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dionysia-does-stories · 1 year ago

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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.

#Tortall Fanfiction #Fanfiction #Tortall #protector of the small #keladry of mindelan #cringetober 2023 #self-insert #this one was very difficult for me #Day 2

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venushorned · 2 months ago

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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.

#about.#can you tell i have a lot of work to do today that i really do not want to do!#arc: there's always a dark darker than the dark you know — the rage of demons.

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bricxbrac · 2 months ago

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"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

#ic; (abel.)#cuteteacakes; (otiice.)#cuteteacakes #arranged marriage au #(👀)#(this went off lol)

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whiskysses · 3 months ago

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𐙚 PAGAN SUN IN VACUOUS BLACK

Eve’s Apology — Chapter Six (2.5 k words)

ONE PIECE Live Action Zoro x OC

Episode 001 ( Romance Dawn )

THERE WAS A starved dog gone feral lodged on Roronoa Zoro's throat. It hated the hand that fed it and the hand that healed it, but, most vehemently, it hated the hand that placed it there, entrapped by tender flesh unfit for his ripping claws and bloodied canines. When Zoro opened his mouth, the starved dog barked and barked and barked while pagan comeuppance befell the unlucky member of the Pandemonium facing it, and even when silence befell Zoro, the starved dog scraped at crevices until his growling was heard again. The starved dog's aphonic barking would only cease once it was besotted by catharsis and the liberation of the pharmakos, but rosaries and empty prayers did little but anger the starved dog, who would only snarl at the manipulative hypocrisy of the narcissistic sinner.

The starved dog ripped the bare flesh of the stab in Zoro's back and howled at the sun when the sky cleared, eyes unadjusted to the burning brightness, but the starved dog also fetched the echo of tender trust in the form of softened touch and a warm caress and wailed under the moon, derelict and apostate, for what he had lost and wouldn't return under that same light again. The starved dog, for all its barking, wouldn't bite.

When the starved dog was simply a visceral longing (a vulture circling a carcass, a murder looming over a graveyard, or a priest knocking at a moribund's door), there was only a boy draped under summer heat enamoured by the ocean and her children, unblemished and sun-blessed (not yet sanguinolent, because Eden was paradise before the war).

The mantle of sun-gleams between the showers and the petrichor of gossamer rain was nothing if not beautiful against the shadows, so pious and benevolent that the light drowned him in homeless plights of salvation and begged to envision the darkness and commit to the teachings (condemnation before birth, is preconception divine justice or the pleasure of an accepting traitor? If the tragedy is preordained, it is futile to resist. Think Pheroras and Graphina, Orpheus and Eurydice, Hero and Leander). Dressed in peony perfume on silk with a crushed cherry in the back of his tongue and waltzes for the windstorm, the beak of the vulture was blunt, the murder too easy to scare away, and the priest's anointing unholy.

Dangling on the leash of his own longing, it was his need that grew teeth and bit for the starved dog when the hand of the prophet knocked on his door with the aide-memoire of the prerogative (isn't bitting the same as touching? Ignore the pain and it's equally as intimate), the same need that knew better than to test his strength of heart.

He promised it. Every reading of the tragedy ended in slaughter, but the starved dog still flinched back when the swing sped (it was never easy to accept the powerlessness in face of what's preordained, at the end of the script it was revealed that the tragic hero was dead all along).

The wasteland of his rotten memory — of her, for her, about her, with her, from her, some days it felt like his every breath was dedicated to grieve the lull of a laugh and the tilt of a smile, and others to rage over how blinded he was to the impious nature of someone who had held his heart — promised mutually assured destruction and saw in the mouth of the ouroboros a grave (it was mortifying to be the one that remembered). The starved dog would only continue to bark until the dead talked back, because it represented desire but not need.

And, so, Tyche waited, still dissolved in unreachable rumination, for the bite, for the canines to plunge in her flesh and pull it to shreds (when the angels spoke to her, they said the blame was hers) while the starved dog continued barking, knowing the cure she could offer was too late and too little. The sting in her neck deepened and such brightness was that of the carmine tear burning her skin that the shadows of her being recoiled in fearful sonder (but when the scarlet, the cerise and the cardinal inched too close down the hilt of the sword like the serpent through divine meadows he didn't step back).

