#[ waxen wings ]

[as-the-stars-foretold]

ask me about the mmvstr waxen wings au PLEASE

[pokimoko]

5, 10, 20, and 25 for fic in review ask thing!!!

5. What ships captured your heart?

I am a gen writer through and through, so it's a very rare thing to see me writing a ship-focused fic. That said, I really enjoyed the pairing of Karlach and Astarion this year, though I wouldn't say I shipped them necessarily in a romantic sense. The fic I wrote that had them together had their relationship tagged '(it's fairly ambigious; is it romantic? queerplatonic? platonic? yes), (the love and devotion is there regardless)' which I think basically sums up how I view them (and also how aromantic I am about shipping 😅).

I also liked Billford, but in a strictly 'oh yeah they're super divorced, they are never getting back together' kind of way. Not sure if that counts as shipping, but hey, it's definitely counts as something.

10. What fic was the most satisfying to write?

I would have to say either 'The Poetics of Space' (Gravity Falls) or 'On Waxen Wings We Soar, In Spite of Inevitable Ends' (Baldur's Gate 3). They were the two fics I was the most happiest with this year, not only regarding the quality of the writing itself and the themes they explored (the constance of change not only in the world but also ourselves, and finding joy in and making peace with the time you have left), but also how they tied everything together in their conclusions. Both of them equally made me feel a 'wow..I did that' feeling of accomplishment when I finished them, so yeah, they both were absolutely the most satisfying to write.

20. Share your funniest line.

Being more of angst-based writer kinda limits my collection of comedic lines (even my more comedic story this year was extremely angsty), but there was one line I wrote this year that got a couple comments about it making the reader laugh, so I'll go with that one (because if two people found it funny, surely it must be, right):

“You try fixing an interdimensional portal for thirty years without learning physics," (Stanley) said. "I know what quarks are now. Do you know how much I hate knowing what quarks are.”

25. How did you recharge between fics?

Usually I'd spend the first few days after finishing a fic trying to figure out the what the heck to do with the spare time I had previously allocated to writing said fic, and then once I figured that out (and had yet to be overcome with the urge to write something else), I'd probably watch a TV show, read a book, play video games, and do some art. I'm boring like that.

Send me a number!

[andiloveyoutooangel]

on realizing i do, in fact, have a type

[snowysand]

You ever see someone so hot that it makes you sad?

[larapeteira]

Falling to a Devilish Exercise

Season 1 Episode 2 ‘Fifth Chair’

[I’ve had this episode (and the rest of season 1) kicking around as drafts pretty much since I did the pilot, and it’s really about time that I got on with them. We will call this episode the difficult second album.]

The orchestral version of ‘Lisztomania’ gets its first outing as opening titles for the series in this episode. The classical cover of a contemporary track with historical inspiration acts as a calling card for the series’ perspective on music: that what matters most is to make it, and vividly. More than this though its title speaks to the plot of this episode in a specific sense. Like the Ken Russell film its an example of how creative enthusiasm can lead to carnage.

‘Think less but see it grow’

As presented to us at the beginning of the series, Rodrigo’s global, cosmopolitan free-spirited, but ultimately self-centred vision of life shapes how he approaches the orchestra. In the ‘Pra não parar de Sambar’ sequence his appreciation of music is instinctive: he enjoys the busker’s playing, he pays her $100. Later, Hailey plays with the blood, so he finds a way to have her play with the NY Symphony. To his mind it’s all very simple and perfectly natural. At this point he’s coming to the orchestra as multiple musicians, not yet as its conductor. He’s driven by a love for each of their individual contributions.

Combining these factors, we get the main musical theme of this episode: Faustian pacts. Mahler’s 8 (Symphony of a Thousand) is ultimately swapped for Berlioz’s La Damnation de Faust. It’s almost immaterial whether or not Rodrigo intends to stage the works in full, both pieces are gargantuan. His underlying arrogance/overweening ambition and constant movement are the real problems. He makes his pact with his own enthusiasm and in this episode we see what follows when it outstrips his sense of practicality.

‘Follow, misguide, stand still/ Discuss, discourage’

I really enjoy how the Mahler conveys the ripple effects of Rodrigo’s decision to put it on the programme. The tension in the repetition of the piu mosso spreads into Lizzy and neighbour Stan’s annoyance at Hailey’s endless practising. On the one hand she suffers for Rodrigo’s pursuit of instinct, ending the episode out in the wilderness as the orchestra strikes up the Rákóczi March.  Her position as fifth chair is shaky and all too dispensable. Centring the story on her shows that the charm of his whimsy can only go so far.

On the other hand she is suffering the consequences of her own enthusiastic pact. There are advantages to getting to play with the orchestra, whether for her career or simply sharing the joy of their comradeship, and Hailey’s not blind to their enticements. Still its failure is a salutary reminder to be strategic about opportunities and to be wary of being too starry-eyed about people.

It tolls for three

Narratively and musically, Rodrigo and Hailey’s connection is apparent from the start, but there’s also Thomas to contend with. He appears to have detached himself from the situation, lost in his own wilderness, and this is reflected in the music. He’s still focussing on Rodrigo’s comments from the pilot about his conducting of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto in D. Yet at the heart of the episode - its musical hinge -  La Campanella signals a warning for all three characters.  Ultimately the music in this episode serves to establish the similarities in all their temperaments and aspirations, the variations playing out in their respective career and life stages.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 10

Pairing: Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sister!Reader

A/N: Well, buckle up I guess

Warnings: Plot™️, I know clocks are canon but it still feels weird to do this, starting heavy 💪

Word Count: 6,012

-Part 9- -Part 11-

He sighs.

It’s not like she can help the way she is. Not like she can help the fact that whenever she tries to make things better it simply creates more work for him to do. By receding into her room, he has to pay more attention to when she appears, becoming extra vigilant in the moments she steps outside.

He shouldn’t be so harsh. Sometimes fatigue clouds his judgement, enough so it becomes apparent to even himself sleep is a necessary luxury. Still, they’re harmless behaviours really. Small habits that with the right guidance will enable her to flourish again.

A broken bone that needs to be left to set, to be good as new.

6:57 p.m.

Azriel massages his temples, the beginning aches of a headache making themselves apparent. Eases in a breath, counts, and releases. It seems a night of rest is unavoidable, but there’s so much to be done. He could perhaps rearrange breakfast…but that would collide nastily with training. Maybe moving lunch to three instead? But then that would impact the start time of going though the towering stack of reports, which would in turn result in him working later anyway.

Thick brows narrow as he prowls silently down the hallway of the River House, deciding to leave for some peace and quiet. It’s not an idea he’s keen on, but if he dips out of practice with Cassian atop the House of Wind tomorrow…that would work. Frustration simmers in his knuckles, tightening the trapezius. He doesn’t like the idea of skipping over valuable training time with the priestesses. They’re forcing themselves out of their comfort zone. The least he can do is respect their resolve by attending.

