#Ancestral Trail

[vintagerpg]

OK, something a little different. This is Ancestral Trail, a fortnightly piece of illustrated fantasy fiction published in the UK and the Commonwealth that began in December of 1992 and wrapped up after 26 issues, as far as I am concerned, in December of 1993. It follows Richard as he is sent on a magical quest to save the Ancestral World from the Evil One, by recovering stolen artifacts and freeing imprisoned guardians in 26 days. Each “day” features a new region, a new foe and a cliffhanger ending (which is quickly wrapped up in the first page of the subsequent issue. All the issues are gorgeously illustrated by Julek Heller (he did a book called Knights that I posted about a couple years ago and is a tremendous painter). Most of the books feature twelve illustrations that depict a variety of the things, but some towards the end, amusingly, you can tell when Heller was under the gun, because they’ll repeat elements and compositions. Still, its a gorgeous body of work and worth tracking down (Zack G., I hope you completed your set!). ¶ This is issue 1: The Moss Beast! (Oh, also, remember Different Worlds 4, when I said to remember the alien mites? These bugs sure look similar!)

[thomaswaynewolf]

[thorsenmark]

Hiking Along the Knife Edge Trail with Only Amazing Views! (Mesa Verde National Park) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A setting looking to the southwest while taking in views and hiking the Knife Edge Trail in Mesa Verde National Park. The ridges off in the distance are coming off the main park area and road entrance, while this path follows the older park road entrance. My thought I\'m composing this image was to take advantage of the layers present, from near to far, while using the hiking trail as a leading line into the image. As a side note, I later came to realize the overlook point I’d visit next was on the other side of this bend at Montezuma Valley Overlook, following the old park entrance road.

[xtruss]

This New Park Gives Different Views of the Grand Canyon—with No Crowds

These sacred Indigenous lands in Arizona just got government protection. Here’s how to explore their hikes, wildlife, and impressive vistas.

— By Joe Yogerst | September 1, 2023

Red Butte, which the Havasupai people call Wii'i Gdwiisa (“Clenched Fist Mountain”), is one of many sacred Indigenous sites within Arizona’s new Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni Grand Canyon National Monument. Named a national monument by President Joseph Biden in August 2023, the one-million-acre wilderness offers hiking, backcountry camping, and views of the Grand Canyon without the crowds. Photograph By Taylor McKinnon, Center For Biological Diversity

Grand Canyon National Park draws 4.7 million visitors a year to the northwest corner of Arizona to hike, camp, or watch wildlife. But most of them don’t realize that the lands within and surrounding the park are sacred to the region’s 12 Indigenous tribes, which include the Havasupai, Hopi, Navajo, and several bands of Paiute.

That changed on August 8 when President Joseph Biden signed a decree creating the Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni—Ancestral Footprints of the Grand Canyon National Monument. Sprawling across more than 960,000 acres directly north and south of the national park, the new monument offers more rugged, less crowded recreation than its neighbor. It also provides a view of the landscape through Indigenous eyes.

“Baaj nwaavjo in Havasupai means ‘where the ancient people roamed,’” says Carletta Tilousi, coordinator of the Grand Canyon Tribal Coalition. “I’tah kukveni is the Hopi translation of ‘ancestral footsteps’. This reaffirms their creation stories.”

Here’s how the monument came to be, and how to explore it.

Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni yields views of the Colorado River and Grand Canyon from a different perspective. Photograph By Amy S. Martin

How to Make a National Monument

It took two million years for the Grand Canyon itself to form and around 40 years for Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni to become reality. “The protection for these lands is something the tribes have focused on since as far back as the 1980s,” says Amber Reimondo of the Grand Canyon Trust, a nonprofit devoted to preserving the region.

Many of these Indigenous people were expelled from their territory when Grand Canyon National Park was established in 1919. They campaigned for decades to receive stronger protection for their lands around the park, overcoming entities that wanted fewer legal obstacles to development and mining. After President Biden’s election in 2020, the 12 tribes formed a coalition which led to the lands receiving federal status.

Though the National Park Service oversees Grand Canyon National Park, monuments such as Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni are run by the U.S. Forest Service (USFS) and the Bureau of Land Management (BLM). Monuments generally have fewer restrictions regarding their use (e.g., sometimes hunting or logging is allowed), as well as fewer facilities for visitors.

Fewer Amenities, Fewer Crowds

Like many national monuments, Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni exudes raw nature. It has no bathrooms or visitor center; access is primarily via dirt roads or rough trails; you’ll need a four-wheel-drive to reach many sections of the park.

What it offers is solitude and peace amid the forests and grasslands of northern Arizona. You can gaze at the Grand Canyon without thousands of other people jostling for the same space, hike trails where yours are the only footsteps, and make camp at secluded spots. Plus you might encounter wildlife such as elk, black bear, mule deer, birds, or bison.

That solitude is also important to the Indigenous people. Tilousi says that when she visits the busy South Rim inside Grand Canyon National Park, “It’s very difficult for me to find a spot where I can offer prayers and offerings in a quiet way.” She feels that won’t be an issue in the off-the-beaten-track lands of the new monument.

Native plants including yucca flourish within Baaj Nwaavjo I'teh Kukveni National Monument. Photograph By Amy S. Martin

Exploring the Monument

The vast wilderness of Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni is divided into three distinct sections or parcels, each with its own appeal.

The southernmost section, the Tusayan Ranger District/South Parcel, is the easiest to explore. Comprising 330,000 acres within the Kaibab National Forest, its pine woodlands and sagebrush prairie are accessible via Forest Service roads or Sections 35 through 37 of the Arizona Trail, an 800-mile hiking route stretching across the entire state.

The South Parcel also shows signs of human life, including the rusty hangar of the 1920s Red Butte Airfield and the 80-foot-tall Grandview Lookout Tower, which you can climb for views of the Colorado Plateau and the Grand Canyon.

The other sections of the monument, Kanab Plateau/Northwest Parcel and Rock House Valley/Northeast Parcel, are located beyond the North Rim section of Grand Canyon National Park.

“It's a big, remote wilderness,” says Michael Cravens, advocacy and conservation director of the Arizona Wildlife Federation. “I’ve never in my life been somewhere with night skies that spectacular.” But he cautions visitors “to be careful and prepared” for the extreme weather and topography. You can reach the northern parcels on BLM roads south of U.S. Highway 89A.

The vast House Rock Valley stretches through a portion of the new national monument. Photograph By Taylor McKinnon, Center For Biological Diversity

Stretched across the Kanab Plateau and Antelope Valley, the Kanab Plateau section has hiking routes through spectacular side canyons and to panoramic views such as Gunsight Point.

The Hack Trail drops down into the Kanab Creek Wilderness with its enormous red-rock canyons, a landscape almost as impressive as the Grand Canyon itself. Experienced hikers can continue down Kanab Creek to the Colorado River or along other trails to vertiginous overlooks along the North Rim.

Set beneath the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument, the Rock House Valley section of Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni tumbles across sagebrush flats to the edge of Marble Canyon. Rugged hiking trails here include the Soap Creek Trail, which winds down from the Rapids/Badger Camp Overlook to a primitive campsite near the river.

Rough roads lead south to viewpoints for Rider Canyon, South Canyon, and other offshoots of the Grand Canyon. Here, you might even spot the North Rim’s resident bison herd, brought to the Arizona Strip in 1906 by Charles “Buffalo” Jones as part of efforts to save the species.

Ancient rock art can be spotted in the Kanab Creek Wilderness portion of Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni National Monument. Photograph By Natpar Collection, Alamy Stock Photo

The Havasupai Indian Reservation in Arizona, which includes the Havasu Waterfall—part of the Havasupai Falls—is the current home of the Havasupai people. After the Grand Canyon became a national park, they were forcibly removed from their traditional homelands in the canyon and in nearby lands that will be part of the new national monument. Photograph By Mike Theiss National Geographic Image Collection

1 Million Acres of ‘Sacred’ Land Near Grand Canyon are Receiving New Protections! The designation of the land as a national monument, confirmed to National Geographic this week by the White House, will prevent new uranium mines and protect historically significant tribal lands.

[totally-not-an-awkward-okapi]

Haven’t done one of these in forever but he’s fun and I wanted to draw them.

Template is from @poncivalpishpuff and Giuseppe Lama

[manhandlememando]

i’ll beg whatever gods i need to. | cregan stark

cregan stark x f!wife!reader

format: one-shot

tw: MDNI warning (oh boy here we go) in depth descriptions of gore and bodily injury, blood, ANGST, cregan crying and in pain, mentions of religion and praying, hurt/comfort, more angst, angry cregan, insecure!cregan, unprotected piv, oral (both receiving), face riding, cowgirl, breeding kink (duh he’s a stark), uncut cregan. (written in 3rd person POV) (she/ her pronouns)

word count: 5,539

excerpt: Whatever angelic being had blessed this world with his form, she begged of it to leave him with her. However broken or scarred, she didn’t care, she just needed him. With tears streaking her face she looked up to the heavens in anguish, begging anyone who could hear her to please, let him come back to me.

