#Astrid Torrente

[daviddelrealactor]

Votación por Tarragonenses eminentes del año 2022. Yo voté por una violinista ¿Y tú? (Puedes votar desde cualquier parte del mundo, yo soy mexicano). Saludos a todos!!!! Puedes votar diario una vez desde hoy hasta los primeros días de enero. Saludos!!!!

AaaaAaaaahh si quieren votar por la misma persona que yo, yo voté por "Astrid Torrente" que es una violinista de TikTok que toca muchas canciones populares, otras de animé-manga, a Paco de Lucía, canciones de movies como "Back to the Future" y así. Saludos.

[novaursa]

A Flame Torn (broken)

- Summary: Your father breaks Aegon, to avenge your broken heart.

- Paring: cousin!reader/Aegon (The Uncrowned) Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: unworthy

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @callsignwidow

The air around the God’s Eye was thick with mist and tension, the sun a pale disk veiled behind gray clouds. On the shores of the great lake, two dragons faced each other, their wings spread wide, casting long shadows across the water. The sky above roiled with the promise of a storm, as if the gods themselves were watching the confrontation that would reshape the fate of House Targaryen.

Maegor the Cruel sat astride Balerion the Black Dread, his armor gleaming black as the shadow of his dragon. The sight of the monstrous dragon, its scales dark as night and its eyes like pools of hot coals, was enough to strike fear into the heart of any man. But across from him, mounted upon the smaller yet valiant Quicksilver, was Aegon the Uncrowned, his silver-gold hair caught in the wind, his expression resolute.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the distant cry of a lone bird. Then Aegon’s voice cut through the silence, carrying across the water with a desperate determination. “Uncle, listen to reason! We do not have to spill each other’s blood today. I offer you peace—an alliance that will strengthen our family and unite our claims. Marry me to Y/N. Let me be her husband, and I will support your reign.”

Maegor’s eyes, cold and unfeeling, narrowed at Aegon’s words. He had anticipated many things, but not this—a plea for peace from the nephew who had once sought his throne. “You think you can mend what you broke, boy?” he growled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “You think you can repair the heart you shattered with a few sweet words?”

Aegon’s grip tightened on Quicksilver’s reins, desperation flickering in his eyes. “I severed my betrothal to Rhaena when my father still lived! I did it for her, for Y/N, and for the hope that one day she might forgive me. I know I have done wrong, but this... this is a chance to make it right. Let me stand beside her. Let us unite our blood for the realm’s sake.”

Maegor’s expression twisted into a sneer. “You will never have her, Aegon. Not after what you did. And not after the way you grovel now, begging for scraps like a dog. My daughter deserves more than you—a weakling who hides behind words and hopes for mercy.”

Aegon’s face hardened, a steely resolve replacing the plea in his voice. “You claim to care for her, yet you refuse her happiness. I will not let you destroy all that is left of our family’s hope.”

Maegor’s laughter echoed across the lake, a dark, mocking sound that sent a shiver down Aegon’s spine. “You think yourself a hero, but you are a fool. You speak of family, yet you challenge me, the rightful king, for a throne you are too weak to hold.” He raised his hand, and Balerion bellowed, the sound reverberating like the roar of an erupting volcano. “Very well, then, boy. If you wish to play the hero, let us see how you fare in the flames.”

Without another word, Maegor spurred Balerion forward, the Black Dread surging into the sky with a terrifying speed. Aegon followed, Quicksilver’s wings beating rapidly as they ascended above the God’s Eye. The two dragons circled each other like dark stars, their riders grim and silent, preparing for the battle that could only end in blood.

Fire filled the air as Balerion unleashed a torrent of flame, the heat so intense that the waters of the lake below began to steam. Quicksilver darted through the air, smaller and faster, evading the worst of the flames, but the heat singed its silver wings. Aegon urged his dragon higher, guiding Quicksilver with precision, but each time he drew closer, Maegor drove them back with Balerion’s powerful dives and strikes.

“You were never meant for the throne, Aegon!” Maegor shouted, his voice carrying across the sky. “You do not have the strength to rule, nor the spine to keep it!”

“And you will never understand what it means to protect the realm!” Aegon shouted back, his voice hoarse with rage and pain. “All you know is blood and terror!”

Their dragons clashed, talons raking against scales, jaws snapping in a frenzy of rage. Quicksilver bit at Balerion’s neck, but the larger dragon swung its massive head, sending Quicksilver spiraling through the air. For a moment, it looked as if Aegon might recover, but Maegor directed Balerion down with a savage strike, and Balerion’s jaws closed around Quicksilver’s wing.

With a sickening crack, Quicksilver’s wing was torn apart. The smaller dragon’s roar of agony filled the air as it fell, its body twisting as it plummeted toward the lake below. Aegon’s grip on his saddle slipped, his face a mask of desperation as he struggled to regain control.

Balerion followed, a dark shadow against the stormy sky. With a final, vicious strike, Balerion’s massive maw closed around Quicksilver’s neck, ending the smaller dragon’s struggle in an instant. The two dragons, locked together in a deadly embrace, crashed into the waters of the God’s Eye, sending up a massive wave that rippled across the shore.

Aegon, mortally wounded, lay in the water, gasping as he tried to rise, blood pouring from the wounds inflicted by the fall and Balerion’s might. His eyes, filled with pain and a lingering hope, sought out Maegor as his uncle dismounted from Balerion’s back, the massive dragon looming behind him like the shadow of death.

Maegor stalked through the shallows, his expression cold as he looked down at the prince he had bested. “You speak of love, Aegon. Of peace. But you were always too weak to understand what it truly costs. You were never worthy of her.”

Aegon’s breath came in wet, shuddering gasps, his body trembling from the pain of his wounds. “And... you think... you know her heart?” he managed to choke out, his voice barely a whisper. “She... will never forgive you... for this.”

Maegor’s lips curled into a dark smile, his eyes glittering with cruel satisfaction. “She does not need to. She will understand, in time, that this is the only way. You were a lesson, Aegon. A lesson in what happens to those who overreach.”

With that, Maegor turned and walked away, leaving Aegon to his final breaths in the cold waters of the God’s Eye. The ripples of his passing spread out across the lake, mingling with the blood of the fallen dragon, a dark stain against the gray waters.

The healers who rushed to the shore found nothing but the broken body of a once-proud prince, his spirit fading with the last light of the dying sun. 

And somewhere in the distance, you feel a chill wind brush against your skin as you wait, knowing that your father will soon return with victory—but at the cost of something that was once precious, something you will never be able to reclaim.

[e-wills-afterhours]

Heyo! How about some more Hiccstrid tenderness? Like... married Hiccstrid enjoying their evening or early morning? (Married or not)

River

----

Falling in love was a peculiar thing. Starting like the rush of a rain-swollen river, it cascaded over the numerous rocks of life's small problems, twisting around the bends of imperfect idiosyncrasies. The unstoppable surge of desire carried many further downstream than the relationship was meant to go, until the white caps of infatuation settled into steady currents of routine, and the loss of excitement was too much to handle. Some people craved only the rapids, good or bad--but there was much yet to be discovered and appreciated in love's gentle babbling and swirls, as the torrent eased. Adoration flowed on apace.

Undeniable was the undertow of raging hormones that Hiccup could not have resisted Astrid's affections at first if he wanted to--and he didn't. He was all too glad to be pulled under, dragged along by a want and need far more powerful than himself. This carried them in the beginning, adrift in the unrelenting waters until they all but drowned.

Then life interceded. Responsibilities and extenuating circumstances drew their focus away from each other solely, so that they could come up for air. Heads above the surface, they could see plainly the banks that now constrained them: they were older, Hiccup was going to be the chief someday, and expectations mounted as the carelessness of youth receded.

But it was there, in the comforting loyalty and companionship of a long-established romance that one could discover just how deep the waters ran; and Hiccup noticed it was more than the sway is his lover's hips or the blue of her eyes when she looked at him--now his heart skipped when she took his hand of her own volition, or the way she smiled with fondness and awe as he recounted his latest invention. He lived less for the physical aspects of their relationship, though such moments were still exquisite and plentiful. A kiss was just as thrilling as a long morning flight together, and fingertips roaming over flushed skin was as delicious as lying giddy and breathless together in a sunny patch of wildflowers, watching the clouds float overhead. He would just as much revel in passionate whispers in the dark as Astrid's belly laugh. Especially when a little snort slipped out and they both fell to pieces.

"Are you sure you aren't shirking your duties to spend time with me?" Astrid teased, rolling on her side to look at him.

"I never said I wasn't," Hiccup replied honestly, plucking a blade of grass from her windswept hair. "But as far as my dad knows, I'm still sleeping in. My chores aren't going anywhere. This sunrise, however..."

They snuck off together right before the dawn, to fly to some secluded place where they could watch the first bands of sunlight pierce the night. Someone would eventually notice, but the whispers and scandal no longer captured the village's interest. One might as well have remarked that water was wet.

"As if you sleep!" She rolled on top of him, straddling his waist.

Her braid hung loosely over her shoulder, and she was gorgeous as ever. Not just for her figure and the way she carried herself, but for the tiny freckles you had to be nose-to-nose to notice. Small, faded scars and flyaway hairs, with subtle asymmetries all made up Hiccup's vision of perfection.

Their dragons play-wrestled nearby, which they did often when they were not chasing animals through the underbrush.

"Everything in moderation," he replied, lightly tugging the end of her braid.

She wrinkled her nose in the way he adored before settling down on top of him, head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a squeeze. Though Astrid was not someone who needed such tenderness to thrive, she sought comfort from him anyway. For a moment, she could feel vulnerable--it had taken months into their relationship for her to allow herself to let go of that control. Hiccup has once never dared to imagine he might get to be her refuge, back when her affections were more assertive and demanding: an indefatigable force of nature. What they had now was solid and assured, peaceful and effortless. Her fingers locked with his as if second nature--perhaps it was. Whether their touches would grow hotter and more purposeful seldom mattered anymore. They floated along through each day, each moment alone together, as the current carried them without an agenda. Being together, however it manifested, was enough.

"I'm going to do some training today, with the older kids--the ones who recently got their dragons. Your dad wants me to teach them basic defensive maneuvers while flying," Astrid said, idly stroking his chest.

"That sounds about right."

His father used to watch the two of them with exasperating hope and enthusiasm, as if he had willed their feelings for one another into existence. Then acceptance moved into the wake. Astrid was just about as common around their house now as Toothless, and that was saying something. His father asked favors of her like she already bore Hiccup's last name, for their trajectory was obvious if one but followed the riverbend.

She lifted her head up to meet his gaze. "Will you be there?"

He placed a hand on the small of her back and asked, "Do you want me there?"

She smiled. "It might be nice."

"You sure Toothless and I won't cramp your style?"

"Babe, you are the style."

"Ha!"

Astrid gave a soft laugh and pressed her forehead against his, breathing deeply and contentedly as one might do before dipping into a spring, cool and serene.

"I love you, Hiccup," she murmured.

And he knew those beautiful words were genuine. They came from a calm and steady tenor where words needed not be spoken, and thus held more weight than the words tossed about in a red-hot tumult. The heady rush new love was long behind them, where sometimes what was spoken was at the mercy of the crest and nadir of lust and longing--where words of praise could turn into barbs when the thrills ebbed and there was no tumbling, chaotic passion left to hide them. Navigating the loud, all-consuming whitewater was fun for its season, but Hiccup had come to prefer his river clear and still, where he could rest in its depth and the gentle lapping at the banks of his heart.

So, he kissed her forehead and said, "I love you too," although he did not have to.

[lunardragon00]

The Heir (Choi San x OC)

Masterlist

Genre: Fantasy , Lord!San x Princess!OC

Words: 6337

Warning: n/a

Chapter Nine --> Chapter Ten --> Chapter Twelve

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔈𝔩𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫: 𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔉𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔉𝔲𝔯𝔶

As the morning sun bathed Dragonspire in a golden glow, San and Hana took to the skies astride their majestic dragons, Aeshara and Noctis. The air was crisp with the promise of a new day, and the wind whispered secrets to those who dared to listen. With laughter dancing upon their lips, San and Hana soared through the azure heavens, their dragons weaving intricate patterns in the sky as they chased each other with playful abandon. Aeshara's sleek form glided effortlessly through the air, her wings catching the sunlight in a dazzling display of iridescence, while Noctis's powerful wings beat rhythmically against the wind, propelling him forward with grace and power.