"I'd hate to break up this beautiful, beautiful moment, but we need to get this safe out of here and us to safety." Nami interrupted keenly, barely managing to hold the katana back (metatheatre, puppeteering, the devotion wasn't his but he didn't want to claim the shaking of his wrist). She was reticent to tempt the bar's apparently murderous drunkard to threaten her next, but she also had priorities such as escaping and not having to take care of a corpse in the near future. "Unless you want to keep the spectacle going and distract the Marines for us."

"And murder is never the correct response," Luffy added a heartbeat after the atmosphere turned an iota too awkward on his side, aware that it was his mission as captain to help in moments of crisis. It was, of course, a very insightful and meaningful contribution, so the glare that Nami sent his way was completely out of place and hadn't he known better, he would've turned to Tyche in a plead for support. With a frown overtaking his features, he couldn't help but question why his assistance wasn't being welcomed (especially when his crew was apparently self-destructing, and only after ten minutes of welcoming the new member). "What? Don't look at me like that, he's trying to kill Tyche. We need to avoid it."

"Do you think this is the moment?" Nami grumbled back. Truly, she didn't know what else could go wrong now that the voice of reason in their unexpected group was under a death threat but, weirdly enough, was worshipful-eyed and love-touched.

Despite the claws of weakness crying at her mind a petition for her to step back and resist against the destiny set out, Tyche remained still (in utmost reverence, or, worse, in Delphic fondness; it had been the food whereon his heart had been fed once but what poison was left had blemished the chalice) under the edge of his sword like The Fates wanted her to. The starved dog ceased the barking.

"Why shouldn't I?" Zoro demurred, voice grave and torn (the flames of rage provided brief warmth but the need to follow the script gnawed at his nape). The sun was blinding.

She knew better than to resist a divinely set punishment, so why was it that her resolve wavered? (On the day she burnt up under the hot, hot summer light like flailing coal and ash smoke, she thought about him until the last ember extinguished, he was always in the light, be it warming or scalding).

She was going to die even if she didn't want to; as Tyche, she had only one part in the play (Death was the mother of beauty). The redemption of her life was weaved for her before the tapestry of her existence was even finished and it wasn't in her power to bend the hand of The Fates and order the change those before hadn't even been offered — Medea in her chariot and Antigone with her crown stood under the same guillotine, so it wouldn't be her who would resist first. The blade on her throat felt like divine absolution (like the way he had looked at her) and never had the schism tilted so precariously, titillating between saint and sinner.

Still, black wouldn't wash away sin and whispered prayers didn't make her any less scared of divine retribution, so she tampered down the nostalgic climbing up her throat.

"Do it," Tyche mumbled, her last plight before her resolve broke (she feared not to redeem if it didn't happen then, weak). The ocean unravelled the noose for her to accommodate and thought that her daughter resembled the moon a bit too much.

To the death of summer and gentle promises, the edge inched closer and stained her ivory skin like the fruit did to her blouse that day. Tyche placed her eyes on his and waited for the undoing of her thread of destiny under a slash by the hand she promised to protect.

"Okay, this is definitely stopping now," Nami called out. With a last pull and a hit against Luffy's back to signal him to actually help (he thought Nami was being a bit exaggerated, because how could he honestly believe they were going to kill each other? He assumed it'd be fixed eventually), she pushed Tyche's shoulder hard enough for her to stumble back, and spoke again with frustration lacing her tone when the katana's edge was a good distance away from anyone, "You can kill her lately, big guy, just not now— and, you, don't just go around asking to be killed."

"No, don't kill the members of our crew at all," Luffy berated, oddly enough chiding Zoro like a child. The slap he gave against the taller man's back had Nami cringing and Tyche wondering just what to feel anymore, since she had to cater for her growing concern about his lack of self-preservation too (the eyes on her burnt, the flames licked at her bones and left nothing but coarse, unsaid prayers and regrets in its midst). "That's not nice."

"Luffy..." Nami attempted to distract. "Seriously, not the moment."