He’s so caught up in thoughts of schedule and routine he only realises she’s in the River House, on the same floor, when she’s a single corridor away. Another thing he needs to keep an eye on. Swiftly reorganises his thoughts, rotating and recalling the information his shadows have provided over the recent days and hours. The scraps of speculations Mor had offered from a single outing. If he remembers correctly, she will have just gotten back from her trip with Mor now. So why is she here? She should be back up at the House by now, retreating to her room away from everyone else.

Still, he rounds the corner in time to see her click a door closed—her sister’s. His curiosity piques, shadows already recollecting the news they’ve catalogued for the female with soft, cocoa eyes. Gloves still adorn her hands, but it does nothing to conceal their tremor.

Attention narrows in on her, darkness skittering back into the corners of the hallway, hiding between his wings as he approaches. Her lips are chapped and tight, features strained as her gloved hand rests for a moment atop the handle. Appearing in her own world—eyes glazed and vacant. Her jaw is wound tighter than usual, tight enough he can hear the grinding of enamel, like bone and porcelain powdered against rock. Brows draw together at the notice of her waxen complexion, skin gleaming faintly with peaky dew.

Blank eyes flick up to meet his own, and he steps forward. Her hand stiffens on the handle, posture turning rigid. Scent taking on a tang he’s far too familiar with from nights spent with his blade. He comes to a stop, keeping his distance from her taut form.

Azriel’s first thoughts are she must be pushing too hard with her magic. Honestly, he hadn’t anticipated her to be so resolved in mastering her power independently. Neither had he anticipated her making a lick of progress. At least not through measures that a sensible mentor would allow.

He should never have yielded to her look of despair. She’d be safer if he had simply insisted on doing things correctly. A foolish mistake on his part, and now she might be going down the wrong path. “Are you okay?” He asks, splitting his weight equally between each foot, resting in his place. Watches the roll of her throat, shifting in place, away from Elain’s door. Had there been an argument?

She nods her head, trying to straighten her spine as she sometimes does when pulling herself together. The effect is nullified by the was she hangs her head, never quite succeeding in meeting his eye for extended periods. He shouldn’t have ignored it for so long. Leaving something like that unchecked… Well, he should have known better.

“I’m—” She clears her throat, and tries again. “Good. I’m fine.” Nods to herself, eyeing the floorboards with bland eyes. He waits quietly, allowing the silence to coax her into unravelling. She shifts again, stepping away from Elain’s door, her gaze flitting about the corridor. Flicks to the stairs behind him, leading down to the exit—likely wanting to return to her haven up in the House by now.

Eyes regain a little focus, pupils contracting as a nervous smile quirks her mouth, nodding to the door as she makes for the stairs. “We were just speaking,” she elaborates, moving away hastily. “Catching up.”

Azriel watches, noting the briskness of her steps. It’s unusual for her to be so keen to leave his presence. What had happened?

“Wait,” he says, turning as she makes to move past him, peering at the floor, marking her steps. She pauses, gloved hand resting on the carved and polished banister. He steps forward, morbidly intrigued by the glaze in her eyes, as if made of glass. “You aren’t well,” he states. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you repeat blandly, “just tired.”

Something bad then, if she’s not willing to even discuss whatever exchange happened with Elain.

Shadows loiter at the threshold, waiting to hear for any sounds that might offer hints, like the soft breath of cries, or the gentle splash of muffled tears. Nothing.

She turns again, descending the stairs, sweeping down the case quietly as she makes a bee-line for the door, vanishing out into the dark, leaving him perplexed and curious. A dangerous combination for the Spymaster.

She’d looked shaken up, so he should make sure things are okay.

It’s been a long while since he last had a one-on-one conversation with the soft-eyed female.

Azriel turns in the hallway, moving back the way she’d come.

8:36 a.m.

“We should talk.”

His words pull you from the world of bliss that had been graciously clouding your mind. Peer down at him from where you’re straddling his lap, pale sheets crumpled, clothes strewn about from being swiftly discarded. “About what?”

Thick, dark brows narrow over piercing golden eyes, full lips twisting down in the corners. Your own features shift to match his, “now, Bas?”

He sighs, large, warm hands splaying across the bruised skin of your hips. “I know, I know, I suck at timing. No need to tell me.” Almost immediately the edges of your lips lift up, a smile tugging at your mouth, vanquishing the momentary surge of annoyance. Fingers lightly press into the softness of his chest, spine losing its rigidity, relaxing your weight back onto him. Feeling slightly dizzy as pleasure sinks into your bones.

“Fine,” you mutter, playfully, “what is it?”

Bas shifts beneath you, thumbs soothing your skin, your back arching as you attempt to still the swirl of your hips. “Two things, actually,” he clarifies reaching higher, a reassuring pressure over your ribcage, rubbing to your waist. Peek down at him, raising a brow, “I wondered why you weren’t giving me a hard time tonight,” —shake your head, smiling slightly— “I should have known.”

He offers a tight smile and your own slips away. “Now you’re worrying me,” you murmur quietly, fingers curling. “What is it?” Golden eyes meet your own, concern shining in their depths, “you’ve been off recently. And I’m worried. So, it’s fine to be emotionally intimate too… Yeah?”

You blink, lips parting in surprise. “I’ve been…off?” Brow furrows in confusion, “what do you mean by that? Am I doing something wrong?” It’s an earnest question, yet it resonates a little deeper than you had expected. Thankfully he doesn’t pick up on the inner conflict. “It’s not that,” he reassures, hands stroking slowly, lightly. “But you’ve worn the same dress the last three times I’ve seen you.”

Internally, you cringe, making to pull away. “Do I smell?” You ask, wincing, bringing your arms to your chest. A slight smile tugs at his lips then, “no.” Relax a little, hands twining as he brings them back to his torso. “But…you taking care of yourself up there?” Sigh, shoulders losing their tension, lips resting into a quirked position.

“I’m fine, Bas. I like it up there, where it’s quiet, and—”

“No.” He interjects gently, hand slipping from yours, pushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Lightly cups your jaw, thumb skimming across the skin. “I mean up there.”

Spine stiffens, fingers freezing. Breath pauses. “Everything’s fine,” you murmur, watching him. He gives a look that urges you to stop lying, squeezing your hands. “Talk to me,” he says in response. “Something’s up. I can tell.”

“Bas—”

“Don’t even try,” he murmurs, golden eyes shimmering as he peers up at you. “I know what that feels like,” he whispers, hand raising to skim your breast, thumb brushing atop your heart. “I know change is difficult.”

“Bas, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eyes lock, staring at one another.

His hand falls away.

Muscle loosens.

Licks his lips, gaze flitting elsewhere. “I was lonely too, when the attack happened.” Spine softens, brows tightening. Wait silently for him to continue. Licks his lips again, returning to watch you. “Ma… It was hard on both of us, losing pa. Y’know one day he was there, then the next it’s just us.” His throat rolls, eyes glazing as he looks into the middle distance. “We had our own ways of dealing with it—the loss. Mother knows I can’t talk about healthy coping mechanisms, I practically fucked anything that would let me. Probably drank more than I should have, too.”

