#A Swift and Savage Tide

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Napoleonic Historical Fantasy Romance

If you've ever wanted a book that mixes Jane Austen with Naomi Novik's Temeraire novels with the odd echo of Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe novels and some Master and Commander vibes? Plus magic? The Kit Brightling books absolutely do that.

*MASSIVE CAVEAT*: I love these books, but A Swift and Savage Tide sets up a ton of stuff that is absolutely fascinating, but it cliffhangs so bad. So before you sprint out to read these books, be aware that Chloe Neill's website says that only two Kit Brightling books were guaranteed, and any other books in the series depends on sales. So we may never get answers, and uh...that might actually be a tragedy. Especially after getting angsty Rian Grant in leather pants and a pirate shirt. So be warned before we talk Kit Brighting.

Kit Brightling, captain of the ship Diana, is magically aligned with the sea, which honestly just makes her life really difficult because alignment is viewed as immensely sus after Gerard (think Napoleon) had his aligned folks use it to commit a war crime. So everyone is massively suspicious, uncomfortable, and traumatized. This first book is mostly vibes and characters, so there IS plot, but after reading it, honestly the plot didn't stick, the vibes did. And the vibes were strong enough that I was 100% good with that.

The second book balances vibes and plot extraordianrily well, so there was everything I loved about the first book plus a story that pulled me happily along---right to the edge of a cliff. I will be so, so sad if we don't get more Kit Brightling books.

In essence, Captain Brightling and her ship are required to work with Crown Agent and former soldier Rian Grant on missions, and we get some nice rivals to lovers happening with Kit and Rian, shamelessly aided and abetted by the crew of the Diana, because quite frankly, in addition to being wonderful characters, the crew knows a good rivals to lovers when they see it, and they are just as invested in that as the reader is. It's literally the best thing ever because we as readers get to ship Kian (Rit?) right alongside the crew.

Rian Grant makes shipping it even better because he is absolutely drinking the respect women juice, because not only does he have exactly zero doubt that Kit can and will excel in the performance of her duties, he's exactly frustrating enough to put weave mission and emotion together in unfailingly logical ways that make you want to SHAKE him.

Kit is immensely competent, and watching her match competence with an exploration of alignment--because she's correct that society can't just bury it and hope it goes away, it needs to be studied and used safely--is never not a joy. She also gets a really nice balance of badass and human; our girl is HERE for pistachio nougats and she is equally badass in uniform and ballgown.

Literally, the best thing about these books are the vibes, and how cozy the vibes are as you read them. The peices mesh together beautifully, and as a reader you simply float in the world's vibes, enjoying it.

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

22. 𝓑𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓽

Dorian's velvety croon filled the room as the girl's eyes fluttered open, a testament to the success of his work. With grace, Dorian ran his fingers through her hair, an almost paternal gesture with an undercurrent of possessiveness. She appeared disoriented yet curiously aware of everything surrounding her. 

In a ritualistic display, Dorian's sharp fangs pierced his own forearm, crimson droplets welling up and rolling down his arm. The scent, intoxicating and thick, traveled through the room, luring the fledgling. The girl, smart child that she was, picked up on the scent in no time. A swift realization flashed across her eyes, and she keenly picked up on the aroma.

The offered forearm hovered near her mouth, and Dorian's honeyed voice encouraged her, "Drink." The fledgling, displaying an instinctive hunger, moved to partake almost savagely, but Dorian intervened with a gentle touch. He held her jaw delicately, his fingers grazing her cold skin. "Use your fangs, doll. Show me your little fangs."

The girl, her newly formed canines revealed, elicited a proud smile from Dorian. With approval granted, she sank her fangs into his flesh. She drank with a fervor, as if trying to quench a centuries-long thirst in mere moments. The room resonated with the sound of her eager feeding.

Eventually, Dorian, the indulgent sire, halted her actions. "That is enough," he whispered, and she whimpered, a primitive plea for more escaping her lips. With a reassuring shake of his head, he spoke softly, "I know, I know, you're thirsty. You shall have more later." 

As much as she wanted. He was her sire, her creator, and her provider. He would ensure she lacked nothing. He wouldn’t leave her and, in return, she would stay by his side. He was her caretaker. ☾ Gradually (Y/n)'s reason took back control over her instincts. Her memories were hazy, as if a fog were enveloping them, but the panic and fear she had felt before still remained. She recognized the two men in the room. Recognizing the two men present, the sentiments of transformation and of an existence forced upon her hung heavy in the air.

"Killian.. Stay.." Desperation tinged her whimper as she reached out to Killian. She sought solace in the man she knew, yearning for his presence as a shield against the monster who had inflicted this vampiric fate upon her. This man had tried to protect her against the one who turned her. She felt safer with him. 

She observed the man's hesitation, her eyes filled with a profound sense of hope and despair intertwined. His gaze held a tempest of emotions, reflecting the inner conflict he, too, experienced.

Dorian, now the creator of her newfound existence, leaned in, a calming presence amidst the chaos soothing her whimpers with a gentle, almost hypnotic murmur. Safe. "Oh, he won't leave, darling." His words cut through the uncertainty with a promise. "He may have contemplated leaving, but that's in the past now. He shall stay, and he shall stay for you." ☾ She remained oblivious to the sly, dark smile Dorian gave to the other vampire — a subtle pact woven between them, one party more willing than the other.

Reluctantly, Killian approached the girl, a silent turmoil raging within him. Dorian released his hold on her, allowing her to find solace in the arms of his companion. As Killian tenderly stroked her hair, a tide of resentment surged within him. The venom in his voice was palpable as he muttered, words laden with scorn, "You are truly deplorable."