"I'm just noticing some tension here and I think we should work on dissipating it," Luffy spoke up. Of course, it wasn't bad enough already so he decided to hang himself from Zoro's arm when the latter barely shifted the arm holding his weapon, because obviously that would stop the swordsman from swinging again. "No! We're not hurting anyone from our crew! Put it away!"

"I'll dissipate your head from your neck if you don't step away from me."

"That's not how you use 'dissipate' but go mad."

Tyche, under different circumstances, would've added her own grain of sand to Nami's correction and contributed to the conversation how the verb they were looking for was 'to decapitate', but for the sake of not becoming an example of the same, she decided to remain silent.

Remain silent, that was, until Luffy turned to look at her with the expectation of receiving a clarification. "What's the word then?"

"I'll explain later," Tyche offered after an uncomfortable cough was ripped from her chest (the eyes again, it was always the eyes, the sun-tinged eyes, declaring her guilty in the Final Judgement, clogging her trachea with moss before the apology could slither out). "Let's focus on leaving first, please."

"Leaving together because we're a crew!"

"Drop it."

"Just let him have it this once," Tyche asked from Nami in something between resignation and plead. The space between them decreased when the former joined her side, shifting her attention to the safe lodged on the dirt while Luffy continued hanging in his ad hoc attempt to 'dissipate tension'. "It's a matter of time before more troops come."

"We need to move this first. Maybe if we find some rope or something..." Nami mumbled, tapping the safe with her foot. The gleaming metal clang under her sole and bitter was the sudden awareness that it sounded terribly empty. The epiphany that the two girls shared along with a panicked glance was cut short by Zoro hauling the safe that might have as well made Luffy two dimensional on his back with striking ease. "Or we can do that," Nami continued. "Like normal, civilised people. Totally."

—

NAMI, MATTER OF fact, certainly did not let Luffy have it that once even as the rushed down the winding paths of Shells Town and if Tyche was up to anything, it was up to some holidays after the amount of stress she had felt in the last handful of hours.

"You keep denying that we're a crew but I don't see our group breaking apart," Luffy quipped from the dinghy's bow, peering into the water and striking in Nami the unrivalled need to push him and, in Tyche, the unbeatable paranoia that he would manage to fall somehow. "We don't even have a reason to remain together!"

"We're being hunted down by Marines, isn't that enough of a reason? And, you, careful with that!" Nami roared at Zoro, on the verge of directly plunging at him for mishandling the safe and carelessly throwing it into the boat's already cracked floor.

Zoro, otherwise still referred to as the murderous drunkard by Nami's quite angry inner monologue, would clearly fulfil her petitions after she had asked him so nicely, she assumed.

"Whatever you say," he replied, nodding absentmindedly. What Nami also assumed was that, to her surprise, he would leave his acceptance at that, a sarcastic remark made on passing. Since nothing could go her away, Tyche made sure to pull Nami's wrist back when the prickling sensation that a sassy addition was coming reached both of them. "Oh, wait— I don't work for you."

"This is my boat so—"

"Again," Luffy interrupted. Tyche begged Nami to remain level-headed at least until they were back to safety while the brunet continued to speak with his already characteristic carelessness, "I'm sensing a little bit of tension amongst the crew and it's not okay."

"Not a crew."

If the chorus wasn't incriminatory, Tyche didn't know what was — maybe, that they were actually collaborating (a bold description, since Luffy and Nami were keeping a certain two as far away from each other as possible).

The loosening of the mainsail under Zoro's hand as per Nami's yelled directions, however, was marked by Luffy's hurried sprinting down the deck with a simple exclamation, "Wait, wait! Not so fast, I can't leave without my friend!"

The tension hung thick in the air as Luffy's defiant words echoed against the backdrop of encroaching danger, or whatever the Marines were. Tyche felt perplexed but not necesssrily surprised by the fact that his easygoing and excited personality only hardened under the threat of abandoning someone, and the memory of a scaredy blond sprouted from her attempt at guessing who the friend was.

"Just wait some minutes," he repeated, his voice unwavering despite the imminent threat and Nami's glare, when he finally stepped between Zoro and the partially undone sail. "I'm sure he's on his way."