The attack.

You and your sisters hadn’t yet come here, still mortally human and wonderfully unaware. Well, you and Elain, anyway. Even now, there were still signs of the aftermath. Traces of grief that had yet to be healed.

He shakes his head slowly, limbs turning stiff. “It got… I know what it’s like.” Golden eyes latch to your own. “So talk to me. Don’t keep that—…stuff, to yourself.” Shake your head, breaking the connection, pulling away. “There’s nothing to talk about. Stop prying.” Shake off the heaviness, easing a breath. “What else did you want to talk about?”

His expression is indiscernible, brows dipped, lips tugged down, eyes swirling with molten gold. Shifts beneath you, your hands pressing to his chest to steady yourself as he raises into a sitting position. Moving to be eye-to-eye, hands spanning your waist, gently keeping you still. Fingers brush the concealed muscle of his shoulders, linking at his back, hips winding in gentle encouragement.

A rough-skinned palm settles on the nape of your neck, sliding and gripping your hair lightly. Thumb oscillates over your waist. Calling up loneliness from the pit of your chest. Lips brush your mouth, the slightest caress of hot skin that feels like heated silk and tastes like spices and thyme. He looks like he’s about to try again, but decides against it, instead pulling you forward.

Only you’re taken to the crook of his shoulder, palm cupping the back of your head. His free arm snakes up your back, cradling you to his chest. Keeping you close by. At first you’re stiff, unsure how to react, muscle locks as his skin presses hot to your own, smooth and soft. Warm hands soothe along your spine, gently skimming across the expanse, tracing the knuckles of bone. Fingers draw light patterns atop, oscillating and sketching with reassuring steadiness.

He makes no move to kiss you, just holding you still, the thick locs of his hair scratching softly against the nape of your neck. His arm spans across the back of your waist, hand flattening against your side, thumbing over the skin, soothing you to melt.

Your bones begin to feel heavy in your body, sinking low as you hesitantly raise your arms to lock over his sturdy shoulders, tentatively shuffling to rest your cheek against him. Inhale slowly, deeply, taking in his scent—like rosemary and myrrh. He settles across your skin, and you sink deeper, emotion thawing as you melt into his arms, so tender and soft. Healing and welcoming.

Wet drops splash atop his shoulders, dripping onto dark skin as arms pull a little tighter, squeezing as lips tremble. Spine shudders, soft breaths stuttering as tears trickle down your cheeks, wetting strands of hair as fingers grip closer. Full lips graze your temple, and you feel those small cracks that had emerged during your argument with Feyre begin to spiderweb out, restraint fracturing just a little more.

Lower lip wobbles, and you curl around him tighter, body shuddering with quiet sobs as he holds you. Dry hands wrap into fists, nails biting the flesh of your arms as you fall into him, wanting to be washed away.

To peacefully melt to a place far from memory.

Slowly fade into absence.

2:43 p.m.

The iron-cast ring weighs on your palm, the glittering blue jewel of its swollen abdomen gazing up at you like silver moonlight dripping to dark, gleaming midnight. Polished and sharp like armour and blade.

“Do you like it?” Mor asks from your side, peering over your shoulder. You’d heard her footsteps that time, but shake your head absently, putting the ring back where it belongs. “It’s a lovely piece of jewellery,” you hedge, not wanting to talk badly when the shopkeepers are around. Spiders are still a little too close to home—insects at all, really.

She hums quietly, attention skimming to a piece beside it: a silver band fashioned to the stalk of a flower, the petals looking like stretched out droplets of warm citrine. Mor examines it for a moment, then holds it out for you to look at, which you do. “What about this one?” Fingers mindlessly come up to fumble with the glass pendant at your neck, steadily becoming a habit. “It’s very pretty,” you answer, hoping it suffices. Mor hums again, seemingly getting the hint, returning it to sit on the counter.

“You liked the dress, didn’t you?” She asks, quietly. Brows dip together as you turn in her direction, cascading golden hair loosely tied back. “I mean you wanted it. Not just because I was pushing you to get something.” A beat of quiet passes, and you examine her expression: the edges of plush and pillowy lips lengthened by slight worry lines, brow marginally dipped in the centre. Minute shifts in features that would have gone undetected by human eyes.

Throat rolls as you look away, but nod. “I did like it,” you mumble, fumbling your words, “do like it. Thank you.”

“Have you worn it yet?” She asks. Dread ices your skin, eyes flitting to honey warm irises. “I— No…” you manage honestly. Look away, scanning the jewels, that blue spider again catching your attention. “It’s a special dress,” you murmur, “I was waiting for a special occasion.”

More quiet beats between you, background chatter buzzing through your mind. But then she nods, accepting your answer. “It looks nice on you,” she replies, picking up a necklace this time—a thin chain of gold that shimmers beneath the daylight streaming in from the windows. Dip your head in silent thanks.

Peer out into the streets, watching fae pass by, enjoying their lives. Spots of colour splashing along as they go about their day. Eyes mark a small shop across the road, stools holding little trinkets like cups and pottery spilling out onto the cobbles, ceramics gleaming beneath the lowering sun. Plants sway in the crisp breeze outside, the nippy winds of early autumn already setting in.

Ease in a steady breath—there’s less than a week left until you’re due to complete your side of the agreement, and only small bits and pieces of progress to show. Not enough to avoid bringing it up to the rest of them.

Glance at Mor from the corner of your eye, watching through your peripherals as she holds up a necklace to herself, peering into a mirror. How would she react if you told her right now? She’d probably smile and tell you that’s great. Maybe ask you to show her or give a demonstration. The breath releases, knowing that question will crop up eventually. Seeking results when you have none to provide.

“Are you coming to dinner tonight?” She asks breaking you out of your wondering. Blink, pulling yourself back down, having forgotten about the extra supper they’d decided to fit in. Shake your head, turning your attention back to the jewellery stand, then flitting out to the shop. “I’m feeling pretty tired,” you reply quietly, “so I don’t think so.”

“Sure?” She says absently, already having moved onto the next stand. “The food’s really great—pork that practically comes part on your tongue. And the jam that goes with it is absolutely mouth-watering,” she dreams, smiling faintly as her fingers scrunch with anticipation. Your nose wrinkles for a split-second before you shut off the reaction, offering a bland smile, “how lovely.”

“You must try it at some point,” she gushes, turning to you now, accessories forgotten. “It’s one of my favourite places in Velaris. All the dishes they serve are,” —her hand flexes, as if trying to grasp onto something, eyes briefly shutting in bliss— “amazing.”

You smile again. “I’m sure.”

Warm-honey eyes narrow on you, examining the set of your expression. “You liked the soup,” she says, “what else do you like?” Throat rolls and you shift on your feet, fumbling. “Mash?” Mor nods slowly, remaining silent; in doing so forcing you to speak, too awkward to allow it to continue. “With thyme… Beans are nice, too?” She continues her bout of silence, quietly watching you. “The rice and…sauce. That’s been nice. Very nice.”