The words danced in the air for an instant, carrying with them years of resentment. The surroundings whispered tales of lives lived, choices made, and the eternal struggle between what once had been and what remained now.

Dorian smiled faintly. His eyes were wet and he leaned on his shoulder. “I know,” he whispered, his words feeling heavy in the room. “Anything for my family. My coven.”

The blond’s arms locked around Killian and he could feel the other’s tremors. "I love you so much,” he muttered, almost inaudibly, "I love the both of you so much." He repeated the statement like an endless mantra. 

Killian remained quiet, with the youngling resting on his chest and the other vampire leaning on his shoulders.

A part of him realized they could all leave. Windows were open; doors were unlocked. Walking out was easy. Just as it had always been.

"We have a daughter, Killian," he continued on. Killian suddenly felt a wetness on his shoulder. "You wouldn't leave her behind, would you? Please… She needs me, and — and I need the both of you."

He drew in a shuddering breath, the blond’s voice, his words, his touch… All of that was so suffocating. He felt caged. Not physically, no; his prison was of another kind. He would have liked to say Fate had intricately woven and meticulously pulled the threads of their lives until they were inevitably entwined. That description would have sounded poetic, or perhaps even romantic in a twisted way. Yet, even that was false, wasn’t it? Tthe truth was often less fanciful.

They were trapped.

Trapped in a tragedy of their own making.

[coolest-capybara]

Maniculum Bestiaryposting Challenge: Miscellaneous Mammals

This one had so many great descriptions to choose from! I didn't have that much time, so I focused on two of them and did some scribbles of some of the others.

The first image shows the Thokragosk and the Kamyaweneg:

The Thokragosk is a puny animal; its name [redacted]. Others say [redacted] because they are produced ex humore, from the damp soil, of the earth; for [etymology redacted]. Their liver grows bigger at full moon, like the tides rise then fall with the waning of the moon.

The Kamyaweneg is called [redacted] because it is condemned to darkness by its permanent blindness. For it lacks eyes, is always digging in the ground and throwing out the soil, and feeds on the roots of the plants which the Greeks call aphala, vetch.

They are based on a star-nosed mole and a golden mole, respectively.

In the second image, from top left to right: The Shmeashagg, Revklogwat and Klosweisht.

The Shmeashagg is a species which has a mottled skin, is extremely swift and thirsts for blood; for it kills at a single bound. The leopard is the product of the adultery of a lioness with a Shmeashagg; their mating produces a third species. As Pliny says in his Natural History: the lion mates with the Shmeashagg, or the Shmeashagg with the lioness, and from both degenerate offspring are created, such as the mule and the burdon.

You might recognize the pose from the Calvin and Hobbes comics.

The Revklogwat is at once feathered and four-footed. It lives in the south and in mountains. The hinder part of its body is like a lion; its wings and face are like an eagle. It hates the horse bitterly and if it comes face to face with a man, it will attack him.

The Klosweishts of India are tawny in hue and so swift-footed that they seem to fly. Their hair grows against the nap of their coat, their mouth opens to the size of their head. They also move their horns in whatever direction they wish, and the toughness of their hides turns aside all weapons. So fierce and savage are they that if they are captured they give up the ghost.

If they can nearly fly and move their horns however they want, why not helicopter horns?

The middle row, again from left to right: Raenwegguk, Biklanokyo and Brotkarske

The Raenwegguk gets its name, [redacted], from its wildness, [redacted], the letter f being replaced by a p; for the same reason, it is called [redacted], meaning wild. For everything which is untamed and savage we call, loosely, [redacted], wild. Others say that the Raenwegguk gets its name because it lives in wild places. The Raenwegguk signifies the fierceness of the rulers of this world. [Symbolic digression redacted.] It is said to be a creature of the woods because its thoughts are wild and unruly.

I mostly wanted this one to look a bit tree-like itself.

The Biklanokyo is a monster with a horrible bellow, the body of a horse, the feet of an elephant and a tail very like that of a deer. A magnificent, marvellous horn projects from the middle of its forehead, four feet in length, so sharp that whatever it strikes is easily pierced with the blow. No living Biklanokyo has ever come into man's hands, and while it can be killed, it cannot be captured.

The Brotkarske, which is also called [redacted] in Greek, has this nature: it is a little beast, not unlike a young goat, and extraordinarily swift. It has a horn in the middle of its brow, and no hunter can catch it. But it can be caught in the following fashion: a girl who is a virgin is led to the place where it dwells, and is left there alone in the forest. As soon as the Brotkarske sees her, it leaps into her lap and embraces her, and goes to sleep there; then the hunters capture it and display it in the king’s palace. The Brotkarske often fights elephants; it wounds them in the stomach and kills them.

I think this one is pretty recognizable, so I depicted it enjoying the zoomies.

And last but not least, again from left to right: Nutogsheag, Goggaerker and Shrobshong

The beast called Nutogsheag comes from India. It is the swiftest of all wild animals. It is as big as an ass, with the hindquarters of a deer, the chest and legs of a lion, the head of a horse and cloven hooves. Its mouth stretches from ear to ear. Instead of teeth it has a continuous bone. So much for its shape; with its voice it imitates the sound of speech.

There is an animal called the Goggaerker, with very keen hearing, so that no hunter can approach it. It has long horns like a saw so that it can saw down great tall trees and fell them to the ground. If it is thirsty it goes to the River Euphrates. There is a bush there called ‘hedgehog-bush’ in Greek which has a mass of thin and entwined twigs. The animal begins to play with it with its horns, and in playing it entangles itself by the horns in the twigs. When it has struggled for a long while, it cannot free itself and cries out loudly. As soon as the hunter hears its cry, he comes and kills it.

