent of the Somnovum’s burning red Eyes gazing down upon them. 

“You see that cluster of stars that look like a weird duck? Just there?” Mollymauk asks, pointing up at a shimmery haze of blue as dark as the midnight sea. Pinpoints of starlight sparkled in the mist, drawing Caleb’s eye farther north, to a beacon of breathtaking light. “Has different names,” Molly adds, “but Gustav says lots of elves call that the Mollymawk. It’s…a seabird. Or something. Big bloody thing, so don’t fuck with ‘em. Some say they’re a sign. An omen. Or maybe they’re just oversized seagulls that love to go for a swim. But I always thought they’re a pretty sight.” 

He tilts his head up to the light of full moon, basks in Catha’s glow and tries to glean the pattern of stars nestled by her side, tracing imaginary lines between half remembered constellations, seeing stories come alive in the winter sky. His hand falls, unbidden, to the pocket where he kept his tarot cards. You should ask him for a reading, Caleb admonishes himself, Molly would like that. Except, he’s still too afraid to take that step. 

He can’t bear the thought of what Mollymauk might see.  

A memory flits back to him in the soft snowfall and prismatic patterns of ambient light. Molly’s dextrous claws carding through the deck, deftly shuffling. “I saw her again,” he confesses, a quiet chuckle escaping him, eyes shining bright with mischief. “Beautiful and eccentric as ever. Read my fortune. It was a good card. Well, there are no bad cards—sort of. But this, aye, this was a good one.” He flips the card on the top of the stack, revealing a stunning portrait of Yasha wreathed in a sunlit halo. Shimmering wings unfurled to frame her imposing frame, a bouquet of blooming flowers cradled in her arms. Shackles shattering into ash and dust. Her soul breaking free. 

“Do you know what this means?” Molly asks, leaning in conspiratorially. 

The card is titled Love, and it makes his traitorous heart nearly stop. 

Caleb catches a flash of something out of the corner of his eye, coasting along on the late night breeze, fluttering away in the moonlight. 

A long white satin ribbon streams from one of Molly’s horns, tied on for good luck. Molly had fastened a matching one to Caleb’s own wrist, tying it in a neat bow despite his protests, frantic pulse beating against the whisper of soft sheer fabric. Hands sweating as Molly traced the delicate trimming with careful claws, thumb brushing over his lifeline. “Oh come on, Mr. Caleb. It’s festive.”

Although baffled and a bit flustered, Caleb was honored to be included. Mollymauk’s worship had always been such a personal matter; a quiet, private moment. An unspoken intimacy between him and the moon that always lit his steps through darkness. 

Swathed in silvery moonlight and whispering over his shimmering glass swords—how much of that was for show? A play, a performance, cloaking himself in the rich mantle of superstition and ceremony. They say Sehanine shelters her followers in the shadows, secreting them away under the cover of darkness. But Mollymauk, ever the flashy peacock, had mastered the delicate art of masquerading in a veil of prismatic color and glittering light. 

An ornate coat embroidered in the symbols of every god permitted in the Empire’s pantheon, the sign of the Platinum Dragon hanging from his neck. Idols of Sehanine safely tucked away in hidden pockets. Crescent moons subtly stitched into the lining of his coat. His love for the Moonweaver woven into the elaborate ornamentation of his tarot cards, inked into his very skin among blooming flowers and winding snakes. A secret covenant between him and his moonlit goddess. 

Molly’s worship is a declaration of love. 

Moonlit prayers and pleas whispered into warm skin at the witching hour, reverent and desperate and strung out with the sweetest sighs. A drunken song dissolving into bursts of giddy laughter. Lingering touches that echo for lifetimes after. Mollymauk worships the way he fights, scrappy and passionate and fiercely protective, bleeding his own heart dry. A sacrificial knife glinting in the last rays of twilight. His blood spilling down the alter, giving up all that he is. A body rent in two with the last gasping breath and trembling hands of a life tangled up in too many loose threads.

Caleb worships no one. Bows before no god, not even the savior whose idol hangs heavy around his throat. The simple comfort of a stranger’s kind touch and gentle words; a favor from a faceless god he could never return. And still, Caleb had never sworn himself to any Prime Deity in the pantheon. Never cared for the paltry promises of faith and salvation, not when he could bend reality to his will with his own mortal hands, manifest anything his broken heart desired. 

And what his heart ached and longed for more than anything was for Mollymauk Tealeaf to rise from the grave, laugh in the Raven Queen’s face just one last time. Finally open his eyes. Mollymauk lies naked, bloodied, broken, his ruined body torn from mangled flesh and bone and rot, painstakingly pried from Lucien’s decaying husk like some grisly, mocking pantomime of birth. Stripped bare and caked in blood and all curled up, tail wrapped around himself. He looks…young. Vulnerable. Caleb is seized by the sudden, fiercely protective urge to cover Molly’s still form with his own coat, to somehow shield his prone body from all the lifeless eyes of this horrific place. 

They don’t have any time for that. Caleb traces his fingertips along the wicked scar bisecting Molly’s torso, the one he dug his own claws into. His hand comes away drenched in blood—Molly’s blood, once so warm, but going cold—and he scrambles for the little lucky stone in his pocket, trembling as seven pairs of eyes all fall to him. 