With mischievous intent, San urged Aeshara to swoop low, skimming the shimmering surface of the water, his laughter trailing behind him like a comet's tail. As they veered behind the protective embrace of the mountain that cradled Dragonspire, he listened for the distant echo of Noctis's roar, a playful signal from across the island.

Sensing his moment, San spurred Aeshara onward, her powerful wings slicing through the air as they ascended swiftly, aiming to intercept Hana's playful pursuit. The rush of wind against his face, the thrill of the chase, fueled his excitement as they soared higher, the mountain's shadow receding behind them like a fading memory.

Ahead, he caught a glimpse of Hana's dragon, Noctis, gliding gracefully through the boundless expanse, a silent sentinel against the endless sky. With determination fueling his flight, San urged Aeshara onward, their hearts set on the joyous reunion that awaited amidst the endless horizon. As Aeshara surged upward, Hana instinctively tightened her grip on Noctis's reins, her heart racing with a mix of exhilaration and caution. With a deft maneuver, she urged Noctis to slow, veering slightly to avoid a collision with San and Aeshara. Feeling the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, Hana couldn't resist the challenge presented by her husband's playful antics. With determination etched into her features, she urged Noctis onward, matching Aeshara's pace until they flew side by side, the wind whistling through their hair.

Locked in a silent exchange, their eyes met, a silent communion of shared joy and boundless affection. But San's mischievous grin hinted at his next move, a playful challenge that stirred the competitive spirit within Hana's heart. In a daring display of bravado, San released Aeshara's reins and leaned back, his smirk a testament to his confidence. Hana scoffed at his antics, her own determination fueling her resolve. With a fierce cry, she commanded Noctis forward, her voice echoing across the expanse as she uttered the ancient Valyrian word.

"Drakarys!"

Noctis obeyed, unleashing a torrent of fire that illuminated the sky with its radiant glow. Reacting swiftly, San reached for Aeshara's reins, his movements fluid and precise as he leaned down, narrowly avoiding the fiery cascade that surged downward. In that heart-stopping moment, as flames licked the sky and dragons danced amidst the clouds, San and Hana shared a fleeting glance, their laughter mingling with the wind as they soared together through the boundless expanse of the sky.

As the sun rose midway, San and Hana gracefully landed their dragons in the courtyard, their flight coming to a leisurely end. With practiced ease, they dismounted their majestic steeds, the bond between rider and dragon evident in every fluid movement. Their maestor, a seasoned veteran of Dragonspire's halls, awaited their return with a knowing smile, his eyes alight with admiration as he approached them.

"Princess, my Prince," he greeted them with a respectful bow, his voice filled with genuine warmth. "That was quite the spectacle you put on for the people of Dragonspire. A truly grand display."

San and Hana exchanged a glance, a shared moment of silent understanding passing between them as they basked in the maestor's praise. Despite the weight of their responsibilities, moments like these reminded them of the simple joys that bound them together.

"Thank you, Maestor Tyren," San replied, his voice echoing with gratitude. "We merely sought to enjoy the beauty of the skies above our home."

The maestor nodded, his smile widening at their humble response. "Well, you certainly succeeded," he remarked, his tone filled with admiration. "It is not often that we are treated to such a magnificent sight." As Maestor Tyren turned to depart, he paused, his gaze settling on Hana with a gentle concern that belied his stoic demeanor.

"Princess Hana," he began, his voice soft yet filled with the weight of genuine care, "if it pleases Your Highness, I would be grateful for the opportunity to speak with you later today."

Hana met the maestor's gaze with a nod of understanding, her expression reflecting a mixture of gratitude and curiosity. "Of course, Maestor Tyren," she replied, her voice calm yet tinged with a note of apprehension. "I will make time to meet with you." With that, Maestor Tyren offered a final nod of acknowledgment before continuing on his way, his footsteps echoing against the cobblestones of Dragonspire's courtyard.

"Are you still having trouble? Your nausea has been better the past few mornings." San's voice, tinged with concern, drew Hana's attention back to him, his hand reaching out to gently grasp hers, a silent gesture of reassurance amidst the bustling courtyard of Dragonspire. Hana met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability as she considered his question.

"It comes and goes," she admitted, her voice soft with resignation. "Some days are better than others." San's brow furrowed with worry, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he sought to convey his unwavering support.

"Perhaps it would be wise to heed Maestor Tyren's advice," he suggested, his tone gentle yet insistent. "We should ensure that everything is as it should be." Hana nodded in agreement, a flicker of apprehension crossing her features as she contemplated the implications of their conversation.

"I will speak with him," she promised, "do not fret over it too much my love." her voice a whispered vow to prioritize her well-being above all else. As they walked back to the castle, Hana decides to make small talk.

"You know, I've heard the keepers and servants talking about Aeshara and Noctis." she states, her voice having a light tone to it. "What is it they say?" he asks.

"Apparently, the two are acting in love." she says, a light laugh following it. San's curiosity piqued at Hana's words, his expression shifting from concern to amusement as he listened to her recount the rumors surrounding their dragons. "Is that so?" he remarked, a hint of amusement coloring his voice. "And what evidence do they offer to support such claims?"

Hana chuckled softly, her laughter dancing on the gentle breeze that swept through the courtyard. "They say that Aeshara and Noctis have been inseparable lately," she explained, her tone light with amusement. "Always flying together, keeping close even when they're apart. It seems that Noctis has become very protective of her as of late."

San's lips curved into a smile at the whimsical notion, the image of their majestic dragons entwined in a silent dance of companionship bringing a sense of warmth to his heart. "It seems they have found a kindred spirit in one another," he mused, his voice tinged with fondness as he considered the bond shared between their dragons. As they reached the threshold of their chambers, Hana cast a playful glance in San's direction, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Perhaps they're trying to teach us a thing or two about love," she suggested, her voice tinged with playful speculation. San's laughter mingled with hers, the sound echoing through the corridors of Dragonspire as they cross one of the many halls and enter into their chambers, San shutting the heavy doors behind them.

"Or perhaps," San's arms wrapped around her, drawing her closer as they stood entwined in the sanctuary of their chambers. Hana leaned back into San's embrace, a soft smile gracing her lips as she felt the comforting warmth of his presence enveloping her. The soft glow of candlelight cast flickering shadows across the chamber, bathing them in a warm, golden hue as they stood together in quiet companionship. "they are simply reflecting the bond that exists between us." he continued, his voice a low whisper against the quiet of the room.

His words resonated with a depth of sincerity that stirred something deep within her, a profound acknowledgment of the love that bound them together, unyielding and true. As they stood together in the embrace of their chambers, Hana felt a sense of peace settle over her, the cares of the world melting away in the warmth of their shared affection. In that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of candlelight and the comforting presence of her beloved, she knew that their love was a force stronger than any storm.

"Do you have anywhere to be today?" Hana asks, turning her body to face his. San's gaze softened as he met Hana's eyes, his heart warming at the sight of her gentle smile. "Nothing that can't wait," he replied, his voice tender with affection.

"Does the princess have a request of me?" He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch light and reassuring. In the quiet intimacy of their chambers, his only desire was to ensure her well-being, to be there for her in every moment, no matter how small or inconsequential it may seem.

"The past week it seems we have been separated. Whether it be me receiving endless messages or you traveling to Coralrift. Today, I wish to be alone, alone with you." San's smile widened at Hana's words, his heart fluttering with warmth at her tender gesture. She reached out, her hand finding his and intertwining their fingers, their connection a reassuring anchor amidst the swirling currents of their world.

"I couldn't agree more," he replied, his voice soft with sincerity. "A day alone with you sounds like a perfect remedy for the chaos that has surrounded us." Leaning in, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, the touch fleeting yet filled with a depth of affection that transcended words.

In the serene ambiance of their washroom, suffused with the soft glow of candlelight, San and Hana assisted each other in shedding their riding attire. With gentle, unhurried movements, they undid the clasps and ties, relieving themselves of the weight of their journey. Once their garments had been removed, they eased themselves into the warm embrace of the bath, its soothing waters enveloping them in a cocoon of comfort. The tension of their journey melted away beneath the caress of the water, leaving behind only the sweet tranquility of their shared moment.

With quiet tenderness, they worked together to cleanse themselves, the gentle rhythm of their movements a silent symphony of love and devotion. Their hands moved with practiced care, washing away the remnants of the day's adventures, leaving behind only the pure essence of their bond. As San's hands worked their magic, kneading the tension from Hana's shoulders, her soft voice broke the tranquility of the moment.

"San," she began, her words carrying a weight of curiosity and vulnerability, "do you wish to have a family someday?"

His touch paused for a moment, the gentle rhythm of his massage faltering ever so slightly as her question hung in the air between them. In the hushed intimacy of their bath, the question carried with it the weight of unspoken dreams and aspirations, the uncharted territory of their shared future laid bare before them. For a fleeting moment, San's thoughts danced on the edge of uncertainty, the prospect of fatherhood a distant horizon beckoning to him from beyond the confines of their tranquil sanctuary. Yet, in the depths of his heart, he found a quiet certainty.

"Yes," he replied, his voice soft yet resolute as he met Hana's gaze with unwavering sincerity. "More than anything, I dream of a future filled with laughter and love, a family to call our own." In his words, she heard the echoes of their shared dreams, the promise of a tomorrow illuminated by the warmth of their love and the boundless possibilities that lay ahead.

"When?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of hope and uncertainty, her eyes searching his for reassurance and understanding. In that moment, San felt the weight of responsibility settle upon his shoulders, the solemn vow of commitment echoing through the quiet intimacy of their bath.

"It's hard to say," he began, his voice a gentle murmur against the tranquil stillness of their surroundings. "But know this: whenever the time is right, whenever our hearts are ready to welcome new life into this world, I will stand by your side, ready to embark on this journey together."

As San's words hung in the air, enveloping them in a cocoon of shared dreams and whispered promises, Hana felt the weight of her secret pressing upon her heart, the quiet stirrings of anticipation mingling with the tender warmth of her husband's embrace. With each passing moment, the realization crystallized within her.

"San," she began, her voice soft yet tinged with a tremulous edge of vulnerability, "there's something I haven't told you." Her words faltered for a moment, the weight of her revelation heavy upon her as she searched his eyes for understanding and acceptance. San's gaze softened, his expression one of unwavering support and unconditional love as he met her gaze with a reassuring smile.

"What is it, my love?" he asked, his voice a gentle murmur against the quiet intimacy of their bath. Hana took a deep breath, her heart fluttering with a mixture of apprehension and hope as she summoned the courage to speak the words that lay heavy upon her tongue.

"I think... I may be with child," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke the words aloud for the first time. In the hushed stillness of their bath, the revelation hung between them like a delicate thread, binding them together in a tapestry of shared hopes and dreams.

"Are you sure?" San asked, his voice tinged with a tremor of disbelief as he sought confirmation, his mind racing to process the magnitude of their shared revelation. In that moment, the pieces of a puzzle long forgotten began to fall into place, the subtle shifts and changes in Hana's demeanor over the past month now illuminated with newfound clarity.

Hana's gaze met his own, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears and a vulnerability that mirrored his own. "I can't say for certain," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, "but the signs... they seem to point in that direction."

San's mind raced with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, his heart heavy with the weight of their shared uncertainty. While a part of him rejoiced at the prospect of new life, another part trembled with the weight of the unknown, the daunting prospect of parenthood looming on the horizon like an uncharted sea.

"It's... it's a lot to take in," San confessed, his voice soft with vulnerability as he reached out to envelop Hana in a tender embrace, seeking solace in the warmth of her presence amidst the storm of his emotions.