Her brows squish together, tension coiling in your stomach and shoulders. Lick your lips. “The—…” You pause, not knowing the name of the food. “The doughy balls? With…mushroom? in the middle? With—”

Eyes pop open. “You don’t eat meat.”

“I eat meat,” you say, hurriedly, but she’s in her own world.

“That’s why Az—” Her hand smacks up onto her forehead and you internally cringe—was the coddling that noticeable? To everyone but you?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She asks, a mix of shock and exasperation lining her tone as she stares at you. Throat rolls and you turn away from her, picking up the silver band with the citrine-coloured flower. “I can eat meat just fine,” you mutter quietly, “it’s not as though there was anything else.”

“There was the soup,” she argues, still facing you, “you could have asked me to pass it to you—I even had some for myself.”

“No, I mean—” —eyes lock, her brows risen in confusion, not accusation. You sigh, shaking your head. “Sorry. Forget I said anything…” Her neatly groomed brows dip, head tilting ever so slightly. “No, what were you going to say?” She asks, voice quietening. Glance at her sidelong, fiddling with the ring in your hand, sliding it on and off your gloved little finger—far too large for it to possibly get stuck on. Lick your lips, spinning the band as you fidget. “I just mean, it’s basically all we ate back then,” you mumble, peering at your feet with forced interest. “Just brings back some bad memories, is all. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

She sighs softly, and guilt tightens your stomach, putting the now-warm ring down, listening to it clink on the glass. “You don’t like meat,” she states. It’s not a question.

“I can eat it,” you counter quietly, not wanting to be a bother. You’ve seen how much the others enjoy it. “But you wouldn’t choose it,” she returns, keeping her body open as she faces you. Shift on your feet, “I… No.”

Mor nods, hair glinting like freshly spun straw beneath a summer day. “Then we can eat somewhere else. Or order different dishes,” she reasons smoothly, “I’ll just mention it to the others since none of us even knew. Well, I suppose Az—”

“Please don’t,” you interrupt, cringing internally. “It’s fine. Meat’s good for you and I shouldn’t be so picky anyway. It’s annoying.”

“To who?” She asks, making you glance at her. “Who does it annoy?” She repeats, seemingly earnestly. “It’s silly to switch restaurants just because of…because of something so small. I can eat when I get back, anyway. It’s fine.”

She looks appalled.

“Mor, please don’t say anything,” you repeat quietly, meeting her eyes, a pained look unknowingly on your features. “I’m fine with how things are. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Her brow narrows, eyes flicking around the shop, taking in the other customers. “None of us would mind,” she says quietly. “You wouldn’t be causing a problem. We’ll just order more dishes without meat. We don’t have to change places if nobody wants to.”

But you shake your head adamantly. “I can eat when I get home. Please don’t change what you order just because—”

“Why don’t you deserve to eat food you like?” She asks sharply, voice remaining quiet but harsh. Blink at the tone, stiffening briefly before tension uncoils from your muscles. “It’s not like that,” you reply, turning from the display, slowly stepping toward the door. Mor follows beside you, appearing to have lost interest in the surrounding trinkets.

“No?” She asks, glancing at you through her peripherals. “What’s it like, then?”

You pause in the street, feet halting their movement as the question registers. She halts at your side, slowing to a stop, attention turned to you. “Mor, I don’t know how I could possibly put into words…” A heavy sigh escapes from you, shoulders sloping, exhaustion lining your eyes. “Never mind. Forget it.” Spine straightens, continuing heavily across the street to the shop with the little carvings and pieces of glazed pottery.

She follows quietly as you wander toward the stalls, inspecting the bits and bobs on display. Watches you quietly, taking in the ankle-length dress, clunky boots, thick cardigan and scarf. The vomit-yellow gloves. She should at least find another pair with a lighter colour for you. “You know,” she begins softly, a hint of a smile in her tone, “for someone so reserved, I didn’t expect you to be so stubborn.”

Fingers freeze for a moment, reaching out toward a small carving of a woman holding some drooping daisies. Breath catches, before you manage to resume motion, picking up the small figurine. “Sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t mean to be.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she murmurs. “You’re strong willed. It’ll serve you well.”

But you shake your head in denial. “Feyre’s strong willed. So is Nesta.”

“Do you think Elain is?” Mor asks, holding up a glazed mug she clearly has no interest in. Your brow dips, peering at her, not having anticipated the change of direction. “Why are you asking?”

“She’s been quiet, no?”

Turn your attention back to the woman in your hand, flipping her over to peer at the lines of her dress—swaying in a breeze. I wonder why… You think sardonically. Instead a hum lulls from your mouth, non-committal and vague. Mor nods her head, again picking up those minute hints you’re unaware you’re even capable of dropping.

“That’s a nice carving,” she says brightly, redirecting the conversation without a hitch, smooth fluidity long ago mastered. “Your father was a carpenter, wasn’t he?” She asks softly. “Would you like it?”

Gloved fingers rub the concealed skin of your other hand, knuckles itching for reprieve. Under ordinary circumstances, you would have declined the offer— it looks well carved. Not that you have an eye for such things. This time, however, you can make an exception. “That would be nice,” you answer quietly, “thank you.”

Swallow down the apology that had been slowly making it’s way up from your stomach.

She smiles then, and you look away.

She’s far too bright.

6:49 p.m.

You excuse yourself as soon as you step inside, heading up the stairs and along the hallway before returning to the House of Wind. Walk quietly along the floorboards, hoping to avoid any unnecessary confrontations. Reach the door you’re looking for, landing a series of knocks to the hardwood. “Elain?” You call, listening for a reply. She answers, letting you to come in, voice soft but terse.

The door swings open on oiled hinges, and you step inside, hearing it snick shut at your back. Eyes instantly locate your sister, sat in a large armchair facing the lit fireplace. Curtains are drawn, blocking out what little light remained in the sky, room set aglow with the golden-orange of flame. Cocoa melts to something soft and spicy as she peers into it, and you wonder if she’s perhaps missing Lucien.

“Hey,” you mumble quietly, noting how she seems kind of distant. You can’t help but be reminded of those initial months, the transitional stages of your lives where the world was turned upside down. How she’d shut down almost entirely, rarely speaking. Rarer still to get anything coherent, like she was trapped in a dream state. “I just…I wanted to see you,” you murmur, moving toward her.

Haunted eyes flick up to meet you, blank as they take you in with ghostly smoothness. She blinks and it’s gone, gesturing to a seat opposite from her, closer to the fire but angled for prime conversation. A smile lifts the edges of her mouth, etched with strain, chest stretching as you take in her fatigue.

Sigh heavily, settling into the plush armchair, remaining straight-backed as you put the paper bag at your feet, careful with the little carving. Wait for a beat to pass before looking to her, cocoa already reattached to the fire. “Elain,” you call quietly, gaining her attention. In the light of the flame the circles beneath her eyes are more pronounced, shadow flickering across the heavy crescents. Worry takes root in your gut—it seems to be taking more of a tole on her than you’d thought.