He can do this. He has to. 

But it’s Caleb’s first time unravelling the Matron’s thread, and he is no cleric. He has no prayers or offering to lay at Molly’s feet. He has only his own magic, a lifetime of study and discipline and desperation coursing through his veins in burning clarity. He kneels and begs for Mollymauk’s soul to hear them. And when the spell fails, when the light dies and Molly’s body is still and lifeless and—empty. He’s empty. Even though Caleb promised, gave his word, swore he’d be Empty no longer—

When it all falls apart, Caleb has only himself to blame. 

If only he had something—anything—to contribute to the ritual. A worthy offering.

But he had nothing. Only a letter left unread, still buried in the grave, that Mollymauk would never see. “Your name is Mollymauk. Mollymauk Tealeaf.” Only a memory encased in stained glass, a rainbow of brilliant color glistening in the warm candlelight, the centerpiece of hearth and home. “Come and find us.” Only a broken goodbye as he gently brushes the sweaty hair from Molly’s eyes, leaves him with a kiss that tastes only of regret. 

Caleb is godless, faithless. And more than that, he is already damned; death and grief and guilt sink their claws into him still, every spark of flame conjuring shadows of his old home. He has no illusions of the weight his own sins carry, understands far too intimately that he may be beyond redemption. Too little too late. Maybe. For him. But if he can save another soul, pull someone else back from the brink, again and again, spare them from his own doomed fate—

Astrid. Wulf. Essek. And then Mollymauk, caged and screaming, rattling at the bars and spitting in Lucien’s face, prying away pieces of himself in clawing agony. 

Caleb has no god to pray to. But when Mollymauk’s body glows, bathed in the light of a Magician’s spell, and his skin is warmed as it was in life, and Caleb swears he can hear the faintest echo of a heartbeat, he desperately believes. In Mollymauk, in the Nein, in some raw aching hope for salvation and second chances. 

For this falling star that brought a gleam of light to all their lives, Caleb can kneel in supplication, and lay bare his own heart upon the alter. 

“He’s religious, you know,” Fjord divulged once, even as Beau balked and Nott nearly spat out the drink she just downed. “No, really. I see him praying over his swords every night.” 

“Every night?” Beau adamantly shakes her head, nose scrunching up as she snorted into her cup. 

“And every morning!” Molly adds brightly, slamming two more tankards down on their crammed little table. 

“Oh, Molly! You have a god too!” Jester squealed, jumping up to her feet and practically bursting with excitement. “Who is it? You think maybe they’re friends with the Traveler?” 

“Huh. That’s a good question, I hadn’t really thought of that. Could be…She reminds me a bit of you, actually. The playing tricks. The blue.” 

“She’s blue!?” 

“Just your shade, I’d think. Could be your sister.” 

“What is it you believe in, Mr. Mollymauk?” Caleb asks carefully, eyeing the glint of mischief in Molly’s twinkling eyes. 

Mollymauk swings his leg over the chair and falls down with a vibrant jingle of gold and jewels and clamoring trinkets all tinkling like a handful of coins. He sprawls across the table and shoves one of the tankards in front of Caleb, almost as an afterthought. Spiced sweetness; cloves, cinnamon, pumpkin. Sharp burn of whiskey. Caleb cradles it in his hands and greedily gulps it down, warmed to his core by the drink and something else he dare not say. 

Mollymauk turns to him with a rakish grin, claws idly circling his tankard’s rim. 

“What do I believe in? Mm, let’s see.” He dragged the words out thoughtfully, savoring the taste of every one. “Pleasure.” Caleb doesn’t wet his lip as his throat goes desperately dry. He definitely does not. “Joy. Chaos. Leavin’ this ridiculous world a bit better off. Making some folks a little happier, doin’ a good turn. Havin’ fun while ya’ still can. Love. The finer things in life, Mr. Caleb.”

The finer things. Caleb was anything but; haggard face smeared in dirt and grime, dark circles rimmed under his sunken eyes. Threadbare clothes falling apart at the seams, sagging on his bone thin frame. Too many months since he’d had a shave, since he’d taken a pair of shears to his overgrown, matted auburn hair. 

And yet, he can remember bits and pieces of that other life so clearly. Fine silk robes bearing the seal of the Solstryce Academy. Sunlight dappling golden halls, shining on stained glass. Condensation glistening on marble arches and columns, clouds of steam wafting over crystal clear bathwater. A ripple, a splash. His hands dipping into the water in a bloody stream, blotted streaks of bright crimson blooming at his touch, a stain he could never wash away. 

He gingerly scrubs the blood from Astrid and Wulf as his own dyes the world around them a deep, murky red. Fearful awe and aching reverence in every touch, trembling hands tentatively exploring the expanse of pale, bony skin laid bare before him. He can't remember if it was devotion he chased or merely desperation. If the distinction even mattered. If he wanted this or just wanted and wanted and wanted—aching to feel anything other than the ceaseless violence and searing pain. 