"It is why I have been meeting with the Maestor so much as of late. I should have already bled at this point but it has not come." She claims. As San's fingers gently traced the contours of Hana's hair, a sense of calm settled over them like a soft blanket, soothing the tumult of emotions that churned within his soul. Her words hung in the air between them, a silent reminder of the fragility of life and the uncertainty of the future.

"I understand," San murmured, his voice a gentle whisper against the quiet of their chamber. "We will visit the Maestor once we are finished, together." His words carried the weight of his commitment, a silent vow to stand by her side through the trials and tribulations that lay ahead. And as he held her close, their hearts beating in unison against the backdrop of their shared uncertainty, he found solace in the warmth of her embrace, a beacon of light amidst the darkness of the unknown.

---------------

Upon reaching the Maestor's chambers, they are greeted by the warm glow of lamplight spilling from the open doorway, inviting them into the sanctum of healing and wisdom. The Maestor, a venerable figure with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor, welcomes them with a nod of recognition, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the sea of uncertainty. They settle into the tranquility of the Maestor's chambers, the air thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and healing balms.

"My Prince, Princess, welcome." He greets them. His gentle demeanor and reassuring smile offer them a sense of calm amidst the swirling currents of uncertainty that had engulfed them.

"Maestor Tyren," San acknowledges with a respectful nod, his voice tinged with gratitude for the Maestor's presence and guidance. "Thank you for seeing us." Hana offers a warm smile in return, her eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and hope as she meets the Maestor's gaze. "We appreciate your time, Maestor," she adds, her voice soft yet filled with sincerity.

The Maestor's kind eyes crinkle at the corners as he returns their greetings, his demeanor radiating warmth and understanding. "It is my honor to be of service to you both," he replies, his voice gentle yet imbued with a quiet authority. "Please, have a seat."

As they settle into the comfortable chairs arranged in the Maestor's chambers, a sense of tranquility washes over them, enveloping them in a cocoon of serenity amidst the bustle of the world outside. "Your Highness," he began, his voice a gentle murmur against the quiet of the room, "the signs you've described to me in our last meeting align closely with those of early pregnancy."

Hana's breath caught in her throat, her heart fluttering with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty as she listened to the Maestor's words. Beside her, San's expression mirrored her own, his features etched with a mixture of wonder and awe at the prospect of new life.

"If I were to estimate," the Maestor continued, his gaze resting upon them with a reassuring warmth, "I would say the pregnancy is in its early stages, perhaps four to five weeks."

San's mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, the gravity of their shared revelation settling upon him like a mantle of stars. "Four to five weeks," he repeated, his voice tinged with wonder as he processed the Maestor's estimation. "So soon."

Hana's hand found San's, her touch a silent reassurance amidst the swell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them. "But also a blessing," she added, her voice soft yet filled with conviction. "A new chapter for us."

The Maestor nodded in agreement, his expression one of quiet understanding as he bore witness to the unfolding tapestry of their shared journey. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice imbued with a depth of wisdom born of experience. "A new chapter, filled with the promise of hope and renewal."

And as they sat together in the sanctum of the Maestor's chambers, the weight of their revelation settling upon them like a gentle rain, they found solace in the knowledge that they were not alone on this journey. San's voice broke the stillness of the chamber, his words a tentative exploration of the practicalities that lay ahead.

"Are there any preparations to be made in this moment?" he inquired, his tone tinged with a mixture of curiosity and concern as he turned to the Maestor for guidance. The Maestor regarded him with a thoughtful expression, his gaze steady as he considered the question at hand.

"For now," he began, his voice measured yet reassuring, "it is important to focus on the health and well-being of the Princess." He continued, his words carrying the weight of experience and insight. "I would recommend a regimen of rest and nourishment, as well as regular check-ups to monitor the progress of the pregnancy."

San nodded, his mind already spinning with the myriad tasks that awaited them in the days and weeks to come. "And the castle," he added, his thoughts turning to the practicalities of their daily life amidst the newfound joy of impending parenthood. "Should we make any arrangements within the castle?"

The Maestor's smile was gentle, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding of the uncertainties that lay ahead. "For now, Your Highness, I would suggest allowing yourselves time to savor this moment, there is no need to make drastic changes just yet." he advised, his words a gentle reminder to embrace the present before looking too far into the future.

Five Months.....

"Push, Your Grace, push," they urged, their voices a steady refrain amidst the chaos of labor. Arya's face contorted in agony, her features etched with determination as she summoned every ounce of strength within her. Beads of sweat glistened upon her brow, her breaths ragged and labored as she fought through the waves of pain that threatened to engulf her. As Arya's labor intensified, the air in the chamber grew thick with tension, punctuated by the echoing cries of pain that reverberated off the stone walls. The midwives moved with practiced urgency, their movements swift and sure as they tended to the queen's needs.

With each passing moment, the intensity of the ordeal seemed to grow, the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. The midwives worked tirelessly, their hands deft and sure as they tended to Arya's needs, offering words of encouragement and reassurance in the face of adversity.

In the quiet solitude of the corridor, time seemed to stretch on endlessly, each passing moment laden with the unspoken hopes and fears that bound them together in shared anticipation. And as the echoes of Arya's cries filled the air, they stood vigil, united in their silent prayer for a safe delivery and the promise of new life.

"Hongjoong!" Arya's cry pierced through the chamber, a desperate plea for her husband's presence in her hour of need.

"He is not allowed in the room, Your Grace," one of the attendants interjected with a measured tone, attempting to maintain order amidst the chaos of labor.

"Fuck off, Agnes!" Arya's retort was sharp, her voice tinged with pain and frustration as she struggled to navigate the tumultuous waves of labor. Agnes, unfazed by the outburst, simply continued with her duties, fetching a fresh rag to soothe the queen's fevered brow.

In a sudden burst of commotion, the chamber doors swung open, admitting a newcomer into the room before swiftly shutting behind them. Arya's gaze snapped towards the intruder, her expression a mixture of relief and exasperation.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been in labor for hours now," Arya's voice trembled with exhaustion, her patience worn thin by the relentless onslaught of pain.

The newcomer, revealed to be the princess, paused in her tracks, stunned by the sight of the queen's distress. With a swift motion, she shed her cloak, revealing a gown of dark blue that contrasted sharply with their trademark white curls.

"And what are you wearing?" Arya's question hung in the air, a testament to her bewilderment at the princess's uncharacteristic choice of attire.

"Hush, don't worry about me. Focus on delivering the baby," the princess replied, her voice calm yet tinged with a sense of urgency as she sought to ease Arya's burden with words of reassurance.

"I want my husband, bring him to me," Arya demanded, her voice echoing with a mixture of anguish and determination as she longed for Hongjoong's comforting presence by her side.

Hana, her steady companion in the throes of labor, offered a quiet reassurance, her voice a gentle whisper amidst the storm of Arya's emotions. "You know they won't do it," Hana spoke softly, her words carrying a sense of resigned acceptance of the palace's protocols.

Arya's frustration boiled over, her eyes brimming with unshed tears as she grappled with the overwhelming weight of her predicament. Sensing her friend's distress, Hana moved closer, offering solace in the simple gesture of her touch.

"He's standing right outside those doors. Both you and I know he's not leaving that spot anytime soon," Hana's voice was a soothing balm against Arya's turmoil.

"Your grace, you need to push," the midwife urged, her voice firm yet gentle as she prepared for the critical moment ahead. Arya, her body wracked with pain, shifted restlessly in search of any semblance of comfort as she braced herself for the arduous task that lay before her.

With each contraction, Arya summoned every ounce of strength within her, pushing through the searing pain with unwavering determination. Her cries filled the chamber, a haunting chorus of agony and anticipation that echoed off the walls.

Amidst the tumultuous whirlwind of labor, Hana remained a steadfast presence by Arya's side, her touch a soothing anchor amidst the storm of her friend's suffering. With gentle hands, she brushed a damp cloth across Arya's fevered brow, offering a small measure of relief in the face of overwhelming agony.

Suddenly, a wail pierced through the air, breaking through the tense atmosphere of the birthing chamber. In the midwife's arms was the new addition to House Kim, a tiny bundle of life cradled against her chest. Arya, her body still tense from the intense process of childbirth, laid back, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

"You did wonderful," Hana offered, her voice soft with admiration as she helped Arya settle into a more comfortable position. With gentle hands, they took the baby to clean it, checking for signs of health and vitality. After a minute or two, Arya leaned forward, her eyes filled with eager anticipation.

"My baby..." she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion as she reached out to accept her newborn. The midwife turned towards her, a proud smile gracing her features as she presented the precious bundle to its mother.

"Another boy, your grace," she announced, her voice filled with pride and reverence for the miracle of new life. Arya's heart swelled with overwhelming love as she cradled her son in her arms, his tiny form a testament to the boundless depths of her maternal devotion.

"Healthy?" Arya inquired, her voice tinged with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The midwife nodded, her smile warm and reassuring.

"Very healthy. Congratulations, my Queen," she replied, her words echoing with the joyous celebration of new beginnings and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

"Look at him, he's perfect," Hana exclaimed, her voice filled with awe and adoration as she gazed upon the newborn nestled in Arya's arms. With tender care, she continued to cool Arya down with the wet rag, her touch a soothing balm against the lingering echoes of labor.

As the servers bustled about, gathering their belongings and preparing for the next steps of the birthing process, Hana rose from her seat, a playful glint dancing in her eyes. "I will go tell my brother the good news. Be nice to the servers, Arya. I don't want to hear you cursing at them again," she joked, a warm smile gracing her lips. Arya chuckled at her friend's jest, offering a playful swat in her direction as she made her exit.

Once outside the chamber, Hana's gaze fell upon her brother and husband conversing at the end of the hall. San, ever attentive, was the first to notice her arrival, his expression brightening with a mixture of joy and anticipation as he nudged Hongjoong, drawing his attention to her presence.

"Well..." Hongjoong's voice trailed off, anticipation palpable in the air as he awaited the news. As Hana approached, her expression filled with warmth and congratulations, he offered a welcoming embrace, the tension slowly melting away from his frame.

"Congratulations, brother," Hana exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine happiness as she enveloped him in a hug. Hongjoong released a sigh of relief, the weight of anticipation lifting from his shoulders with each passing moment.

"Do we know what it is?" he inquired, his voice tinged with eager anticipation. Hana nodded, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "You have another son to raise, your grace," she announced, her words carrying the weight of joyful revelation as she shared in the celebration of new life with her brother and husband.

"And how is Arya, is she alright?" Hongjoong inquired, concern etched in the lines of his face as he sought reassurance about his wife's well-being. Hana gently took hold of his hand, her touch a comforting anchor amidst the swirl of emotions that filled the corridor.

"She's elated, although she did snap at a few of the servers," Hana replied, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she recounted Arya's fiery temperament. Hongjoong's eyes widened in surprise, a mixture of worry and amusement flickering across his features.

"Not again," he murmured quietly, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. Hana couldn't help but chuckle softly at his reaction. "Oh yes, I believe the words 'fuck off' left her mouth," she recounted, her tone laced with playful humor as she shared in the light-hearted moment with her husband.

"Well, I suppose that's about what happened last time. Except I think she called the midwife a whore," Hongjoong added with a hint of amusement, his voice tinged with fond exasperation. Laughter bubbled forth from the trio, a shared moment of levity amidst the weight of their responsibilities and the joyous occasion unfolding within the palace walls.

"I can't even begin to imagine the words leaving your mouth when you go into labor," San remarked, his arms enveloping his wife in a tender embrace. Hana chuckled, leaning into his embrace with a playful glint in her eyes. "Oh yes, that should be quite entertaining," Hongjoong chimed in, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his gaze as he joined in the lighthearted banter.

"I do not believe I will be that vile," Hana said, trying to defend herself, but both men knew the truth. She would say much worse than Arya when the time comes. San and Hongjoong exchanged amused glances, their eyes twinkling with shared amusement at the thought. "We'll just have to wait and see," San teased, his voice laced with playful anticipation as he squeezed Hana's hand affectionately.