“You went out with Mor today didn’t you?” Elain asks, voice soft and faint, as if coming out of a daze. A shy smile curves your lips, nodding. “How was it?” She asks distantly, gently curled hair hanging in rich ringlets, tight and silky as they spill down the lilac night gown she likes. Throat rolls, turning your attention to the fire. Will this ever be an easy subject between the two of you? Between any of you?

Eyes flit down to the bag, pulling it up into your lap for comfort. “It was good,” you manage softly, nodding. “It was…nice. To be outside. Around someone, for a little.” Elain nods, a bland smile on her face, though you don’t doubt its sincerity. “I—…Mor’s nice,” you add, fumbling your words as you try to direct the flow of the conversation toward what you’re trying to get at. But you’ve never been good at reading the room, and it’s showing.

“You should…I mean, it would be nice for you to come along sometime…” you suggest, trailing off as fingers wring together in your lap, playing with the paper handle of the bag. “We could…I don’t know…” Shift in the chair as you try to think of something. “I’m sure there are some shops for gardening, or somewhere to sample pastries? You’re trying out pastries at the moment, aren’t you?” Eyes flit to your sister, the smile gone from her lips, lids heavy as she soaks in the heat of the fire. Letting it drink her in.

She’s quiet, and it’s obvious something’s off. Or is she just tired? She’d told you she’d been sleeping badly recently, has it not yet gotten better? Run your attention over her supple form, smooth skin over tight knuckles, the lilac of the fabric complimenting her drained complexion, dark circles beneath her eyes making the rich coca of her irises deeper, swirling with thought. They flick to you suddenly, shadow being cast across her delicate features as she turns, as if about to speak.

You look down into your lap abruptly, staring at the little carving. “I miss dad,” you blurt out quietly, the words being hauled up your throat, spat out into the air.

Elain stiffens in your peripherals, and your lips press together tight. Heart heavies, shoulders no longer being held taut as you begin to drown into the cushion. “I know…” you begin quietly, thoughts eddying away once you try to grasp for them. Just stare at the maiden holding the drooping daisies. “I was thinking about him,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice somewhat even. “Earlier, when I was out with Mor,” you clarify, reaching into the bag.

Push the paper apart, reaching for the female figurine. Fingers brush the smooth wood of the carved figure, the pads able to sense the very grain with heightened nerve endings. She’s hewn from a darker material, deep brown and riddled with smooth and polished knots, creating a labyrinthine twist of swirling lines and wrinkles. It was probably once a beautiful piece of trunk, carried from a forest to a carpenters shop, whittled away until the figure emerged.

“I want to speak with you.”

You look up, hand stilling, fingers grasping the carving. Maybe…you’ve learned in the past it’s better to let someone else lead the conversation. Yours don’t seem to go anywhere unless the other is interested in a continuation.

“Okay,” you murmur, releasing the statue, pulling free as you return the bag to your feet, set aside so you can deliver her your full attention. “What is it?”

Elain blinks slowly, and hairs rise on the back of your neck.

“Elain?” You encourage, no more than a whisper.

For a long moment she won’t speak, just watching intently, as if she can see through you and is examining the sub-atomic structure of your soul, down to the bits and bobs between. Stiffen as cocoa bores into you, looking far older than should be possible as the flame flickers dully in muted brown. Throat rolls, trying to maintain the connection, letting her know you’re there. She’s been around for you; it’s the least you can do.

The contact breaks, her lids closing briefly, gaze returning to quietly observe the fire. Taking in its motion—how the heat wells, practically rolling from the hearth to the rugged floorboards. “There’s been something…” Elegant brows dip almost imperceptibly, the edges of her delicate mouth quivering, lips parted on a syllable. Close again, as if the words won’t suffice for what she’s trying to say. The fire almost seems to match her, growing more intense as she stares into it, shadows darkening as they writhe across the walls, like the wings of a great creature.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she murmurs absently.

Worry sparks across your chest but you say nothing, allowing her to articulate her thoughts at the pace she wishes.

Cocoa returns to you, the colour of conkers—you can picture them sitting cozily among the branches of a dense forest, perfectly in place. “I need you to be calm,” she says firmly. “Can you do that for me?” Brow narrows in confusion, attention fading form your body as it’s directed to your older sister, posture lithe but firm. Sitting with the preternatural stillness of the fae, and something more… Something beyond what even…

You nod—as if your voice might break whatever she’s fallen into. Might cause a change in mind, your chance to comfort her lost. She stares for a moment longer, quiet and observing. An unwelcome itch builds beneath your knuckles, but you push it away, attention solely on your older sister. Her pupils seem to be the wrong size, as if you’re something far off in the distance that she’s struggling to focus on. Her posture relaxes, silently settling into the depth of her armchair, as if it might hold her together.

“Sleep has been difficult as of late,” she murmurs, eyes locked to yours and you find yourself unable to look away. She keeps herself still; poised; refined. Even in the undress of her lilac night robe, she’s collected, but there’s something off tonight. You nod in understanding—sleeping can be difficult. Especially after the war.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” The question pulls from your lips before it’s fully formed in your mind. A faint smile sharpens her mouth—hairs prickling at the nape of your neck. Cocoa blinks, and the sharpness has faded, settling into the familiar gentle curve that makes Elain herself. “I’m perfectly fine,” she replies quietly, though her voice is strained. Eyes again run over you, weighing. Again you keep still, enduring the assessment.

Tongue peeks out to wet her lips, shadows flickering across her face as she shifts in her seat. “I’ve been trying some different tonics,” she admits quietly. “Chamomile, root ginger, valerian���they work fine, and I end up falling asleep swiftly.”

A dull wave of relief washes through your system, like a cool balm to desiccated skin. “I’m glad, ‘Lain,” you say softly, happy she’s found a remedy. But Elain shakes her head solemnly, shadows growing darker, weighing beneath her eyes. “It’s not…I’m not struggling with sleep,” she whispers, as if the walls are sitting in on the conversation. Eyes flit about, and your brows narrow. She’s being shifty. “Maybe we should have this conversation in your room,” she murmurs to herself, fingers massaging her temples.

“Elain…” you interject quietly, worry lacing your tone, “are you okay?” Eyes flick to you, heavy with gravity. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” You press gently. Could she have been sold another kind of herb? “You don’t seem fine…” She waves her hand dismissively, as if physically able to bat the thought away. She exhales heavily, staring again into the fire. Deep into the flames, like she can see to the other side.

“Chamomile, valerian, send me to sleep fine. It’s just not—” She cuts off, searching for the word. “They don’t send me deep enough,” she murmurs, a slight tremor in her voice. “What do you mean?” You ask, shifting toward her in your seat. Eyes snap to you with the movement, brows curving in a look of…

Fear.

You pull back, comprehending. Lean forward, on the verge of standing to cross the room to be at her side again. Like you were for those initial months. “Elain, what’s wrong?” You repeat, anxious to assuage her anxiety however you can.