He still cannot fathom why Mollymauk cast those disarming smiles his way, looking past the decade mired in wallowing filth and decay, staring through to Caleb’s core and truly seeing him. For years, he hung his head and skulked in the shadows, roaming the streets alone and destitute, a nameless shade haunting the country he once called home. All in the faint, desperate hope that discerning eyes would glaze over him in sheer revulsion. No one would ever look too close and actually see him. Just another lonely hermit, not worth anyone’s attention. 

But Mollymauk had seen. Again and again, as Caleb ducked his head and raised his hood, darted past and fearfully tried to steer out of his way, he could never quite shake the tiefling’s piercing gaze. 

He squirmed at the attention at first. The playful teasing and too sharp smiles and barest brush of soft lips on fever warm skin. 

Caleb’s keen mind recalls that the Moonweaver favors kind souls and tricksters, Catha’s grace shining upon star-crossed lovers. The allure of forbidden romance. Clandestine trysts. Caretaker of all the bleeding hearts doomed to a tragic end.  

As Caleb reluctantly trails after Mollymauk in the mirthful crowd, he can’t help but notice parents lifting children up on their shoulders to admire the wondrous winter lights. Circles of elves timidly exchanging flower crowns. Young couples holding hands in the moonlight. 

Why had Molly even asked him to come? 

“...hey, Caleb. You still with me?”

It takes a moment for him to realize the tiefling had been speaking, chatting away animatedly as lights painted the night in bleeding watercolors; Molly’s face illuminated by the auroras’ soft glow flickering above, dappled in iridescent shades of glacial blue melting into molten gold.

“Ja. I was just—” Mollymauk is walking closer now, advancing on him until he’s stepping right into his space, leaning in until he’s mere inches away, “—distracted.”

“Magician.” 

Caleb loves the way he says that. The light lilt of his accent and soothing cadence. Fond, teasing. Charming. The Magician—flashy tricks, sleight of hand, a magic that’s only real if you believe it. A gracious bow as the curtain drops.

Molly bites his lip and Caleb desperately tries not to mirror him. But his gaze still falls to the pretty shape of his mouth and that glint of fang sinking in.  

Of course Molly catches him staring.

Mollymauk watches him with the quiet intensity of a wizard unravelling a spell, deeply invested and singularly focused, tearing loose the fabric of the universe to lay it all bare—an Archmage’s blasphemous arrogance.Tampering with the gears and tugging on heartstrings to see what makes a man tick. Deft hands shuffling the deck, every card stacked in his favor. Smiling as blood streams from a split lip. Hooded red eyes gleaming in the firelight as he downs his tankard with roaring laughter. Burnished sunset gold in glistening amber globules. Turning cards and twisting truths, changing fate and fortune at the whim of his too-soft heart. Sharp tongue still ringing silver, crooning sweet nothings in his ear with a devil’s tender touch. 

For all his playing at the fool, Mollymauk knew far too much. 

“Close your eyes a moment,” Molly orders, eyes narrowed. 

His tone brokers no room for argument. 

“Was?”

“Eyes closed! No peekin’.”

Caleb relents with an exasperated sigh, surrendering himself to another of Molly’s mercurial whims. And maybe there’s just the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips, a certain fondness for his ridiculous Circus Man. 

He’s rewarded for his gracious compliance with a little pat on the cheek. 

“Good boy,” Molly purrs—it warms him to his core, saccharine sweet as ambrosia spilt by the gods. Caleb can just imagine his tail swaying in glee, a coy cat who just cornered prey. 

Brat.

Something changes after that. A charge in the air, exhilarating and electric. A taste of ozone before the storm. Is this what Yasha feels, when she inhales the wind and pouring rain and heeds the call of thunder roaring in her blood? Skin soaked to the bone, dark tousled hair plastered to her sweat sheened forehead as she stands and walks headlong into the raging tempest. Terrifying—thrilling—a bolt of blazing lighting that resonates with every beat of her racing heart. 

Mollymauk is dangerously close. Both of them are. Dancing at the edge of the precipice, ravens circling. Caleb can feel the warmth of his breath fogging up the chilled night air between them with every gentle exhale. 

"Mr. Caleb," Molly says, and he knows it's accompanied by a cheeky grin. "Tell me, how would you feel if I--"

"Kiss me." Caleb's voice is raw, breathy, the words both a demand and ardent plea.

Molly's laughter is a warm rumble that could melt all the snow in Lyrengorn.

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

Molly delicately cups his cheek in hand, drawing him in like a gravitational pull, like a pale moon caught in their brilliant star’s orbit. Warm lips pressed against his in a tender kiss, feather soft and fleeting. Molly’s every touch is gentle. Intimate. A distilled moment of sheer bliss that leaves his heart lighter than air. Molly breathing a bit of joy back into his life, sharing some of the same spark that chased away his own demons, filling up the clawing Emptiness that hollowed him out and made its home in his bones. An Emptiness that Caleb feels he’s always known. 

It’s frighteningly easy to surrender at such gentle hands, acquiescing to Molly’s capricious impulses and guileless affection, an unspoken temptation he dared not indulge in. But Mollymauk, heathen, hedonist, patron of all worldly pleasures, had never once known temperance.  Chalice overflowing with the heady rush of desire, every forbidden tryst and flare of passion a reverential blessing. He has always bowed before the goddess of love, and he remains ever devout in his worship. 

