#Battle of the Great Grass Plains

[sw5w]

What the —

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:03:37

[aifanfictions]

a story about (y/n) who is khal drogo's translator and khal drogo slowly falls in love with her and asks her to be his khaleesi in front of all his people one night by the fire

The Khaleesi's Heart

(Y/N) had always been captivated by the vastness of the Dothraki Sea, with its endless golden plains stretching as far as the eye could see. She had joined the Khalasar as a translator, seeking adventure and a chance to immerse herself in the rich culture of the fierce horse lords. Little did she know that her journey would lead to an unexpected and life-changing encounter.

Khal Drogo, a man of immense stature and a reputation that preceded him, had never taken much interest in the affairs of outsiders. His heart was bound to the warrior code, and his focus was on conquest and the endless expansion of his Khalasar. As he led his people through the sea of grass, he rarely spared a second thought for anything or anyone beyond his warriors and his beloved bloodriders.

One fateful evening, as the setting sun bathed the horizon in hues of fiery red and orange, Khal Drogo's warriors captured a party of travelers on the fringes of his territory. Among them was (Y/N), who had been accompanying a merchant caravan on her journey to learn the Dothraki ways. She found herself standing before the imposing Khal, her heart pounding in her chest.

(Y/N) knew the importance of diplomacy and the art of communication. Fluent in both the Dothraki tongue and the common language of Westeros, she was able to bridge the gap between her people and the fierce Khalasar. Her eyes met Drogo's, and she bowed respectfully, uttering the words of introduction in flawless Dothraki.

"Anhaan vekhat hoshori, majin adak jin," she spoke, introducing herself as a translator.

Khal Drogo, unaccustomed to hearing his mother tongue from the lips of a foreigner, was taken aback. His dark eyes bore into hers as if trying to decipher her intentions. Her confidence, intelligence, and the fire in her eyes intrigued him in a way that no one ever had.

Over time, as (Y/N) continued to serve as translator, she and Khal Drogo shared more than just words. She found herself drawn to the strength and honor that defined his character. He, in turn, began to seek her presence during meetings and discussions, valuing her insights and wisdom.

As the weeks turned into months, a connection grew between them, though they rarely spoke of it aloud. (Y/N) saw beyond the fearsome exterior of Khal Drogo, recognizing the depth of his heart and the unspoken longing in his gaze. Khal Drogo, a man of few words, found himself yearning for (Y/N)'s companionship, her laughter, and the way her eyes sparkled when she shared tales of her homeland.

The Khalasar continued its relentless journey across the Dothraki Sea, conquering rival clans and collecting tribute. In the midst of the dust and chaos of battle, Khal Drogo and (Y/N) found solace in each other's presence. They shared stolen moments by the campfire, where he would listen to her recount stories of the world beyond the grasslands, and she would learn of the proud history of the Dothraki.

One night, as they sat by the fire, the sky above them was ablaze with a tapestry of stars. Khal Drogo turned to (Y/N), his eyes filled with an intensity she had come to know all too well.

"Anhaan vekhat anni, (Y/N)," he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity. "You have brought light to my Khalasar and to my heart. You are strong, wise, and beautiful. Will you be my Khaleesi?"

(Y/N)'s heart skipped a beat. She had never anticipated such a proposition. To be the Khaleesi of the Great Khal Drogo meant leaving behind her old life, her dreams of adventure, and embracing a destiny she had never imagined. Yet, as she looked into the eyes of the man who had come to mean so much to her, she knew that her heart had already made its choice.

"Yes, Khal Drogo," she replied, her voice unwavering. "I will be your Khaleesi."

Word of Khal Drogo's declaration spread throughout the Khalasar like wildfire. The warriors and the women ululated in celebration, recognizing that their Khal had chosen a powerful and deserving Khaleesi. The union of two strong souls promised a future of prosperity and unity.

As the flames of the fire danced around them that night, Khal Drogo and (Y/N) sealed their commitment with a sacred Dothraki ritual. Their love would be tested in the trials of the unforgiving Dothraki culture, but they were determined to stand together, a force to be reckoned with.

And so, under the vast, starlit expanse of the Dothraki Sea, a new chapter in their lives began. Khal Drogo, once a warrior without equal, had found something even more precious than conquest – love. And (Y/N), the outsider who had ventured into this world seeking adventure, had found a love that would change her destiny forever.

As the months turned into years, Khal Drogo and his Khaleesi led the Great Khalasar to new heights, forging alliances and achieving greatness that had not been seen in generations. Their love story, whispered through the winds of the Dothraki Sea, became a legend, a testament to the power of love to transcend boundaries and unite even the fiercest of hearts.

In the heart of the Dothraki Sea, beneath the endless sky, Khal Drogo and (Y/N) embarked on a journey of love and destiny, a journey that would shape the future of the Dothraki and etch their names into the annals of history as a love that conquered all.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

[treviso-nights]

by blood & thread - crow!rook/lucanis oneshot (rookanis)

word count: 4.7k rating: M (tw: blood, gore) summary: lucanis stitches up crow!rook after a near-fatal battle. there's blood, tension, and a confession slipped out like an apology. somehow, it ends soft. (suuuper angsty. takes place directly after 'blood of arlathan')

:)

The sound of the Venatori’s dagger slicing through flesh was a whisper amidst the cacophony of their fleeing.

A child. They’d had to hold the eluvian open because an elven child, no more than ten, had fallen behind. It would’ve been all right if they’d made sure every defeated Venatori was actually dead, but in the haste of trying to usher several dozen Dalish elves through one of the forest’s magical mirrors, time had been scarce. No sooner did Rook escort the child through herself did a half-eviscerated Venatori soldier pick himself up and launch a throwing dagger into her belly. It hadn’t mattered though… only the rescued had mattered, along with how close they’d all come to being wiped out by Elgar’nan…

Rook’s grunt of pain went largely unnoticed—save for Lucanis and Bellara at her side—the former of which blanched in alarm.

“Go,” she forced out through gritted teeth, speaking to her companions and the child alike. “Get the Dalish somewhere safe! Find Neve and the others and take them all through the eluvians. Don’t stop until you can find someone to put them up for awhile.”

Bellara’s terrified expression belied her next thought. Her trembling hands were already glowing, preparing to cast magic as she took in the blade buried up to its plain, polished hilt. “Rook, no. Let me heal you now—”

The request was promptly interrupted by Crossroad guardians, their metallic bodies shimmering with fury as the large group of refugees darted down a walkway. Rook, Lucanis, and Bellaris took to dispatching them at once while the rescued Dalish elves looked on in dismay. Where Rook fought, blood splatter slicked the ground, viscous and bizarrely saturated in the gray of the Fade’s atmosphere.

“Bellara,” Rook nearly growled, jamming her shortsword into the spirit’s neck. Her next inhale was a gasp. “Get. Them. Out. Of. Here.”

Protest was written all over Bellara’s face, but she nodded, squaring her shoulders. “Lucanis, get Rook back to the Lighthouse. The Vi’Revas is about a mile away—it’s faster if you run.” Loose, damp strands of dark hair were plastered to her neck. “Please tell me you can still run, or I’m going to have to—”

“She can run,” Lucanis replied. After sheathing both daggers, he closed in, slinging one of Rook’s arms across his shoulder.

“GO!” Rook urged again. When she and the other elves were far enough away, a groan unwillingly left her as Lucanis held her body to him, supporting Rook’s weight.

“If the blade severed an artery, you won’t even have minutes,” he murmured, hobbling them down the main walkway. “I don’t think it did, though.” Glancing down to make sure, Lucanis quickly gauged the severity of the wound. “Based on the angle of the entry wound, we should have enough time to get you back and put some stitches in you before Bellara or Emmrich gets back.”