------------------------

The air hangs heavy with the scent of incense, mingling with the pungent aroma of dried herbs and alchemical reagents that line the shelves of Yeosang's study. Here, in the solitude of his sanctuary, he grapples with the weight of his father's demands, his heart torn asunder by conflicting loyalties and the specter of his brother's memory.

In the depths of his despair, a voice whispers within Yeosang's mind, a faint echo of reason amidst the chaos of his turmoil. He knows that to heed his father's commands would be to forsake the very principles that define him, to sacrifice his integrity upon the altar of vengeance.

As the heavy gates of Sunseth's palace courtyard swing open, a scene of serene beauty unfolds before the beholder. The courtyard, a verdant oasis nestled within the heart of the palace grounds, exudes an air of tranquility and enchantment that captivates the senses.

At its center, a rectangular pool stretches languidly, its crystalline waters shimmering with a kaleidoscope of colors beneath the golden rays of the sun. The vibrant hues of blue dance upon the surface, reflecting the boundless expanse of the sky above in a mesmerizing display of natural beauty.

Surrounding the pool, fruit-bearing trees stand tall and proud, their branches heavy with the promise of abundance and renewal. The sweet scent of blossoms perfumes the air, mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves as a soft breeze whispers through the courtyard.

Amidst this idyllic scene, the laughter of children rings out like music, a joyful symphony that echoes off the ancient walls of Sunseth's palace. With carefree abandon, they dart in and out of the water, their youthful exuberance a testament to the innocence and vitality of youth.

Prince Seongmin stood at the edge of the courtyard, his gaze fixed upon the scene below, a tempest of emotions raged within him, threatening to consume him whole. The carefree laughter of children, once a source of solace and joy, now served only to amplify the anguish that gnawed at his soul like a festering wound.

Clad in somber hues of black, his once vibrant attire now a reflection of the darkness that had consumed his heart, Seongmin stood alone, a solitary figure amidst the tranquil beauty of the courtyard. With each passing moment, his fists clenched and unclenched in a silent testament to the turmoil that churned within him, the loss of his beloved son a gaping wound that refused to heal.

As the sound of approaching footsteps echoed against the ancient walls of the palace, Seongmin's hand instinctively sought the small blade that hung at his side, his senses sharpened by years of fighting. With a sense of resignation, he turned to face the intruder, his eyes smoldering with a fire that burned with unrelenting intensity.

"Seongmin," the voice called out, breaking through the suffocating silence that enveloped them like a shroud of darkness. At the sound of his brother's voice, Seongmin's shoulders sagged in weary resignation, the tension in his frame easing ever so slightly as he recognized the familiar tone.

Hyeonjae, his brother, stood before him, his features etched with concern and empathy. Despite the passage of time, their bond remained unbroken, a testament to the unyielding strength of their familial ties.

"Brother," Seongmin acknowledged, his voice heavy with the weight of his grief. "You stand everyday in the water gardens doing nothing but look at the sky." Hyeonjae regarded his brother with a mixture of sympathy and understanding, his gaze unwavering as he listened to Seongmin's words. The weight of their shared grief hung heavy in the air, a palpable reminder of the pain that had consumed them both in the wake of Wooyoung's untimely death.

"Seongmin," Hyeonjae began, his voice a gentle murmur against the backdrop of the courtyard's serene beauty. "I stand here because it is where I feel closest to him." His words carried a poignant truth, a reflection of the deep bond that had once united them in laughter and camaraderie. Seongmin's expression softened, a flicker of understanding dawning in his eyes as he absorbed his brother's words.

"I miss him, Hyeonjae," Seongmin confessed, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Every day, his absence weighs upon me like a burden I cannot bear." Silence followed after the admittance. "They murdered him Jae. They murdered.....my son." Hyeonjae placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity and support.

"We will find the men who did this. The vipers have already been sent out and have been hunting down whatever it is they find." Seongmin nodded, a semblance of peace settling over him in the wake of his brother's words.   "I already know who killed him. It was that little witch of a princess." Seongmin said. Hyeonjae's brow furrowed with concern at Seongmin's accusation, his features etched with a mixture of disbelief and apprehension.

"Seongmin, we cannot jump to conclusions," he cautioned, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm of his brother's anger. Seongmin's eyes blazed with righteous fury, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to contain the tempest of emotions raging within him.

"I know what I saw, Jae," he insisted, his voice tinged with a bitter edge of resolve. "That witch, that Kim princess, she orchestrated his death. I will not rest until she pays for her crimes."

Hyeonjae's gaze softened with empathy, his heart heavy with the weight of his brother's grief and anger. "I understand your pain, Seongmin," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the searing sting of loss. "But we must tread carefully. Accusing the princess without evidence will only lead to further chaos and bloodshed."

Seongmin's jaw tensed with frustration, his mind a turbulent sea of conflicting emotions as he grappled with the enormity of his loss. "I cannot stand idly by while his killers roam free," he declared, his voice ringing with a steely determination that brooked no argument.

"You continue with this mentality you will throw the whole country into war. Is that what you want?" Hyeonjae questioned him, wanting to see how far his brother will actually take this.

"We do not need a war, I just need one person. Perhaps I could take that new lover of hers, send him back to her limb by limb.  Or maybe I should wait until their baby is born, a son for a son." Hyeonjae's eyes widened with alarm at the intensity of Seongmin's words, his heart heavy with the weight of his brother's simmering rage.

"Seongmin, you speak of madness," he cautioned, his voice tinged with a note of urgency. "To seek vengeance in such a manner will only perpetuate the cycle of violence and suffering." Seongmin's jaw clenched with barely contained fury, his resolve hardened against the tide of reason as he wrestled with the consuming flames of his grief.

"I will not be denied justice, Jae," he insisted, his voice a low growl of defiance. "I will not rest until those responsible for Wooyoung's death pay with their lives." Hyeonjae's gaze softened with empathy, his heart heavy with the burden of his brother's pain.

"And what of the consequences, Seongmin?" he implored, his voice a gentle plea for reason amidst the tempest of their emotions. "What of the lives that will be lost in pursuit of your vengeance? Is that the legacy you wish to leave behind?"

Seongmin's eyes burned with a righteous fervor, his resolve unyielding in the face of his brother's entreaties. "I care not for the consequences," he declared, his voice a cold echo of steel. "All that matters is that justice is served, no matter the cost."

Hyeonjae sighed, his heart heavy with the weight of their shared burden. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the courtyard, the brothers stood locked in a silent struggle of wills, their bond tested by the crucible of loss and tempered by the unyielding resolve to seek justice for the fallen.

[astridhoff03]

Siege & Storms - chapter 2 Astrid & Hiccup

-However, before Astrid could close the door behind her, Valka raised her voice. “Astrid, if you want to talk. I’m always here.” Astrid smiled, brushing a strand of her long hair out of her face. "Thanks, Valka."

The stone was cold and wet beneath her bare feet, icy rain wet her heated skin and let the thin fabric of the tunic stick to her skin, exposing her nipples. Her gaze slid to the sky, which was covered in thick black clouds. The raindrops flowed down her chin like a small torrent. "Oh, Hiccup, where are you?" Raindrops continually rolled off her glowing skin, she closed her eyes, her hands clenched into steel fists. Her heart burned with desire and longing. He was alive, he was alive, she continued to tell herself in her mind, fighting the urge to burst into tears. Astrid saw something blue come into her field of vision out of the corner of her eye and suddenly the rain above her stopped. Stormfly's golden gaze collided with hers, a faint smile playing on Astrid's lips as she stroked her nadder's lower jaw. "Thank you." Her pulse calmed again and the tears in her eyes dried up. She was a warrior, a general for Thor's sake. Hiccup was alive, she knew it, deep in her heart. It was enough for her. She would look for him alone and not rest until she found him. "Come on, Stormfly, let's go." Astrid ran back into the house, threw on her clothes and grabbed her axe. She also packed a bag with water, provisions, bandages and fresh clothes. She left a note at the dinner table for Valka. Saddled up, Stormfly was already waiting impatiently for them in the pouring rain when Astrid closed the door behind her. With quick movements, Astrid secured her ax and bag to the saddle before she sat down. Cold wind mixed with icy raindrops fell on her face as they took off and flew away from Berk.

The waves surged like high mountains over the sunken city, lightning broke through the night. The massive shadow of the Phantomfin glided majestically like a great cloud of black smoke over a hidden grotto in the ruins. Toothless grumbled and snuggled against the legs of his best friend, the person who had never given up on him despite the unforgivable act he had committed. Hiccup gently stroked his dragon's smooth scales on his head, which glowed silver in the light of each lightning strike. His chest rose and fell with every heartbeat. He heard the blood rushing in his veins with every wave that surged, with every drop that fell from the onyx-colored rocks of the cave, with every heavy step that echoed off the cave walls. He was there immediately. It could only be a matter of seconds. Hiccup looked into his best friend's big green eyes, which reflected his own fear. “Don’t worry, Toothless, we won’t die today. We won't die today. We will fight for our people, for our friends, my mother, my father." He paused briefly at the painful memory of his father's dead body, who had sacrificed himself for him and Toothless. Hiccup gritted his teeth, trying to push away the memory, the thought that he was about to come face to face with the man who was the real reason his father had to die. "Hiccup, you're much stronger than you think," he suddenly heard a very familiar voice in his head. The memory of his father instantly blurred with the sound of love in Astrid's voice. She stood in front of him, her delicate, soft fingers sliding over his chest. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a loose braid that evening, Berk was still in ice and destruction, his childhood home was one of the few that had been spared. He looked down at her, how could she stay so strong while the house she grew up in was in ruins again and her own father had only escaped death with serious injuries. He took her hand and kissed her palm. "Astrid, how do you manage to stay so strong all the damn time?" A sad smile played on her beautiful lips. "Hiccup, I'm not always strong either and you know that. Should I tell you a secret, sometimes I scream inside because I don't allow myself to cry, I don't allow myself to deviate from the ideal that I'm supposed to represent in my clan, my family . I am strong Yes, but I am not invulnerable. And do you know what has kept me alive in every single battle we have fought so far?” Tears gathered in her fathomless eyes. "You. Hiccup, you are my gravity, the driving force that drives me forward in every battle. Never in my life did I think that I would love someone as much as I love you. I love you, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the third, with all your flaws and the qualities that make you so special. I love you." "I love you too, very much," he whispered back, his finger wiping the one tear from her cheek. “And I thank you for always being there for me, my rock, my partner not only in battle but also in my life, for choosing me of all. And I promise you, you can cry at me, scream at me, kick as much as you want. I will never love you less because of it.” “We stay strong for each other,” Astrid finished, her voice broken. He would fight to get back home to the woman he loved and desired more than anything. Hiccup looked down into Toothless' green eyes and he would fight for his best friend. A deep voice snapped Hiccup out of this wondrous memory, he jumped when the shadow of Drago Bludvist appeared on the cave wall. "Hiccup, come out and finally fight like a real man."

[1u11ablues]

MY LITTLE INFERNI (NIKOLAI LANTSOVxOC)

WC: 3k Summary: Following a heartbreak with a certain childhood friend, an inferni asked to be stationed somewhere as far away as possible–to heal, while also serving her country. It's going well, until she realised her feelings were, in fact, requited.

[This is the longfic I had in plans after 'You Made it Easy'. I update once a week/every two weeks on Ao3, but will update here as well.]

CHAPTER 1: SCORCHWITCH

“How much for the plums?” 

Dasha picked up the ripe purple fruit, squishing it in her hands to check for rot. Next to them are various fruits; apples, pears, perfect round peaches—and her mouth waters at the thought of having peach jam to go with her bread. For a country known for its never ending winter, it’s quite surprising how they can grow the amount of fruits that they do. She’s not even surprised if illegal grisha labour is involved somehow. Saints know how they treat grishas in Fjerda. In fact, being forcefully indentured might sound better to some than getting killed for simply existing.