It’s addictive, intoxicating. And over far too soon. Just as their lips brush, Molly’s hand starts to fall away—letting him go. 

Caleb doesn’t want him to. 

He surges forward and tangles his hands in Molly’s dark curls, drawing him in for another kiss. And another. Molly lets out a breathy laugh that Caleb gladly claims, holding him tight and reveling in the taste.

He’s enveloped in the familiar comfort of Mollymauk’s scent. Sandalwood—warm, earthy—and just a tinge of something sweeter. Kneeling in prayer over burning incense, massaging perfumed oils as they wade into the steam of a warm bath. 

And curse him, but Caleb is seized by a fervent longing to mouth at the hollow of his throat and bury himself in the soothing balm of Molly’s all encompassing embrace. 

He pours his heart into each kiss, the long months of loss and longing gnawing away at him. Heated gazes in quiet moments, a little pat on the cheek or comforting hand on the shoulder. Molly’s playful teasing thawing at the frost of his heart—even though the Waldhexe surely devoured it long ago. A spark of burning life that Caleb had to watch die out twice. Shine bright, Circus Man. Echoes of memories clinging to Molly, tethering back his wayward soul. Caleb’s feelings flowering into bloom just as his Circus Man finally wakes.

The last time Caleb kissed Mollymauk it was to say goodbye, tumultuous waves of grief and guilt spilling over in his last desperate attempt at comfort. Mourning a love and tenderness that would never return.

He wouldn’t stand by and suffer in silence again. Heart shattering along with the jagged shards of a Transmuter Stone, broken fragments falling from his shaking palms as it all goes dark. 

The Matron’s ravens couldn’t have him. Not while Caleb still lived and breathed; he’d sever the binds of every thread if it came to that, burning away at fate’s cruel weave until Mollymauk was finally free. 

“It’s good luck if you get a kiss tonight,” Molly whispers when they part, his face softening in the moonlight.

Then all too soon that rush of hearth-fire warmth is gone, Molly’s indigo curls wind tossed and fluttering in the cool night breeze as he turns away, turns to run and vanish under the cover of shadow. Molly shoots him a grin, sharp and sweet, before he turns on his heel and darts off into the crowd of revelry, that familiar laughter echoing in the night as he disappears into the dark. His mother told him fairy stories once. Tales of creatures with otherworldly beauty, dancing wild and free under the Moonweaver’s light, captivating lost mortals. But doomed to never stay. Fading back into the void black dark and winding woods, leaving behind nothing but the lingering shadow of a phantom touch. 

“M-Mollymauk!”

Caleb nearly loses his footing scrambling to chase after him in the snow, a gust of biting cold wind and ghost of a chuckle leaving him breathless. But he can’t help grinning, even as his teeth chatter and every aching muscle protests the bracing, blistering chill cutting through him, knives of ice in his chest. He barely feels it as he races after Mollymauk, spurred on by the tiefling’s teasing taunts and howling laughter. Chasing a falling star.

[justavulcan]

Backgrounds With Class: Cleric

Some classes and backgrounds mesh naturally, from a conceptual standpoint.  Soldier and Fighter, Entertainer and Bard, Sage and Wizard.  But backgrounds aren’t class-restricted, and so I wonder what it would look like if you paired every class with every background, even the ones that seem at odds, like Sage and Barbarian, or Outlander and Wizard.  So I thought about it, and this is what I came up with. Some character concepts for each class, and each Player’s Handbook background for each class.

Cleric

Not every cleric is a recognized priest.  Actually, because of how backgrounds work, I’d even go so far to say that not even most clerics are ordained, at least not necessarily.  A cleric is just someone who leans into their worship and belief for power, and their god rewards their faith so they can act on their behalf.  Not much else to say here- I tried to get away from their faith being the most important thing about them, from a personality standpoint.  There’s more to people than what they believe and what they do with it.

The Acolyte Cleric knows the dark; after all, her home in the Northern Reach is pitch-black for months at a time during the winter. She always looks forward to this time, when her aerie draws closer together, parroting old tales in their original voices or making new ones with shadow puppetry or sign language.  The dark bespeaks safety and community for her, and when the time came for her to choose a vocation, the priesthood of the Moon Koi was a natural choice.

The Charlatan Cleric walks a tight rope between trickery and help.  Gifted with a healer’s touch to reward her faith in the Fates, she struggles every day with the temptation to sell far easier- and more profitable- oils and unguents that might only maybe help.  She considers her soft-heartedness a liability rather than an asset, but her neighbors know she holds her neighborhood in highest regard- and where to find her for actual healing when she closes up her stall for the day.

The Criminal Cleric knows kidnapping for hire is an ugly business, but it’s the one he’s got.  Kidnapping sacrifices for the small altar to the Gossamer King he has in the sinking basement of a ruined plantation was a gateway into the trade.  However, truth be told, the King has given his more gifts (and, he thinks, inclinations) to see people’s lives end under his hand and blade rather than just taking them for a golden payday.  He’s sustained himself on the pocket contents of his victims for a long time, but bigger thirsts need sating.