Big ears to hear the hunters and a magnificent sawing horn.

There is an animal called the Shrobshong, which has two horns of such strength that, if it were to fall from a high mountain to the lowest depths, its whole body would be supported by those two horns.

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Still taking a mini vacation from the long fic, but I have been working on a VERY exciting collaboration with @mareenavee and @thana-topsy to bring to you Neloth shenanigans.

Enjoy spooky. Here are three carefully curated snippets from my part of this writing.

Tagging: the aforementioned dynamic duo as well as, @oblivions-dawn, @dirty-bosmer, @paraparadigm, @rainpebble3, @snowberry-crostata, @skyrim-forever, @gilgamish, @tallmatcha, @ladytanithia, @polypolymorph, @throughtrialbyfire, @kookaburra1701, @changelingsandothernonsense, @sheirukitriesfandom, @wildhexe, @umbracirrus

CW: for blood, Neloth being Neloth, and general existential dread/chaos.

For many months over the span of the past year, a great deal of delicate research and precise calculation led to what could only be described as the ultimate heartbreak. Both in the literal and figurative sense. Scrawling scribbles, mumbled musings, and a whole host of hypotheses went into the final finished product in order to put the wheel into motion.

Who would have thought that defying the Gods would cause him such an incredible headache?  It generally didn’t. At least, not before now.However, Neloth was certain of his eventual success, determined bastard that he was, and there was no one and nothing on Nirn, Aetherius, or the nebulous cosmos themselves who could tell him no. So he did it. Unnatural or not. Everything and anything in the pursuit of or in the name of experimentation was open for him—he found that doors had never interested him much anyway.

...

As the last of his remaining blood seeped from the wound, it began to pool onto the floor, spreading out like glass with a deep rusty tinge. It was time. His ebony blade clattered to the floor as he took the heart stone from the table beside him. Inch by agonizing inch, he closed the distance from his hand to his heart, and even there he met resistance. Each movement felt like scaling the Red Mountain itself, heat searing and blistering his skin as he panted and tried to catch his breath. Not even the phantom wind which rustled through the room, causing the numerous potion bottles to scatter then clatter to the floor, made him feel any cooler. Darkness came after, candles snuffing themselves out as Talvas and the apprentices looked on with abject horror. Finally, in one swift motion, Neloth wretched his own heart from his chest cavity, a savage scream dying on his lips as he stuffed the eerie red glow of the heart stone inside himself.

And then, there was nothing.

...

It was felt throughout the entire island of Solstheim, low rumblings which echoed in the ashy earth from deep underground. Strange and foreign—something not quite right—and none except the oldest of Dunmer had lived to feel anything of its like. The whispers, naturally, soon followed as murmurings passed freely across the population like flowing water, and not long after, a mass exodus followed suit. They did not want to take their chances, especially with the too-familiar feeling of the current ill-omens. They were accompanied by a deep-seated fear which burned through them—almost as if the Dunmer could still feel the ghostly remnants of ash blowing on the wind and searing their skin. All the right signs were there to herald a new explosion of the Red Mountain: the rolling tides, shaking lands, and scorching skies did not lie, and they would be thrice foolish to ignore them. 

[poem-today]

A poem by Isaac Rosenberg

Dead Man’s Dump

The plunging limbers over the shattered track Racketed with their rusty freight, Stuck out like many crowns of thorns, And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear. The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not, though their bones crunched, Their shut mouths made no moan. They lie there huddled, friend and foeman, Man born of man, and born of woman, And shells go crying over them From night till night and now. Earth has waited for them, All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay: Now she has them at last! In the strength of their strength Suspended—stopped and held. What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit? Earth! have they gone into you! Somewhere they must have gone, And flung on your hard back Is their soul’s sack Emptied of God-ancestralled essences. Who hurled them out? Who hurled? None saw their spirits’ shadow shake the grass, Or stood aside for the half used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth, When the swift iron burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth. What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre, Walk, our usual thoughts untouched, Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed, Immortal seeming ever? Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us, A fear may choke in our veins And the startled blood may stop. The air is loud with death, The dark air spurts with fire, The explosions ceaseless are. Timelessly now, some minutes past, Those dead strode time with vigorous life, Till the shrapnel called ‘An end!’ But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home, Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts. Maniac Earth! howling and flying, your bowel Seared by the jagged fire, the iron love, The impetuous storm of savage love. Dark Earth! dark Heavens! swinging in chemic smoke, What dead are born when you kiss each soundless soul With lightning and thunder from your mined heart, Which man’s self dug, and his blind fingers loosed? A man’s brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer’s face; His shook shoulders slipped their load, But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deep For human tenderness. They left this dead with the older dead, Stretched at the cross roads. Burnt black by strange decay Their sinister faces lie, The lid over each eye, The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they, Joined to the great sunk silences. Here is one not long dead; His dark hearing caught our far wheels, And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said, The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light, Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break Or the wheels to break, Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight. Will they come? Will they ever come? Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules, The quivering-bellied mules, And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight. So we crashed round the bend, We heard his weak scream, We heard his very last sound, And our wheels grazed his dead face.

Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)

Isaac Rosenberg died in the Battle of Arras on April 1st, 1918.

[peternoahthomas]

A Beacon in the Storm

In the heart of pine-scented mountains, vast and evergreen, A rustic cabin stood, a shelter snug within. Inside, there dwelled a rancher and his cherished wife, Their love, a steady flame, to weather storms of life.

The winter unleashed its fury, a blizzard's savage might, Whipping snow like phantoms, dancing in the fading light. Silence, broken only by the cabin's lonely groan, As the rancher, a beacon of resolve, donned his coat alone.