- or -

cregan gets mauled by a direwolf.

song inspirations: youth by Daughter, human by Daughter, i gave you all by Mumford & Sons, heavy in your arms by Florence and The Machine, i found by Amber Run, roslyn by Bon Iver and St. Vincent, work song by Hozier, family tree by Ethel Cain, in the woods somewhere by Hozier, glory by Dermot Kennedy

The hour of the owl came passing over Castle Black, and still Cregan had not returned from his patrol of the Wall. Her worry had grown tenfold, the knot in her stomach was now a heavy stone. She knew something was amiss. Moving from their shared chambers to the corridors of the small castle, she decided a short walk may alleviate some of her anxiety, allowing her to clear her head.

However after only several minutes of beginning to wander, she heard commotion coming from the direction of the courtyard. Yelling and shrieking, men could be heard barking orders at each other, calls for the maester were loud, but the one thing that rose above it all was the most blood curdling roar she’d ever heard. Not wasting any time, she ran through the narrow hallways towards the source of the noise, only to come to a dead stop, the beating of her heart doing the same.

There he lay on a gurney in the middle of the courtyard, thrashing against the hands trying to hold him still. Crying out in agony as the maester tried his best to assess the situation at hand.

“Oh gods…” she gasped when the source of his pain became clear to her. His armor was covered in deep crimson streaks of blood, the leather ripped to shreds revealing the metal beneath. His face, contorted in pain, bore two long gashes from above his right eyebrow and trailing down his temple into his hairline. It seemed as if a deep crimson curtain had been pulled over half of his face as the blood seeped from the deep, jagged cuts. However the worst of his injuries were to his left shoulder, which seemed to be attached only by the grace of the gods. It was so gruesome she began to feel ill. The bone of his upper bicep was exposed, the flesh hanging from it. Blood seeping profusely from the wounds, teeth marks littered his forearm and hands. The fabric of his pants torn and she could see more crescent shaped puncture wounds littered across his legs, and his right ankle was bent at a sickening angle. They were large, belonging to something much bigger than anything she had seen in the North. A direwolf.

A young knight was holding the Stark ancestral sword, Ice, which was now covered tip to hilt in blood. Another man standing next to the knight who bore her husbands sword, stepped towards her.

“My Lady you mustn’t be here, you should not witness this,” he said, trying to block her view of her husband.

“No! No, I must be with him,” she rushed forward, only to be stopped by the strong arms of the guard holding her back.

“Please! He’s my husband, I have to -,” she began to plead with the man keeping her in her place before Cregan’s loud yell stopped her sentence short. The maester and his assistant were beginning to pack his wounds with whatever clean cloth the other men could find, Cregan seemed as if he was trying to pull away. Arching at the contact to his arm and shoulder, neck straining and face red as another scream erupting from deep within him. Tears were streaming down his face as it crumpled into an expression she never thought she’d see from him; fear.

It took two full grown men to hold him still, even in his weakened state, as they began to move him from the damp ground. Although, consequently the motion caused his body to shift and in turn sent him into another fit of agony.

At the sounds of his screams getting even more broken and strangled, her knees fell weak, slumping into the man’s hold as the air left her lungs.

He could die, the thought crossed her mind when she caught a glimpse of the expanse of blood leftover on the muddy ground.

————————————————————————

They had placed him in their bedchamber and the maester had since given Cregan milk of the poppy to calm him. He had been cleaned up and mended as best as the maester and his assistant could manage. They had also taken measures to prevent infection, although they informed her that it wasn’t fail safe and to be prepared for any outcome.

“He will have an incredibly long recovery period… if he survives,” the maester said to her as he wiped his hands of her husbands blood, his voice lowering as he spoke of his Lord’s possible death. She only nodded, eyes wide, feeling as if she was submerged in water. All the words being said to her were muffled and distorted. Some of the men from the Watch had tried to pull her from the bedchambers when they had first begun to work on him, whispering false reassurances and pleading with her to not witness this.

She couldn’t look away from his limp form laying on their shared bed, smothered in white bandages that were slowly blossoming red. However, his torso was somewhat unmarked by the direwolf’s teeth and claws (save for several deep purple bruises beginning to show their full form) due to the steel armored chest piece he had adorned upon her request, just before leaving for his patrol.

This might be his deathbed, she thought to herself. Tears beginning to pool on her lashes.

“I shall leave you. I will return in several hours to replenish the milk of the poppy… if he wakes again,” the maester looked down at the floor in despair. Exiting the room, the maester bid his condolences.

Nearing the bed, she knelt down and lightly took his hand in hers, brushing her lips over his bandaged knuckles and letting out a shaky breath.

“Please, my love you must wake up. Heal well and return to me, do not leave me in this world without you,” she pleaded with the unmoving form in front of her. The tears beginning to fall as she placed her head upon the bed next to their interlocked hands.

She did not pray, she never had found an interest in paying much attention to the new gods or the old. But in this moment she found herself reaching out for guidance as she called upon the gods to help him. Whatever angelic being had blessed this world with his form, she begged of it to leave him with her. However broken or scarred, she didn’t care, she just needed him. With tears streaking her face she looked up to the heavens in anguish, begging any god that could hear her to please, let him come back to me.

————————————————————————

The night dragged on, as if time had been weighed down by the gravity of the situation, and on its continued trek forward it somehow had slowed.

The maester had come and gone twice before, but Cregan had not woken yet. She refused to move from his side the entire time, having wept for hours she now felt empty and void of anything at all.

“My Lady you must eat,” a guard had come in, trying his best to persuade his Lady of the North to eat something or else she would fall ill.

“I am not hungry,” she flatly responded to the young man, whose face fell as he nodded and exited the room.

It was several more hours before Cregan awoke, he was still deep within the fog of the poppy’s milk but he was whispering something. His mouth barely moving, the sound coming out more like a silent prayer than a word.

He spoke her name, breathed it more like. But still, through all the hell he had been through in the last several hours, his mind only fell upon her.

“My love,” she said softly, lifting his hand to her lips once more. “My love, can you hear me?” She asked, but was met with nothing. Cregan drifting back into sleep, leaving her in the silence once again.

He woke like this periodically over the next several days, the maesters visiting every couple of hours to assess his wounds and change his bandages. Still all the while providing him with an ample amount of milk of the poppy to ward off his pain. They were somehow successful in warding off any major infections to the wounds, which was nothing short of a miracle. They had spent hours on different herbal remedies to help the Lord of the North heal without a fever.

As the days passed, she still refused to leave his side. Six days had passed by the time Cregan finally gained enough consciousness to express his pain level.

She had been napping in a chair next to the bed where he lay. Waking suddenly to the sound of a loud, pained groan.

“Cregan!” She gasped, his eyes opened just slightly, and she saw they were bloodshot but open nonetheless. He hissed in pain as she touched his hand.

“What’s happened?” He asks weakly, looking down at the bandages still covering most of his body.

“There was an incident beyond the Wall when you went to patrol the perimeter several days ago. They say you and the men were attacked by a direwolf.” She explains softly. His face drops, his eyes going wide at the memory. With some effort he tried to look down at his left shoulder, and when met with the sight of layers and layers of white bandages, he grimaced.

“I remember,” he whispers. His eyes closing as he inhales deeply, wincing again at the movement. When he opens his eyes again she can see the tears gathered within them.

“I - I cannot feel my hand,” he said, his voice breaking as he looked down at his left hand once again, his dominant hand.

“I will fetch the maester, it must just be a symptom of the damage caused. They will mend it though, as they have everything else,” she reassured him and stood to leave and get the maester, but they both know her reassurance was empty of any fact.

Worry gripped at her stomach again as the maesters words rang within her ears; “he will have an incredibly long recovery period”.

But what if there was no recovering fully from this? What if he would never be able to wield a sword again? Or walk properly? The thoughts swam in her mind, each drowning out the other.

She returned shortly with the maester, who breathed a sign of relief at the sight of Cregan fully awake.

He tried to offer Cregan more milk of the poppy before he began assessing the healing progression of his injuries, but Cregan refused.

“My Lord, I do not wish to see you in pain. But I must remove the bandages -,” the older man tried to explain, but Cregan cut him off curtly.

“Then do it,” he said, his face stern.

“Cregan, please listen to the maester, this is going to be more painful than you think,” she tried to reason with him, but his jaw was set and so was his mind.

“As you wish, my Lord,” the old healer nodded solemnly, moving to remove the first bandage. Upon contact with his arm Cregan did not grimace or contort in pain, his brows furrowed as if confused.

“I cannot feel it,” he said, his voice sounding far away, as if was in shock at the realization finally setting in.

“What, my love?” She inquired, looking at his arm as the maester began to unwrap more of the white fabric. The stitches were surrounded by bruised skin, what couldn’t be stitched back together was healing under a protective salve the maester had prepared. It will scar badly, but it didn’t matter, they were able to save his arm when she was more than certain he would lose it. As the maester lifted his arm Cregan had no reaction, just staring blankly into space. She was sure he must be in pain but he wasn’t reacting to what the maester was doing whatsoever.