The Entertainer Cleric got his start as a speaker; first a street prophet, then a town crier, then eventually as a voice for Indrahni’s faithful as they worshiped in the fields and wild places.  Herald to the rains and the storms and the deepest snows of winter, he knows that a raised voice is as much a tool for the entertainment of the mind as for the enrichment of the soul.  What takes him from his home is a need for more than the seasons to change, and so Eastwall becomes his home, as he wanders, doing the Lady of Storms’ will.

The Folk Hero Cleric was born to a time of war.  His country has been wracked by civil war on and off since time immemorial, and when the enemy’s soldiers came to his home, he cried out to the heavens for whomever would help- and the Queen of Dragons answered. Bearing a flag of five colors, he ralled farmers, smiths, miners, and veterans alike and called them to his side, defending their town with ferocity scarce before seen.  Now, he travels with the war zone, leaving shrines to Tiamat behind him and rallying those he can to defend their homes and persons from invaders- who, he cares not.

The Guild Artisan Cleric keeps giant bees.  A hive tender and mazer by trade, he dons heavy chitin armor dyed calcium white every day and goes to speak to the bees, watching the dance and hearing the thrum of the house-sized beehives to know their needs.  He, too, gives homage to Father Hunter, and keeps the bees as they keep him.  That community-mindedness has stuck with him his whole life, and it’s in his nature to support others as they do him.

The Hermit Cleric owns a bookstore.  Following a life in a monastery and discovery of a secret that tainted his people’s chaos-shaping for him forever, he fled to one metropolis after another seeking answers and wishing for a better way to uncover the truth- and what to do about it.  Thoth came to him in a vision, ibis-headed and regal, to guide him where he was needed best, and now he disseminates knowledge to all who walk through his door- whether from the street in the famed City of Doors, or elsewhere.

The Noble Cleric strove her whole life to join the Order of the Brazen Scroll. In her homeland of Ymez, they keep the law in the name of Moloch, and that calling- the maintenance of order and discipline- is the highest she aspired to.  Her upbringing and squire-ship prepared her well, and now she and her attendants keep the Brazen Bull’s peace wherever they must, whether it’s the streets and chambers of the grandest city, or the dirt roads and empty vistas and deserts of the wild countryside.

The Outlander Cleric was born a wanderer.  Her family always traveled the roads and not-roads of the dry lands in and above the Hope Desert, but her own traveler’s spirit took her further afield, to lands across the Sea Between, even the surface embassies of the Lords of Life.  With her travels her duty, a solemn commitment to seeing the dead put to rest, the new ushered safe into the world, and the knowledge that the Fates might speak at any time- and she, the mouthpiece.  Still, the roaming is a delight, if her duty isn’t always, and her grave commitment is a comfort to those she sees.

The Sage Cleric has studied the language of giants since they were young. First upon the ivory carvings stone giants brought to the town at the base of their mountain, then later on the walls of ruins as their parents explained the fall of the great giant empires. The craft of these ancient peoples and places always struck them, and so they struck back.  Armor, bricks, weapons, and art- all struck with the same runic maker’s mark and runes for strength and timelessness, an act of scholarship and simple faith that brought the attention of greater powers- and the greatest sponsor of any crafter.

The Sailor Cleric has left the most checkered part of their past behind them, but not far.  The hop from pirate to lighthouse-keeper is a short one, but the divide is huge.  In their new post as lighthouse-keeper, they’ve found a new appreciation for the work some put in to keep other sailors safe from reefs and hard shorelines, and their reverence for the light they tend has connected them to the Sun Phoenix.  The time may come when they must leave the lighthouse and take their new light on the road, as their checkered past threatens to give chase.

The Soldier Cleric gives reverence to his divine parent the only way he knows how: by bringing their tempest to the battlefield.  Tasked with defending the hospital tent and ready to drive intruders back by sword, spell, and lightning breath, he reached to the Dragon of Ages to guide his hand and the lightning within him to where he might best be of aid.  Since the end of hostilities, he’s found himself wandering far afield, but his purpose has remained the same.

The Urchin Cleric has always known the truth: that knowledge is power, and both are the life of the city, and the god thereof.  From a childhood in the alleys, rookeries, bath-houses, and taverns of Rojksvik, to an adulthood plying those same venues for every scrap of useful knowledge, she’s made knowing her business.  A quick imitator’s tongue, sharp eyes, and a willingness to intrude or even trespass where her beak isn’t wanted provides her with a vast body of knowledge- all to be used, sold, traded, or hidden, at her discretion.

[timelorddarthswagger]

Kvothe potential angel or god?

I think I finally understand what Tehlu did in that damn story.

When Kvothe starts telling his story. he starts with a misdirect and starts talking about all of creation in a big bang sense of things of how their version of god created himself.

later you find out about Tehlu becoming the son of himself. and Kvothe built up his name through the stories that he created. so when they say Tehlu and all his angels and people pray in Tehlu's name. and through Dena's theme of trying to change her name. and Lanrae becoming immortal by his wife calling his name back from the doors of death...

Kinda sound like something a Shaper would do. as for the wings. kinda sounds like when Namers shape their rings.

what if Tehlu did the same. and took on the name of a god. in the way that Kvothe built up infamy through gossip Tehlu could have built up his divinity through deeds. and one of them is in the pursuit of Haliax aka Lanrae after the fall of the seven cities.