His eyes, a steely glint that pierced the swirling storm, Burned with determination, to keep his loved ones warm. For lost within the blizzard's icy, chilling grasp, A tiny life lay trembling, a fragile, whimpering newborn calf.

Their foreheads came together, a silent understanding passed, Her eyes, like embers warm, against the icy blast. No sounds of words were spoken, yet a promise filled the air, A vow to face the storm, a burden they would share.

He buttoned up his weathered coat, the horse pawed restless at the door, Each gust of wind, a whispered threat, a challenge to explore. A final touch, a lingering glance, he mounted his loyal mare, And vanished into the white abyss, she mouthed a silent prayer.

By the windowpane she stood, a sentinel in the gloom, Her breath, a ragged rhythm, echoed in the room. Each tick of the clock, a hammer blow upon her breast, As minutes stretched like eons, stealing her fleeting rest.

The storm unleashed its fury, the wind a mournful cry, A primal fear took root within, a tear welled in her eye. The storm grew ever fiercer, and the trees began to moan, She knew she could not let him face, this tempest all alone.

Driven by love's fierce fire, she saddled swift and bold, Plunging into the blizzard's heart, her desperate search unfolds. Mounting strong, resolve ignited, her lantern's glow a guide, She rode into the white abyss, courage flowing by her side.

Her spirit, a burning ember, cast a defiant light, A beacon in the darkness, piercing through the night. Not fate would decide their destiny, but love's unwavering hand, As she searched the wild expanse, across the storm-swept land.

As frosty breath betrayed her, she called his name aloud, And in the distance, faintly, she heard a familiar sound. Onward still she pressed until, at last, she found her love, Huddled, strong, and steadfast, with the heavens vast above.

The rancher, battered and weary, held the calf snug to his chest, His strength near gone, a fragile hope was all he had possessed. Tears welled in his eyes for the wife he held so dear, She had found them, now safe from harm, banishing all fear.

Together, hand in hand, they braved the storm's fierce tide, Their devotion, a steady flame, forever their guide. Back home, within their cabin, they warmed beside the fire, Their love a fierce reminder of the strength in their desire.

For in this tale of ranchers, fate has a hold no more, The storm could not extinguish the passion they had forged. In moments dark and trying, love's light will guide the way, A bond that conquers tempests, to bring forth a brighter day.

© 2024 Peter Noah Thomas

[gobboguy]

Chapter 8: Clash of Titans

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a brilliant glow upon the battlefield where destiny awaited with bated breath. The Orcish and Farfield forces stood like titans, their formations stretching across the rolling plains. The Orcish line, longer and menacing, rippled with anticipation, their gleaming weapons poised for bloodshed. The Farfield troops, undeterred by the daunting sight before them, braced themselves for the impending clash.

With a thunderous roar, the cavalry on both wings charged forward, their hooves pounding the earth like war drums. The air filled with the sound of galloping, a symphony of power and speed, as the expert Orcish riders met the Farfield cavalry head-on. The collision was fierce and immediate, a maelstrom of steel, muscle, and fury.

The Orcish mounts, massive and strong, proved to be a formidable force, their sinewy muscles rippling beneath sleek, obsidian coats. With uncanny agility, the Orcish cavalry cut down mounted men and centaur fighters alike, their strikes swift and lethal. The battlefield echoed with the clashing of weapons, the screams of men and the neighs of horses merging into a cacophony of chaos.

On the Orcish left, near the river Cleoleham, the Orcish cavalry surged forward like a dark tide, overwhelming the Farfield right with ruthless efficiency. The Farfield soldiers fought valiantly, but they were met with the ferocity of the Orcish onslaught. The cries of men and horses mingled with the guttural battle cries of victory as the Orcish cavalry decimated the Farfield right without quarter.

With a savage momentum, the victorious Orcish cavalry wheeled around, their eyes ablaze with triumph. They charged towards the Farfield right wing, a tidal wave of death and destruction. The Farfield cavalry, already engaged in brutal combat, found themselves caught between the hammer and the anvil. The Orcish steeds, mighty and relentless, trampled through the ranks, their sheer size and power crushing all in their path.

Amidst the chaos, the battlefield became a tempest of violence and desperation. The air was thick with the acrid scent of sweat and blood, the ground churned to mud beneath the ceaseless onslaught. The cries of the fallen mixed with the triumphant roars of the Orcish horses, their primal might echoing through the battlefield like a grim symphony of war.

In the heart of this storm, soldiers fought with unmatched valor, their determination unyielding even in the face of overwhelming odds. The struggle between the Farfield cavalry and the Orcish forces was a clash of titans, a testament to the unbreakable spirit of warriors who fought not just for victory, but for the survival of their homeland.

The clash of steel had barely subsided when the Farfield infantry, under orders, surged forward, a wave of disciplined determination crashing into the fray. The soldiers of Farfield moved with purpose, their swords and spears gleaming in the sunlight as they pressed deeper into the heart of the Orcish horde. With every step, they carved a path through the enemy ranks, their shouts of battle mingling with the cries of the fallen.

Valiant men of Farfield, their faces etched with grim determination, cut down the Orcish center with skill and bravery. The Orcs, pushed back by the relentless advance, stumbled and fell beneath the onslaught, their formations breaking under the unyielding pressure of Farfield's assault. Victory seemed tantalizingly close, the taste of triumph sweet upon their lips.

But fate, capricious and unforgiving, had other designs.

Unbeknownst to the Farfield soldiers, the forces of the Orcs had formed a crescent around them, a natural trap that tightened with every step forward. The jubilation of their advances turned to desperation as realization dawned too late. The once cohesive line of Farfield's army found itself compressed into a wedge, tightly packed and vulnerable, their room to maneuver and wield weapons drastically diminished.