“My darling, are you alright?” She asked him quietly, placing a hand under his chin to turn him to face her.

“I cannot feel anything,” he said, still his voice was hollow.

“What do you mean?” She questioned, not fully understanding what he meant by that.

“In my arm, it does not hurt because I cannot feel it,” he explained finally meeting her eyes. That was where she saw the flicker of fear again come across his face, worry painting his features.

“This is my dominant hand, I must be able to use it whenever necessary. It is the hand with which I wield Ice. But now I am not even able to move it. I am no longer a sufficient warrior… or man,” he said, his voice shaking as tears came to his eyes. The maester gave Cregan a pitiful look that just upset the Lord more.

“No, no that is not true my love,” she rushed to comfort him, cradling his face, making sure to avoid the stitches on his brow and temple.

“Do not do this to yourself, my darling. Do you understand what you have survived? You were attacked by a direwolf, Cregan… and you survived. That is next to impossible, but here you are,” she said, her voice soft and dripping in empathy. Brushing a tear from just under his eye as it began to fall. He shifted his gaze away from her, his eyes hardening again.

“But what good is survival if I am no longer able to live how I am meant to?” He said, still not meeting her eyes.

“It will take some adjustment, but we will get through this. You will get through this,” she assured him.

“Cregan… look at me,” she says quietly, trying to get him to connect with her again and not sink deeper into his darkening thoughts.

“Look at me, now,” she commanded in a more firm tone, which caused him to finally look at her once more, a sheepish expression in his eyes.

“Stop this at once,” she said, still holding her firm tone. He nodded and sighed, knowing he would not win this one. But as he cast his eyes downwards and frowned slightly, she knew he couldn’t be swayed in this moment from the doubt that was consuming him.

This will be a long recovery indeed, she thought to herself.

————————————————————————

About thirteen moons after Cregan had been nearly killed by the direworf, the head of which now hung in the council room, he had recovered quite well by what the maesters had told her.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell had since moved back from their residence at Castle Black when Cregan was finally well enough to travel. Although his body was healing well with time, his mind only sunk deeper into the belief he was now not worthy of his station as Warden of The North and the Lord of Winterfell. He had become easily irritated and many days she wished to not spend time with him, however she understood this too shall pass. She had sworn to him in her marriage vows to be by his side through sickness and in health, and she had no intention of breaking those vows in her lifetime.

As the Winter continued on, and as Cregan's strength grew back and the feeling began to make its way back into his limb, he was insistent on beginning his sword work training. She understood his urgency, finally having hope after such a long time of uncertainty was an addicting sort of feeling. It was hard for Cregan to accept that he would have to relearn how to use a sword with this new complication, and not train as he once did, as if nothing had happened.

Once the maester overseeing the Lord's care had cleared him to begin his lessons, she asked him if she would be able to accompany him. He agreed instantaneously, he was going to ask her anyways, feeling much better in her presence than anyone elses.

She busied herself with a book, perching upon several barrels of wine that sat on the edge of the courtyard, waiting to be taken to the cellars. Cregan had begun his lessons, and within minutes was already frustrated at the difficulty he had with even just handling the sword, let alone swinging it. She watched from the distance with a frown painting her face as he continued to struggle and bark at the knight he was sparring when he would try to offer his help. After much protest, Cregan finally gave into the offers to get him a wooden sword to wield instead. It was easier for him to handle, however his skill had rusted over with time and lack of use. His frustration became paramount when the young man bested him again, Cregan threw down his sword and stepped forward, grabbing his opponent by the collar.

"Do you wish to humiliate your Liege Lord?! Get out of my sight at once!" he roared in the mans face, causing him to stumble back and retreat from Cregan as quickly as possible.

She sat watching the scene as her own anger began to surface, standing and coming towards Cregan once he'd let the other man go, still breathing heavily and fuming.

"Come with me, now," she growled as she wrapped a firm hand around his good wrist, pulling him along behind her like a toddler being scolded and hauled off for punishment. She thought it best to bring him to their bedchambers as the conversation they needed to have was private.

Once they had entered their shared chambers Cregan immediately started in on his defense, to which she put up a silent palm in his direction, causing his sentence to halt before it finished.

"I can not do this anymore," she said softly, trying to keep her voice level, but to no avail. Placing a hand over her mouth as she began to silently weep, still refusing to look at him.

He softened immediately at the sight of her tears, hating desperately to make her upset. He took a step forward and brought his hand to her cheek, getting her to turn to him. She did not lift her gaze from the floor, sniffling lightly and trying to keep her tears from cascading and overflowing.

"You cannot do what anymore, love?" Cregan asked gently, moving his right hand to place at the back of her neck, and the other moving under her chin. His fingers intertwined into her hair at the back of her head as he tipped her head back slightly using the finger beneath her chin to raise her face to his. Taking another step closer to her he engulfed her in his size, pressed against her body, in complete control. Cradling her head completely in his hands, he moves the hand below her chin to place on her cheek once more.

"What was it, hmm?" he hummed to her, bringing his lips to brush against hers. She had become putty to mold as he wished, letting out a small sigh as he continued to tease the possibility of a kiss.

But in that moment she remembered her anger and could not let the lust for her husband overpower something that was becoming a serious issue between him and the rest of the world. She pushes away suddenly, putting space between them again. Cregan lets out an exasperated sigh as his hands fall to his sides.

"I can not possibly understand the stress you are under, and the constant unease you must feel within yourself. But I can understand how that affects me, and how that has affected our staff and those on your court. You were not slain, Cregan! You still have so much to live for, even if it means you cannot see battle again. That is what your army is for. Your value lies more in your character and not your physical form. Allowing that of which keeps you on solid ground to be the demise of what lies within your head, when you are so intelligent, and kind, and humorous. That is a sin, and the more treacherous of fates to befall a Warden of the North, even more so than a direwolf." She said, silence filled the room as Cregan realized he had no rebuttal. She was right after all, he could have been killed, and the fact he is allowing his mind to destroy what a direwolf couldn't, well it just seemed downright mad.

"I am so sorry, I never saw it that way," he responded softly, his heart feeling some what heavy in his chest as he felt the onslaught of emotion begin to creep up his throat. He had repressed so much in wanting to keep a certain image, and with his own wife being able to see through his facade so clearly, he realized how much pain he was really holding in. With that thought the dam broke as he let out a choked sob, leaning on the back of a chair closest to him he began to fall weak to his emotions.

At the sound of his whimper she turned around again, seeing him holding the bridge of his nose as he wept uncontrollably. Barely keeping himself upright with the back of the chair next to him.

"Oh, my darling," she went to him, quickly gathering him into her arms and bringing him down to kneel on the ground as she sat in the chair he was using for support. With his head tucked to her breast and his arms tightly wound around her body, hands finding purchase in her hair, he finally began to rack with sobs. She just let him collapse into her, stroking the hair from his face, tracing the scar on his temple and kissing his hairline. All the while cooing sweet reassurances into his ear.

"I have you my love, I have you," she whispered into his hair as he began to regain his breath. Not letting her go in the slightest, but relaxing nonetheless, Cregan began to breathe normally again, silent tears still coming from his eyes every now and then.

But he knew he was safe, and above all, he knew he was loved unconditionally.

————————————————————————

“Cregan, we cannot you aren’t healed properly yet,” she breathed out in a sigh as his lips traced the column of her throat.

“Your shoulder… and your ankle, it is too risky,” she tried to protest but the affect he had over her was undeniable.

“I am fine, my love. I am in need of my wife. It has been many moons and I cannot refrain any longer, injuries be damned,” he said, scoffing at the last part of his statement. Her skin was set alight with his touch as she leaned into him more. Laying in their bed, beneath a mountain of furs, he began to move atop of her, but she stopped him.

“If we are to do this, you will not lift a finger, is that clear?” She said firmly, and Cregan’s eyebrows rose in surprise at his wife’s sudden dominance, his cock twitching within his small clothes. He nodded quickly as he moved to lay back against the many pillows, eyes darkening as she rose from the bed to lean back on her heals. Very slowly she removed her shift, revealing the whole of her body to him.

“It is as if you are a goddess yourself, there is no need for religion when you are the alter I pray at, and the deity I pray to,” he whispered as he took in the sight. His mind putting to memory every curve, every inch of skin he laid his eyes on. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her naked before, but after such restraint it is like they are newlyweds once again. With her help he removed his tunic and small clothes, breath shaky as he looked down upon her naked form crawling up his body.

She was gentle with her touch, ghosting it over the small scars that now cover each of his legs. He shivers at the contact but does not pull away, allowing the sensitivity to wash over him and settle within his groin. He reaches with his good arm to touch her face, but she retracts to his disappointment.