“Great,” Rook hissed. “I’m so looking forward to the tremendous lack of pain relief.”

The path beneath their feet slowly began warping, shifting from cobblestone to grass. A signal that they were already one-third of the way back, though the two Antaam soldiers barring the corner they had just turned around clearly begged to differ. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Rook cursed, lunging out from beneath Lucanis. Swearing, he barreled forward, and his expression was a thunderstorm, all harsh lines and unforgiving fronts. With the two fanning out in opposite directions, dividing the Antaam was easy. Lucanis was deadly, whirling with rage rather than precision, each dark eye narrowed in on his target. 

Rook, meanwhile, took to her knees, biting back a cry of pain at the impact. She swiftly delivered several slashes to the Antaam’s gut, fresh gore splattering the side of her neck. He toppled forwards, forcing Rook to clumsily scramble away on an even bloodier ground. The red was everywhere—on her clothes, her hands, in her hair. She wasn’t able to stay horrified for long though, as Lucanis was crouched beside her in an instant, breathing laborious.

“On your feet,” he urged. 

The command was impossible. She felt so incredibly heavy.

“Please,” Lucanis begged. His umber-brown eyes were wide with anxiety. “I need to get you away from here.”

Like Bellara, Rook wanted to protest, but the palpable fear radiating off his body just served to close her mouth instead.

“With me,” he said. “One, two, three.”

They didn’t get far off the ground at all. Rook was too weak, too limp to hold herself upright. And as Lucanis pulled, she was unable to swallow the scream that tore through her throat. Stiffening immediately, he lowered them back to the ground.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” Rook sputtered slowly, “and I’m only telling you this for triaging purposes, but I’m starting to feel cold.”

She watched the anathema land, settling deep, as she knew it would against an experienced assassin.

Panic entered his gaze one moment before it was forcefully banished. “Consider me scared,” Lucanis said. He grumbled deep in his chest, paralyzed by the instinct to flee. Each breath was uneven, as though he was the one who couldn’t get enough air, though his expression was carefully smoothed of any terror. A mask.

“Save… HER.”

Purple light exploded from the First Talon, drenching both their foreseeable environment and them in it. As the air around them pulsed, warping their surroundings, magical aura began to gather around Lucanis as his two-toned voice sounded off again.

“SAVE. her. NOW,” Spite demanded.

Spite’s possession retracted enough for Lucanis to peer down at Rook’s face, at its pale and sickly hue, the blood rushing out of her lovely tawny skin. “Rook?” Lucanis asked, shaking her gently. 

When she didn’t respond, Lucanis shook her again, placing a gloved hand upon her cheek. “Tria?” 

“Here,” she eventually sighed, voice a sluggish whisper. Her eyelashes, however, did not flutter with any discernible movement.

Lucanis swore. “No, no, no,” he chanted. “Please, Rook, just hold on. I’m getting us home.”

“NOW!” Spite bellowed.

At once, wings erupted from Lucanis’s shoulder blades, feathered black and shot through with violet. Scooping her into his arms, and at the behest of Spite’s insistent shouting, they raced through the sky, with swirling clouds of gray, emerald, and beige roiling above them.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” Lucanis muttered to himself. “Mierda.”

Rook stirred just as Spite’s unsteady cadence rang out once again. “I DO,” he snarled. “Love. Makes Lucanis. blind and. STUPID.”

“I heard that,” Rook chuckled.

Perhaps it was the internal bleeding, but the unabashed relief on his face when Lucanis gazed down at her helped to warm some of the chill away. “I don’t care what you hear as long as you stay awake,” he replied softly. “You are not dying. Not here, not like this.”

Hopefully not. The dagger in her gut, however, seemed to have other plans, though Rook was doing her absolute best to regulate her breathing and keep her eyelids from shutting closed again. After a particularly lucid moment, she zeroed in on a long, thin cut across Lucanis’s jaw. And although the cut itself wasn’t that deep, it would still scar. She made a little noise of protest at the thought, pressing a trembling, weak fingertip to the corner beside it.

“You’re hurt,” she scolded. “You better have Bellara heal that when she can.”

Lucanis scoffed… loudly. His subsequent glare seemed to be a scathing reproach to the reprimand, but after swallowing whatever it was he obviously wanted to say, he sighed, exhaling roughly.

“No. I think we should have matching mortal wounds to remember this pleasant evening out, don’t you?”

“... Hilarious.” Rook rolled her eyes at the jab, though the gesture was dangerously unhelpful in her attempt to keep her eyes open. Her next blink was lethargic, and she swore under her breath.

“ROOK. stay AWAKE AND. ALIVE,” Spite pressed. “Or Lucanis will be. SAD.”

As the wind tore through her braid, Rook found herself scanning the Crow, the hard lines of his cheekbones, his temples, the little twist his mouth did before glancing down, laying himself bare.

Despite the tautness in his arms and chest, Lucanis’s visage was a portal of stained-glass glimmering in the morning sun. Soft. Sacred. Accepting. His voice, and the musical lilt of his accent, was ever the same.

“He would, indeed.”

xxxxx 

No sooner had Lucanis laid Rook down in the Infirmary Room was he darting towards the nearest cabinet.

“Drink this,” he ordered, handing her a potion. “It should help staunch blood flow before I begin stitching.”

Rook did as he asked, weakly tossing the empty vial away. The blade’s guard, a two-pronged design that stuck out of her like some sort of cadaverous joke, was coated in crimson blood which had long since cooled. The sight was nauseating, and Rook’s head threatened to swim even as the health potion steadied her pulse. 

Before she could vomit, however, another vial was shoved into her hand. “A regenerative potion, for the pain.”

She downed that one even quicker.

“And this,” he added, tossing yet another vial her way as he flitted about the room. “Anti-venom. Those amateurs wouldn’t know a good poison if someone slit their throat with it, but still. Better to take precautions.”

The anti-venom went down less smoothly, tasting bitter and acrid.

“Agh,” Rook spat. She inhaled slowly, pressing a red hand to the dagger’s handle. 

“No,” Lucanis said. “Not yet.”

Dropping to his knees beside the cot, Lucanis unsheathed one of his own daggers, and with several quick and sure slashes, began to cut Rook out of her leathers. He carved with the utmost precision, befitting of a First Talon, and kept one hand against her collarbone, steadying her while the armor was forcibly peeled away. 

The shock of air upon her sweaty, blood-soaked body sent goosebumps rippling down her chest and stomach. Rook was not aware of the little sound she made in her throat, and so when Lucanis froze, gaze flashing to hers, she quirked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Did I hurt you?” The question was filled with worry.

Under normal circumstances, Rook would’ve waved it off, deflecting the attention like a well-timed parry. 

This was not a normal circumstance, however. And she had sustained a shit-ton of blood loss. 

Rook rolled her eyes, fixing a stare on the ceiling. “This is not how I imagined you seeing me in my smallclothes for the first time.”

“... Oh,” Lucanis replied, brows crinkling with thought. He continued to cut away the leather, politely averting his gaze from the sweat-stained breast-band. “But I’ve already seen you in your smallclothes before. Plenty of times. In fact, just this morning, in Arlathan. After all, we do travel together, you know. We’ve all seen each other like that.”

When he was finished, Lucanis stowed the dagger beside him and gently shoved what remained of the leather armor away from her belly. The throwing blade–completely exposed now–glinted even more ominously in the lowlight of the Infirmary Room.

“Yes,” Rook said airily. “But you’ve never been the one to take the clothes off of me. Until now, I suppose.”