From three sides, the Orcish forces pressed in, their savage determination evident in the snarls on their faces. Farfield soldiers fought with every ounce of strength, but their movements were restricted, their blows less effective in the confined space. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and desperation.

And then, the final blow fell.

From behind, the thunderous hooves of the Orcish cavalry heralded their arrival, a cruel surprise that sealed Farfield's fate. The encirclement was complete, a deadly dance of doom, and the Farfield soldiers stood trapped, their backs to the relentless tide of the Orcish onslaught.

A chilling silence settled over the battlefield, broken only by the clash of weapons and the anguished cries of the Farfield soldiers. The realization of their dire predicament weighed heavy upon them, the bitter taste of defeat creeping into their hearts.

In the cruel embrace of the crescent, surrounded on all sides and with escape impossible, the soldiers of Farfield stood defiant. They knew that their last moments would be marked by bravery, for even in the face of certain doom, the spirit of Farfield would never waver.

The once-mighty Farfield army, now ensnared within the relentless grip of the Orcish onslaught, faced a nightmare of ferocity and despair. Swords and spears, wielded by Orcish hands, cleaved through Farfield soldiers like a scythe through wheat. Men fell beneath the merciless blows, their cries of agony swallowed by the cacophony of battle.

Orcish slingers, their arms like catapults of death, cast stones with deadly precision. The stones struck with a sickening thud, caving in the heads of Farfield men, their lifeblood mingling with the churned earth beneath them. The battlefield, once vibrant with life, now bore witness to a macabre dance of death and destruction.

Amidst the chaos, the Orcs snarled and snorted in triumphant savagery. "For MOG!" one cried, his voice a guttural growl of victory. "For Gelbeg!" another bellowed, the name of their fallen lord echoing like a curse upon the wind. "For Ionia!" a third roared, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand grievances.

General Lother, his body weary from the relentless fight, fought with the last vestiges of his strength. He swung his weapon with the fury of a storm, but sheer exhaustion overcame him. Collapsing to his knees, he gasped for air, only to be pierced by the merciless lances of the Orcish soldiers, his noble spirit extinguished in the blink of an eye.

Ilis Foxe, her eyes blazing with determination, tried to direct a retreat, her voice rising above the chaos. But fate, cruel and unyielding, had other plans. An Orcish slinger, his aim true, cast a stone that met its mark with a sickening crunch. Ilis's head caved in under the force of the blow, her body falling among the fallen, her bravery unacknowledged in the face of relentless Orcish vengeance.

The Farfield army, once a force of over ninety thousand, was reduced to a gruesome tableau of gore and despair. The Orcs, showing no mercy, gave no quarter. Their revenge for Farfield's perceived crime against their people was exacted with ruthless efficiency.

Alden stood frozen, his eyes wide with horror as he witnessed the brutal routing of the Farfield army. The carnage unfolding before him was unlike any Orc attack he had ever seen. The savagery displayed seemed unprecedented, leaving him to ponder whether it was Ionia’s cunning or the twisted influence of the Serpent Crown, now adorning Ulf’s brow, that had birthed this unprecedented onslaught.

The Orcs, their battle cries reverberating with bloodlust, surged towards the reserve camp. Alden's heart sank as he realized the battle was irrevocably lost. With a heavy heart, he barked the order for a full retreat, his voice carrying the weight of despair. The remaining men, battered and broken, fell back, their faces etched with defeat.

Alden, clutching his sword Eleanor, felt a surge of desperation. With unwavering resolve, he tapped into the ancient magic within his blade. The roots of several trees responded to his call, intertwining and growing to form a makeshift bridge across the river Cleoleham. The soldiers hurried across, their steps frantic, but Alden stayed behind, watching the Orcs draw near.

As the last of his men crossed to safety, Alden used Eleanor's power to make the roots collapse, trapping several Orcs in the raging waters, their cries silenced by the river's merciless embrace.

Fueled by fury, Alden raised his sword high, calling forth the magic of the forest. Snapdragons, blooming wildflowers with jaws like traps, sprouted from the earth. With a flick of his wrist, Alden commanded the snapdragons to form the shape of a dragon, their petals and vines weaving an illusory silhouette against the fading light.

But the Orcs, their laughter ringing with mocking glee, refused to fall for Alden's illusion. "Hah! We ain't fools, forest-wielder!" one of them jeered, slapping his belly in triumph. The others joined in, snorting in delight as they continued their advance.

The male and female Orcs, their faces contorted with malicious delight, jeered at Alden in a chorus of crude laughter. They bared their tusks in mocking grins, their eyes alight with the sadistic pleasure of victory. Shamelessly, they mooned him, their bare backsides a crude gesture of triumph, while others took it further, urinating in the river, their laughter ringing out like a cruel melody. Alden, his eyes burning with righteous fury, clenched his fists, his jaw set in determination. The shameless display only fueled his resolve to protect Farfield, his homeland desecrated by the Orcish horde. With a heart heavy with grief and anger, he turned away, vowing to gather his strength, to rally those who remained loyal, and to return to Farfield stronger than ever. His path was clear – he would not rest until the honor of Farfield was restored, even if it meant facing the darkest depths of the Orcish threat.

Defeat weighed heavily upon Alden's shoulders as he retreated across the river, his heart heavy with the burden of loss. The once-proud Farfield army had been decimated. Of the thousands that had marched to face the Orcish horde, only three thousand men had escaped the relentless jaws of death.

Above all, the black flag bearing the sinister green hand of the Orcs waved triumphantly, a chilling symbol of victory in the face of utter devastation. The land, once held by the defenders of Farfield, was now stained with the blood of the fallen, a somber reminder of the price paid in the name of conquest.