“No touching,” she said with a small smirk forming at the corner of her lips. The mischievous look in her eyes was enough for him to understand it would be better to not protest. Leaning down she places soft kisses across his thighs, moving closer to his stiff member, his hips buck involuntarily as she finally takes his tip into her mouth. Swirling her tongue around the top just before pulling down his foreskin to lick at his sensitive slit.

A groan erupted from deep within his chest, wavering at the end as he gasped and sputtered. She had taken him fully into her mouth at this point, beginning to move up and down his length in a rhythmic motion.

His chest flexed as he threw his head back, his right hand hovering just next to her jaw. Knowing she would stop if he disobeyed her direct instructions, he held himself back from caressing her face. Broken gasps and whimpers were falling unabashedly from the Warden of the North’s lips, his strong, muscled body molding into putty in her hands.

Suddenly she rose and removed her mouth from him, to his disappointment. Breathing hard he kept his eyes on hers as she began to move even further up his body. His brows knitting into one another as he wondered what exactly she was doing, until it clicked, and the biggest smile graced his handsome features. He understood and shifted himself to be fully lying down, moving down the bed slightly to give her room as she moved to take her rightful place on his face. He hummed happily at the sweet taste of her on his tongue once again, having not indulged in his most favorite delicacy in far too long. She let out a sharp gasp as his lips wrapped themselves around her sensitive pearl, sucking lightly before exploring her deeper. She looked down to see his eyes closed and the most blissfully content look upon his face as he continued to ravage her with just tongue. Switching between broad strokes of his tongue along her cunt to small kitten licks upon her clit that had her panting and grinding her hips down onto him. The scruff on his unshaven face added to the sensational feeling against her as he sank his tongue within her finally. Moaning uncontrollably and quite loudly, she found herself leaning against the headboard for support as her body began to give into the pleasure he was bringing her.

“That’s it, my darling. Fall apart for me, I have you,” he coaxed, breath hitting her clit, causing her to groan, which shortly turned into the most obscenely moan. He hooked his left arm around her waist and continued to guide her to completion. With his tongue in her cunt and his nose teasing her clit, she came apart with nothing short of a scream of his name. Throwing her head back as she felt her muscles go limp from the intensity of her orgasm.

“So perfect for me,” he whispers to her, kissing the inside of her thighs softly.

She smiled and breathed out a sigh of relief as she had been just as pent up as he’s been, and finally getting some form of release was euphoric to say the least.

As she moved from his face she could see the way his lips shown with the remnants of her. She looked down to see his cock almost impossibly bigger than when she had first taken him into her mouth. She couldn’t wait any longer, and neither could he. Grabbing ahold of her hips he quickly shifts her down his body back to his waist. The tip catching at her entrance ever so slightly and they both moaned loudly in unison.

With his right hand having an iron grip on her hip, he helped her position her on top of him. As she began to sink down on his length it was as if all the air in the room had suddenly been removed. The sensation punching the air out of her lungs.

Cregan thought he was seeing the gods, his vision almost going completely white as he feels her tight, hot cunt envelope him. Arching his spine while his eyes roll to the back of his head as soon as she is fully seated on him. Staying still for a second to give them both a minute to catch their breath, she regains her strength and begins to shift her hips.

“Touch me,” she commanded softly, he didn’t need to be told twice. He moved to sit up, his forehead resting on her sternum, placing open mouthed kisses between the valley of her breasts before taking one into his mouth. His left arm secures her hips in his hold while the other hand snakes its way into her hair. Grabbing at the roots he tugs her head back to expose more of her neck to him. Laying hot, wet kisses upon any expanse of skin he could reach. As his grip around her waist tightened slightly, he kept guiding her to ride his cock slowly, thrusting up every so often causing her to choke on a moan.

“Cregan…,” she moaned his name, groans continuing to slip from her mouth as he moved to suck on her other breast. Gently lapping at the nipple as she whimpered.

“So gorgeous, my love. So good for me. Taking me so - nnnggh - well,” he grunted out, groaning when she squeezed him as his words sent a shock wave to her core. She threaded her fingers into his chocolate strands, pulling slightly earning another pleased noise from her husband.

“I’ve missed this, I’ve missed us,” she pants, looking down at his face. As he looks up, her breath catches at the sight of her fucked-out husband and his pink cheeks and kiss swollen lips.

“I know, me too,” he responds breathlessly, she cups his face and brings her lips to his. It’s messy, he crushes his mouth to hers and suddenly begins thrusting upwards, hitting that one spot deep within her.

Her gasp causes him to pull away from the kiss, but not from her. Their mouths still close, breathing in each others air as he continues to thrust into her. Tipping his head back as his face scrunches in pleasure and groaning loudly, he then ducks his head into the curve of her neck as his thrusts get more and more sloppy. His right arm still snaked up her back and his hand tangled in her hair to keep her close. She was reaching the precipice of heaven for the second time that evening, and he could tell. The way she began to squeeze him, how she fluttered around him, he knew.

“I know, my love. Give yourself to me,” he begged, whispering the pleas in her ear before kissing the shell of it. With several more thrusts she was coming undone around him, moaning and gasping as she collapses into him. With only several more thrust he too was coming undone in the most beautiful way. Flushed and groaning, he is the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Only moments afterwards, still basking in their post-coital glow, he lays back against the pillows once more. Placing a hand directly over her womb, he mutters something about “seeing her round with child in several moons” and she felt his cock jump within her as he continues to cradle his hands around her lower stomach.

“I can’t wait for you to bare my children, my love,” he states, looking into her eyes with such adoration. Resting her hands atop his she nods.

“I can’t wait to be the mother of your children, I’m sure I will be soon,” she responds, equal adoration radiating off her.

————————————————————————

She missed her moon’s blood the following month, and he was the happiest he had been in a very long time.

Although the feeling never fully returned in his left arm and hand, he had re-learned how to wield Ice with just as much skill as he did before the incident. His ankle and legs did recover after more than a year of rehabilitation, but eventually he no longer walked with a limp.

The gratitude which he felt was immeasurable. Thinking about how many ways his life could have been different if he didn’t have her to keep him sane through the most difficult thing he had ever faced; losing his physical strength and health. Most days feeling as if he couldn’t go on, but then she would be at his side to aid him in whatever he needed. Never wavering in her love or loyalty to him.

He woke every day from then on thanking the old gods and the new for sparing one of their angels to be his wife.

[strawb3rryqueer]

Hozier's mention of the word "hushpukena" (a Choctaw word) in the song Butchered Tongue was, of course, not a random decision. In a song about the pain of being disconnected from your ancestral language and culture as a result of colonization and oppression from outside forces- which is something that both Irish and Native American people have experienced to varying degrees. Not only do Irish and Indigenous people have this shared history of colonization at the hands of the British, but Irish and Indigenous communities have a long history of support for one another.

The usage of "hushpukena" is even more specific and important because it calls back to the mutually positive relationship between Irish and Choctaw people specifically. During the Great Hunger in Ireland, the Choctaw Nation donated $170, which is more than $5,000 in today’s money, to aid the Irish. Out of all American aid given to Ireland during the famine, the donation from the Choctaw Nation was the largest donation given.

In 1990, leaders from the Choctaw Nation visited County Mayo in Ireland to participate in the first annual Famine Walk. In 1992, Irish people visited the Choctaw Nation and participated in a trek to commemorate the Trail of Tears. Also in 1992, a plaque commemorating the Choctaw's aid was installed in the house of the mayor of Dublin. In 1995, the Irish President Mary Robinson visited the tribal headquarters of the Choctaw Nation to thank the Choctaw people for their aid. In 2017, a sculpture named "Kindred Spirits" was built in Cork, Ireland to commemorate the Choctaw's aid and to continue friendship between the two communities. In 2018, the Taoiseach (prime minister) of Ireland visited Choctaw tribal headquarters and stated,"A few years ago, on a visit to Ireland, a representative of the Choctaw Nation called your support for us ‘a sacred memory’. It is that and more. It is a sacred bond, which has joined our peoples together for all time". In 2020, more than $1.8 million was raised by Irish people as aid for Native American people (specifically the Navajo and Hopi) during the pandemic, to help provide food, clean water, and health supplies.

[astrolotte]

have i ever mentioned that my Charlie Emily is part native btw :]

[redflagshipwriter]

Mama Bat 8: Hungry

Masterpost

Danny would prefer to strike that unfortunate incident from the record and his memory. As soon as he figured out how to cause selective brain damage, it was all over for the mortifying ordeal of being perceived in weakness. He swung his legs miserably over the bathroom counter’s edge and pretended very hard that he was alone in Amity Park where no one noticed or cared if he threw up. 

He was still in the room where Cass had hustled him to clean off his face and see if there would be an encore. He’d had to make a tactical retreat away from the toilet to higher ground when big bats flapped in after him. Presumably they’d learnt that he threw up when Cass went to get whatever supplies one needed to clean partially digested yogurt off antique carpet. Ancestral carpet. Probably made of some nutty rich person material like, uh, hair from the manes of prize-winning horses.