The village market was nothing compared to the perfectly arranged stalls they have in Djerholm—but Dasha finds it endearing; almost whimsical in its own way. She preferred the Ravkan market more, though. The wares were more colourful, especially in the summer and spring. Rows and rows of stalls full of produce, flowers, cloth and the Zemeni spices her brother used to love. He’d buy something from the spice stalls every time they visited the marketplace and use those to make his famous hot chocolate. Dasha knew it was only delicious because of the spice,but Stepan never got the chance to tell her what the exact ingredient was before he left. She missed his hot chocolate. She missed Stepan.

The sky grumbled. It was such a lovely day this morning, but she can see dark clouds approaching from the distance, sensing a storm coming soon. Just as the snow had stopped falling for the day. Great.

“Oh, dear Astrid!” The stall owner greeted her. “Good to see you today. Doing some shopping for the mister?” 

Dasha smiled, still not quite used to the identity Zoya had given her. She had been undercover in Fjerda for almost a month now, disguised as a housewife to a leatherworker;a member of the Hringsa. She repeated her new name to herself the first week she arrived— Astrid Karlen, Astrid Karlen, Astrid Karlen— just so she wouldn't be an idiot and say her real name; Dasha Lenkovya, whenever she had to introduce herself. The story she had concocted was that she’s a girl from a rural Fjerda village looking to marry someone who can take care of her—and live somewhere closer to the city for better opportunities. It was simple, but so far, no one had mentioned anything about it.

It was her request to be sent somewhere far away for work—heartbreak makes you do weird things—but she didn't expect Zoya to assign her somewhere this  far.

“Yes,” she replied, “although I’m not sure I will get anything else done today with a storm around the corner.”

She turned to look at the sky, and the lady at the stall followed her gaze. Her mouth twisted downwards, and Dasha grinned. Her fruit stall seems wonky and there was nothing to cover its wares and owner from the torrent of bad weather Fjerda has been experiencing lately,so the lady will have to close shop sooner than she planned.

“Djel must be angry.” She states, as her eyes scanned through her unsold produce. “You know what? Any other fruit you want, I’ll give it to you for half the price. At least I’m getting something instead of leaving them to rot .”

Dasha laughed and picked herself a variety of colourful fruits; apples, plums, peaches, and pears—some for dinner, some for pies, some for the jams she plans to make. She reached into her coin purse for the payment, when she overheard two ladies in her periphery sounding distressed.

“It’s just a precaution,Clara.”  

She arranged the produce neatly in her netted bag—taking her time, focusing her attention on what the ladies were saying. If there’s anything Zoya had taught her, it’s that even gossip from the townspeople can offer valuable information. She just had to be diligent enough to sift through and separate idle talk from intel.

“They probably arrested him,because you know—he’s not actually the upstanding civilian you think he is.” A pause. “When they find out he’s done nothing wrong,they will release him.” 

“That’s easy for you to say. He’s my brother!”

Hmm , so people have been missing . She had heard the same words from different people over the course of two weeks now.

She hurried down the gravel away from the market square, not wanting to be caught out there by any authorities, or worse, Druskelle. Sure, the Druskelle rarely patrols this far down from Djerholm, but with what had been happening lately—the miracles blooming here and there in what she was guessing was a part of Nina Zenik’s plan—it’s normal to be scared.

Her role in Fjerda is to be a dormant agent, to be used only to send messages or news to Ravka. She hasn’t stumbled into anything that requires active work yet, so to her this kind of feels like going on a vacation. Except she has to pretend that she’s happily living with the man of her dreams who she had only known for a month now. It’s already hard enough for her to form bonds, but Zoya had to pair her with someone as ill-tempered as Henrik Beck, who reminds her of the boys who pull on your pigtails just for the fun of it. 

It also took her a while to get used to the ways of Fjerdan women, to be obedient and prude, or in her case seem like it, but other than that, things were going swimmingly. Well, sometimes she wishes the weather was less harsh on her skin—her nighttime routine consists of slathering herself with animal grease so she wouldn't shrivel up like a prune.

She stopped by a house a little further left to the market square to pay its tenant a visit. It took her three knocks before a boy a little younger than her answers, his face a welcoming olive against the harsh colour of snow.

“Dasha,” Adya Yul-Naran whispered as he ushered her into his home. His assigned home. Dasha had known Adya’s sister Zaya since she was a fresh-faced student, still struggling to control her abilities in Baghra’s hut. They have been close enough for her to share some of her secrets, and for Zaya to ask her to take care of her brother as a favour. Dasha treated Adya like her own brother already, so she was planning on doing that, anyway.

“It’s Astrid, Oswin Westegaard. Common Fjerdan name for common Fjerdans, remember?” She reminded Adya, sitting herself in his comfy armchair before he even had the chance to extend the invitation to sit. She placed her bag of fruits by the side of the chair, sinking into the chair like it was made for her.

“Aye, Astrid, I daresay you got that aright. Please, make yourself at home. Fjerdan hospitality,” Adya mimicked as he poured her a steaming cup of tea. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Dasha laughs, threatening to hurl one of his many throw pillows at him. “Just curious as to how my charge is doing. That, and I’m seeking refuge from that nightmare outside,” she replied as she took a sip from her cup. 

Adya crossed over her to pull the curtains down, so that they could talk away from prying eyes.

“You know how those Fjerdan are,Dash. You can’t just visit the home of unmarried men when you have that six feet hunk of a husband to return to.” 

Dasha’s mouth hung open. “Adya, are you lusting over my fake husband?” She asked, a grin spreading on her face.

“Please.” Adya rolled his eyes. “I have better taste. Though I have to admit, Zoya picked a fine one for you.”

Dasha giggled at his admission, though she can’t say she had the chance to look at Henrik thoroughly enough to agree.

They exchanged a couple of pieces of information regarding the mission before Adya slapped his knees and stood, claiming, “You best get going, Dash. That storm cloud looks like it’s going to chase us with a cane,” and Dasha agreed as soon as she saw how close it was. She packed her stuff and rushed out of his doors hurriedly lest she got caught in the storm.

She manages to return just as the sky starts sprinkling its first wave of rain. The house she lives in is situated in Kvívik, a quaint village further east from Djerholm, with most of its building still made up of timber—a stark contrast to the brick and concrete Djerholm is packed in. It was near enough to the capital for her weekly visit, but not that near that it became a common patrol route for Druskelle. 

Bag hanging from her elbow, she unlatched the door to the small snow cabin she had been living in the past month. Well, to Fjerdans, it’s just a normal house. She pushed her wet hair away from her forehead as she entered. The light from outside shone a path from the front door to a small dining table and a modest kitchen Dasha had helped set up.

She hung her coat on the hook by the door, shook the dirt and snow off her boots before removing them. He’s not home yet. Her shoulders sag in relief, though she doesn’t know why she was so tense to begin with. 

Dasha hummed a Ravkan lullaby as she emptied the fruits from her bag to a basin full of water so she could rinse them. She watched as they bobbed up and down, thinking about the summer festivals in Ravka, then realised that her teeth were chattering. 

Changing to something dry, a modest dress that Fjerdan women often wear, she wrapped herself with the blanket she had brought with her from Ravka—blue fleece embroidered with gold stars—and approached the fireplace. Her fingers were numb as she struck her flint to conjure a small kindling of flame to start a fire. It’s probably wiser to use the match propped on the stool to the side of the fireplace, but her hands were too shaky to even attempt to strike a match.

She sits there for a while and watches as the flame grows, the dancing of fire taking her back to the nights spent with an old friend. Someone she probably should try to forget by now, the reason she was here to begin with. She tried to tear her eyes away from the fire,but the rhythmic movement was too hypnotising—her mind too quiet. 

“I find fire mesmerising,don’t you?” Nikolai told her one night, and she agreed. He took a swig out of an amber bottle and continued, “Yellow and orange, like autumn leaves. The sway of them almost looks musical, dancing and playing like the silk ribbons they sell in Noyvi Zem.” She listened to the poetry pouring out of his lips, remembering how the subject of it illuminates his facial features. If she was drunk enough, she would have kissed him.

A loud creak startled her out of thought. She looked to the door, tense, hand on her flint, to find out it was Henrik just returning from work. Saints, how late is it? When the outside wind from the open door crept in, she scoots nearer to the fire to find out it had burned out to a pile of ash on the hearth.

Henrik dropped his tool belt on the dining table, scowling.

“Stupid girl, why didn’t you start the fire?” 

Dasha cringed at the scornful tone that came out of his mouth—she does not like this man, and it doesn’t matter if Zoya says that he’s helpful towards the cause. 

Standing up to grab some more firewood, she replied, curtly, “I did, but got distracted .” 

“I should’ve asked the Stormwitch for more competent help.” Henrik dashed past her to the woodrack before she did.

Her hands trembled, movement so minute that most would just assume it was out of cold or nerves. Then he swiped the matches off the stool and took one out to restart the fire. What would Zoya do if she found out that Dasha had singed their valuable intel’s eyebrows off? She could do it right now—could enlarge the sparks from the matches to make it big enough to reach his face. She chose not to, but there’s a surprising comfort in knowing that she can.

“First of all,” Dasha crosses her arms, “I’m not here to be the help.”

Henrik grunts, more focused on feeding the fire so that it gets big enough to warm the entire house instead of just himself.

“I’m here for my country. And secondly—” she flicks her hands, making the flames roar, barely licking the cuffs of his coat. “—have you forgotten that you were talking to an Inferni?”

The corners of her mouth rose in a smirk, satisfied as she made him tumble back on the heel of his feet. 

He stood up to make himself dinner, rubbing the charred cuff at his wrists, and Dasha heard him call her something under his breath.

“ Scorchwitch .”

***

Dinner was frugal, butter smeared toast and smoked deer meat—though Dasha wished she had jam to go with her bread. She added that to her mental list as she grabbed a couple of plums to snack on as she wrote Zoya a message regarding the stuff that was happening in the market square earlier. Reports of missing people, some saying that they were taken to the Ice Court for trial.

She doesn’t think that the missing people were taken there, because the Ice Court is—according to the Fjerdan—a place for people who were considered the bottom of the barrel. So, Zoya, the infamous Stormwitch, would definitely count as the average barrel dweller. Maybe she would be considered one, too. She’s pretty confident that she could wield her ability well enough to annihilate an entire town. If she tries.

Dasha shook her head, once again distracted by her weird musings. This is why Nikolai called her a ‘space cadet’, which is quite a fitting nickname for her in general. Though she knows it was mostly because her head was always in the clouds—and not because of her love for the stars and moon that adorned the night sky.

She finishes the letter complaining about Henrik,as usual—bless Zoya for putting up with her—and folded it neatly into an envelope. She’ll ask someone from the network to send it out tomorrow, but today she just wants to relax and not have to think of anything else.

With the last bite of her plums, Dasha stood up and walked to the washbasin to splash her face clean before going to sleep. She looks into the mirror and inhales sharply—a little alarmed at the person staring at her in the mirror. Oh, she whispered to herself. She forgot that Genya had tailored her face to fit the usual Fjerdan features. It’ll take a while for her to get used to the new face. Blue eyes, the bridge of her nose a little too high that it looks weird if she were to have it with her original face. And Saints , her hair. She preferred her auburn curls much more than the limp blonde she had to settle with. What would Nikolai say if he were to see her now?

She tucked herself into her bed, her body weary. She hasn’t used much of her power lately, and the dark circles under her eyes were getting too prominent. Today was the first time in almost two weeks that she had even had a reason to use them. And one of them was out of spite. She smiled—Genya would be proud of her. No more being careless, though. It’s far too dangerous to display even the tiniest hint of Grisha abilities, even this far away from Djerholm. Just like Ravka has the Hringsa everywhere in Fjerda as eyes, so does Jarl Brum. It’s hard to trust anyone these days.

***

“Dash!”

Dasha jolted up from her cot, startled. She took a moment to process her surroundings, using her flames to disperse the darkness she woke up to. Droplets of rain pitter pattered the roof of the tent they had been living in the past months, and Dasha shivered as a gust of wind blew into the slight opening of hers.