Then the fire settled on their foreheads like silver stars and they became at once righteous and wise and terrible to behold.

songs of power make me think of a quote or misquote in the series is " to know the name of a thing is to have power over it. " or something similar is said by one of the masters at the university. but Fulurian says something along the lines of that's not true mastery being given.

let me show in the instance of this in wise man's fear. " Her smile was fierce and full. She was as lovely as the moon. Her power hung about her like a

mantle. It shook the air. It spread behind her like a pair of vast and unseen wings.

Close enough to touch, I felt her power thrumming in the air. Desire rose around me like the sea in storm.

She raised her hand. She touched my chest. I shook.

She met my eyes, and in the twilight written there, I saw again the four clear lines of song.

I sang them out. They burst from me like birds into the open air.

Suddenly my mind was clear again. I drew a breath and held her eyes in mine. I sang again, and this time I was full of rage. I shouted out the four hard notes of song. I sang them tight and white and hard as iron. And at the sound of them, I felt her power shake then shatter, leaving nothing in the empty air but ache and anger. "

Kvothe didn't gain mastery over her he just broke the power of her name for a time.

a reference to a silver fire.

" I spoke a name. I moved my hands and wove my breath gossamer-thin. It billowed out, engulfing her, then burst into a silver flame that trapped her tight inside its changing name. "

and though not a silver star. a notable reference is made in the same passage in the same fight with Felurian.

"I saw myself reflected in her eyes, naked among the cushions.

My power rode like a white star on my brow.

Then I began to feel a fading. A forgetting. I realized the name of the wind no longer filled my mouth, and when I looked around I saw nothing but empty air. "

this could also explain the drastic change in religion that happened in the 4 corners. and why the Priest didn't like the stories that Skarpi was telling.

that also explains the story that Trapis tells. because of Trapis' faith.

Patrick Rothfuss, who explained on his blog that Trapis is actually a disciple of a schism of Tehlinism referred to as the Mender Heresies. This belief states that Tehlu became human in the form of Menda.

but I'm thinking Menda became an Angel in the form of Tehlu. what if becoming one of Tehlu's angels is the highest form of naming?

we know that after Kvothe is beaten and laying in the snow he imagines death visiting him with wings of fire and shadow. thinking of how offended Kvothe was when chronicler implied that rumors say Kvothe became one of the seven. how wild would it be if Kvothe became one of Tehlu's angels?

I mean look how he starts his own story. " In the beginning, as far as I know, the world was spun out of the nameless void by Aleph, who gave everything a name. Or, depending on the version of the tale, found the names all things already possessed.”

Chronicler let slip a small laugh, "

now if we go a little further you get this boast.

" Kvothe continued, smiling himself. “I see you laugh. Very well, for simplicity’s sake, let us assume I am the center of creation. In doing this, let us pass over innumerable boring stories: the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love. Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance.” His smile broadened. “Mine.”

The way Kvothe shames the name like fabric makes me think of the waves of power from the Wheel of Time book series by Robert Jordan. the way a name is torn and then let go makes me think of how the weaves would dissipate. but you could tie or knot off a weave. I mention this because I've brought up the dream Kvothe had while in the snow of Abenthy teaching him story knots though he had no real such memory. this was before he looked into Dena's story knots. if he did see one of Tehlu's angels after being beaten. and he dreamed of story knots. could it have been the same as a divine message?

I think of the implication of that towards The Yillish story knots. and how the university has spools and spools of story knots in an old room.

@rhetoricandlogic I know it's been a while. and this is super long. I just had to get around to digging it out of my drafts.

Which is no small feat in way of effort. given all the aimless little short stories, and full-on pages of longer stories that I've squirreled away. I'll save my Puppet in the archives trying to take on the name of the archives. theory for another time.

[kettlequills]

the champion of the skein

for the wonderful @blazingsnark ! a bit of fdb laat feat. mephala. its not super long im afraid but !! enjoy!

The Spiral Skein has many doors, under chairs and inside cupboards, gathering beneath beds and the secret cracks just small enough for a spider to squirm through. Mephala’s eyes are thousandfold, her hooked legs sprawl across every nation, every age, every war tent and peace council. None are big enough for Laataaz to crawl through.

They search, exhaustively, in the early years. After the shine of silence, stillness, sleep, has worn off, before the hopelessness sets in. Like a poison, their awareness of their fate saps their strength. Underneath it, a hidden blade, is the cruel, sweet relief.

Paarthurnax gets slower and slower, the webs settle on him thickly as a veil, a thousand spiders make their homes in the dents of his scales, the cracks and chips of his horns. He doesn’t stir them away as often as he used to. Eventually, he stops doing even that.

Grey in scale and grey in wing and grey in soul, he curls up and shrinks like a spider fist-curled in death. Captivity and dragons don’t mix well; he is coiling into himself, voiceless and old and no longer the howling friend seizing them in his wings when the blast hit to save their stupid, fragile flesh. Oh, the scars are there, still, Morokei’s magical attack blazing through the membranes like they’re lit from beneath by a deep, cold blue, but the heart is gone. Paarthurnax looks at them, and in his eyes they see only tiredness, no recognition of the soul he damned himself to try to save one last time.