"We can't wait, the Marines will be here before you know it," Nami complained. The dinghy's shrouds unrolled in her hand, and the sound of their collision against the floorboards muffled Luffy's next attempt at stalling. "We've been crazy lucky so far, let's not jinx it."

"The Marines are here already, you're under arrest!"

Tyche had never seen a situation be jinxed so fast, and so her prayer to The Fates was one rushed (throat cut, her begging was reduced to a rasp against her locked hands and regret for the blood she tasted).

@whiskysses. - 2024. - Do not plagiarise, copy, or translate, the content in this account without my explicit agreement. - WP.

#🪻. nyx #🪻. writing #🪻. eve’s apology #character x oc #eichiro oda #anime #luffy #one piece #one piece live action #opla #original character #zoro #roronoa zoro #nami #pirates #strawhats #fanfiction

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devoutpriest · 9 months ago

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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.

#rp partner | whereherloyaltieslie #ic

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lromanus · 9 months ago

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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

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madravensrambling · 2 years ago

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Quest for the Stolen Dawn

A 5E dungeon crawl for celebrating the new year. Set in an ancient Greek time or plane.

At the height of the winter solstice, cultists of the Hecate beseeched her to take the sun and hide it. The Gods had a talk and the Goddess slipped away the sun.

The pantheon sent omens of a quest that night. Call for heroes of all sizes and creeds.

In a week a new temple arose from the Plains of Endymion. A lone priest stands outside the marble doors. Oracles have said that at the appointed hour the priest will let the doors open and the questers may try.

Blessings of the Gods: Each player gets 1 blessing when they solve a puzzle or defeat a room.

Aphrodite: Mirror Blade: Magical blade of mysterious metal that perfectly reflects on every surface. +3 to Attack and Damage. Short Sword, Attunement. Attuned character can use their reaction to reflect a spell or ability, if they succeed a CHA Save DC 15.

Apollo: Lyre of Radiance: Magical instrument that produces light when played. Attunement. Attuned character learns Light, Dancing Lights, Faerie Fire, Daylight, and Dawn.

Ares: Wand of Fuck You: Doubles radius of AOE spells. +2 to DC and Damage. (Thanks to RRoleplaying)

Artemis: Hunter’s Bless: +3 to Attack and Damage of ranged attacks and learns Hunter’s Mark.

Athena: Bastion Aegis: +5 to AC and +10 to HP Max. Attunement.

Demeter: Season’s Blessing: Resistance to Cold, and all damage deals additional 2d8 Cold Damage.

Dionysus: Mirthful Cup: Whenever a character drinks alcohol from this cup, they are immune from Charm and Fear for 2hrs, but have DIS on WIS Saves for the same time. A character may chug an alcoholic drink the cup and remove a poison and/or disease condition.

Eros: Bashful Aura: At the end of the character’s turn, Sanctuary is cast on them.

Hades: Helm of Invisibility: A dull golden helm with eagle wings. Medium Armor, Attunement. +3 to AC. When adorned, the character is instantly under the Greater Invisibility spell without concentration.

Hebe: Ambrosia Decanter: Character uses their Action to activate the decanter and pour out Potion of Supreme Healing (10d4 + 20 HP).

Hecate: Moonbow: A silvery gossamer veil. Attunement. The veil can become a shield that grants +3 to AC and ADV to Stealth.

Hephaestus: Crafter’s Blessing: Any check that uses artisan’s tools rolls an additional 3d4.

Hera: Rings of Alliance: Two gold bands with peacock feathers. Attunement. An attuned character may use their Action or Reaction to teleport to the other, as long as they are both on the same plane. Or use their Bonus Action to roll Hit Dice and the other regains that much HP.

Hercules: Belt of Stone Giant Strength: STR score is 23.

Hermes: Slide Whistle of Comedic Timing: 3 Charges. Creature within 60ft makes STR Save DC 16. On fail, creature falls prone as if slipping on a banana peel. Regains charges after a long rest.