Who was calling her? She peeked out, dimming her fire so she wouldn’t leave soot on the walls of the tent. Her eyes widened. Several steps north of their camp, before the trees lining the Sikurzoi, a pyre was set up. Smoke haze her vision, but she can see that something was propped up on the pyre, and the burnt smell of it was so overpowering that her eyes teared up. She looked around—assessing her surroundings for danger—and found that the camp was eerily empty, almost like a mass exodus had happened in the span of one night. When she was sure that nothing would sneak up on her, she raised her hands to diminish the burning pyre, but stumbled when she heard someone calling her. From the pyre. “Dasha…” the person—or rather, creature—croaked, burnt hands outstretched towards her. The voice seemed oddly familiar, and fear tingled up her spine. As the smoke started clearing, she noticed something new that she had missed before. It had wings. And talons. Its eyes as black as the charred wood that was used to prop up its body. It’s—

Dasha’s eyes shot open, sweat beading down her forehead. That was the third nightmare she had had in two weeks. She was at the campsite in all of them, reliving the horrors of the slaughter her mind refuses to let go. This was the first time Nikolai was in it. As the demon. She was pretty sure that when Nikolai’s creature first visited her several moons ago; she was not that scared. So why was she dreaming of it?

Clank!

Dasha’s back straightened, startled. The damn neighbour’s cat is always running into things at night. She was about to return to sleep when she heard the soft pit-pat of footsteps on snowy grounds. Who’s up this late ? She rises and knelt on her bed to take a peek outside. Darkness would’ve cloaked the neighbourhood had it not been for the moonlight providing a wash of dim light against white snow. A figure silhouetted against the walls of the shed to the left of the house. She considered telling Henrik to come and see before another figure joined the first. She wanted to conjure her flames to see the faces of the figure, but decide against it. Should she tell Henrik about this? Maybe in the morning when she feels fresher to deal with his sour self. 

She pressed her ear closer to the frosted glass of her window to try to catch a glimpse of what sort of dealings were going on in the dead of night. The winds were not helping her,at all, but she managed to catch one word that gives her an idea of who one of the figures is.

Scorchwitch.

It’s Henrik.

Here's the prologue.

[justcallmecappy]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you @glowing-blue-feathermage for the tag! 🥰💖

This is part of the prologue for something I've been working on for the past few weeks lol 😅

The sun was shining on the windswept clifftop tucked into the slopes of the Vinmark Mountains, and the breeze was cool and gentle as it stirred the surrounding pine forests. From there, the sprawling vista of the Marcher countryside stretched out before them, and it would have otherwise made a perfect site for a picnic –

– if it weren’t for the fire, explosions, and the screaming Orlesian duke who sat mounted on a venom-spitting wyvern.

Anders supposed he had been through worse situations.

Duke Prosper rode astride his pet wyvern Leopold, which had been trained to spray venom at any target that had been marked with a special concoction the Duke was now liberally firing at Hawke and her companions from a handheld crossbow.

Hawke and Tallis skillfully ducked out of the way whenever the Duke aimed his wyvern-bait at them. Anders wisely stayed out of the Duke’s firing range and launched spell after spell from a safe distance.

Which left Fenris to bear the brunt of a full-frontal assault on the wyvern-mounted Duke, trying to land blows while dodging the wyvern’s whip-like tail and snapping jaws. Despite Fenris’ martial prowess, it was proving to be a bit of a challenge, what with the clifftop being rigged with explosives, and the Duke’s guardsman were attacking them from all sides.

Anders did his best to shield his comrades with hastily-cast barriers – but it was when he took his eyes off Fenris at the wrong moment that Duke Prosper found a clear shot –

– and Fenris suddenly found his back covered in a foul-smelling, sticky green substance.

“Aha!” Duke Prosper cried out triumphantly. “Got you!”

Leopold swerved towards Fenris, reptilian eyes narrowing as it focused on him. The wyvern let out a warning growl, and, filling its venom sacs with deadly, corrosive venom, prepared to spit.

Anders could feel a cold panic rise in his veins – he recalled what they had been told about wyvern venom: it was almost always fatal, and it was deathly painful if it hit unarmoured flesh.

Anders saw Fenris glance about, trying to find a safe place to retreat to – his back was towards the open cliff face and a hundred-foot drop, and the only way to flee was directly into the wyvern’s path.

Without even thinking, Anders darted towards Fenris, shouting out a tense warning as he closed the distance between them: “Fenris, look out!”

It was then the wyvern let forth a torrent of foul, corrosive venom – Anders pulled on the Fade at the last possible moment and drew up a magical barrier as he stood defensively in front of Fenris, shielding them both from the venomous assault.

The wyvern roared as the last dregs of its venom died away harmlessly, and Anders lowered his barrier.

“Are you alright?” Anders said, turning to Fenris, breathless from exertion. “You shouldn’t leave yourself exposed like that!”

But taking his gaze off the wyvern was a mistake. Leopold had some venom left yet, and it was when Anders’ back was turned that the wyvern spat out the dregs of it.

“Mage!” Fenris yelled, but it was too late – the gob of venom hit Anders square on his shoulder, melting the feathers of his pauldrons clean off.

Tagging @v-arbellanaris, @barbex, @chaosride, @kerfanna 😄

[zmasters]

What is Honor? A Warhammer 40k Short Story

The horned creature that called itself Vera sat silent in her Throne Mechanicum, wires lining her spine between her blood red insect wings and connecting her mind and body to the machine. Bullets bounced off of the void shield of her teal and silver desecrator, Unrepentant Misery. The reaper chainsword swung through waves apron waves of advancing xenos, the spinning chains catching the green skin of a squadron of orks. The laser destructor fired, a red beam of light struck an incoming truck, turning the gunner on its back into red mist. Regardless, the makeshift vehicle charged Unrepentant Misery. With a single stomp, the ork machine was crushed under their titanic heel, dust, blood, and scrap metal filling the air.

"Kill the bastards!" The familiar voice of Astrid echoed in Vera's mind. She ignored it, as it was not directed towards the orks.

A group of light blue astartes, warriors of a Thousand Son's warband, took position behind the scrap metal that was once the truck. A group of avian humanoids charged past them, each mutant carrying a chain sword and firing bolt pistols into the horde of orks. The blue feathers of slain tzaangors scattered across the ground as the group entered melee.

"Filthy mutants." Another voice, Eric, rang in Vera's ears. She tried to ignore it, channeling her anger into the greenskin horde.

Raising Unrepentant Misery's whirling chainsword into the air, multi-colored electricity sparked around the eyes of the knight as Vera chanted in a language that she didn’t entirely understand. The wind around the desecrator changed, the flow redirecting into a torrent warping around Unrepentant Misery. Three missiles that were on target were suddenly caught in the wind and redirected, missing the desecrator.

"More..." Unrepentant Misery growled, vibrating the throne Vera sat on.

"Riders, right." The grizzled voice Wulfrik barked.

Vera's eyes shot right, her glowing eyes nearly turning into her skull. Ten squig riders attempt to flank Unrepentant Misery. The bright red mounts gnashed their teeth, leaving a trail of drool behind them. The raiders fired wildly in the air with their pistols in one hand, the other hand carrying primitive spears. The sensors surrounding Vera detected that these spears were rigged with makeshift explosives. She adjusted her knight's footing, firing round after of round of their shoulder mounted heavy stubber. The riders were cut down to the last man, yet the infamous "WAAGH" war cry of the greenskins drowned out the battle.

"They're coming, Vera."

"Disgusting xenos!"

"Death..."

"Hold the line, my warriors." The last speaker did not come from her Throne. "The relic will be recovered soon."

"Yes commander." Vera softly muttered.

"You were lively before the battle Bloodfly." Another Thousand Son sorcerer laughed. "Ghost catch your tongue?"

"Kill the heretics!" Eric ordered.

"Now's not the time." She gritted through her fangs.

"I'll leave you to your ancestors." The call cut out.

Astrid sighed. "Emperor, protect us."

"Shut up." Vera growled.

"Emperor... Betrayer."

"Full power to ion shields!" Wulfrik ordered, taking temporary control of Unrepentant Misery.

Vera ripped control back. "Don't do that again"

A salvo of missiles landed around Unrepentant Misery's feet. Thankfully, Vera's psychic manipulations managed to redirect any heavy missiles that would've hit the desecrator directly. However, this redirection wasn’t enough to carry the missiles far enough for the dreadblade to be out of range of the explosion.

"You idiot!"

Vera winced in pain. Some of the shrapnel had pierced the void shield, striking and embedding into her knight’s right leg, the cords connecting her into the Throne simulating the shrapnel. Vera instinctively reached down to her right leg, attempting to remove the non-existent shards of metal.

"Focus."

"Dimwitted beast."

"Emperor, we are so sorry."

"Betrayer..."

“Are you ok, Vera?” A binary beep breaking through the insults.

“I’m fine, Master Narvik.” Vera sighed in binary, her eyes catching a forgefiend in the distance. Standing by the hound-like daemon engine was the warpsmith Narvik. He, Vera, and the five astartes surrounding him, his “Rust Hydras,” were the only mercenaries amongst the Thousand Sons, the blue-green hydra sitting on their pauldrons showing their true bloodline.

“We’ll get our relic soon kid.” He said, a torrent of flame firing from one of his tendrils, engulfing an unlucky group of grots. “Don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t boss.” She smiled, a single gleam of happiness in this battlefield. “We still have our project to do together.”

"Reinforcements!" One member of the warband interrupted, before catching an ork slug to the helmet.

Vera's eyes returned to the battlefield. A portion of the greentide had redirected its attention to something in the distance.

"We push!" A tzaangor champion growled over the vox.

"No!" A sorcerer in cyan and gold terminator armor rebuked, his voice raspy and deep. "We should bolster our defenses. All we need is the relic."

"We don't know if they are friends or foes." A mortal priestess suggested. "Did our Lord call for aid?”

Vera leaned forward, squinting towards where the "reinforcements" were.

A red blur danced through the sea of orks, greenskins flying through the air from explosion and claw swipes. The blur momentarily stopped, allowing her to see the banner hanging between the legs of the machine. A skull laid over a cog, the symbol of the adeptus mechanicus, confirming what she thought.

"Knight!" She roared over the vox, firing at the mechanical warrior. "Imperial knight!"

A pack of smaller red armigers raced through the ork horde, crushing the xenos under their feet as the scout knights charged towards the warband.

"Focus all fire on the knights!" A sorcerer terminator coughed. Five helbrutes counter charged into the armigers, in hopes of slowing them down. All firearms and explosives were directed towards the knights as the cultists retreated behind cover. The forgefiend slowly approached the flanks, firing the two shoulder mounted electroplasma cannons into the Imperials as the mouth cannon sparked from damage. Narvik focused his attention on repairs as his Rust Hydras provided covering fire. The chainsword carrying tzaangors and chaos spawn charged after the helbrutes, cleaning up the orks left in their wake.

"Betrayer..." Unrepentant Misery rumbled. "Betrayer..."

As the Imperial Knight, a knight warden, armed with a thunderstrike gauntlet and a chaincannon, approached, Vera got a better view of the knight. While the banner between the knight's legs was that of the mechanicus, the crest sitting on the right of the red and black mask held a different symbol. A two-headed dragon. The symbol of House Zweidrach.

"By the Emperor."

"Don't do it Vera."

"Let her finally put you out of your misery."

"Betrayer..."

Vera nearly lept from her metal Throne, rage shattering whatever sense of calm she had left. "Lucella..." She growled, her blood red insect wings fluttered and her serpentine tail slithering in anticipation.

“Vera!” Narvik yelled. “Don’t do it!”

"Betrayer..." Unrepentant Misery's thirst for blood infected Vera, drowning out her master’s call for caution. She echoed her knight, the two roaring, "BETRAYER!"

Unrepentant Misery charged into the fray like a rabid animal, its flailing metal limbs slicing and crushing ork and cultist alike.

“The beast returns.” Lucella’s hearty laugh invaded Vera’s ears.

“You… betrayed us…”

The knight desecrator swung its chain blade at the Imperial knight, a squadron of orks being caught and eviscerated in the upward swing. Lucella’s knight grabbed Unrepentant Misery’s arm with its gauntlet, stopping the sword swing right before the whirling blade would have hit its shoulder.