Somehow, Danny cringed even harder. He needed brain damage immediately, please.

“And you’re certain that you don’t need to visit a medical facility?” 

Batman brooded in the literal way that a chicken brooded. Danny tightened his grip on the counter just that little bit more so that no one could drag him into a nest and sit on him. “Wouldn’t do any good,” he said shortly. It came out a little too mean. He tried to correct his voice to be nicer. “Thanks. Tho.” Danny cleared his throat.

“Tt.” Damian expelled air against his front teeth and glowered at his father. “He looks terrible. You cannot believe this.”

Wait, what? Danny blinked down at Uncle Damian, betrayed. “I look terrible?” he echoed. What the hell? Criticism, from Dames? That was new and it sucked a lot.

Bruce got a pinched look. “Danny, honey, you have been looking a little…” He trailed off. “Unwell.”

‘That would be the lack of ectoplasm,’ Danny thought snidely. He kept his mouth firmly shut and turned away. Unfortunately, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and winced at it. He did look pretty wan and thin. It was hard to put a finger on what was off about his appearance, but it was sort of… deathly.

He was putting on weight again thanks to Alfred and Damian’s monitoring of his diet, but it was just a fact that he wasn’t really suited to this environment. Too human to survive in the big Green yonder, too undead to get by on bread alone.

‘...How does Jason do it? His vibes are rank and ghastly as shit,’ Danny thought enviously. ‘He screams BITCH I'M ABOUT TO COMMIT AN INTERDIMENSIONAL WAR CRIME constantly. It’s pretty fucking impressive. An aura like that is not sustained by creme anglaise and goulash. He has to have access to ecto somewhere.’ 

Danny really should have wondered that before. Jason had to be like, the most liminal human being around who wasn’t a halfa. He definitely needed ecto. Where was he getting it? Danny hadn’t really consciously thought about it, but… He felt himself tinge a little green again.

‘Was I feeding off of his ambient ectoplasm when he was here yesterday?’

His mouth filled his saliva that still tasted both sour and like toothpaste. Danny swallowed it with effort. He did not think of how good ecto tasted after you’d been denied and drained. He did not think about the sense memory of how living ecto would indent and then give with a juicy pop around his teeth, splash the inside of his mouth-

Danny buried his face in his hands and tried not to look like he was going to throw up again. Because he was not going to do that. He was not going to eat Jason and he was not going to throw up.

“Danny.” Bruce somehow made his huge strong guy vibes less intense. Danny reluctantly made eye contact to see that the guy kinda had homeless Labrador eyes at the moment. Big. Begging. Full of love and grandfatherly support that he's just waiting for you to accept. “Can I ask you a question?” 

Ugh. Yuck. Feelings.

Danny fidgeted, flexing and tensing his feet. “Yeah,” he said, after a too-long silence. “What's up?”

Damian crossed his arms over his chest, radiating intensely negative child energy into the room.

“Is there something that I'm not providing for you that would help you?” Bruce's voice was excruciatingly gentle.

Danny went stiff. 

Okay, maybe Batman wasn't a big dummy. Danny broke eye contact to look at his knees. His new jeans didn't have the usual tears over his knees. He stared at the weave, picking out an individual line of thread. Everything was so weird now. He was weird now. He’d made sense before but now he was the thing that was wrong and out of place. If he was more normal he could admit that he needed help. He could say what it was, if it wasn’t so freakish and he wasn’t struck silent by the knot in his gut.

“Whatever you need,” Bruce quietly promised. He lowered himself more to Danny's level. “I know a family who all need sunlamps to survive the winter. I have a friend who travels with his own fish tank of fresh ocean water whenever he’s on land.”

That didn’t sound very human. 

Danny sniffed. Ugh, his nose was leaking. He wiped at it with the back of a hand. “Like that tentacle horror guy from the pirate movie?’ 

Bruce's lips twitched. “Exactly like that,” he lied gravely.

He took a shaky breath in. He licked his lips. He glanced up and caught sight of Damian. Sweet, prickly Damian. The preteen was glowering as if that would hide how concerned he was. 

‘He’s a kid. That's a whole ass child. I’m not telling him I'm an existential horror that is tempted to commit cannibalism. Especially not when I’d have to admit that his big brother smells like a whole graveyard buffet.’

Damian sure talked a lot of shit, but he loved his family. A lot. He would have feelings that were way too big for his body about his ‘nephew’ needing to eat something like his big brother Jason. 

Not that Jason was a something. He was a person. Jason was definitely a someone. Danny winced away from that train of thought.

“Danny?” Bruce was barely audible. Danny blinked back to awareness to see that the man was tightly leashed in place by his self control. It was obvious that Bruce very badly wanted to take three steps closer and touch Danny. Danny drew his legs up onto the counter and hid his face between his knees. He didn’t want to look at anyone, he didn’t want to feel pressured to say anything. 

The new posture was convenient because it hid that he was starting to cry. He trembled with the effort to stay silent and mop his tears directly onto the new jeans that smelled like someone else’s laundry detergent..

He was being stupid. That was classic Danny. He hid things that didn’t need to be and he accidentally told people what should be secrets. Was he ever going to get it right? He should just tell them. Tell them! He tried to berate himself into working up the nerve but his jaw might as well have been wired shut in a morgue.

The bathroom went silent. Danny waited and waited for someone to say something. He frowned after a while even as he began to relax. Then he deliberately listened. 

It sounded like he was alone. 

It didn’t seem right, though. It took him a few moments to ping onto what he knew that disproved that. There was a warm, quiet presence about a foot to his left waiting patiently. It wasn’t quite ghostly, even though it was totally silent.

Danny sniffled on his next inhalation.

Cass didn’t say anything.

He lifted his head to see for certain that Bruce and Damian had left the room. They probably hadn’t gone far.

‘She must have asked them to get out when she came back.’

The room spun around him, blurred through his eyelashes. It might as well have been a dream. There was no harm in a dream.

“I need ectoplasm,” Danny admitted. Cass didn’t say anything or touch him. There was no pressure. He could float away if he wanted to. It was safe to admit it now. “That’s what I’m missing. And I can’t get it here. That’s why I came to Gotham. It’s not really easy to get on the living side of things. But Gotham is kinda liminal, so there’s some hotspots.” He paused. He wasn’t sure why. The air felt fragile.

Suddenly, he knew he didn’t want her to say anything yet. Danny swallowed and rushed on. “It’s, uh. What ghosts are made of.” His voice was so raspy that it didn’t even sound like him. “Jason has a lot, actually. But I don’t anymore. So. I need some.”

Cass leaned over very deliberately to put her arm over his shoulder. It was warm and real. The weight of it would keep him from floating away. He could feel the slight flex of her bicep muscles.

He swallowed. He leaned into her.

“We’ll get you what you need,” Cass promised. Simple as that.

[suuuupernovaaa]

In Secret ft. Benjicot Blackwood

You’ve been meeting Benjicot in secret for some time now, and he’s done hiding.

Tags: Benjicot & Bracken!Reader, no use of y/n, mature 18+

Roughly a 30 minute walk from Stone Henge, your ancestral home, was a rock formation in the woods. Possibly a long forgotten home or shed of some sort, it had long turned to ruins out here in the wilds of the riverlands. Weeds and wildflowers sprung through the cracks in the crumbling structure, pulling it back into nature slowly but surely over time.

It was here that you’d been meeting Benjicot Blackwood in secret for nearly three years now.

This was the place where you’d first met, shared your first kiss, and dreamed of a future together that was not possible with the feud between your great houses.

The Blackwoods of Raventree hall despised your Bracken bloodline, and it was a sentiment your family returned. If anyone found out that your Saturday walks were to meet the enemy, you’d never be allowed outside your fortress walls again.

The day was hot and you shed your outer dress, holding it in your arms and donning only your inner clothes as you walked. The sun crept across the skies, and only the shade of the forest kept you from truly suffering in the heat.

Benji was already at your ruins when you arrived, seated on the ground and leaning back onto his elbow, picking wildflowers and discarding them into the grass. He glanced up as he heard your approach, and his solemn expression melted into a smile.

He stood up, eyeing you from head to toe with that ever-growing grin on his face. It took all your self control to not sprint the last two paces between you.

The days between your meetings felt like their own individual eternities. You lived for these moments, these few hours on Saturday in the ruins with Ben.

He wrapped you in his arms when you reached him, and spun you in a circle. You laughed and he held him tightly once he sat you down, two feet firmly on the ground.

“So eager for me that you’ve undressed already, have you?” he teased, peppering kisses all over your reddened face.

“It is quite hot, Benjicot,” you replied tersely, and he laughed.

“Sure, sure.” He pulled you flush to him, and began slowly inching your under clothes up, up, until you were bare from the waist down, his hands digging into the flesh of your backside, and kissed you firmly on the mouth.

As they always did, your lips parted for him, giving him eager entrance, and you sighed when his tongue met yours.

He pulled you up by the shelf of your behind, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he backed up, sitting on the edge of the stone ruins.