Lucanis unexpectedly squeezed his eyes shut, drawing her attention back to him. “Rook,” and his voice was a low growl. “I am trying to save your life, and this… that mental image–it is not helping right now.” 

A pleased grin pulled at Rook’s mouth. Why was she grinning? Shit. This was definitely because of the blood loss. “As long as it gets the job done,” she chuckled, warm and fuzzy.

Wait. That didn’t sound right. Warm? Fuzzy? Hm. Rook was either about to die, or… 

“...Did someone put gingerwort truffle into that health potion?”

Lucanis, not making eye contact, nodded. “Davrin suggested it, as the truffles help to enhance base magical properties.” A pause. “Clearly, whoever mixed these together used too much of it.”

“... Ah.”

Lucanis, leaning over to the gathered supplies, retrieved another regenerative health potion. “Here. We have to stop the bleeding before I can stitch the wound. This will help your body to produce blood more quickly.”

Well, that certainly did not sound pleasant. She drank, and then sighed at the trouble of it all, running a trembling hand across her face. “Just tell me when you want me to take this blighted thing out of me.”

A moment later, Lucanis shifted, preparing the gauze, needle, and thread at his side. “Would you like to be the one to do it? Or do you want m—”

With a savage yank, Rook pulled the dagger out of her body.

“WAIT! MIERDA, Rook—”

Horrified, Lucanis expertly proceeded to slap gauze over the newly gushing wound as Rook shouted, “—FUCKING Venatori and their whore mothers!”

Eyes round as saucers, Lucanis gaped down at blood soaking into the cotton. “What did their mothers ever do to you?” 

Rook groaned as he pressed down. Maker, that had sobered her the fuck up.

“You’re right,” she said, freshly enraged. “I should leave their mothers out of this. What I should do is go back there and have Emmrich raise their spineless, useless corpses from abject DEATH so I can level them properly this time.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything else, and Rook allowed herself to breathe. “All right. I think I’m ready to be stitched now.”

Still kneeling over her, Lucanis attempted to smile, though it was really more of a grimace. “Good, because if I keep feeding you health potions and you overdose on gingerwort truffles, Spite would be very, very angry with me.”

Only a foot remained between them, and even half-conscious, she couldn’t help but take the opportunity to luxuriate in the feel of him so close—openly gazing at the flush in his lips, in the churning, nameless emotion simmering behind his deep, amber eyes.

Another moment passed, and Rook looked away. “I’m never actually ready, so, do it anyway.”

Wordlessly, Lucanis shifted, grabbing the needle and thread into his hands. “As you well know, being an Antivan Crow has necessitated that I become good at this,” he said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Steeling herself, Rook huffed out a sharp breath and swallowed. 

When there was an uncharacteristically long hesitation, she worriedly glanced at Lucanis, and then down at the hand which still pressed gauze to the wound. “What is it?”

Lucanis grimaced. “I’m sorry for this, Rook.” He offered her a piece of twisted cloth. “Bite down. I know this is not your first time being stitched, but it still helps.”

She took it, muttering, “Don’t tell Viago if I scream,” before clamping her teeth around the cotton. 

Perhaps it was the anxiety cracking across her face that compelled him, but Lucanis slowly reached up, pushing back a few loose curls, also blood-stained, from her eyes. The touch itself was so gentle that it did help to calm her, if only minutely. Rook could see it–he did not want to hurt her. But until Bellara or Emmrich returned, there was no other way.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, and then, he began stitching.

The noise she uttered wasn’t exactly a scream, but it was close. Very close. With every stitch, Lucanis seemed to gain focus, his warm, strong fingers a strange sort of comfort, even as the sensation of a needle passing through her flesh coated her entire body in cold sweat. It was impossible not to tense her muscles–she knew she should try to relax them, but she was so incredibly tired and there was hardly anything more in her world than the pain. 

Still, when Spite’s wings materialized, bursting into existence and splaying wide, there were suddenly tears in her eyes, and for reasons she couldn’t quite discern.

“Spite’s worried about you,” she heard Lucanis murmur, though his eyes never wavered from his task. “I can feel it.”

Rook choked back a sob, completely unwilling to acknowledge the hot liquid seeping down each temple. Removing the cloth bit an inch from her lips, Rook clenched her jaw against the agony. “I’m all right, Spite,” she whispered before promptly returning the bit to her mouth.

And as if Spite had heard this and yearned to reply, no violet light appeared anywhere in Lucanis’s face, though the raven-feathered wings at his back flexed and beat once in an answer.

The fresh blood–her blood–on his fingers was spellbinding in the room’s dim lighting. Another draw of the needle elicited a groan from Rook, and Lucanis allowed himself a singular glance at her, alarm further tightening his expression. 

“Breathe, Rook,” he urged, his honey-voice a soothing balm. “I need you to keep breathing for me.”

Rook’s next inhale stuttered, fractured by pain, though she heeded Lucanis and forced the next breath to be a little smoother than the one before—and the next, even more smooth, until the only thing she allowed herself to focus on was the feel of his hands on her skin, not the needle carving its way through her. 

She only allowed herself to see Lucanis, concentrated and capable, dedicated to the task of saving her life rather than the crimson red blood which had long since crusted on them both—the graceful line of each brow, the bridge of his nose, the widow’s peak which showed so prominently everytime he pulled his hair back for battle.

No doubt due to her Crow training, the pain, though a raging, roaring inferno, was at last shoved to the back of Rook’s awareness, until her jaw ached from biting down and Lucanis’s gore-soaked hands finally tied off the strings. 

Using another cloth, Lucanis wiped the red from his fingers, and then suddenly his hands were on her, calloused and stained and gently cradling her cheeks. “It’s done, my love,” he soothed. “It’s done.”

It’s done. Several more tears slipped from her eyes, trickling onto Lucanis’s skin as she removed the bit from her mouth. Rearing up on his knees, Lucanis suddenly peered into Rook’s face, fully, intently, before the mask he wore finally crumbled away, leaving nothing else there in his expression but reprieve.

And fear. A little fear, just behind the eyes.

“How do you feel?” 

“Tired.” Her entire body felt like sludge, though she no longer felt the threat of unconsciousness lingering behind that fatigue. “So tired. But… better, somehow.”

Lucanis nodded, searching each eye like he could see into her body, her blood, to make sure that she was the right kind of tired. Rook was about to say something else, but then Lucanis exhaled, short and sharp, before pressing their mouths together. 

Their first kiss.

Neither of them noticed that Rook’s hand was filthy when she slid her fingertips into the loose hair near his neck, nor were they bothered by the general ambiance of blood and gore, old and new, quietly settling around them. There was only the overwhelming sense of release and the knowledge that they were alive—that they were both alive…

When he pulled away, she could feel Lucanis shaking. “Are you okay?” she asked him, scanning him for any unaddressed cuts or injuries.

“Forgive me,” he said, sheepish. “I am not accustomed to… feeling like this, after a job.”

Despite the ache burrowing deep beneath her ribs, Rook managed to smile. “Are you finally feeling how the rest of us do when a contract goes awry?”

Lucanis’s stare turned hard. “You were dying in my arms, Rook. I would hardly call that ‘a contract going awry.’” 

“Right…” she sighed. “Not my finest moment. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just… I get it now. I understand.”

Rook frowned. “Understand what?”

“What happens if we lose.” His thumb stroked over one cheek, still wet with her tears. “All this time, I’ve been so afraid that Spite… that I would hurt you. But then we barely escaped Weisshaupt, and after that, I watched Illario try to harm you, because of what he knew you meant to me—”

Lucanis’s voice was tender as he continued. “Today, I almost lost you again.” He leaned forward, pressing another feather-light kiss to her lips. “And now that I realize what’s at stake, it changes everything, Rook.”