[fanlit]

A Swift and Savage Tide: A pleasant romantic fantasy with a naval setting

http://dlvr.it/SqyYt2

[checkoutmybookshelf]

What Did I read This Year? A 2023 Retrospective

Ok, so this was a big year for my Tumblr blog, so I thought it would be fun to go over what I read this year! The rules for the retrospective are thus:

Only book reviews count, because I actually read or reread those books this year. First Lines, meme, and quotes do not require that, so they're not counting. Little reading updates and thought posts also don't count. So let's see what I read this year!

January 3: Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree

January 5: One for All by Lillie Lainoff

January 8: Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao

January 10: Shadowfell, Raven Flight, and The Caller by Juliet Marillier (trilogy, so counts for three!)

January 13: Raybearer and Redemptor by Jordan Ifueko (duology)

January 19: Magic's Pawn, Magic's Promise, and Magic's Price by Mercedes Lackey (trilogy)

January 22: No Dominion by CE Murphy

January 29: Half a Soul by Olivia Atwater

February 5: The Walker Papers by CE Murphy (series of 9 books because I'm counting by the original publishing order, not the rebrand and republish, where it's 10 books)

February 12: Wildwood Dancing and Cybele's Secret by Juliet Marillier (duology)

February 19: Shakespeare Saved my Life: Ten Years in Solitary with the Bard by Laura Bates

February 24: The Cardinal Rule, The Firebird Deception, and The Phoenix Law by CE Murphy (trilogy)

February 27: The Gallagher Girls series by Ally Carter (seven book series)

March 3: Legendborn by Tracy Deonn

March 6: Imzadi Forever by Peter David

March 17: The Bright and Breaking Sea and A Swift and Savage Tide by Chloe Neill (first two books of a series)

March 19: The Harp of Kongs, A Dance with Fate, and Song of Flight by Juliet Marillier (trilogy)

March 24: Bloodmarked by Tracy Deonn

March 26: The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri

March 29: Kenobi by John Jackson Miller

March 31: Spice Road by Maiya Ibrahim

April 2: Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side by Beth Fantaskey

April 5: The Phantom of Pemberley by Regina Jeffers

April 9: The Blood Trials by NE Davenport

April 12: Arrows of the Queen, Arrow's Flight, and Arrow's Fall by Mercedes Lackey (trilogy)

April 19: Dracula by Bram Stoker

April 26: Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer

April 30: Master & Apprentice by Claudia Gray

May 3: When He Was Wicked by Julia Quinn

May 7: Scales and Sensibility by Stephanie Burgis

May 14: The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

May 17: Star by Star by Troy Denning

May 21: The Protector of the Small Quartet by Tamora Pierce (four books)

May 28: That Self-Same Metal by Brittany N. Williams

May 31: Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident by Eoin Colfer

June 11: Through the Fire by CE Murphy

June 14: The Song of the Lioness Quartet by Tamora Pierce (four books)

June 18: The Circle of Magic Quartet by Tamora Pierce (four books)

June 21: The Circle Opens Quartet by Tamora Pierce (four books)

June 25: Uprooted by Naomi Novik

June 28: The Immortals Quartet by Tamora Pierce (four books)

July 2: Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code by Eoin Colfer

July 5: Storm Front by Jim Butcher

July 9: The Will of the Empress by Tamora Pierce

July 12: Sir Callie and the Champions of Helston by Esme Symes-Smith

July 16: An Offer From a Gentleman by Julia Quinn

July 19: Battle Magic by Tamora Pierce

July 23: Tempests and Slaughter by Tamora Pierce

July 26: Anne of Green Gables by LM Montgomery

July 30: Melting Stones by Tamora Pierce

August 2: Claws and Contrivances by Stephanie Burgis

August 6: Gladiator Bear by CE Murphy

August 9: Artemis Fowl: The Opal Deception by Eoin Colfer

August 13: Red, White & Royal Blue by Casy McQuiston

August 16: Ten Thousand Stitches by Olivia Atwater

August 20: Long Shadow by Olivia Atwater

August 23: Fool Moon by Jim Butcher

August 27: Grave Peril by Jim Butcher

August 30: Artemis Fowl: The Lost Colony by Eoin Colfer

September 3: The Blonde Identity by Ally Carter

September 6: It's In His Kiss by Julia Quinn

September 10: On the Way to the Wedding by Julia Quinn

September 13: Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox by Eoin Colfer

September 13: The Artemis Fowl Files by Eoin Colfer

September 20: Dark Water Daughter by HM Long

September 24: X-Wing: Wraith Squadron by Aaron Allston

September 27: X-Wing: Starfighters of Adumar by Aaron Allston

October 1: Summer Knight by Jim Butcher

October 4: Maskerade by Terry Pratchett

October 8: Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros

October 11: Artemis Fowl: The Atlantis Complex by Eoin Colfer

October 15: A Shadow in the Ember by Jennifer L. Armentrout

October 18: The Secret Shanghai Series by Chloe Gong (four books, two novellas)

October 25: Heat Wave by Richard Castle

October 29: Raven Heart and Polar Heart by CE Murphy (two books in a series)

November 1: A Light in the Flame by Jennifer L. Armentrout

November 5: The Phoenix King by Aparna Verma

November 8: Icebreaker by Hannah Grace

November 12: Iron Flame by Rebecca Yarros

November 15: The Dragon Prince of Alaska by Elva Birch

November 19: The Dragon Prince's Librarian by Elva Birch

November 22: Bookshops & Bonedust by Travis Baldree

November 26: Wildfire by Hannah Grace

November 29: Artemis Fowl: The Last Guardian by Eoin Colfer

December 3: A Fire in the Flesh by Jennifer L. Armentrout

December 6: The Mask of Mirrors by MA Carrick

December 10: The Dragon Prince's Bride, The Dragon Prince's Secret, the Dragon Prince's Magic, and The Dragon Prince's Betrayal by Elva Birch (four of a series of six books)

December 13: Empire of Sand by Tasha Suri

December 17: Death Masks by Jim Butcher

December 20: Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan

December 24: A Christmas Like No Otter by Zoe Chant

That's about where I got to this year, and it has been a wonderful year in reading. I'm so looking forward to next year! Leave your favorite book from 2023 and your most anticipated 2024 book in the tags, and may you have a Happy New Year!