You could feel his hard length beneath you, and you moaned as his mouth left yours and trailed hot kisses down your neck.

“Are you wet for me already?” he whispered into the skin of your neck, and you could only nod in response.

He bent forward, holding you tightly as he laid you on the ground, now kneeling between your open legs.

“I think of your cunt constantly,” he breathed, his lips trailing down your chest. “How wet you are for me, and how you moan my name. Gods, it’s all I think of.”

He took one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling firmly, and your back arched off the itching grass as you gasped. Only seconds later, his hand found your dripping center, and he pressed circles into your clit with his thumb while two fingers pressed inside of you.

“Oh, Ben,” you moaned, your head falling to the side as you met his fingers, thrust for thrust.

He let go of one nipple with a pop, and before moving to the other whispered, “How fast shall you come for me today, my little love?”

You could not answered as he continued rubbing your clit and petting your inner walls. You were coming apart before him so quickly, but you could not feel embarrassed.

You reached down and as quick as you could, untied his pants and released his throbbing cock. He hissed when you wrapped your hand around it and started pumping, eager for him to join you in pleasure.

“Gods, yes, that’s so good,” he hissed, and brought his mouth to yours again in a sloppy, desperate kiss.

It was not long at all before you were tumbling over the edge together, and you screamed his name as you did.

He collapsed on top of you after, his head on your chest, and you breathed rapidly together for a while.

This was everything you lived for. Being here with Benji, bringing each other pleasure or just talking, it didn’t matter. It was all you wanted.

After a while, he propped himself up on his elbow and smiled down at you with such joy and intensity that it made you blush.

“You must marry me, my lady,” he said, and your smile faded.

“Don’t tease me, Benjicot. You know we would never be permitted to wed.”

“And if we married in secret, forced their hands, would you leave your family and join mine?”

You furrowed your brow and reached up to cup his cheek.

Abandon your family? Your parents, siblings, all those you’d known and loved your whole life? They’d never speak to you again if you married a Blackwood - especially the Blackwood heir.

Could you be enemy to your family the rest of your life?

Your eyes met Benjicot’s again as he stared down at you with the wildness and intensity he was known for.

The alternative was each of you marrying another. Maybe never meeting in secret again as life’s burdens made it impossible. You took a moment to sit in that reality and imagine what was worse: losing Ben, or making an enemy of your family?

“I would marry you, Benjicot Blackwood, if you are being serious,” you replied.

His answering smile was enough to tell you, this was the right decision.

“Meet me here tonight, when the moon is high. Bring only what you can carry. You’ll be my lady-wife when we are finished, and we’ll never be parted again.”

[vintagerpg]

Ancestral Trail 11: Klaw, Servant of Evil (1993). Art by Julek Heller. Another one of my picks for the best cover. Weird how both so far are very yellow.

[bumblesimagines]