“They’re back,” she whispers hoarsely. Fingers tremble in her lap, lightly gripping the lilac of her skirts to calm herself. “It’s the same thing again and again,” she manages, staring at you from across the hearth. “I see you at the edge of a forest with the wolves, traveling with the fox, ending with the…” She shakes her head. Steadying her breathing. Calming her nerves.

“There’s a flash of light—light like starfall, except it itches. Itches and burns. And then he’s down, and bleeding, and—”

“Elain, slow down,” you interrupt, standing from your seat as you hurry to her side, fingers linking with her own to soothe the trembles. Crouch before her, clasping her hands in you own gloved ones. “I don’t understand,” you say, staring up at her. “What are you talking about?”

Cocoa drains, dark and haunted.

“They’re back,” she whispers. “The visions.”

General taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

Az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @sakurafrost3-blog @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101 @kennedy-brooke @esposadomd @horneybeach1 @jeannineee @harrystylesfan2686 @tothestarsandwhateverend @abysshaven @starlight-hope @stupidwingboy @nastynesta @luvmoo @furiousbooklover @kuraikei @kemillyfreitas @chasing-autumns-chill @marvelpotter @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @fall-myriad @historygeekqueen @erin-m-harmon

[thesiltverses]

The Silt Verses RPG has just launched from the acclaimed designers of Brindlewood Bay and The Between!

Investigate stray angels, strange haunts, and murderous cults in a world of gods and sacrifice as a disciple of the Saint Electric, Trawler-man, Watcher in the Wings, Cairn Maiden, Pox Martyr, or the Waxen Scrivener.

Delve into backwoods towns, floating markets where sacred relics are bought and sold, bustling clinics where medical 'miracles' come at a hideous cost - and even a towering skyscraper of conjoined steel, glass, and flesh.

You can purchase a copy over on DriveThruRPG, or at the Silt Verses or The Gauntlet Patreon, netting you the rulebook, 8 Assignments, 6 Faith Sheets, 8 Journey Sheets, and more.

This game really is a labour of love from a small team of innovative indie RPG creators, and already a genuine work of art (so we'd be incredibly grateful for your help in playing, giving feedback, and spreading the word far and wide) - we think it's an absolutely fantastic achievement, and we know The Gauntlet are only going to keep building and improving on the game from here.

You can find out more by joining The Gauntlet Discord.

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Waxen Wings II by nickbleb

[starberriemilk]

The EGO name is "Waxen Pinion"

When you search "pinion birds" in google the first thing that appears is "pinioning"… which is, as wikipedia says "the act of surgically removing one pinion joint, the joint of a bird's wing farthest from the body, to prevent flight."

Hmmmmm…

[thepromisedbride]

in light of the finale coming out:

[as-the-stars-foretold]

tell me about the mmvstr waxen wings au please <333

OK SO as spoopy likes to call it, it's the Mica Fucking Dies AU

basically mica goes out on an intel collecting mission but he gets found out and executed in front of prometheus, who then proceeds to massacre the mafia mercs

but then, she obviously has to get the body back to HQ and tell Mica's little sister that her brother died and explain that to their agents: not fun! cue morality crisis, Cody yelling at her, and them FINALLY making the switch from Neutralists to Nemesis

au is called that because of the copious amounts of icarus/daedalus imagery el oh el

[torchickentacos]

we should give Icarus a giant rock and Sisyphus some waxen wings just to see what would happen

[andiloveyoutooangel]

"I know that face." Her voice is low, raspy from sleep, but still playful. He floats above her, caught in the act. Morning sunlight slits through the cracks in the blinds he's trying to close. Whatever doesn't fall on his skin lands like patchwork on the blanket she's curled up in, her tired eyes meeting his. "What are you worrying about now, hmn?"

"Ah, désolé, did I look worried just then?" Despite his self-assured tone, his expression betrays his sheepishness, as he ducks down to press a kiss to her forehead, "I only wanted to close the blinds so the sun wouldn't wake you before your alarm. I guess, uh, I woke you before your alarm, instead...?"

She's been so tired lately, is what he doesn't say, so busy and drained of energy. He wants her to be able to rest fully, as much as she needed, in the way where he'd threaten a solar eclipse if the sun dared disturb her on her first day off in so long.

"Taylor, you're so dear to me. Thank you." She says, simply, sincerely. Her smile is warmer than sunrays, "It's okay, you don't have to. Sun's good for me, in the winter."

"Ah. Okay, okay." So he leaves the blinds, slightly ajar. No solar eclipse then, if his love prefers the light. The dark of the room is warmly hued, tinged with mellowed gold. He hovers awkwardly, wings slowly flapping to keep him uncertainly afloat.

Wordlessly, she raises a wing and an arm towards him, an invitation, a request. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself beside her. With much less care, she unceremoniously tosses the blanket over him so they're sharing, and he grins, ducking his chin beneath the covers.

He lets a wing drape over her, covering his charge, his human, his partner. In turn, she intertwines a hand with him and closes her eyes. Safe, content, trusting.

"I love you." She says, squeezing his hand gently.

"I love you." He returns, and they doze until the alarm wakes them properly.

[baldurs-writers-3]

Hidden Gems 1: A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfiction Rec List

This week, we have Hidden Gems! Check under the cut for 17 fics that haven’t gotten nearly enough love, and as always, comment and kudos if you like them!

sating appetites by mallowspace (1599, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: Gale/Tav

Tav forces Gale to beg for a magical artifact.

Reccer says: this is so mean and cruel, i just love pleading desperate gale so much

A Word by Irken (4915, Teen) Content Notes: Hurt/Comfort Pairings: The Emperor/Illithid Tav

This is a one-shot about the Emperor giving a fresh illithid Tav get used to their new biology and methods of communication.

Reccer says: It's short and sweet and thoughtful and fluffy enough to cheer me up after a bad day :) and the author's descriptions of mind flayer communication are so evocative!

Notes from the Ceremorphosis Unit by narla_hotep (11942, General) Content Notes: Body Horror Pairings: N/A

A series of letters, memos, and other documents translated from Qualith tablets found in Oryndoll; the largest illithid colony in the Underdark. In the Ceremorphosis Unit, they transform prisoners and thralls into new mind flayers to serve the colony's Elder Brain and further the Grand Design. But even in this cruel and alien culture, there is still typical workplace drama and passive-aggression...

Reccer says: I love fics that explore the world of BG3 in some way, and this is a great (and often humorous) look at the world of the illithid hiveminds. Fun read!

You know what they say about monsters by Snailpals (25770, Explicit) Content Notes: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Pairings: Astarion/Dark Urge

Some durges are more put together than others at the start of tadpole times. Echo is a durge that is very much /not/ together, not even remembering what race they are! Astarion slowly falls head over heels for someone even more pathetic than he is. How could he not?!

Reccer says: Two sad wet cats fall in love

Crisis of Faith by The_Dancing_Walrus (4152, Explicit) Content Notes: Cult Pairings: Shadowheart & Astarion

There's a new God of Murder, and Shadowheart can't remember who it is she wants to kill.