Hestia: Spirit of the Hearth: Whenever character rolls to heal themselves or an ally, roll additional 2d8. Reaction, grant an ally within 5ft +3 to AC.

Hypnos: Super Comfy Blanket: A big quilted comfy blanket that can cover 4 people. (Thanks to RRoleplaying)

When taken a long rest, while attuned, roll 1d6. On 5 or 6, each person sleeping under it gains Temp HP = attuned character’s Lvl + Prof Bonus for the next 8hrs.

Alternatively, can be used to cast Tiny Hut, with an increased radius of 15ft.

Nike: Ambitious Zeal: Any Ability checks are made with ADV, if they are contesting rolls, roll additional 2d4.

Nyx: Sheltering Darkness: A shawl of dark material with small crystals sewn in. Attunement. Attuned character may use their reaction to cast Darkness.

Pan: Wild Zeal: Character may give themselves ADV or hostile creature DIS on an Attack or Saving throw. They can’t use this until they finish a long rest or roll on the Wild Surge table.

Persephone: Spring’s Promise: Character learns Druidcraft, Spike Growth, and Entangle.

Poseidon: Ocean Surge: Whenever character hits with a weapon attack, the target must make a STR Save DC 14 or be pushed back 5 x 1d3 feet.

Tyche: Gains Lucky feat.

Zeus: Storm Cloak: When the character is hit by an attack within 40ft, the cloak deals 3d8 Lightning damage to the attacker.

The Fates: A hollow d20 made of spun gold, silver, and adamantine. The character learns Fortune’s Favor, Gift of Alacrity, and Arcane Eye.

Temple of Hecate’s Game

Temple Exterior: Marble like texture, but silvery appearance. Much like Athena’s Temple. The doors open at the first starlight on the night of the waxing crescent.

Temple Entrance: 40x25x30. Seven gold statues are placed around the room. The faces are featureless. Each is holding a different weapon. “Complete me for I have been broken. Seek the lost and the fame will be found.”

Statue 1: Unstrung bow, in a pulled back, ready to loose an arrow. In the hair of the statue is the spear head of #3.

Statue 2: Wielding a gladius, with a missing pommel. Stabbing in the back is the missing blade of #4.

Statue 3: Swinging around a staff that is actually a trident without the spear head. Hidden in the folds of cloth at the base is the other half of the broken scythe from #5.

Statue 4: Holding a club that is actually an axe without the blade. Once the other statues are made whole, the axe lowers, opening a secret door.

Statue 5: Wielding a scythe with a broken blade.

Statue 6: Cracking a whip. Woven in the braid is the bowstring to #1.

Statue 7: Winding up a sling. Inside the sling, is the pommel of #2.

Temple Room 1: 20x40x25. Strands of gold hang from every corner. Three mirrors hang on one wall. “From the ground I seek your aid, raise me up and I’ll obey.”

Left Mirror: Copper. Etched around the rim are runes in Giant. “Breath onto me the glory of the forge so my true colors show.” 50 Fire Damage. 10 gold strands fall.

Middle Mirror: Silver. Etched across the surface are runes in Dwarvish. “You may think me ice, but it is the sun I seek.” 50 Radiant Damage. 10 gold strands fall.

Right Mirror: Platinum. No runes found on it. Players bring the fallen strands to the mirror. Runes appear in Celestial. “Break me with the might of song and storm.” 50 Thunder Damage. The mirror rises up the wall and a doorway appears.

Temple Room 2: 80x100x30. 5 Suits of armor stand in a line. Behind them are 10 nude statues of marble. Each statue has a plague that reads “Grant me armor against the waking world, so I may slumber still.” Whichever statue isn’t given armor becomes animated. “Heed my words and gather your foes.” When the last animated statue falls, a stairway passage appears in the left wall.

Statue 1: Greatsword. Fighter, 60 HP

Statue 2: Greataxe. Fighter, 80 HP

Statue 3: Staff. Wizard, 50 HP

Statue 4: Sickle. Rogue, 50 HP

Statue 5: Dagger. Monk, 100 HP

Statue 6: Shield. Fighter, 60 HP

Statue 7: Spear. Barbarian, 80 HP

Statue 8: Longbow. Fighter, 60 HP

Statue 9: Morningstar. Barbarian, 80 HP

Statue 10: Warhammer. Barbarian, 40 HP

Temple Room 3: 60x100x25. Torch lit room with 4in of water. “Serpent of old, snake of gold, find me in the light, lose me in the night.”