Holding each other’s gaze, Rook uncharacteristically flushed as Lucanis smiled her most favorite smile—the heavy-lidded, easy smile that spoke of utter and complete contentment. The one he gave before their almost-kiss, in his room, when everything had seemed so much harder.

“I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep you safe, Rook.” And his voice was a promise, the resolve in his eyes a steely, living thing. “This is not going to happen to you again. I swear it.”

Fresh tears tracked down her face, but there was joy in each and every one of them. She returned the smile, leaning into his touch.

“Sleep,” Lucanis whispered, gazing deep into her icy-green eyes. “You should be okay until the others get back.”

“Don’t go,” Rook pleaded, eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion. “Stay.”

“Always. Who else is going to make sure you keep breathing?”

That made her snort. “Thank you… Lucanis. For saving me.”

She was already halfway under, though the distinct sensation of his mouth against her forehead was still noticeable, as were his next words.

“You’re the one who did the saving, Rook.”

xxxxx 

An hour or so later, Bellara hurried into the Infirmary Room. “I’m so sorry we took so long. We had to hop through a few mirrors before we found any suitable hide-aways for the Dalish. How is she?”

“Shh, she’s been out for some time now.” Lucanis finally rose, stretching out the knots accumulated from sitting in one place for so long. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of moving one inch away from where Rook slept on her cot, and so the evidence of their bloody afternoon—along with the dried blood upon his own hair, skin, and armor—remained a glaring precursor of the day’s events.

Bellara gasped, but wasted no time in approaching Rook’s sleeping form. She took in the cut-way armor, the supplies beside the mattress, and the thin blanket Lucanis had presumably used to cover Rook while she rested.

“Bad,” Lucanis admitted, grimacing. “It was a close call. I had to stitch the wound myself.” A flash of something soft, like regret, passed over his face. 

“She was awake for it.”

Bellara paled, slowly peeling back the blanket. “Creators…”

“I know.”

Splaying her hands over Rook’s belly, green, soothing light illuminated the room, eliciting a long, steady exhale from Lucanis while he watched. 

“Wait.” Rook’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

The green healing spell guttered out, Bellara flinching away from her in surprise. “Rook!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong? Was I hurting you?”

Rook’s lilac, gore-stained braid wriggled as she shook her head. “Are you able to heal it enough so that it leaves a scar?”

The subsequent tilt to Bellara’s head communicated the mage’s bewilderment. “I’m… sorry?”

From behind, Lucanis stepped forward, a similar puzzlement written across his features. “Rook?”

Rook did not repeat herself but merely awaited, patient. If one were to look closely, however, a mischievous glint peeked out behind her icy-green, silvery bright eyes. 

Bellara was the first to break. “Sure,” she said slowly, deliberating. “But you’re still not going to tell me why?” And it was the little pout on her face was enough to force a Rook’s hand. Rook smiled, a sleepy gesture, and then very deliberately, flicked her gaze behind Bellara’s shoulder, where Lucanis hovered, brows furrowed in thought.

When she finally understood, Bellara’s mouth popped open. “Ohhh.” She turned just enough to join Rook in scrutinizing the First Talon, a feline grin plastered on her face. 

“Malidta sea,” he grumbled, gaze alternating between the two women. “What are you…?”  

Bellara’s subsequent snicker was what eventually gave it away.

Lucanis proceeded to go slack-jawed. “Oh.” But he quickly composed himself, a quirk of the mouth turning up in fondness. “I see. How… sentimental of you, Rook.”

“... I am clearly in the middle of something,” Bellara said, and she didn’t at all seem unhappy about it. “So let me do what I came here to do and get out of your… very unwashed hair. No offense.”

Laying still, the Infirmary Room was again suffused with emerald healing magic, its color and hum so much more vivid in the Fade. As the layers of tissue in her belly mended, Rook’s exhale of relief joined the spell’s song, the sound seeming to draw some of the lingering tension from Lucanis’s shoulders.

A neat, pink line remained in contrast with the brown canvas of Rook’s belly, and Bellara pulled back, satisfaction written on her face. “Is that okay?”

Rook, peering down, nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Bel. And thank you for overseeing the Dalish’s retreat. I know it was… risky.”

At this, Bellara’s large eyes narrowed. “If you ever do that to me again, Rook, I will never, ever, cook you that curry you like so much.”

“Hey!”

Lucanis’s voice was a growl in the back of the room. “Ditto.”

Rook’s tangible shock was only present a moment before Bellara threw herself upon her—albeit gently, with the mage’s arms coming to encircle Rook’s shoulders.

“I was really scared, Rook,” she confessed, the words full of a lingering anxiety. “I’m so glad you’re all right now.” 

Bellara’s cheek was warm where it pressed against hers. Reaching up, Rook embraced Bellara back, holding her for a length of time that was surprising, even for Rook. “... Me too.”

“Okay, then.” Bellara righted herself, clearing her throat on the way up. “Lucanis?” Pivoting, she took in the thin cut across his jaw. “Do you need that healed too? I have enough mana—”

“I’m good. I don’t mind another scar or two.” Lucanis smiled warmly, and this time, Bellara did not miss the quiet exchange of glances between the two lovers. 

“Antivan crows are so bizarre,” she mumbled out loud. “But…” and she sighed, deeply, forlornly. “So romantic.”

Lucanis snorted and began unbuckling his dirty, torn leathers. “Well said. Now, I don’t know about Rook, but I definitely need a nap after all of that.”

Hesitation entered her face. Bellara paused, glancing between Rook and Lucanis and asked, “Do you want me to ask Harding or Taash to watch the Vi’Revas for you?”

“No, that’s okay.” He proceeded to quietly drag another cot across the room while Bellara watched, confusion somehow present in every one of her blinks. 

“I have a feeling Spite isn’t going to hound my sleep anymore,” he elaborated, pushing the new cot directly against Rook’s. Rook’s expression brightened immediately.

“Oh! That’s good then!” Bellara tentatively agreed. A pause. “Er… why is that, exactly?”

Lucanis’s boots thumped on the ground. “Spite is… approving,” he said, settling himself on the cot.

Rook kept silent when Bellara glanced at her in question, another one of those mischievous smiles twisting her features. “... Of?”

Lucanis huffed. He ceased his undress and gestured vaguely at Rook, looking increasingly more comfortable with this line of questioning. “You know what?” he said, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “Forget it.”

Bellara frowned, chewing on the inside of one cheek before—there! The utter adoration in his eyes as he scooched in close beside Rook’s lithe body.

Her eyes nearly burst out of their sockets at the realization.

Lucanis immediately held up a hand. “Bellara—”

“Ohh, my gosh!” she gasped, jumping up and down on her toes. “It’s official? This is so exciting!” Bellara turned back to face Rook. “This is exciting, right?”

He wanted to scowl, that much was clear. Yet, instead, Lucanis found himself allowing the tiniest smile to appear… perhaps because he was tired, or maybe it was that Rook was still alive, and Bellara—along with Spite, after all—was happy for them. 

Lucanis sighed. Tenderly placing one hand atop Rook’s, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her, the little crinkles at the sides of his eyes deepening with his smile.