“I betrayed you?” She laughed. “Your brother was the heretic!”

“Let her kill you, Vera.” Astrid calmly said. “She will end your suffering.”

“This is your last chance to restore your family’s honor.” Eric added.

“Shut up.” Vera hissed.

“Sounds like you ancestors agree with me, beast. Come, let me put you out of your misery.”

With a shove, the two knights disengaged. The blood and limbs of stepped on orks flew as Vera aimed her laser destructor, Lucella readying her chaincannon in return.

“Let her finish the job.”

“Ignore her and the spirits!” Narvik grunted as he crushed an ork’s skull with his hammer. “I need you to live!”

Lucella was quicker on the draw, a torrent of bullets breaking through Unrepentant Misery’s void shield and into its torso.

Vera howled in pain as the legs of her knight buckled. She fired the destructor, the sudden stumble causing the weapon to miss its target. Instead of hitting the mask of the knight warden, the laser instead broke through its void shield and struck its shoulder.

“Your piloting is disgraceful your brother’s memory!” Lucella roared into the vox speaker as the arm wielding the chaincannon sparked.

“You have no right to speak of him!” Vera hissed back, spitting blood onto the control console. “You betrayed him!”

“You will see him soon, if you stop.”

Lucella’s mocking laugh filled Vera’s ears. Rage filled her body as she sliced into the warden. Lucella’s laughter quickly morphed into painful wails as she felt the chains of the desecrator’s sword carved into her stomach.

She mindlessly fired her chaincannon as her gauntlet struck and swiped at Unrepentant Misery. Lucella was able to grip the top of the desecrator’s mask, Vera in turn feeling a strong grip on one of her horns. Lucella’s knight managed to overwhelm Vera’s, shoving her to the ground.

“Honorless bitch.” She spat. “Just like your bloody brother.”

Vera gritted her fangs. “Sven was honorable.”

“The bastard lied to the inquisition, betrayed the Imperium and the Emperor, killed multiple guardsmen and other knights, and broke off out fucking engagement!” She threw Unrepentant Misery to the ground before stepping onto it’s mask. “All for a spoiled little mutant how can’t even defend itself. Sven was the most dishonorable person I have ever met…”

“Maybe, other than you.”

With a click from the auto-loader, Lucella opened fire into Unrepentant Misery. With every bullet, Vera felt every wound alongside the spirits within Unrepentant Misery.

“She is right.”

“End this suffering.”

“Dying now is the only way to restore your honor.”

“Don’t insult your brother’s memory anymore.”

“Just die, it will be over for all of us soon.”

“We’ve… been… betrayed…”

Vera’s breath slowed. The voices, her ancestors, they were all right. Letting this suffering continue, staining her family’s name with every breath, letting a great knight of the God-Emperor fall into the pull of Chaos, dishonorable. Vera was dishonor made manifest, and the only way to have a shred of honor now is to let it end.

Vera awoke inside a familiar room, sitting on a familiar bed.

“Can you tell me another story?” A voice asked. Poking out from under the blanket was the head of a little girl. Her grin was filled with sharp teeth, and two tiny horns surfaced from the sea of blonde hair. “I want to hear about the great hero Sven and Unrepentant Bravery.”

“Sorry kid.” Vera said, petting the child between the horns. “It’s past your bedtime.”

“But I’m not… not” she yawned. “I’m not tired.”

“Fine Vera, one more. Let me tell you the tale of how our heroes met an angel named Celestine. You’d like her. She has wings too.”

The scene faded, and Vera was transported to a different bed. She was getting dressed. Watching her from the bed was a familiar blond woman.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a younger sister?” Lucella asked.

Vera sighed. “Well she’s… different I want to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vera’s smart, strong, and her tests show that she’s an expert tactician. She’d be a great knight.”

“But?”

“She’s… She’s a mutant.”

Her vision blurred. Vera was back in the cockpit of Unrepentant Misery, or Unrepentant Bravery. Standing in front of her was Lucella's knight, alongside two armigers and a small army of guardsmen. "Why are you doing this Lucella?" Vera asked.

"I'm sorry Sven, but you and your family shelters a creature of chaos. Do the honorable thing, and let us pass."

"You call this honor?" Vera demanded, her brother's voice coming through her mouth. "You're the ones going to KILL a little girl just because she looks a little different!"

"Step aside Sven." Luccella gritted through her teeth. "The inquisitor demanded her capture, and the inquisition are the voice of the Emperor."

"I don't care what the Emperor has to say! YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL MY SISTER!"

"It's the honorable thing to do." One of the armiger's voices broke into vox.

Rage filled Vera's being. The throne she sat on rumbled within the cockpit. A quiet growl breezed past her ears. "Betrayer..."

"If protecting my sister is the dishonorable thing to do, than I don't give a fuck about honor!"

Vera's sight blurred again. She felt sleepy, her eyes struggling to stay open. Someone was carrying her, the servant's breath heavy and strained. "Go back to sleep young Vera." They said, trying to keep an upbeat voice.

"W-what's happening?"

"You're going on a vacation." Sven's voice softly wheezed.

"Where are we going?" She yawned.

He took a deep breath. "I'm not going with you."

Vera's eyes slowly opened. She was greeted by the sight of her brother. He was struggling to stand up, blood drenching his clothes. He gripped his chest, blood leaking between his fingers.

"Sven?"

"Everything will be ok, Vera. You and Bravery will be visiting some friends of mine, and they will keep you safe."

"Vera..." A deep voice echoed from above her. She looked up, seeing the damaged Unrepentant Bravery being transported into a ship. "I will protect you... from the betrayer..."

"When will I see you again?"

Sven was silent for a few seconds. "It will be a while. I can't promise you when, but we will see each other again."

"Ok Sven." Vera yawned. "I’ll miss you.”

"I’ll miss you too Vera. I'll see you someday."

As Vera is carried into the ship, she heard Sven say one more thing. "We'll see each other soon, Lucella."

"We'll see each other soon, Lucella."

Vera returned back to the battlefield. Unrepentant Misery, having lost its sword arm, stood over Lucella's kneeling knight. Vera's eye glowed bright blue, Unrepentant Misery's glowing alongside it. She saw through the knight warden's mask, seeing Lucella within the cockpit. She was tired, bleeding and crying. "Sven?" She asked.

"I still care about you." Vera's voice echoed alongside a familiar voice. "But I won't let anyone hurt my sister."

"Vera! We got the relic!" Narvik’s voice echoed through the vox, breaking Vera from her trance. "We're retreating."

"Y-Yes Master. I'll be there soon."

"Where are you going!" Lucella tearfully roared. "Kill me! Let me see Sven again!"

Unrepentant Misery turned away from Lucella. "I won't kill you. You don't deserve the honor."

Vera approached the warband's ship, entering the open hangar. The chaotic ship disappeared into the twilight sky, leaving Lucella alone in the body filled battle field.

Narvik raced to Unrepentant Misery as it collapsed to the ground. He broke open the hatch to the damaged knight, ripping the bloodstained Vera from the Throne.

“Are you ok Bloodfly?” Narvik asked, picking up the limp mutant. He held a vow to her brother, and he wasn’t about to fail his favorite agent.

“I’m good, dad.” Vera weakly joked, her positive mood slowly returning. “Did we get the thing?”

“We have the relic.” Narvik smiled. “We’ll get paid soon, and we’ll complete our project as soon as you’re at full strength.

As Narvik sat Vera to his shoulders, one of his havocs carried over their promised prize, a light purple orb.

“Hello Lord Narvik and Lady Vera.” The orb beeped, the binary code going over the heads of the rubric marines. “I am Cyla, and thank you for granting me a new body.”

It wasn't until midnight until someone contacted Lucella. "What happened?" The inquisitor's rage-filled voice demanded her to answer.

Lucella sat on top of her warden, looking over the ruins. Orks corpses as far as the eye could see, the wrecks of her fellow knights overlooking the green sea of bodies like monoliths. "We lost."

"What do you mean we lost?"

"I'm the only one that's left, and my knight needs repairs."

"This whole operation was your plan. This failure is enough to get you executed."

"I just need my knight repaired, and I'll finish what we started."

"No. I see now that you are not suited for this mission. You will be reassigned to a different mission, one more suited for your skill set, and a new more suitable agent will be assigned in your stay."

My lord, may I-"

"No!" They interrupted. "You will be tasked with a duty suitable for you. If you want to keep whatever honor you have left, you will follow my orders!"

Lucella took a deep breath. "I don't give a fuck about honor."

[queersrus]

Hi, Fukase anon here! Sorry, It never occurred to me that people may have a hard time coming up with things for characters they don't know a lot about. Sorry :( /gen

Anyways, I really love the clown and red theme ideas! Also, since Vocaloid is technically a music software, I was thinking some music-themed names as well! Also, as long as this isn't too specific, could you maybe do some X-themed things since there's a lot of Xs in his design?

I also like the idea of the darker, edgier themes, but I'd rather not have anything explicitly horror/slasher/demon related... as someone who kins Fukase, being associated with that stuff brings back some rough memories :( /nm

I'm sorry if I'm being too specific or picky or anything like that, and I hope everything I've said makes sense! Once again, thank you in advance :)

no worries!!

heres some names and pronouns based of red, clown, dark/edgy themes and the letter x!

Music names:

muse, musa, musica, musette harmony melody, mic, major, minor clef, capelle, capella, cord, chorus note key tone, tempo, timbre bar, beat, bridge, bass, blue, blues sheet, strum, song, singer, sang, string, sonata, soul acoust, adagio, allegro, andante, arpeggio, amp, alto, aria instro, instra, instrumenta rythm/rhythm, ryme/rhyme, rock, rocker orchest, orchestra pitch, pop funk

list here, here

red names:

Altemur, altan, autumn, apple, amaranth, alhambra, alroy danla, desire, desiree parichat, phoenix, pepper, poppy/poppie cher, cherry/cherrie/cherri, crimson, clifford, copper, candy/candie, currant, carmine, carmin, chili, coral, corsen, clancy maroon, merlot, mahogany, mohagan blood, brick, berry/berrie, blush, burgundy, barn, burn, blaze ruby, rust, rusty, rose, raspberry, redd, rede, redde, reder, redi/redie/redy, reddet/redet/reddett/reddette/redett/redette, redeta/reddeta/reddetta/reddeta, redin/redine, redina, redino, roso/rosso, rufus/rufous, rowan, rosa, rosie, roisin, rory, radley, rudyard, radcliff, redmond, redman, rumo, russel/russell, rohan, redford, rufina, reeding/reading, reed, rogan, roone, roth garnet, ginger, gough scarlet, sangria, strawberry, sienna, sorrel/sorrell jam wine, watermelon fire, flame, ferrari, flan/flann, flannel, flanner, flannery, flyn/flynn, flanna vermilion, venetia imperia tart, torch hazel, harkin

clown names:

Joseph, john, joey grock oleg emmett/emet/emmet/emett bozo, barry ronald krusty penny, pogo, pinto charles sunshine weary, willie albert, antonio, arthur daniel, david, demitri/dimitri, Demetrius/demitrius tinsel

actually found a whole wiki here

Dark/Edgy names:

dusk, dagger, draven, drake, draco, damon/daemon, damion/damien/damian grey/gray, gunner/gunnar, greer keir, khaos, knox, kestrel umbra, umbro poison, pain/payne asteroth/astaroth, asher, ammo, astrid chaos, crow, coen, chase, casper, caspian, cassian, carter, cage, colton hades, hemlock, hex, hunter, hawk, harper somber, sombre, sombra, serpent, snake, saber, stone, storm, slade/slayde, sparrow, salem, snow, smoke, slayer necro, natrix, nox, nix, nyx, nero, nash branwen, briar, blackwell, blade/blaid, blair, blase/blaze/blaise raven, reven, requiem, rhapsody/rapsody, rogue, ryder, ryker, raze, razer eris, elysium, ebony jinx, jett/jet, jack, jason lucien, lucius, lock/locke viper, venom, vlad, vane/vain/vein, veil, vee/v wolf/wolfe trix/tryx, trixie, thorn, tyren/tyrin, tirent, torrent, tyranny, toxin, tank, tempest, tanner zeke, zena fox, flask, falkner, falkon/falcon onyx/onix, obsidian xena

X names:

xen/xene, xavier, xena, xeno, xenon, xeon, xero, xerox, xyx, xyr/xyre, xyra, xray, xeny/xenny/xenie, xenia, xander/xzander, xyla, xyler/xylar, xia, xavi, xylia, xylitol, xioa, xu, xan, xanth/xanthe, xanthus, xavia, Xinjiang, xinia, xenophon/xenophone, xayvion/xavion, xochitl, xio, xion, xiona, xiomara, ximena, xanthia

many here

red 3rd p pronouns:

list here and here

clown 3rd p pronouns:

list here and here

edgy/dark 3rd p pronouns:

list here, here

x 3rd p pronouns:

xe/xem, xy/xem, xy/xyr, xe/xyr, xy/lo, xylo/phone xyi/lotl, x/x's, ex/ex's, ex/exes, xay/xem, xay/xyr, xie/xem, xie/xyr xe/no, xeno/xenos, xeno/morph, cross/crossed, cross/crosses, x'ed/out, exed/out, ex/amble

hope these help!