[vastayan--vigilante]

"Why do you think I'm here?"

Ah. So his gut suspicion had been right.

"In trouble again?" He enquired dryly. These kids really needed to be more careful about the situations they got into - especially when they were clearly too broke to afford the help getting out of them.

"Why don't you come see for yourself."

The chem-thug's lips twitched into a small, humourless smirk; he gestured down at himself, black-veined and haggard.

"No juice," he answered with a flippancy that belied the bleak apathy in his eyes. He wasn’t going to be much use in a fight without shimmer; not if Pink Hair was expecting him to swoop in and save the day by taking on multiple opponents (as was becoming a trend for the kids.) If anything, Scar was weaker than he used to be before he'd started taking the stuff. Between that and the piss poor payment, it simply wasn't worth the risk. He'd probably just get himself killed along with them.

"You're an asshole. You know that?"

Nonplussed, the chem-thug watched Pink Hair turn and run off back the way she'd came - moving with purpose. Where was she going?

...Was she supposed to be coming back?

He eyed the measly offerings at his feet. It felt weird to take them - but if she wasn't back by the time he'd finished smoking, then as far as he was concerned, the stuff was fair game. He ignored the twinge of guilt, the stirrings of concern. It wasn't his problem. They weren't his kids.

Just as he finished his cigarette and was about to head back inside, sweetbreads and small change in hand, Pink Hair returned.

"Cut out the middle man, right?"

Scar's eyes widened; he dropped the sweetbread package and coins in surprise.

Shit. That was a lot of shimmer.

At least 250 gold hexes' worth. Enough to cover him through to the end of the month. Enough for him to actually be able to afford more than the cheapest food options off Jericho's menu.

"...Where did you get these?" He breathed in disbelief, snatching up one of the vials to examine it more closely.

This looked like the good stuff, too. Not that watered down shit his crew mates bartered for to tide them over when they were rattling and desperate.

"I'm taking these back."

Scar didn't even contest it; he only had eyes for the vials. Deft fingers snatched them up and stowed them away in a pouch at his hip. Whatever Pink Hair was trying to hire him for, this more than covered the cost of payment.

"...We doing this?"

By way of response, Scar pulled out his kit, measured out a dose, and shot up right in front of her with practiced efficiency.

The rush was swift and intense - a testament to the purity of the product. His veins ignited, the shimmer burning through him like liquid fire; he jerked and snarled, grasping at the wall, his claws gouging into the concrete with augmented strength.

Phosphorescent purple eyes fixed on Pink Hair, fervid and minacious. An awakened monster. Stronger. Faster. Deadlier.

This was what you wanted, wasn't it?

The chem-thug's lips curled back, baring his teeth in a savage smile with a faintly sardonic edge.

"...Point me at your problem."

@hoverpunk

💰 Deal or no deal 💰

Eve’s lungs burned as she tore through the Zaun grey. They weren’t chasing her anymore, but they didn’t need to be. Somehow this was worse. When someone was chasing you, you knew how much time you had. You could see how close things were to going to shit. But this? This was different. When running away from the danger to find help, there was every chance the effort would be in vain- that she’d be too late. 

Market vendors hardened up and snarled warnings as Eve ducked and wove through the crowds, elbowing some of the larger patrons out of the way. Of course to them she looked like a thief, making off with whatever she’d managed to pilfer. She wished today’s job had been as simple as some honest thievery. If they lived, they’d learned a very valuable lesson- not to walk the stretch of alleys between Fleck’s and Fallon Street. Apparently that was where Zaun stored all their wannabe tryhards. Wannabe tryhards with knives. Wannabe tryhards twice their age. 

For once, Eve wanted to spot an enforcer. It wasn’t like they cared about the law, down here, but the sight of them might help flush the area dry for a few moments- just enough time to buy Ekko the chance he needed to bolt out of where he’d holed up in an empty pipe. 

Eve skidded to a halt, scanning the streets for a uniform- anything she could antagonise into a chase. 

Nothing. 

Grimacing, she rounded the streets, racking her brain. Could she grab something to fire at them? A smoke bomb, hell, she’d go for a grenade if she could get hold of one. No. Stealing from the stalls here only meant trouble. That wasn’t an option when it was a market she frequented. Besides, all the stalls with the scary stuff would shoot you for simply touching the merchandise. 

Shit shit shit shit. 

Chest still heaving, Eve ducked through the backstreets. It wasn’t an area she cared to walk through at ground level. It was commonplace for addicts and thugs to lunge out from the corners, or lie dying in the gutter. 

A feeling that was equal parts relief and dread settled in her chest at the sight of a familiar face. 

Were there really no better options than this? 

Gritting her teeth, Eve slung her pack from her shoulders, digging through their week’s haul of supplies. 