“I suppose it is,” he admitted before laying flat, where he would undoubtedly drift off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

[zoandreez]

hiding in plain sight . (prologue)

pairing: ao'nung x omaticayan!reader

summary: your mother worked alongside miles quartitch in the sky people battle. as a dreamwalker, similar to grace, she got pregnant (occurrence unknown.) after miles' death, the sky people retreated. you grew up alone on pandora, afraid of what was outside of your make-shift sanctuary, until one day you go hunting and bump into some of the sullys.

word count: 1.3k

warnings: like 2 seconds of angst

as you frantically scrambled around your hut of trees and leaves, a ripped (and mostly fluff-less) pillow, and organization of old blankets you found from the abandoned pods, the day you had been dreading for a few weeks had finally came.

you were out of food.

of course, for any na'vi this is no big deal, all they have to do is go hunting. however, in your case it isn't exactly that easy. the other omaticayan do not know you exist. your mother, jasmine brooks, worked for miles quartitch, who (you quickly learned) wasn't the best person to know on pandora. during the sky people war, your mother as a dream walker was concieved. although the answers to how are still unknown, you were born with five fingers, five toes, and eyebrows, resembling human features more than na'vi. the sky people had no time to react, and with no clue how to deal with you, abandoned you.

luckily, you were just about 3 years old when they abandoned you and understood the basics of life-- walking, peeling fruits and such. you had to train yourself to hunt, to make your own loincloths, and other necessities. you never went hunting much, in fear you would be discovered. so, once every three months, you would wait until night to hunt until the sun rose, to have enough food for the next few months.

the last cycle was five months ago, thank eywa for that. however, you knew you were too lucky, as your next hunting spree would need to begin today. in the morning. you had no food for the rest of the day, and you didn't want to hold out, you were skinny and rationed enough. you grabbed your bow and your arrows and carefully snuck out of your hut, beginning your day-long hunt.

about an hour has passed, and it seemed to be going great so far. you had quite a bit of spartan and yovo fruits to get you through for a week, and you decided you'd get your months worth stash next week. on your way back, you had begun to dig into a yovo fruit, one of the smaller ones, when suddenly you heard murmurs.

"tuk, keep up!" you heard a boy shout.

your ears tilted up as you turned your head in the direction of the noise. you said nothing as you backed away, afraid running would bring too much attention your way.

"bro, why'd you bring her anyway?" you heard another boy say, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

something about the scene, instead of scaring you, enticed you. you inched closer to the voices, finally stopping behind a tree. you peeked between two branches like a window as you stared at the 4. it was a na'vi boy, braids pulled back into a ponytail, leading the group. quickly following behind was a na'vi girl, younger than the rest, swaying her tail as she leapt across the log following him. a taller girl, strolled behind casually, as the human boy caught your attention, with a breathing mask on.

"she's such a crybaby." the na'vi boy huffed, and the steps on the grass you once heard stopped. "she's all, 'i'm telling! you're not supposed to go to the battlefield. i'll tell mom if you don't let me come.'"

the youngest one, most likely who tuk is, stuck her tongue out at the na'vi boy. you smiled at her remark. the older girl blurted out a quick "don't pick at her," looking at him with disapproval.

they continued on their path, and you quickly ran to drop your fruit off and follow them. it looked like they were heading to the pods, and miles' old suit. you passed by thousands of times, breathing in your mothers old mask or sitting in her pod (unfortunately someone seven, eight feet tall cant lay in a five foot pod.) you followed the familiar path as the four began to speak again.

"come on," na'vi boy spoke again. as he climbed up to the crashed ships, the three of the other companions followed.

"oh, sick." the human boy called. you began to walk further out, uninterested in the chance of "any dead bodies up there," that tuk claims to want to see. you followed the older na'vi girl, as she walked further into the nature. she brushed her fingertips against the branches and lifted her arms to twirl with the leaves, before eventually laying down in the grass. you stepped closer to her, before freezing. you saw the many atokirina that flew ahead of you, and calmly circled themselves onto the girl.

you stared in awe as she lay asleep, the spirit seeds of eywa sitting on her, before they buzzed away. it was like she just got blessed? you had no clue what happened, and reached out to one of the atokirina to graze it-

"hey!" your head whipped up to the human boy. you quickly took off, brushing past him. "what were you doing? get back here!" he shouted, dashing after you before he shouted.

"lo'ak! tackle that girl, i think she hurt kiri!" you looked around, for any signs of lo'ak, the now name-assigned na'vi boy. after not seeing him, you took off for safety before you were pinned down by lo'ak.

"who are you?" he blurted out.

"get off me!" you protested, twisting and turning as you reached for your knife.

he quickly stopped you, but froze when he grabbed your hand. slowly, he put his hand up to yours. it took you a minute to realize what he was doing, until you looked. your hands matched up perfectly, but that isn't supposed to happen unless..

"are you a dreamwalker?" you both asked, and looked at each other in shock. "what do you mean are you a dreamwalker? stop copying me. why are you saying everything i say? stop it!"

the human boy interjected. "wait, what are you guys talking about, 'dreamwalker?'"

"she has five fingers."

the boy turned to look at you, before walking up and looking at her hands. "so, what- do we take her to dad?" "no way, he'll kill us if he knew we came this far."

"he'll kill us if we don't tell him the sky people are back."

you watched the two argue for a moment, before lo'ak finally sighed and gave in. he looked back at you. "sorry dreamwalker, gotta turn you in to big boss." he said before tapping his neck, as you caught sight of the little mic he had.

"but i'm not a dreamwalker."

the boys both froze and looked at you. "so, what are you?" the human boy said.

"well, my mother was. i'm just.. a freak." you said, wiggling your pinky.

lo'ak hesitated for a bit, looking at you. he had no clue whether to believe you or not. he grew up thinking he was a freak for his fifth finger, his eyebrows, his demon blood. now, this girl that laid before him could be like him. or, she could be what he's sworn to not. a sky person. a demon. he pressed his mic.

"devil dog, devil dog this is eagle eye, over." he spoke.

after a moment, they heard static and then a male voice spoke. "eagle eye, send your traffic." the male said. you stared off into the distance.

"we found this girl, she looks like an avatar, but she says shes not a dreamwalker. she has five fingers though, and we've never seen her before." you had begun to wriggle under his grasp, not wanting to be caught. "let me go!" you protested.

"where are you?" the male on the other line said. lo'ak looked at the now returned human boy, with kiri, and hesitated before answering. kiri mouthed a snarky remark to lo'ak that you couldn't hear, but it made lo'ak wince.

"oh. we're.. we're um.. attheoldshack." he said quickly.

"who's we? who's with you?"

"me, kiri, spider... tuk."

you heard a faint gasp in the speaker on his neck, and looked over at tuk as she said to kiri, "is dad coming for us?"

"dad's coming for lo'ak's ass, definitely." lo'ak hit kiri on the shoulder, as he continued to lean on you with his knee on your back, one hand pinning your wrists together.

this just acts as a prologue for a series i have coming, i figured i should get practice writing in!

[whencyclopedia]

Great Sioux War

The Great Sioux War (also given as the Black Hills War, 1876-1877) was a military conflict between the allied forces of the Lakota Sioux/Northern Cheyenne and the US government over the territory of the Black Hills and, more widely, US policies of westward expansion and the appropriation of Native American lands.

The Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 had established the Great Sioux Reservation, including the Black Hills, and promised this land to the Sioux in perpetuity. When gold was discovered in the Black Hills in 1874, the treaty was ignored by the US government, leading to the Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876. The Sioux, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho responded with armed resistance in raids on wagon trains, skirmishes, and five major battles fought between March 1876 and January 1877:

Battle of Powder River (Reynolds Battle) – 17 March 1876

Battle of the Rosebud (Battle Where the Girl Saved Her Brother) – 17 June 1876

Battle of the Little Bighorn (Battle of the Greasy Grass) – 25-26 June 1876

Battle of Slim Buttes – 9-10 September 1876

Battle of Wolf Mountain (Battle of Belly Butte) – 8 January 1877

In between these, were so-called minor engagements with casualties on both sides but, after June 1876, greater losses for the Sioux and Cheyenne. The final armed conflict of the Great Sioux War was the Battle of Muddy Creek (the Lame Deer Fight, 7-8 May 1877), by which time the Sioux war chief Crazy Horse (l. c. 1840-1877) had already surrendered and the chief Sitting Bull (l. c. 1837-1890) and Sioux war chief Gall (l.c. 1840-1894) and others had fled to the region of modern-day Canada. Although the war was over by May 1877, ending in a victory for the US military, some bands of Sioux and Cheyenne continued to struggle against reservation life until the Wounded Knee Massacre of 29 December 1890 broke their resistance.

Background

Although the first armed conflict between the Plains Indians and Euro-Americans was in 1823, problems between the Sioux and the US military began on 19 August 1854 with the Grattan Fight (Grattan Massacre), when 2nd Lieutenant John L. Grattan led his command of 30 soldiers to the camp of Chief Conquering Bear (l. c. 1800-1854) to demand the surrender of a man they claimed had stolen a cow from a Mormon wagon train.

Conquering Bear refused to surrender anyone, offering compensation instead, and, as the negotiations broke down, Grattan's men fired on the Sioux, mortally wounding Conquering Bear, and the Sioux warriors retaliated, killing Grattan and all of his command. The US military responded with campaigns against the Sioux in the First Sioux War of 1854-1856, which also included actions against their allies, the Cheyenne and Arapaho.

Tensions escalated after the opening of the Bozeman Trail in 1863, the establishment of forts to protect white settlers using the trail, and the Sand Creek Massacre of 29 November 1864. Red Cloud's War (1866-1868) was launched in response to the construction of these forts and the policies of the US government, concluding with the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868, which established the Great Sioux Reservation (modern-day South Dakota and parts of North Dakota and Nebraska), including the Black Hills – a site sacred to the Sioux – which was promised to them for "as long as the grass should grow and the rivers flow."

When Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer (l. 1839-1876) discovered gold in the Black Hills in 1874, the Fort Laramie treaty was broken as over 15,000 white settlers and miners streamed into the region during the Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876. The US government offered to purchase the Black Hills, but the Sioux would not sell. More settlers arrived, the government ignored Sioux demands that the 1868 treaty be honored, and the Great Sioux War began in March of that year, with the Reynolds campaign on the Powder River.

Continue reading...

[yserina-starweaver]

November 21 Day 5 - Captive/Skill Part One Here

House shifted gently, sending some of her little trinkets and chimes jingling against each other in a subtle sort of warning. It was never enough to send them scattering or upset the delicate arrangements she'd assorted all of her knick-knacks into or send tumbling her out of her comfortable places. The living tree she called her home had a mind of its own at times, but she could always trust it to let her know a stranger had come calling.

Yserina stooped to peer through one of the great cracks in the bark that had become a window, complete with mismatched colorful glass panes. A great bear paced at the edge of the clearing, an old, mangy creature that had certainly seen its share of battles and strife by the burn scars that littered its hide. She knew another druid when she saw one, the intelligence and wariness of approaching House was one of the clearest tells. To the other animals in Amirdrassil, House was simply a tree, and she was simply an elf.

She hadn't been expecting company. Yserina sighed and gathered up her decorative robes, layering them in order from thin, simple fabric to ever more ornate and beautiful over her plain slip of a dress. People expected a particular kind of grandiosity from a Starweaver, and who was she to deny her guest the proper presentation?

House opened the door that she had painted with traditional motifs and she made her way down the stump steps, into the thick of the witching hour. Moonlight shone through the great boughs, making the fresh dew on the soft grass glitter like diamonds. The bear stopped his pacing and regarded her with his good eye.

Ten thousand years and some decades had passed, but she recognized that sharp look. Her laugh was loud and harsh, even to her, and it sent the game hens that roosted around House's roots into a brief, startled fluster before they gathered back into their safe little piles. "Marros Silverfang, it has been a while."

He shifted back to the form of a man seamlessly, and carried himself visibly worse as a Kaldorei. The years had been unkind to him. Teldrassil clung to his body, the ashen tree's specter marred him significantly on his right side. What had once been ink black hair was now a dingy grey, peppered through with streaks of silver. He settled heavily onto his walking stick and grunted something that sounded more like a frustrated growl than a greeting.

"My hearing isn't as sharp as it used to be, Marros, you'll need to speak up," it was a lie; she was as hale as she'd ever been.

Marros' jaw tensed and his heavy brow furrowed as his lips turned down into an extremely displeased semi-snarl, "Witch. Thought Elune took you millennia past."

He'd called her worse things when he was young, brawny and broader than her. Here he was, frail and clearly in pain, exhibiting restraint. She enjoyed a curiosity. Her shoulders lofted in an airy shrug, the metallic threads in her outer robe a rich spectacle in contrast to his worn, lived in coat. "The weald and I have yet to become acquainted," when she'd first met him he had been all fight, but she saw the flight in him now. Finishing that sentence the way she wanted to — demanding an answer for why he'd sought out one of her ilk — would likely send him running.

"There's winter in the air, Marros. Come in and sit by the hearth a while," she glanced back at House and the merry door swung back open. He'd follow her, or he wouldn't. Yserina gathered up the excess, many-layered fabric and climbed the stair back into the warm shelter. She pat a weathered hand against the door jamb as she passed the threshold, "House, we have a guest. Be a dear, please?"

One by one the steps smoothed out, wood warping into more of a gentle ramp.

He dithered for half an hour before finally joining her inside. Yserina smiled at him from where she had curled up in her favorite chair, "Do sit, I've already poured you a cup of tea."

House shut the door behind him and Marros jumped, whirling around like a startled cat as fast as his arthritic joints would let him. She sighed, "House has a mind of its own sometimes. Pay it no mind, you are not a prisoner here. It has been a while since I have had a guest, and you will come to no harm here."

Marros faced her again, clearly afraid. Perhaps of her, but certainly of the world. A hard life, long lived, had certainly done that to lesser men. The disbelief in his tone was telling, "Do you swear it, A'lora?"

"On the love I have for Kedamyr," she smiled, the crows feet at the corner of her glowing silver eyes deepened. He needn't know that love had long lay fallow — the second lie was enough to settle him into the chair across from her and get the cup of Stormvine tea into his hand. "You seemed surprised to see me, Marros. I take it you were not looking for me?"

His long, left ear and what was left of his heavily scarred right slanted back as he narrowed his eyes, "There were rumors of a Starweaver."

"Were there? How curious, Starweavers have been extinct for centuries," she tapped her long, claw like nails on the edge of her little clay cup, "What use would you have with one anyway? You never liked the notion."

He had another sip of the tea and settled more heavily into the chair, letting the silence between them draw on long before steeling his mettle to answer plainly, "I am tired, A'lora. My children and grand children are grown and scattered. With every year that passes my body becomes less and less mine. Mother Moon has yet to call me home. I did not know it would be you."

She leaned forward in her own chair, "And you hoped a Starweaver would change your fate? Pull at the threads of your destiny and finally give you something to set you at ease?"

It was always the stubborn ones who had the hardest time asking for help. His lips set in a thin line, but he nodded in agreement, "That's why your lot was so prized in Zin'azshari, no? Why that bitch empress kept you all locked away in her great tower, coveting that skill. Wanting her legacy to be greater and greater until it swallowed us all whole."

"Yes, it was," she had a sip of her tea, herself, swallowing down the truth.

Starweaving was a crock of shit.