He shouldn’t have tried. There is nothing worth saving, only gossamer spidersilk stretched over the void of a person, catching flies too foolish to stay away. Killer, murderer, lover. How she had smiled, and smiled, and smiled, when she cupped Laataaz’s cheeks in her hands, scraped her nails down their throat, and told them with such loving pride: You are a Prince’s plaything now, champion.

Laataaz hugs their knees close to their chest, craving the pocket of warmth between their thighs and their ribs. Skin brushes skin; sensitive, erotic, but when they rest their forehead on their knees it makes the bruises of their eyes ache. The spiders whisper over their spine; Laataaz’s shiver is an afterthought, their bare toes curling into the stringy grey dust. Where did their boots go?

They look up, through the dreary, dusty darkness, the muted semi-glow, even after years here, they haven’t found where the light comes from. Some of the webs are pitch black, black as under cupboards, but some are only black as moonlit nights, with some faint greyness coming in from somewhere, just enough for Laataaz to see shapes that flicker and skitter in the gloom.

They can’t see her. Her. The queen of the webs, but they know she’s there. Watching, a finger in every pie, a smile for the dying, a dagger for the lying, as beautiful, as multifaceted, as the lights that bloom behind Laataaz’s eyes when they’re a wheeze from fainting, their own hands wrapped around their neck and squeezing like they can crush out the Voice that lurks like a traitor inside. They can’t tear it out, the dragonsoul, the death-trap jaw that hungers and hungers and hungers…

Wyrm-tongued, wyrm-hearted, a priest with no god, a warrior with no general. Except for her. Her.

There are always legs, moving, tiny tapping feet. Laataaz looks down at their hands and find them greyed out, longer and more than they remember, furred over with dust. They don’t notice the tickling, anymore. They don’t notice the webs. Their robes hang, but no breeze seeks the rents and the rips, and webs cover the holes, so they don’t have to see their skin. Skin lovers have caressed, once, that loyal worshippers rubbed with oils until they gleamed like a blade, like a beauty, every part of them exposed to the cold, old air with only a fur across their shoulders and a mask on their face. Skin lovers so tenderly wiped clean of the blood, afterwards. All the blood, all that blood, it takes them hours.

It doesn’t look how they remember. Soon, nothing will. Laataaz can feel themselves folding, being swallowed, digested into the Skein. It is not a bad thing. It is not a foul thing. It feels like cocoonment, like sleep, like drugged, dizzy daydreams. But, for her, her, Laataaz would curl up and let the daedra that lurk just out of eyesight take them, wrap them, make them, mark them, fuck them into churning oblivion. But Laataaz is a Prince’s plaything now, a champion, and all that they are is another’s to wield.

They have only ever been good at being a weapon. Believing, even for a moment, that they could think, that they could feel, that they could make decisions for themselves… No, Laataaz knows the cost of that folly now. So does the world. All those bodies burning, those lives ending, and for what? A dream of freedom?

The blood, all that blood. It takes them hours.

Laataaz inhales, then settles their will around their spine, and sinks their hand into the sticky webs. Something nips at their fingers, they grimace. It burns, it stings.

They’d had gloves, once. They don’t remember where they went. Frayed off, string by string, from their swollen knuckles, secreted away to webs and wisps. They’d gone to the fight, that final fight, on the steps of Bromjunaar with the power of the Cult arrayed against them clothed, not a pet, not leashed, lashed. The leather had rubbed against them, the robes had whispered around their ankles, but their face, their face…

Laataaz doesn’t think, they don’t feel, they don’t choose. They are a weapon, a hunter, a killer, a lover, wherever she needs, a wyrm-hearted, wyrm-tongued priest with one queen.

Gritting their teeth, they sink one hand in, then the next. It comes out with a squelch. In this way, hand over hand, they climb through the rings, to the heart of the Skein… and the spider queen at its centre.

Mephala awaits them, queenly and bored. Are there words for what she is? Too huge to speak words into existence, too small to see, with a thousand eyes and none at all, she is a presence, an inanimate darkness, a cutclaw smile around dripping jaws. She stretches out one hand and the realm bends to her will, and Laataaz is kneeling before her, the carapace of her thick spider half glossed and gleaming before their nose. Her red eyes smoke in the gloom, like embers, her purple skin bruised as the flesh of plums.

Laataaz has never seen a plum, before her, but just because they can’t leave the Skein alone doesn’t mean they are unused. In the markets, the palaces, the shacks and the woods of the world, they have done hot and cruel bloodwork, whenever their queen wills it. Some of them have things a human from the icebound north has never seen, but they all die the same way.

“What do you want from me?” Laat begs to know, and Mephala laughs.

Beautiful as the whisper of eightlegged revels, it washes sticky-soft the worries from their mind with the kiss of its venom. Paarthurnax, dying in the prison of his own mind, matters not when Mephala is looking down at Laataaz with such unbearable fondness in her lips wet with poison. Laataaz has been a possession all their life, never have they been so loved for it.

“What mortal mind do you think you have that you can fathom the purpose of a god?” Her claws curve the side of Laataaz’s face. “You take my gifts, you haunt my realm, and you worship me, because you know there are things beyond your ken in this world. I am one. Where is this trust now, my priest? Do you no longer think my webs are weaving round your enemies?”