“Hey.” The greeting was curt and lacking the familiarity that Ekko used around the vastayan. Eve dropped a package of sweetbreads, wrapped in paper at his feet. Common language. A trade: the breakfast they hadn’t had the chance to take a bite out of (one that Eve resolved to kill Ekko later over losing), for a favour. A wary, hardened gaze watched the chemthug’s face for a moment. Was this enough? Glowering, she rooted in her pocket and dropped what coins she had too for good measure. It was all she had, save for giving him the backpack itself. 

“I could really use a hand.”

(( Starter for @vastayan–vigilante ))

[bookcoversonly]

Title: A Swift and Savage Tide | Author: Chloe Neill | Publisher: Berkley (2021)

[quirkycatsfatstacks]

Review: A Swift and Savage Tide by Chloe Neill

Review: A Swift and Savage Tide by Chloe Neill

Series: Captain Kit Brightling #2Author: Chloe NeillPublisher: BerkleyReleased: November 30, 2021Received: NetGalley As a massive fan of both Chloe Neill and Captain Kit Brightling, I am extremely excited about the second novel in this series. A Swift and Savage Tide brings readers back to a fantastical world where our beloved Captain is one of the few people around to save the day. And I, for…

[overflowingshelf]

Review: A Swift and Savage Tide by Chloe Neill

New on the blog: my review of A Swift and Savage Tide! @chloeneill really delivered with this one! If you haven't checked out this series yet, you're missing out! Find out why:

A Swift and Savage Tide Chloe Neill Publisher: Berkley Publication Date: November 30, 2021 Series or Standalone: Captain Kit Brightling #2 Links: Amazon – Barnes & Noble – Goodreads Rating: MY REVIEW After reading The Bright and Breaking Sea, did you want more romance, swashbuckling, magic, and intrigue? Well, Chloe Neill delivered in its sequel A Swift and Savage Tide! This book was…

[sandythereadingcafe]

REVIEW:

A SWIFT AND SAVAGE TIDE (Captain Kit Brightling 2) by Chloe Neill at The Reading Cafe:

‘a wonderful exciting tense adventure‘

http://www.thereadingcafe.com/a-swift-and-savage-tide-by-chloe-neill-a-review/

[thereadingcafe]

[sonofdorn-vii]

Knowing

Lorgar Aurelian had sat motionless for hours. Cross-legged in his private meditation chamber, he wore a simple kimono of grey silk, it's smooth fabric settled on the muscles of his tense shoulders.

He was afraid.

A new sensation for one such as he. He understood awe, understood feeling very small in the glory of one's beliefs, but genuine fear was new.

He'd seen the truth, finally. He'd been shown the depth of the Emperor's betrayal, how deep the rot of hubris had penetrated his Father's heart, and he had to warn... everyone.

Every single man, woman and child was threatened by the so-called Master of Mankind. The Primordial Truth had hit Lorgar hard. Being faced simultaneously with proof of higher beings and the depravity of his Father's lust for power was difficult to comprehend. Of course the closest thing he'd ever had to a real father, noble Kor Phaeron, had raged. The venom and bile spewed forth had almost convinced Lorgar to launch an all-out attack immediately. Try to remove the cancer at the heart of humanity's empire in one swift stroke.

But Erebus, trusted son and wise councillor, had spoken of caution. His smooth and polished voice a soothing balm to Kor Phaeron's spittle-ridden sermons of fire and blood. We must plan carefully, he'd advised. Against the Emperor alone, there can be no victory.

And so, Lorgar was making best speed from the wound in reality his Word Bearer's had discovered. Traversing the Immaterium's fickle tides, he needed his brothers. With nothing but time to think, Lorgar had withdrawn to his chambers, locking out his closest advisors, his extraordinary mind kept playing events over and over. The heartbreak of Monarchia, the pettiness of the person who could order such an act. The blind obedience of the one to carry it out. Lorgar had loved Guilliman deeply, his nobility of heart and strength of character endearing. Now he knew, Guilliman would never hear the Word of Lorgar. That he could commit the crime of Monarchia willingly, at their father's order, Lorgar knew he'd be willfully deaf to its simple truth. Guilliman desired power most, of all of his brothers; his Five Hundred Worlds a clear indicator how much he was like their Father. Lorgar had made an error, he knew that now, and his hearts ached in sorrow. He'd thought his Father worthy of the worship he longed to bestow, and Monarchia had paid the price for his mistake. Now, it seemed so clear. He'd been blind for so many years, but he'd had his eyes opened by those worthy of his affection.

As for his Father, not only was He a bastard, He BELIEVED He was right.

Lorgar couldn't imagine a more dangerous enemy.

And so he was afraid.

Never had he been seen as the strongest warrior, not even close. But Lorgar had a cunning that quite dwarfed his brothers. His multi-faceted mind as quick and capable as any of them, his Will was stronger by an order of magnitude. Knowing his truth, believing it so completely, this was his strength. A weapon to wield as delicately as a scalpel or as broadly as an atomic strike. His Will was what made him dangerous, something, he smiled grimly, he had inherited from his Father.

Some of his brothers could be discarded immediately. The Great Betrayer Guilliman, Dorn; so very cold, so calculating and lacking in humanity. Vulkan would be too willing to give their Father the benefit of the doubt, the same with Ferrus and that savage fool Russ. Russ would kill him for far less than voicing the truth, Lorgar was certain.

He needed the strongest of his brothers, the most capable. The most willing to try and understand.

He needed HIM.

He would at least LISTEN; and if he listened, he might hear the Word of Lorgar. It was a great risk, the greatest. But Lorgar needed someone on his side, he didn't want to be alone against such unfathomable odds. He would need to move carefully, this wasn't something that could be rushed. If he could get HIM to understand, together they could approach their other brothers.

But he needed Horus, their Father's favourite, first.