Three Swarms of Undead Snakes. After defeating them, Investigation DC 15 to find the gold snake idol.

Perception DC 16/Investigation DC 19, find the painting of a night sky with a full moon. Without light, the moon fades way into an alcove. Placing the idol in there, all characters are teleported out.

Temple Room 4: 40x80x40. Grand hearth stands ablaze at the end of the hall. A wooden table (15x5) sits close to the front, where they teleported to. On the table are 6 keys. “Unlock the hearth to find the light. Only one choice, be wise and right.” Hearth fire parts and becomes heatless.

Key 1: Cast Iron, simple, two prongs. Instant pass.

Key 2: Wooden, painted like a rose, three prongs. 2 Druids, 45 HP.

Key 3: Gold, five interlocking rings, four prongs. 3 Golems, 25 HP.

Key 4: Gold, bat wings, two prongs. 2 Vampires, 40 HP.

Key 5: Silver, eagle wings, four prongs. 4 Harpies, 50 HP.

Key 6: Brass, shaped like a lizard mouth, five prongs. 1 Red Dragon Wyrmling, 90 HP.

Temple Room 5: 80x40x50. Wooden room with open windows that show an idyllic summer day. Ten piles of brooms. “Flight is held in the wood, dust is chained in the straw. Free them and you’ll be free.” Once the 1oth is free, the characters are teleported to another room.

Investigation DC 18, Find the broom with the most dust. STR check DC 15 to clear the dust off. Broom of Flight flies out the window.

Get within 5 ft of a pile, 2 Brooms of Animated Attack, 40 HP.

10th Broom Pile has 2 brooms of flight, character may keep it.

Temple Room 6: 100x100x100. Dark grey stone room. A multilayered moving lattice cage over the sun. It illuminates the room in strobe and flashes. Standing beneath the caged sun is an 8ft tall hooded figure, with a featureless face, symbol of Hecate shimmering across their chest. The Avatar of Hecate. They stand poised with a greatsword waiting. Avatar of Hecate, Hexblade, 120 HP.

Once the players have defeated the Avatar of Hecate, the actual Goddess Hecate shows up, along with those who gifted boons to the players. The sun is released and the heroes go on to live full lives with many songs and myths about them.

If the game runs too long, but the players get to the final room, the DM can choose to end the party with one unseen stroke of the Avatar's greatsword. They awake in a luxurious pool, free of equipment and injury. Plates full of food and full chalices set nearby to each character. They were sent to Elysium.

#D&D Homebrew #Dungeons and Dragons #Dungeon Crawl #Winter #New Years #one shot #greek #quest for the stolen sun #5e #Fifth Edition

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zinbu · 5 months ago

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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.

#strywoven #i am laughing at geto calling them little duckling... as if they are just a little soul.#ch: geto

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sirensdxn · 2 years ago

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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

#::the gossamer priest::#konietzko lumenstone #talthorn sylvoran #jorithas #novemberwc2022 #daily writing challenge #forest #mortality

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creativefiend19 · 3 years ago

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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.

#trc #the raven cycle #fic recs #Pynch #Adam Parrish #Ronan Lynch #sarchengsey

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dent-de-leon · 2 years ago

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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.

#widomauk #mollymauk #this got too long whoops--#caleb widogast #the mighty nein #absolutely have these two on my mind with the reunion so soon I cannot wait

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justavulcan · 3 years ago

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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.

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timelorddarthswagger · 3 years ago

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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.

#the name of the wind #patrick rothfuss #the wise man's fear #kvothe #kvothe the bloodless #kingkiller chronicle #Kvothe the arcane #kvothe kingkiller #as for kvothe's wings well Rothfuss was going to name the series a song of fire and lightning or some such #robert jordan #the wheel of time #The Wheel Of Time books #not a fan of the show #though the main cast is great #that thom is a joke

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