[tearofisha]

Best Laid Plans. (3/3)

Rishaeron burst through the hatch enough force to cause the guards within the room to jump.

"What in the Emp-" the protest of the Guardsman was cut short when a torrent of Shuriken tore into his chest. The second only just began to point his Lasgun towards the Aeldari when a dagger pinned his hand to the wall and a mercilessly punch sent him to sleep. Sergeant Karalax of the Mordian 113th Interplanetary would live, but his one handsome face rendered into a boxers visage with a marked nose that would never breathe comfortably again. Two down, he retrieved his dagger and moved on. A narrow corridor had a single immaculate Guardsman standing to perfect attention, who was dead in seconds when Rishaeron kicked the back of his knee out, covered the muffled scream with his palm before plunging his knife up through his throat and into his skull. Colour Sergeant Korolla's career ended in one last shudder before his body was lowered silently to the ground.

Content that enough horrific violence had been conducted to raise the alarm upon the discovery, Rishaeron scoured of the ceiling for a vent clamber into. In only thirty seconds, the bodies were discovered and the alarm raised. Gruff voices snarled instructions to rapidly deploying guards all while Rishaeron listened from above like a malevolent spirit.

From the vents, the last precision strikes of his plan were arranged. Three more must die and four more wounded and his work was complete, so he silently crawled through the narrow passage until he was above the office of his target. General Lucian Mercer and his command staff.

Rishaeron Wayfinder took a deep breath and prepared to descend.

In near slow motion, Rishaeron dropped from the ceiling like the Banshees of legend into a room containing the cream of military command on the entire planet. Rishaeron breathed, rembered his decades of training began.

Number one died in a heartbeat, his body riddled with Shuriken. Then every eye was on the Ranger. He ducked a close range las-shot from the nearest soldier and retaliated with a knock out elbow. Meanwhile another that was drawing their pistol found their hand pinned to their leg with a dagger, before another sickening punch saw him on the ground. By this point, the two remaining victims were surrounding Mercer to try escort him from the bloodbath and Rishaeron emptied his remaining ammo into the back of the closest officer. Suddenly another was wrestling the weapon from Rishaeron's hands, a stereotypically handsome officer with a scar over one eye and carefully maintained stubble on a chiseled face.

Lieutenant Vindman, one of the designated survivor's of Rishaeron's murderous sojourn wrested the Shuriken Pistol from the Rangers hand and even landed a punch to Rishaeron's face but quickly got too confident when his assailant managed to pull his whole right arm out of socket before throwing him into the closest wall.

Rishaeron pulled his dagger from the unconscious soldier and sprinted after Mercer and his escort. Like a ballista, Rishaeron's knife exploded through the back of the last victim from practiced distance before the blur of black and ivory sprinted towards the flustered General. A brutal tackle unbeffiting of any Aeldari speared Mercer to the ground and a rain of blows from the trained killer left the General's face a bloody ruin- but very much still alive. Four wounded and three dead. Lt Vindman, General Mercer, Staff Sergeant Carrack, Major Caine, Colour Sergeant Dogsbody, Lt Pardoe and Colonel McMason all lay dead or damaged in such a way that their careers would change according to the path the Seer Council deemed necessary for the future of the Aeldari and his work was done.

Claiming a prize, Rishaeron took the gilded Laspistol from the fallen General but quickly had to retreat as more footsteps were thundering towards his position. His mission completed, he rose from his position astride the General and made towards his planned exit. More violence would await Rishaeron Wayfinder of Ulthwé today, but it was his trade and he was too well practised to fail now.

Though it took many days of hiding and waiting, the Ranger made his way back to the Webway and to Craftworld Ulthwé, leaving only confusion and death behind him. His bruises healed, life on the Imperial world continued and the gilded Laspistol became another trophy in the cabin that he called home.

[inlovewithquotes]

Do not let fear touch you. Fear is the torrent. The raging river. To fight it is to break and drown. But to stand astride it is to see it, feel it, and use its course for your own whims.

-Iron Gold

[hotdfic]

A small drabblee/..

It was known that Viserra was bold and friendly dragon. Daella, soft-spoken and ever-cautious, had long feared that her dragon’s friendly nature would lead them both to ruin. “One day, it will be the death of us,” she had whispered to her brother once, her fingers brushing the cool scales of Viserra as the dragon preened proudly in the sunlight.

That day came during the Battle of the Gullet, where the skies and seas burned alike. Daella soared high above the chaos astride Viserra, the dragon’s shimmering silver wings catching the light like a goddess descending from the heavens. The Triarchy’s ships bristled with spears and ballistae, their sailors disciplined in their hatred of dragonflame.

Viserra was the first to dive, her thunderous roar echoing across the strait as fire poured from her maw. Ship after ship erupted in flames beneath her, the cries of men drowned out by the crackling inferno. Yet, even a dragon is not invincible. A great spear soared upward from one of the galleys, slicing through the thin, delicate membrane of Viserra’s wing.

Daella’s grip tightened as the dragon faltered midair, her balance thrown. “Pālēs, Viserra!” she cried, but her words were drowned out by a second spear, this one finding its mark in Viserra’s throat. The great dragon let out a strangled, guttural cry, fire sputtering in her throat before extinguishing entirely. Blood spilled from the wound in torrents, staining her silver scales red.

The fall was inevitable. Dragon and rider plummeted together, their descent swift and terrible. Viserra's massive body struck the waves with a thunderous crash, sending up a towering spray of saltwater. Some swore they saw Daella still clinging to the saddle as the dragon sank into the cold, dark depths of the Gullet.

Neither the princess nor her dragon rose again. The sea claimed them both, leaving only the wreckage of burning ships and the haunting memory of silvery wings disappearing beneath the waves. Daella’s prophetic words would be etched into history, whispered in sorrow by those who mourned her: “One day, it will be the death of us.”

[agendaculturaldelima]

#ElEscenarioDelMundo

🎥💃🎭 “MUSEO DE LA FICCION [Imperio]” 🏛🖼👀®

✍️ Idea y Concepto: Matías Umpierrez (Argentina)

💥 Videoinstalación performática que recrea el clásico Macbeth de William Shakespeare (Reino Unido), en una versión contemporánea que asegura una experiencia sensorial única. donde los asistentes ingresan al escenario formado por un cuadrilátero de pantallas de gran formato muestra cuatro perspectivas diferentes. El público se acerca así a la historia de Macbeth desde una perspectiva transdisciplinar que transita entre las artes escénicas, el videoarte y las instalaciones site-specific, con las que se desafía los límites espacio-temporales de la ficción, buscando su museificación para la presente y posterior memoria colectiva.

👥 Elenco: Ángela Molina, Robert Lepage, Elena Anaya, Chema Tena, Adolfo Fernández, Ana Torrent, Tessa Andonegui, Javier Pereira, Javier Tolosa, Astrid Jones, Boré Buika, Alfonso Bassave, Tony Lam, Ziyi Yan, Olalla Hernández, Noa Sanchez Jiménez y Ángeles Arenas Ruiz

📢 Dirección: Matías Umpierrez (Argentina)

© Producción: Donostia Kultura, Museoa San Telmo, dFERIA y Studio Matías Umpierrez.

📌 TEMPORADA: Del 10 al 31 de Agosto📆 Funciones:  Jueves a Domingo 🕕 6:00pm. y 🕗 8:00pm.

🏛 Auditorio del ICPNA (av. Angamos Oeste 120 – Miraflores)

🎯 Entradas:

🎫 Adultos: S/.30

🎟️ Jubilados: S/.25

🎟 Estudiantes: S/.20

🖱 Reservas: https://www.joinnus.com/events/art-culture/lima-museo-de-la-ficcion-i-imperio-de-matias-umpierrez-63610

[ellanainthetardis]

« Do not let fear touch you. Fear is the torrent. The raging river. To fight it is to break and drown. But to stand astride it is to see it, feel it, and use its course for your own whims. »

Iron Gold - Pierce Brown

[manwalksintobar]

The Far Field // Theodore Roethke

I

I dream of journeys repeatedly: Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula, The road lined with snow-laden second growth, A fine dry snow ticking the windshield, Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic, And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror, The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone, Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut, Where the car stalls, Churning in a snowdrift Until the headlights darken.

II

At the field's end, in the corner missed by the mower, Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert, Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse, Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump, Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, -- One learned of the eternal; And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles (I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin) And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run, Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers, Blasted to death by the night watchman.

I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower, My grief was not excessive. For to come upon warblers in early May Was to forget time and death: How they filled the oriole's elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning, And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, -- Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, -- Moving, elusive as fish, fearless, Hanging, bunched like young fruit, bending the end branches, Still for a moment, Then pitching away in half-flight, Lighter than finches, While the wrens bickered and sang in the half-green hedgerows, And the flicker drummed from his dead tree in the chicken-yard.

-- Or to lie naked in sand, In the silted shallows of a slow river, Fingering a shell, Thinking: Once I was something like this, mindless, Or perhaps with another mind, less peculiar; Or to sink down to the hips in a mossy quagmire; Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log, Believing: I'll return again, As a snake or a raucous bird, Or, with luck, as a lion.

I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.

III

The river turns on itself, The tree retreats into its own shadow. I feel a weightless change, a moving forward As of water quickening before a narrowing channel When banks converge, and the wide river whitens; Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, -- At first a swift rippling between rocks, Then a long running over flat stones Before descending to the alluvial plane, To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees. The slightly trembling water Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays; And the crabs bask near the edge, The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, -- I have come to a still, but not a deep center, A point outside the glittering current; My eyes stare at the bottom of a river, At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains, My mind moves in more than one place, In a country half-land, half-water.

I am renewed by death, thought of my death, The dry scent of a dying garden in September, The wind fanning the ash of a low fire. What I love is near at hand, Always, in earth and air.

IV

The lost self changes, Turning toward the sea, A sea-shape turning around, -- An old man with his feet before the fire, In robes of green, in garments of adieu. A man faced with his own immensity Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire. The murmur of the absolute, the why Of being born falls on his naked ears. His spirit moves like monumental wind That gentles on a sunny blue plateau. He is the end of things, the final man.

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope, A scent beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree : The pure serene of memory in one man, -- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.

[templo-estrela]

A slowly dawning look of confusion And I realize that I’ve gotten carried away By another torrent of pressured speech Again

One key idea Opens the floodgates To a rushing river Of memory and thought

Inexplicable experiences Out of the ordinary Spiritual in context Manifold in potentiality

Meanings too numerous to grasp At once Unfolding through linear time Like an origami puzzle

Ontological shock Progresses toward Some kind of understanding Leaving me rather distant In an experiential sense

Like being on an island Isolate and alone But for a bustling trade In bottled messages

And the invisible friends Who stand astride

The line Between this world And the next

Like the ghosts Of yesterdays paradigm

5/4/2023