The Wolf's Guard

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The love between a wolf and their darling is unbreakable, even if that darling is a Bolton.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

~~~

If the Starks were known for anything, it was their honor, duty, and family values. Everyone in all of Westeros knew it, from the poor to the rest of the Great Houses, as many had bore witness to those traits at play. The wolves of the north, the pack that'd once been called Kings, had bent the knee willingly during Aegon's Conquest and from then on, were known as Wardens of the North.

The glorious House Stark of Winterfell. Robb still vividly remembered the days in which he and his bastard brother, Jon Snow, were taught the history of their ancestors. Brandon the Boisterous, Cregan Stark, Rodwell Stark, Rickard Stark... Robb knew their names well, knew the significance of their importance to his bloodline. They were his ancestors, warriors with wolf's blood coursing through their veins, and blood that ran through his. Just like them, Robb is heir to Winterfell, the firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. And while Robb's heart valued honor, duty, and family over all else, there were times when he wished he hadn't been born first.

The first time he took his mind off his duty as heir (a duty everyone constantly reminded him of every waking moment) was when Roose Bolton brought his second-born son, (Y/N) Bolton, to Winterfell when they were children to become a ward under Eddard Stark. He'd heard about the stories and rumors surrounding the family and their ancestral home, the Dreadfort. Their history was as lengthy as the Starks, with their own ancestors having been once called the Red Kings. While Starks were honorable, Boltons were cruel, cunning, and dishonorable with a tradition of flaying their enemies that they were forced to give up upon being bannermen for the Starks. However, there were rumors they still flayed their prisoners after days and weeks of torture.

Robb and Jon exchanged whispers while their father spoke with Roose Bolton, an unremarkably ordinary-looking man despite the eerie aura that surrounded him and his sons. His eyes were striking, a color so pale and odd that they made shivers run down the spines of the two boys when he looked in their direction. But the prickle of uneasiness that poked at Robb vanished when (Y/N) looked toward him. Jon immediately ducked behind the barrel they'd chosen to hide behind but Robb held his gaze and was rewarded with a grin. 

"Robb," His father had called out, "Come."

Robb immediately obeyed, jumping out from behind the barrel and striding over to his brother. At the age of seven, Robb knew his place as heir very well so he made every attempt at showing everyone the manners and way of nobles he'd been taught. Ned placed a comforting hand over his shoulder and smiled down at his son. "Why don't you show (Y/N) around Winterfell, Robb? His father and I have much to discuss." 

"Yes, Father." Robb nodded, his auburn curls bouncing off his forehead. Domeric Bolton, eldest son of Roose and heir to the Dreadfort, similarly set his hand over his younger brother's shoulder. (Y/N) peered up at his father and then at his brother, lingering even after Roose gave him an approving nod. 

"Go on," Domeric murmured gently and (Y/N) looked back at Robb with a growing smile. 

Robb spent the rest of the day showing (Y/N) around Winterfell, his chest puffing out with pride each time (Y/N) seemed impressed about something. Jon and Theon trailed after them, providing input that (Y/N) largely ignored in favor of giving Robb his full attention, something surprisingly made him squirm. He finished the tour by introducing (Y/N) to his mother and his younger sister, Sansa. Catelyn greeted (Y/N) politely, more kindly than she treated Jon at least, and offered to get some sweets for them after dinner while Sansa clung to her skirts and watched them.

It wasn't until a few days later, when the boys were giggling on a stack of haybale after their latest mischief that Robb had a thought that would continue to emerge: 'I wish he were a girl.'

As they grew and reached their fifteenth name days, they both began showcasing the faithful traits of their house. Robb grew gentler, less mischievous, and showed a strong sense of honor. He continued reading his histories and studied faithfully under the septa, training nearly every day with Ser Rodrick Cassel and accompanying his father whenever he ventured out on hunts or to meet with others. (Y/N) seemingly grew a taste for blood, something that emerged during training. He went easier on Robb than the others, incredibly apparent as Theon and Jon would end up bruised and bloody by the end of each session. But despite Theon's complaints and Jon's worries about (Y/N) fatally injuring someone, Robb could never shake the astonished, fluttery feeling whenever he saw (Y/N). 

"Come on, boy," Ser Rodrick called to the staggering Jon and Robb couldn't help but wince at the trickle of blood going down his nose. Jon wiped it away, his black hair clinging to his dirt-speckled sweaty face. Nobody had to look at Theon to know the boy likely looked pale as winter snow. (Y/N) pointed the - thankfully - wooden sword at Jon and cocked his head to the side, a wide grin across his face. 

"What's wrong, Snow?" (Y/N) taunted, and Jon glared at him, throwing aside his sword and marching right up to (Y/N). The Bolton laughed when Jon grabbed the sides of his chest armor, his teeth digging into his bottom lip before he rammed the end of the sword into Jon's temple. Jon cursed loudly and released him to grab the side of his head, the blow working as intended when (Y/N) slammed his foot into Jon's chest piece and knocked him back. 

"I believe that's enough, aye, lad?" Robb straightened up at the sound of his father's voice, craning his neck to watch Ned step out of the nearby building and approach them with a grimace. He gently clapped the back of (Y/N)'s shoulder to congratulate him, his eyes remaining locked on his bastard son's panting form. "Go see Maester Luwin, Jon."

"May I have a word in private, Lord Stark?" Ser Rodrick asked, earning a curt nod in response. (Y/N)'s eyes followed the two older men as they walked further away from them, their voices drowned out by the hustle and bustle of servants working and guests chatting. His lips formed a noticeable pout, one that made Robb chuckle as he helped take the chest piece off him. 

"They're going to send me home." (Y/N) muttered bitterly.

"They won't," Robb assured him, handing the piece off to a nearby servant and giving them a thankful smile. (Y/N) huffed, the air coming out in a small cloud, and he tossed the sword aside into the dirt beside them. Robb caught a brief look at the knitted brow, sullen expression on his face before (Y/N) turned on his heel and stormed away. Immediately, Robb followed without a second thought, keeping his eyes focused on the boy until they reached the Godswood. 

"Leave me alone, Robb." (Y/N) muttered grumpily, slumping down on the ground beside the water and roughly tugging blades of grass from the ground. 

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Robb responded, taking a seat beside him and gazing out into the water. The Godswood had always been a place to seek peace or advice from the Old Gods, a place Robb could visit to clear his mind or simply escape for a brief moment. (Y/N) pursed his lips and Robb smiled, pressing his fingertip against (Y/N)'s cheek and gigging softly when he swatted at his hand. "Come on, tell me." 

"Nobody here likes me. They're scared of me." (Y/N) said quietly, tugging more grass out of the dirt. "Lord Eddard is going to send me home to the Dreadfort, I know he is. Father's going to be mad at me but at least Dom will be there."

Robb stared at him, noticing the way he pressed his lips together to stop them from quivering. "I like you." He revealed softly and (Y/N) tilted his head toward him, eyes flickering between Robb's vibrant blue eyes. Robb's stomach twisted and turned, heat rising up his neck and covering his ears like fire. 

"How much?"

"A lot." He admitted, the branches above them gently rustling together with the wind. The sound eased his nerves, eased the dread threatening to bubble up and consume him. "If you were a lady, I would ask Father to let us wed."

(Y/N)'s lips curled up at that. "The Old Gods do not care if we're both men, Robb." He reminded him, that familiar grin working its way onto his face. Robb smiled again, setting his hand over (Y/N)'s and putting an end to his constant grass tearing. "Would you kill for me, Robb?"

"To protect you, yes," Robb answered immediately, no poundering needed. He'd kill to protect any of his loved ones. His parents, Jon, Theon, Sansa, little Arya and Bran. His father spilled blood for his late sister, Lyanna, during the rebellion and Robb doubted his father wouldn't do it all over again for her. "Would you?"

"If you asked." Then, (Y/N) leaned forward and clumsily mushed their lips together, sending a jolt down Robb's spine and a heat throughout his face. He'd kissed a young lady once or twice in secret and out of curiosity but despite his brief experience, he moved nervously and just as clumsily. 

Things rapidly changed from then on, behind closed doors at least. To the servants and residents of Winterfell, the two remained the same close friends as always, but away from prying eyes and curious ears, they were inseparable lovers. Robb's lingering stares grew and any ladies his mother asked him about were brushed away for one excuse or another. The sneaking around, the subtle touches, and innocent gestures, it was all exciting for them but Robb grew to prefer how hungry (Y/N) always seemed for him. It felt good to be wanted, felt good when he whispered loving confessions and laughed at (Y/N)'s eye rolls and flustered smiles. 

Until, as quickly as their relationship began, they were just as quickly swept away from each other. 

Not long after (Y/N) sixteenth name day, news arrived at Winterfell of Domeric Bolton's death. An illness in the stomach, the first letter from Maester Uthor read, but the letter from Roose informed him of a new family member who'd potentially caused the death of his brother: a half-brother by the name of Ramsay Snow—a bastard of the North. With Domeric dead, the title of heir fell on (Y/N)'s shoulders and took him away from Winterfell and back to the Dreadfort. Jon and Theon eased with his absence but Robb's heart broke into pieces. As a secondborn, (Y/N) could do as he pleased and remain by Robb's side forever if he wished, but as an heir?

As much as his absence pained him, Robb ensured to write (Y/N) many letters, most with secret messages only the two of them could understand. He detailed any events that'd gone on, small or big, silly or tragic. He wrote to him about the pups found by Jon and the one he'd claimed, about the royal visit at Winterfell and his father's new position as Hand, Jon joining the Night's Watch, the saddening news of his sister's wolf being killed. The letters stopped when Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell called the bannermen to war. 

Robb focused on the war, on avenging his father and bringing his beloved sisters home before they could be harmed by the Lannisters. The Bolton's joined the effort, of course, but Robb hardly saw (Y/N) during the start. They both had their duties, their own men to command, and many more things to worry about. But, the reunion had Robb nearly collapsing. 

He'd seen him, caught a brief glance during a battle with Lannister's army. It'd been enough to make him fight even harder, and they'd won in the end, returning back to camp to treat their wounded and count the dead. Robb had been swept away, his new title as King of the North forcing even more responsibilities onto his lap, but he managed to keep his racing mind focused enough to manage the tasks at hand, nearly forgetting about the glimpse until that night. 

Dragging the wet rag over his sword, Robb thought about his father. He thought about all the things Ned would say to him, the advice he'd give to him. His father knew of battles and rebellions, he knew of war. Robb only knew what he learned as the war progressed. Sure, there were many older men who'd fought alongside his father, who still had the taste of war in their mouths, but none would compare to the knowledge of Eddard Stark. He sighed quietly, gazing over his reflection and failing to hear the person entering his tent. 

"King of the North, aye? Has a pretty ring to it." He tensed immediately, first due to surprise and then because of that familiar voice. His head whirled around, eyes wide and heart pleading. (Y/N) grinned at him, splatters of blood still covering his skin and clothes from a battle the Boltons and few others had ridden out to, but it suited him perfectly. The sword fell with a loud clatter and Robb darted up from his seat, unable to restrain himself from flying into (Y/N)'s embrace. "Missed me, hm?" He laughed.

"Of course, I missed you, you bastard." Robb exhaled, leaning back to grasp the sides of his face, disregarding the blood that smeared onto his palms before he crashed their lips together. An almost animalistic growl-like noise emitted from (Y/N) throat and he kissed him back more roughly, as were most things with (Y/N). The Bolton backed him up until Robb fell back onto the bed, briefly knocking the air out of him. (Y/N) hovered above him, eyes glinting with a familiar look that sent heat rushing to his stomach.

"Sorry 'bout Lord Eddard, Robb." He murmured, dipping down to brush his lips over Robb's cheek and down to his throat where he dug his teeth lightly into him. 

"I heard of your half-brother, (Y/N)." Robb sighed again, the familiarity of it all making him lightheaded. His beloved had always been all tongue and teeth. (Y/N) snorted softly into his throat, a short chuckle leaving him at the mention of Ramsay's demise. He'd died in his sleep, or so Lord Bolton had said. 

"Never liked him, anyway." (Y/N) told him, rising back up to press their lips tightly together, teeth digging into Robb's bottom lip and tugging lightly. "I have news, Robb."

"Can it wait?" Robb knew the answer but he hoped pulling (Y/N) closer would change his mind. (Y/N) chuckled again and moved his hips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face when Robb cursed softly under his breath and reached down to fumble with their pants. 