“My queen,” says Laataaz, “I am loyal, you know I am loyal-“

“-which is why,” says Mephala, tilting a finger under their chin and lifting it sharply, enough that their spine has to strain straight, “I am kind enough to permit your doubt, this time.”

Laataaz sighs, their eyes sliding away from hers. Their breath is shallow. The claw digs slightly under their chin when their trembling muscles falter, and their stomach clenches around liquid fire. The pinpricks the claws leave remind them of the weakness of their human skin, no dragon scale to protect their vulnerable parts. The near-sexual excitement of the old bloodthirst wells like deep-plunged water poured over droughted lands, scudding across a hard surface, soaking thirstily into the cracks. Corresponding heat beats in time to the snick of her eyelids closing one by one, the flashing of dizzy red among the darkness. They want to hurt. They want to feel incandescently alive, in the way only she can make them feel, in this dead, decaying world of drying spiderskeins.

“I remain whatever you make of me, my queen.”

“Yes,” murmurs Mephala, and condescends to bend her great neck to kiss Laataaz’s forehead. Her lips are soft, and she lingers. Cascading fireworks alight under her lips, tingling through Laataaz’s aching body. They strain into her gentleness, eyes falling closed and swaying helplessly into her arms. How long has it been, since they have been touched, loved? Were they ever, by any but her? All that blood, it takes hours to scrub off. But when Mephala’s nails scrape down their shivering shoulders and catch in the rents of their robes, her hands come away clean, as if there is no blood there at all. “And I will make you glorious, my champion.”

“As my queen desires,” Laataaz says. Boldly, they touch her cheek, the flecks of scaling that cover her proud cheekbones rough under their hand. It is a blind touch; they are not so disrespectful to raise their head to look her in her manifold eyes. Not so foolish to think what is left of them will survive such a contact. “Whatever my queen desires.”

“Desire?” Mephala chuckles. “No, not mine, champion. But your queen is gracious - come and please her.”

“Thank you,” Laataaz whispers, entranced, and rises up on their tiptoes for a venom-laced kiss.

Mephala permits the illusion of mortality for a moment, feeding Laataaz her forked tongue, teasing them with scrapes of her snake’s fangs. Laataaz trembles and moans under her attention, the pricks of her legs closing around their back like the bars of a cage; Mephala could open her jaw and swallow their head whole. Her tongue is overwhelmingly long and sinuous, flexible as a snake it chokes Laataaz’s throat, laps against their palate as she draws back. Saliva and venom mix, stinging sweetly down their chin as her flicking tongue thrusts and curls down their throat. Laataaz clings to her shoulders, the ridges of her carapace clicking smooth against their skin, hard and unyielding.

“You are a wretched creation,” Mephala says to them, as she withdraws, “Your hunger cannot be sated by even this feast. You are naught but a blunt blade, godkiller, so close to once losing your edge.”

Laataaz shudders, not disagreeing but unable to hide the sharpness of her words aimed like a knife. It is true the emptiness yawns within them, that crying ache that split wide with the first dragon soul they ever swallowed and ever since lurks within them, a canyon between the two sides of their bloodied heart. It is all they are, on the inside; a hollow, craving fulfilment.  

Mephala rakes her nails over Laataazin’s chest, scoring fierce lines. Laataaz imagines dizzily that she could reach in and feel it, that snowstorm of catching hooks, could fold her fist into where dragon souls are crushed and force open the jaws long enough to feed something warm in its place.

“I have a god for you to kill, hunter.”

She steps back, a cruelness in her many eyes, and the webs swing and gravity yanks out from under their feet. Laataaz plummets through the abyss, ripping straight through one web with daedra screaming on their back. They twist midair and bite open the daedra’s throat, teeth scraping harshly against the carapace, blood and venom stinging their cheeks, their hands. They hit a web strong enough to bear them hard enough to bounce, but the second impact sends them straight through the strands.

They hook one hand into the webs and dangle from it, arms burning. A glow from below catches their eye; Mephala, many thousand times larger than before, stretching up towards them, one hand larger than Paarthurnax as it reaches to swat them, errantly as a fly.

Laataaz crawls away, but the stickiness of the webs hinders them. The webs cling to them closely, tearing their ragged robes when they pull away, ripping at their pruned flesh beneath. Venom bursts in bleeding pulses from the torn webs, glowing like silver purple veins. An arcane heart, and Laataaz dangling from the shredded ventricles, hands wet with stinging sap and blood.

Mephala catches them in one enormous hand and presses into their chest with one finger, hard enough the breath wheezes from their lungs, organs against spine. They hook their arms into the web and hang on doggedly, feeling their muscles burning but not daring to relax into the pressure of her pinch. Their legs kick helplessly over the yawning darkness, a thousand beetle-like eyes glitter back in the dark, carnivorous mouths stretched wide and ready.

Mephala would not let them die, they don’t think. But she would let them fall.

“Whoever you wish, my queen, I will find them,” Laataaz rasps out, “God or daedra, dragon or man, they are already dead, the moment you willed it.”

The Prince of Lies smiles.

[sirensdxn]

@thewolfraven