Reccer says: a lovely, vicious exploration of Shadowheart fighting past and through and beyond Shar's worship, with some help from a fanged God of Murder

A Night Ashore by Tynithia (3981, Teen) Content Notes: N/A Pairings: Balduran/Tav, The Emperor/Tav

Before Balduran became a legend, a dragon rider, and the founder of Baldur's Gate, he was a ship's Captain. When his ship takes shelter at a seaside village near Illusk, Balduran wakes from a vivid dream about a beautiful elf, or was it a dream?

Reccer says: This is the start of multiple unique stories by the author. I loved the idea of an elf!Tav who knew Balduran before he became a Mind Flayer and I was not disappointed! The author touches on Balduran's life as a sailor before the events of BG3.

On Waxen Wings We Soar, In Spite of Inevitable Ends by Pokimoko (15613, Teen) Content Notes: Terminal Injury, Suicidal Ideation Pairings: Astarion & Karlach

Karlach's engine is about to go - but not quite yet. She's got time enough for a road trip, and maybe a companion on this last adventure.

Reccer says: utterly gorgeous and heartbreaking exploration of a terminal Karlach, directionless Astarion, and the inherent question of who do you want to be when the curtains close.

Strange Highways by NoCryptoGrapher (28939, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: Cazador / female OC, Cazador & male OCs, Cazador&Petras, Cazador&Astarion

Cazador gets Isekai'd to 1980s and ends up joining a heavy metal band.

Reccer says: Hilarious, addictive and tight plotted. Couldn't stop reading. Loved the soundtrack too.

a decade starved by ballofbitter (4906, Mature) Content Notes: nope Pairings: Karlach/Tav

Karlach and Eos have some good cuddle time, talking about Karlach's dream for the future. Tinged with sadness as well, at this point, Karlach has just recently been told she will die if she doesn't return to Avernus. BUT SHE CAN CUDDLE NOW SO THATS GOOD.

Reccer says: Tails! Both Karlach and Eos feel like real characters, they both are explored a bit, in under 5k words! One doesn't feel just like a prop for the other. ALSO TAILS.

What You Made Me by Denesmera (20176, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Astarion/Tav

Six months since the defeat of Elderbrain, Maeve is at a crossroads in her life.

Reccer says: I enjoy how the story focuses on growth, indecision, and hidden desire between the two main characters along with an entire plot. The story plays on the aftermath of decisions that were made during the game and the writer did a great job at exploring the 'now what'. The writing and dialogue has this beauty and flow to it that must not be missed. Worth a read! A hidden gem!

a story better than the real thing by not_whelmed_yet (1100, General) Content Notes: N/A Pairings: N/A

Wyll is alone in the woods, in the wilderness, and the heroes of his youth spoke only of victory so maybe he can convince himself of it, too.

Reccer says: a wonderful character study of Wyll as the Blade of Frontiers - creating a storybook persona so he can try and distract himself from the miserable realities of his current situation. very sad. very fascinating.

Hero of the Hour by Aeona (7779, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Karlach / Wyll

It's Wyll's birthday. He tries to make it about everyone else. Karlach won't let it be about anyone but him.

Reccer says: this is so precious and pours so much love into their interaction

The Contract by This_One_Bites (3899, General) Content Notes: No Archive Warnings Apply Pairings: Astarion & Mizora (Baldur's Gate)

Post game story where Astarion is in the Underdark taking care of the spawn while Tav has to deal with some other things and Mizora comes along and makes an offer he can't refuse.

Reccer says: The tension in this was amazing. The author went through all of Astarion's fears, wants and needs and wrapped them all into a perfect contract. The ending just left me wanting to pull my hair out! It might be one of the best stories I ever read and I can't believe it doesn't have more hits!

Under the Sussur Tree by bravelikealady (3160, Teen) Content Notes: None Pairings: Wyll / Gale

The Wizard of Waterdeep and the Blade of Frontiers find themselves rendered merely Gale Dekarios and Wyll Ravengard under the neutralizing affects of the Sussur tree. Without the bite of the Weave or the call of Mystra, Gale finds something fighting for space with the orb in his chest.

Reccer says: this is so romantic and soft and poignant, beautifully written!

Deep Haven: An Archive of Historical Records by Our very own Professor_Rye (3676, General) Content Notes: N/A Pairings: N/A

Centuries after The Absolute Crisis, a historian works tirelessly to hunt down and gather any and all documents relating to Deep Haven, The Under Gate, and The Shade Way that connects them. Or: How the Tad-fools and friends help a little under 7000 vampire spawn start a new life

Reccer says: Gap filler and world building documents are always fun to me, but this fic takes it to a new level with a custom work skin: scrolls, letters, and all manner of documents help craft an immersive look at what the characters might've gotten up to post-quest in BG3. :)

In Time by Fartastic durge (27784, Explicit) Content Notes: Graphic depictions of violence Pairings: Astarion/Tav, Astarion & Gale

Taking place 19 years after the original events of Fated, Astarion finds himself in a place that could be close to acceptance of the events that transpired that day when they defeated the Netherbrain. In the hopes of finding his happy ending, he takes one last chance to seek answers to lingering questions that prevent him from moving on entirely when Gale suggests a trip to Candlekeep.

Reccer says: I binge read this once I started it! It's a follow on to a previous work, but easy to get the gist if you haven't read that. Love the relationship between Astarion and Gale, and the Tav complications! Sinister with a dark humour.

And two recs for: Cutlass Tavern by Tynithia (33395, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Balduran/Ansur, Balduran/Tav

Balduran and Ansur's relationship was already on the rocks when Balduran makes it worse by spending the night with someone else.

Reccer #1 says: I enjoyed how the writer created an original story from two characters who only had a letter and one scene together in the entire game. Their original characters were woven in so easily into their story, I went to the Forgotten Realms wiki to see if they were real characters. I also enjoyed the point of view chapters from each of the characters, it really gave the story more insight to how each were thinking. It's a great emotional roller coaster and worth a read. I laughed, cried, and rooted for all the characters - a hidden gem indeed! Reccer #2 says: Like with many long established relationships, there are ups and downs, no matter how much you love each other. Balduran and Ansur were no exception, especially when one is an elf and the other is a dragon.The story is told from the perspective of the three main characters Balduran, Ansur, and Ellandra (Tav/OC) with Gaius Dekarios (Gale’s great-grandfather/OC) in a supporting role. Really enjoyed this glimpse into Balduran's past life and loves. A great read with lots of angst, laughs, romance, battles and sea tales around the past lives of the characters.

Hidden Gems are any fics with less than 150 kudos! We want to uplift authors in our community, and sometimes all a fic needs is that little push. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be coming in with our first instance of a recurring theme, with Extraplanar Travel!

From the House of Hope to the Astral Prism, this theme has range! So tune in next week!

[inventors-fair]

Hallowed Halls: Myth ReRealized Runners Up!

~

Our runners up this week are @hypexion, @melancholia-ennui, and @reaperfromtheabyss!