"No, My King."

"Gods, you're the worst."

A sadistic little bastard but Robb loved him anyway. (Y/N)'s amusement faded away and he inhaled heavily, planting his hands on the sides of Robb's head and staring down at him. The seriousness made Robb straighten up, despite their rather compromising position, and he nodded for (Y/N) to continue. "My father plans on betraying you, Robb. Your rejection of Walder Frey's girls gave way for Father. He plans on marrying one of his daughters for an alliance. He wants to kill you." Robb's blood ran icy cold. War always had its fair share of traitors and cowardly, slimy men.

"Are you certain?" Robb sat up in the bed, forcing (Y/N) to lean back and stand again. A traitor in their midst and Walder Frey's ego. Two problems Robb hardly had time to deal with. (Y/N) reached out, fingers dipping under Robb's chin and tilting his head up.

"Give me your command and I'll bring his head to you by early morrow." 

[thorsenmark]

Mesa Verde National Park Under Blue Skies Sunshine by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A setting looking to the north-northeast while taking in views across a grassy meadow with a lone evergreen tree and a portion of Lone Cone high ground off in the distance. This is in Mesa Verde National Park.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Dolonia

Dolonia is defined as: a state of unease prompted by people who seem to like you too much, which makes you wonder if they must have you confused with someone else—someone flawless, selfless, or easy to understand from a distance.

Potter rolled over, pressing his too hot, too sweaty body against Draco's. And in spite of the fact that he was altogether too hot, that he was sticky, and still breathing too heavy, he couldn't find it in himself to complain.

"That was good," Potter said, trailing his fingers over Draco's ribs, brushing back and forth lightly and leaving trails of electricity shaking through Draco's chest.

He hummed, hoping it sounded aloof and noncommittal, like he wasn't trying too hard and didn't care too much about Potter's opinion, anything to convince himself that that was the truth.

"Do you want to order in some food from the Thai place down the street?" he asked, "or maybe we could go out? There's that diner a couple of blocks away, y-"

"You want to eat with me?" he asked incredulously, because fucking was one thing and occasionally sleeping in the same bed after being too tired to move made sense. But going out and eating together was something else entirely.

"Yeah," Potter said, shrugging like it was no big deal. "I'm starving, aren't you? We haven't eaten since lunch and that case was no easy thing to solve."

"Yes," he conceded, "That's what the celebratory sex was for."

Potter laughed, that bright, delighted sound that made it seem like nothing in the world was wrong. "Sure, just." He sat up, looking down at Draco, eyes impossibly large and impossibly green, "do you not want to get food with me? It's fine if you don't," he added, "just say so and I'll leave you to it."

"It's not that I don't want to get food with you," he said with a frown, staring at the mole on Potter's neck to avoid looking into his eyes. "It's just that you seem to be making this into something that it's not."

"What do you mean?" he asked, fingers carding through Draco's hair and brushing the loose strands back off his face.

He rolled his eyes, trying to make himself seem less vulnerable than he actually felt. "It's like you don't remember who I actually am sometimes."

Potter laughed, "Of course I remember who you are. You're my annoying, prat of a partner, too brilliant for his own good. You're the idiot that I come in to work with every morning wondering what sort of chaos my day is about to hold because even simple robbery cases turn into something that has years of ancestral battles and blood magic tied into it. You have very particular tea habits, and you like everything just so. I drive you mad but you still put up with me in your bed anyway."

"You're a good fuck, Potter," he said flippantly.

With a laugh, Potter leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose, like casual affection was the sort of thing that they did. "I know you."

And that reminded Draco of where this had all started, "right, but it's like you don't remember all the other parts, all of the things that came before."

He shrugged, "Why would I? You aren't that person anymore, you don't believe those things, you've turned your entire life around."

"But I am still those things," he said, shaking his head. "Sure, I don't believe what I used to, but that doesn't change that I was raised in that culture, it doesn't change that I still go to have brunch with my parents at the manor every other Sunday, or that I know how to get my way in the Ministry, or that I'm an expert manipulator-"

"Hey," Potter said, cupping his cheek. "Hey. Relax. Take a breath," he said, lips pressing to the crease between Draco's eyebrows. "You're okay. We're okay."

"I'm don't-"

"I know who you are, Draco."

"But-"

He shook his head, "I know who you are. I remember all of the things there are to know about you. I know who you were, I know all of the work you've done to be different, I know who you are now. I know you," he repeated. "Just like you know me. It's what makes us such good partners in the office and out of it." He let out a soft self-deprecating chuckle, "Please don't think that you're the only one of the two of us who's spent the past fifteen years meticulously watching the other. I know you, Draco."

He frowned up at him, uncertain where this could be going then, if Potter consciously chose Draco with all of his faults and flaws instead of just for the convenience of it.

"I know you," he repeated, "and I want you." He shrugged, "I've just been waiting for you to be ready to hear it." He grinned at him, "So, what do you say? Dinner?"

And how could he say anything but yes?

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: Along the Road of Nameless Graves

Presiding over a series of forested foothills and mountainous valleys that divide two rival kingdoms, the mist-shrouded barony of Siirvyn has seen more than its share of war over the past generations. Betrayal, invasion, and massacre are all too common motifs in the barony's long history, leaving all sorts of scars on both the landscape and the people who dwell within it.

Adventure Hooks:

Rumours of a treasure draw the party to Siirvyn, apparently concealed in a vault beneath the ruined castle of a long dead baroness Taviaa. Surely it won't be too hard to locate a single ruin in a land frequently beset by war, right?

The party arn't the only one combing across the barony looking for something. A hardluck knight seeks her brother after he vanished on a foolish quest, and might be willing to help the party out of jam if they aid her in search.

Folk of the barony tell of Grimcackle, a great black winged beast that moorlands that's sometimes heard laughing over the desolate battlefields but is only ever seen by the lost and the desperate. To heed the old stories it plunders the old battlefields of it's choicest riches, hoarding the wealth of the dead over centuries of war.

Subquest 1:

The party's hunt for riches gets complicated after arriving in the region to find that there has been no less than eight baroness Taviaas over the past century(backwater fiefdoms do like tradition after all) with five castles between them. Most have been destroyed by disaster, neglect, or siege, leaving the party to trek across the land checking checking out each option (though a clever party might narrow their search by hitting the local archives and cross referencing historical accounts).

Potential ruins include:

The delapidated lair of the local owlbear

Huanted by the ghost of one of the baronesses Taviaa,

The Hideout of a gang of smugglers with far reaching ties

Thoroughly cursed by a battlefield savaging spriggan who deals in cursed weapons.

To make matters even more complicated, one of the castles has been restored by the current baron Arkolo who would likely not take kindly to a band of renegade sellswords pilfering riches from under his nose, forcing the party to avoid it entirely or risk getting thrown in the dungeon if caught.

Subquest 2:

Ser Riley of Breakbridge never expected to inherit the family title, her father favoured her elder brother Rhys far more, and when the old man died in the last war there was no question who his holdings would pass to. Then, a couple of years ago Rhys got it into his head that he needed to reclaim the family's ancestral sword which was lost in the same bloody battle that did their father in, crossing the mountains to scour old battlefields and not being seen since. After righting the mess Rhys caused by his chivalric absence, Riley has come to Siirvyn herself to drag him, or possibly his body back from his foolhardy quest. The party may run into her requesting aid from the Baron, seeking advice from the local shrine to Tyr, or drinking off another unsuccessful trek through the wilderness at the local tavern. She'd welcome their aid in her search, and would gladly pay them back by lending her blade to theirs in their search (or using her influence to spring them from the baron's dungeons, should they have been caught).

Rhys' trail snakes all across the barony (including leaving a journal in one of the ruins the party wanted to search), but terminates in the great barren battlefield that was his father's last stand. While searching these moorlands the party & Ser Riley will run into a band of armed scavengers apparently conducting their own body-hunt for one of their fallen comrades. They served on the opposite side of the war from Riley's family, and if that wasn't bad blood enough, they apparently came to blows with Rhys a little under a year ago and aim to settle the score with his sister.

Regardless of how the standoff plays out (talking the scavengers down and exchanging favours or beating the information out of them) the Next step is to find Grimcackle's nest. By now (especially if you're playing with my affliction system and the party is tired out from all their wandering across the countryside) the party will have realized that the only way to see the great raven is to be nearing the edge of death, whether through actively dying, being poisoned, or just being exhausted to the bone. This is because the great raven is infact a psychopomp, tasked with sorting out the dead from the region's innumerable wars. Once the party find the particular tor the dread raven uses as roost, they'll find him quite chatty in the way of most birds, happy to trade gossip or play show and tell with his many finds. Rhys did indeed come to challenge Grimcackle for the sword, an act of daring rudness that forced the psychopomp to drag the knight's soul to the purgatory it rightfully belonged.

Resigned by the love she bears her brother, Riley insists she must venture into the shadow to save him, leaving the party with the choice of convincing her to abandon her quest, leave her to her fruitless pursuit of honour, or risk it all alongside her for the sake of an idiot who thought he could convince an aspect of death to respect his pedigree.

Subquest 3:

After their harrowing adventure the party return to town to find that Baron Akolo has been assassinated and all of Siivyrn has been thrown into chaos and suspicion. Fingers point and depending who the blame lands on it might spell civil war or invasion for the backwoods barony once again.

Background: Both neighbouring powers wish to control who moves through the region's winding passes, and expend great effort in both war and peace to ensure the barony is favourable to them. While occupying armies and vassalage have been all too common in the past, the region's ostensibly independent ruler Baron Arkolo is a puppet in all but name for the winning side of the most recent war. Little more than a bandit leader during the conflict savaging battlefields and attacking supply lines on both sides, Arkolo saw the way the wind was blowing before anyone else and made himself indispensable to his current patrons before their inevitable victory.

Little more than a strongman at first, the newly elevated baron managed to ingratiate himself to his subjects by leveraging his outlaw status to cast himself as a hero fighting against the great powers rather than ruling on their behalf. All the while the canny old bandit was of course playing both sides, toadying to the victorious kingdom while helping to run the smuggling operation for their rivals.

Clues & Consequences:

The baron had a stormy relationship with his son and prospective heir Kalo, who came up raiding alongside his father. After the war however, the young man felt he'd had enough of violence renounced his possesisons and joined the secluded temple of Tyr as a means of making peace with his bloody past. Arkolo never approved of his son's taking the cloth, refused to name another heir and would frequently make pilgramage to the temple just to argue with him. Despite their years of contention however the had seemed to reconcile in recent months, becoming closer than ever. Kalo is not taking his father's murder well, and has decided to dust off his old bandit skills alongside his newfound connection to a wargod as a means of finding the killer. Like an angered bull, he's liable to charge at whoever draws his attention, a weakness the real culprit might use to direct him onto the party's trail.

Gareth Gosdown, the baron's advisor and castilian is an agent of their patron kingdom, sent to keep the former outlaw in line and the kingdom's garrisons well supplied. In the wake of Arkolo's death, he's less interested in finding the killer than he is reinforcing his masters' hold over the barony in case of a new invasion. Known for butting heads with the Baron's more slapdash ruling style he's the one the common folk are most likely to point to.

Taviaa (ninth of that name) was born to the Baron after he'd claimed the region and married one of the local nobles. Though still young, she has a cutthroat attitude and a mind for politics, which made it all the more frustrating when her father refused to give up on her pious half brother as heir and name her instead. She knows she's the obvious culprit, the case made all the more convincing by the fact that she's recently been paling around with emissaries from the other kingdom.

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