@hypexion — Persephia, Bride of Erebos

First off, I'm immediately interested in the idea of off-color Theros gods. That's a fun evolution of the concept and ends up creating a way different dynamic in both deckbuilding and how it actually plays. Being able to cast it theoretically forever is certainly strong, but it requires you to have a board presence to actually do it. And I like how the devotion is shifted away from being the condition for it being a creature as an additional twist. Having an additional land play exclusively from the graveyard is a great twist on the Crucible of Worlds effect too. Really, there's only one problem I see, although it is a bit of a major one. Namely, the recursion is all well and good, but...how often is an indestructible creature ending up in the graveyard? It works fine with self-mill, which the first effect suggests you want to be doing anyway, and you could even potentially finagle some sacrifice plays, but if it leaves the field on your opponent's initiative it's probably headed irrevocably for exile.

@melancholia-ennui — Karos, with Waxen Wings

For some reason I've been calling this card "on Waxen Wings" in my head the whole time, maybe just because it sounds better to my silly, silly brain. Anyway, this is a pretty extreme card. It grows comically fast, but the whole "fly-too-close-to-the-sun" aspect means you only get to hit once, and thus you better make it count. But maybe you'd rather not, because mana on a magecraft trigger is pretty nutty and definitely worth keeping around. I do like the foible of having to get him of the ground before he can really start soaring. Plus, there's room for some creativity here. His likely massive power isn't going to be wading into combat that much, but there's plenty of ways to take advantage of it. Something like Soul's Fire to hurl his power at an unsuspecting face at no threat to him seems particularly nasty. The one thing I can think of to complain about is that the haste seems a bit superfluous to the design. I can recognize its origins in the myth, but the fact of the matter is that I can't see you getting him up to a level where you're comfortable losing him the same turn you play him all that much. But it's not entirely unrealistic in a dedicated storm deck...hm.

@reaperfromtheabyss — Wichovika, Medicine Weaver

Love me the elusive white spider. Finding excuses to use new color combinations for types is always fun, especially one as entrenched in its primary color as spider. Silly stuff out of the way, though, I want to get into the fine details here. Right out of the gate, wielding green to shave the typical once per turn restriction off of the draw instantly makes it quite a lot stronger, although the one or more rider is useful for ensuring that something like Secure the Wastes doesn't draw you a gazillion cards. The swiss army knife of counters on the second ability doesn't have a whole lot to do with that first ability, but it's similarly quite useful. The abilities by themselves aren't anything spectacular, but together they really help sell the helpful, caring spirit of the character that you described to me. Although, if it's supposed to be generous, then being able to put counters on itself feels a bit against the spirit of the card. Plus...I just like spiders, to be honest.

~

And that brings our tale to a close. Sadly, I'm not liable to be available for the rest of the day to take requests for additional commentary. Sorry about that. If you really must hear what I have to say, feel free to leave a request on the Discord and I'll try to get around to it when I have time. —@spooky-bard

[sentientsky]

here, have a little angelfish ficlet (ft. lots of queer yearning. also. “be gay, do crime” vibes)

It's all the same; a slow, monotonous dragging of time through liminal space. There had never been room enough for shifting tides or changing winds—no room to stretch one's wings. Because Heaven, by its very nature, is antiseptic. Pure autoclave, all pressure and steam and the absence of touch. That's part of the deal. You want to keep the wings? The halo? Well, then, you have to learn to live under the fluorescent glare of a silent god.

It's all the same, save for the slippery red heat of Michael's heart hurling itself staccato against her breastbone. In truth, it’s a heart that doesn’t really need to beat—that doesn’t need to exist at all, save for her inclination to feel the heavy weight of it writhing in her chest. In a way she doesn’t quite yet understand, she wants proof. She wants to feel her pulse, feel it move in a way that leaves a mark, bruises flesh. 

She sits with her hands folded, one pressed over top of the other. From afar, it might even look as though she’s praying (it might look as though she’s holy, still held firm in the Mother's grasp). She breathes in. Slow, tentative—as though the air might carry unspoken words out and away from her. There’s a certain chilling numbness that creeps up on you when you’ve lived this way for so long; a buzzing static that burns from the base of your skull, all the way down to the backs of your knees, your calves—the place where your feet hit the ground running (always running, always dying to get out even as you lean into the punches). It’s the feeling of living in the hollowed-out limbs of a corpse, of walking around with waxen, rotting flesh and a smile that stretches slightly too far to be genuine. 

And yet, now, for once, her body is no longer whirring—no longer silently humming with agitation or the drive to propel herself forward and up, ever up. For once, she’s still, save for the thrashing in her throat. She breathes out. She rolls words around in her mouth: flashpoint, epiphany—whispers them like a prayer spoken to no one—lightning strike, catalyst. A thread pulled so taut, it cuts to marrow. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep the pace, hold the line. Adjust to the status quo. But the status quo has never looked so unappealing. Because, she realizes, if someone had asked her to paint the slope of a silver-blue throat, or the upturned palm of a scaled hand, she could do it with her eyes closed. She could do it in complete darkness, at the edge of existence. Of this she was nearly certain.

--- It had taken place in the corridors that stretch from one end of infinity to the next; a slicing wound driven between the ribs of the universe. And it had been innocuous, really—a passing glance, at first. And then an icy nod, the turn of a jaw towards the stale light. The brush of shoulders, and the ache that bloomed in her at the touch. Time wore on, kingdoms rose and fell. The sea drew towards the shore, Michael’s eyes drew towards a too-sharp mouth. In their own fragment of purgatory made heaven made something completely new, she and Dagon exchanged rasped whispers—hushed murmurings of a revolution.

The inferno in her gut grew, consumed, devoured. Years clawed past. It's important to note that angels, as imagined in most popular religious scripture, are exceptionally good at self-restraint. And for the most part, this is true. But those who wrote the holy texts never considered the canted slope of the devil’s mouth; they never imagined that the devil could be gentle, could press her palm to yours like a promise and speak new religion into being. And so, after what could have been eons or mere decades, they fell together, breath intermingling in the space that had become more sanctuary than abyss. Flashpoint, epiphany. It had been inevitable, really. Lightning strike, catalyst. They were two neutron stars collapsing in on themselves. Gravity, heat, the press of a sigh into her open mouth. The hunger that settled in the bottom of her gut. --- So when Gabriel walks into her office, head held high and grinning, Michael swallows it all down. She chokes it back, feels all the love she has for her demon lodge in her throat and stay there.

Of course, she could open her mouth now to speak and have it all tumble out onto the floor. She could Fall—had Fallen already, in a sense, the world pitching around her with the weight of all she wanted but could not have. The muscles of her back ached, wings flickering somewhere in the aether, thrashing like an augury. Like an omen. Let it ache, she thought. Let it wound me, infect me, take me down. If this is my destruction, so be it. Beneath the desk, the blade in her hand glittered like a piranha’s open mouth. Maybe Heaven needed a little shaking up, after all.