@daily-writing-challenge

[gingerlee-holds]

okay so uhm- i know nobody was really asking for this heh- but idk i hate feeling like this story is unfinished so- remember the Fernsby Journals? ,,,yeah so i wrote the final piece to that lmao- im sorry gang this is purely for my enjoyment alone and i just wanted to get this silly story finished lmao so here enjoy xD

to those unfamiliar, The Fernsby Journals is a world of my own creation, it was made as an afterthought a year ago but it turned into a story and idk heres the ending lol

March 23rd, 1745.

Read the first one here! Read the previous one here!

Words: 1766 Pairing: Ler!Clara, Lee!Eren Warnings: None! Lots of fluff though (literally hahahahahahaha-)

"Are... are you sure this is the way?" I asked over my shoulder.

"Absolutely, Eren!" She poked the middle of my spine, making me jump. For the past ten days, it seemed she couldn't get enough of my pathetic reactions to her poking and squeezing, and I had had just about enough of her... unprofessional behavior!

"Mr. Fernsby! Please, Clara, I have a degree." I rubbed my back, glaring over my shoulder the best I could.

"This is a fact of which I'm well aware, Eren! If you'll remember, I was with you as well! I have the same degree you do." Clara hummed a tune she heard a week prior. 

We had been walking for perhaps a quarter-hour by this point, and needless to say, I was a tad winded. We approached the base of a large hill covered in bright green grass, and I sat on the gentle slope to regain my breath. Clara opted to continue walking for a bit, just to peer over the crest, and then she came back down to sit by my side.

I sighed and got back on the subject. "Now, if you knew where the featherflakes were, why did it take you so thunderingly long to take me here? It's not like we spent the time productively!" 

"Ah! But don't you remember, we had that study session, Eren!" Clara wiggled a finger in my ear, causing me to jump up with a squeak. I straightened my coat and huffed.

"When we were supposed to be looking for historical sources, I seem to recall you first eating all the biscuits I had prepared for us and then spending the rest of the hour tick- ahem... distracting me from the task at hand!" I turned to walk up the hill, wanting nothing more than to be finished with this nonsense.

"It was tickly tea time! I told you!" She sent another poke to my back, and I jumped again.

I whirled around and jabbed an accosting finger into her breastbone. "Listen here, you-!" However, I could not finish my statement as Clara took me by both shoulders with an affectionate smirk and gave me a gentle push. With a yelp, I began tumbling down the other side of the hill, yelling expletives the entire descent. 

When I finally rolled to a stop, I lay on the floor of the valley for a minute, groaning as the dizzy feeling wore away. "Are you alright, Eren?" I heard Clara call down from the hill.

I extended a shaky hand to begin pushing myself up. "Yes, I'm- f-fihihihine-!" I gasped with shock as I felt a tingling feeling in my palm. My head shot up to look around me, and I beheld a vast white plain extending for kilometers out of sight. I slowly reached my knees to gaze over this veritable sea of featherflakes.

"Welcome," Clara called from behind me, "to the Field of Feathers!" She laughed at my face when I turned to her, seeing her slowly walk down the hill toward me. "First recorded in 486 when the Romans occupied this part of Britain, the native tribes used this to their great advantage, turning out an entire legion of soldiers into squealing schoolchildren!" 

"How did-?" I started to ask, but she paid me no mind as she continued teaching me about this place. 

"Then, of course, when the Normans invaded in 1066, this field was the site of what was to be the greatest battle these isles had seen until then. Neither side knew this place existed, so both armies had to call a hasty - and giggly - retreat!"

I rubbed my head, stunned. How had all of this information eluded me? "I don't-"

"You certainly must know of the War of the Roses, Eren! Studied your history at university, I know. It was here, at the Field of Feathers, where the Lancasters forced a surrender from the House of York by so shrewdly pushing their enemy back into this field, where they were quickly tickle-tickle-tickled into submission!" Clara sat on the slope in front of me, smiling at me all the while. A blush darkened my face, and I looked down to avoid her gaze. "Then, a few centuries later, an adorable little scholar named Eren Fernsby became so enraptured by the idea of being tickled by the Field of Feathers that he somehow avoided all history of them in his textbooks. His library was filled with historical mentions of this place, but it seemed like he pretended not to see all these, to give him an excuse to visit the field for himself."

My head shot up, pale as a sheet. "I- You-"

She extended her hand, keeping her pointer finger out to keep my chin up toward her. "Many things you are, Eren. A scholar, a pedant, a stubborn little boy. Regardless, you have never been an actor."

I could feel my face heat up, red like a Lancaster rose. Whining softly, I felt my body relax into the grass beneath me. She had me all figured out.

"Now, Eren, if you please," she chuckled, reaching up to grip the back of my collar and turning me around to face the Field of Feathers. I felt my coat loosen as she undid my buttons, leaving me only my undershirt to defend myself with.

"Wait, wait, Clara, hold on," I pleaded, wriggling in her grasp a bit. 

Clara leaned in to whisper in my ear. "Study to your heart's content, little scholar~!" With that, I was unceremoniously heaved forward into the field, my disturbance causing the field to erupt in featherflakes. I didn't even get the chance to gain my composure before it was swiftly broken again, as I felt swarms of featherflakes rushing into my clothing. 

"N-NohoHoHOHOHO! CLAHAHAHARAAHAHA!!" I laughed, rolling around to stop the invading fiends, only succeeding in disrupting more featherflakes to join their companions. "MEHEHEHERCYHYHYHY!"

"Mercy?" Clara rested her chin on her palm as she watched me writhe on the grass before her. "Why are you asking me for mercy, you silly boy? I'm not doing anything to you~! You should be begging those featherflakes for mercy, and you will have to beg because you've so inconsiderately disturbed their peaceful spring day~!"

"DAHAHAHAHAHAMN YOUHUHUHUHU!" I squealed, unable to bring myself to my feet. The more I thrashed about, the more flakes I turned into the air, which only made me thrash harder! Somehow, I hadn't felt my shoes being tugged off my feet, and when I felt a few flakes finding their way into my socks, I well and truly shrieked to the heavens above. 

"Sohoho dramatic~!" Clara giggled, standing up. She cautiously approached the edge of the field, reaching her hand out for me to grab. "C'mere, cutie."

I rolled onto my stomach and began to crawl towards her, trying with every fiber of my being to ignore the hundreds of flakes filling the inside of my shirt. "IHIHI- IHIHI CAHAHAN'T REHEHEHEACH!! IT'S TOOHOOHOO MUHUHUHUHUCH!!" I cackled.

Clara rolled her eyes affectionately. "My goodness, you're ticklish. Whatever would have become of you if I weren't here to save you? Laughed yourself to death, I reckon." She reached out further. "C'mon, I'm right here. Take my hand."

I raised my hand to take hers before squealing in surprise at the feeling of featherflakes flying down my sleeve into my underarm. I shrieked and curled in on myself. "THIHIHIHIS-! IHIHIS HEHEHELLISH!" 

"Hm, then why are you enjoying yourself so much? Nobody can have a bad time when they have a big adorable smile plastered over their face~!" 

Looking up, I saw her hand, closer, within reach. I reached up to take it with a monumental effort, yet I missed it. Through my mirthful tears, I couldn't see her smile or that she had moved her hand back at the last second. "CLOHOHOHOHOSHEHEHEHERRR!!!!" I squealed.

"I'm as close as I can get, Eren! Come on, you can grab, lovebug~!" She called to me, and I tried grabbing her hand again, only to miss and end up with more flakes in my sleeve. I collapsed onto the grass and rolled onto my back, holding myself around my stomach.

"HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHELP MEHEHEHEHEEEE!!!" I cackled at the clouds above.

I heard a fond sigh. "You really are helpless when you're being tickled. Guess I gotta do everything around here~," Clara purred. Suddenly, I felt her hand grabbing the back of my collar again, and with a single tug, I was safely back on the slope. "There, you baby, you're safe."

"BuHuhuhUhuut-!!" The feeling of the flakes hadn't gone away. The villains were still trapped in my clothing! 

"Ah, I see the problem. Here, let me help you out there~!" With that, I felt her hands diving into my shirt, picking around for flakes... and scribbling!

"NOHOHO!! CLAHAHARAAHAHAA!!!" I threw my head back onto the grass, kicking my legs as her strong arms worked around in my shirt. 

"What~? I'm helping you, Eren! Stay still. You're only going to make the tickly-tickly-tickles worse for you~!" She giggled beside me, throwing away all pretense of helpfulness as she scribbled over my belly button.

My eyes bulged out of my face, and I lunged upward. "NOHOHOT THEHEHEHERE! PLEHEHEHEHEASEE, CLAHAHAHHAARAHAHA!!!" 

"Oh, good heavens, you're a mess!" Clara tittered. Her scribbling slowed to gently rubbing with one hand, using her other to pick around to get the flakes out. "Just a bit of tickling, and you're absolutely helpless. Tsk, tsk..." 

I whined as she gently took all the flakes out, continuing to rub my stomach. My laughter slowly wound down to giggling and then to a ragged breathing. I was sprawled out on the slope of the hill, and Clara beside me lay down, not stopping her belly rubs. Before us, the flakes settled back down to the valley floor, and the sunset in the distance painted the Field of Feathers in a cheery, dare I say, tickle-me-pink. The warmth was getting to me.

"You look tired, dear~," she whispered. I didn't have the energy to reply as my eyelids drooped. "I suppose I'll have to carry you back home after this..." 

She said something else, but I didn't get a chance to hear it. For the life of me, I swear it sounded something like 'I love you,' but perhaps it was simply my weary delusions. I awoke the following day in bed, spooned by my sweet Clara. I didn't mind it as much. Writing down my observations could wait. I went back to sleep, a little closer to her this time. 

[thomaswaynewolf]

In far west Texas and eastern New Mexico, there is a land so flat you’ll swear, if you squint hard enough into the infinite horizons, that you can see the back of your head. This treeless, sand dune, canyon and grass filled country stretches some fifty thousand square miles of land that used to be called The Great American Desert but today, is called The Llano Estacado or the High Staked Plains. In the deep past, it was home to Ground Sloths, Mammoths, and Bison before Clovis, Apache, and then the Comanche. The Spanish explored it, the New Mexicans hunted buffalo on it, the Americans fought the Indians on and around it. Coronado, Oñate, Kit Carson, and Robert E Lee all travelled across or around it’s flat emptiness.

In this Roadrunner exclusive episode of the American Southwest Podcast, I cover all of that and a whole lot more as I uncover the Tierra Incognita that is El Llano Estacado. I discuss what it looks like, how it distorts the mind, the creatures that live on it, the violent weather, the history of the American Indians including the mysterious Teya, the Spanish, The French, The English, the New Mexicans, the Comancheros, the Contrabandistas, the Ciboleros, the Texans, and finally, the Americans. I introduce important Southwestern Characters, animals, peoples, cultures, and battles. I quote from great authors who wrote fantastic books about the place that only those who hunted the bison, and those that hunted the bison hunters ever dared to venture into.

This is the first of many exclusive episodes for the Subscribers or Roadrunners and at 3 hours and 30 minutes, I hope that it satisfies everyone’s desire for awesome and exciting information on the American Southwest. Thank y’all for subscribing and listening.

Sign up at Substack!

[ringtownrangerlark]

Ranger Helper Spotlight: Doduo/Dodrio

I firmly believe any pokemon can be a good partner for a ranger. Even the "scary" or "strange" pokemon can be the right fit for the right ranger and the right situation. But I wanted to do a series of posts on pokemon that are particularly common, or have reputations as helpful for rangers in particular.

First up: Doduo/Dodrio!

Or as they know them in Almia, "ranger bikes". The practice is slightly less common in Fiore, which is small, with population centers densely packed. Only a few rangers keep doduo or dodrio- though there's a reason Joel was the record-holder in the Kisara plains challenge for years. In Almia, rangers keep an unofficial stable of doduo around bases, and are constantly using them to run around the whole region. There are many good reasons for that!

Sharp-eyed watchers The long necks and tall bodies of doduo are adapted to looking out over high grasses in plains. And they have excellent vision. A doduo can spot a target- whether a pokemon, human, or other concern- from a very far distance. And with multiple heads, they can cover a 360 degree view, and take turns sleeping, making Doduo very hard to sneak up on or catch off-guard.

Tireless speedsters There is no denying that Doduo are fast. Again, their long legs are so well-built for speed, that they regularly set records in any kind of time-based challenge. They can run up to 60 miles per hour. In rescue missions, every second counts. And it makes many of them great at escaping an unwanted battle. Dodrio are slightly slower than doduo, but have a complicated circulatory and respiratory system (simplified: multiple sets of hearts and lungs) which lets them keep going much longer without needing to rest. This line is excellent for rangers who want to get to the source of trouble- or get out of danger- quickly.

An-all terrain vehicle with multiple brains I once had someone ask me why rangers (especially in Almia) ride on Duduo all the time instead of using normal bicycles. The reasons are similar to why you can't use scissors to open their own packaging. You know those cool cycling roads, or walking routes? The ones where you don't encounter any wild pokemon unless you go off-road into wild grass? Rangers maintain those. Which means we have to be there when there isn't a usable road. Bikes are an excellent way to travel on a paved or otherwise relatively clear path. Rangers, on the other hand, often have to traverse the kind of untamed terrain that even acrobatic bikes would have some trouble with, or to be able to switch terrains. A doduo, with its long legs and sharp claws, can run across an open field at top speed, pick its way through dense jungle underbrush that would take a machete to hack through, and keep its footing on a steep rocky mountain. And it's even capable of flight! Doduo are smart enough to resist following orders into terrain they can't traverse safely (which is few and far between), or to take their partners home if their rider is unconscious or incapacitated. If I get poisoned in the wild, a doduo can bring me to the nearest base- a bike cannot.

All together, the Doduo/Dodrio line makes excellent partners for any ranger. Their specialty is certainly travel, being able to get anywhere, practically regardless of terrain, quickly and efficiently. But they also make excellent guards, and are intelligent and strategic capture partners.

[fandomsnstuff]

Day 5 - Bones

It's my birthday so i think you should read this fic (and the others, if you want) and be nice to me :3

@blupjeansweek

Read it on AO3

Summary: Lup commits a crime but she swears she has a REALLY good reason

It's nearing 6am, the sky is just beginning to turn orange, and Lup's been digging since eleven. She's sweaty, exhausted, and covered in dirt. Barry better know what he's talking about, because if she went through all this only for the ritual not to work, she'll kill him. She doesn't care if he's already dead.

She pauses for a moment to give her aching back a short reprieve.

Why did she have to buy the murder house? "It has a story," she said. "It has character," she said. "It's in a good neighbourhood," she said. But who is she kidding? She bought the house that a guy had been murdered in years ago because it was cheap and nobody else seemed to want it. It didn't take long to find out why. The place was haunted as hell. The murdered guy was mad about being murdered and kept scaring people away, but Lup's no quitter. She and Barry fought not just a battle of wills, they fought a war. He wanted her out so he could sulk, she couldn't afford any other house in the area. They eventually came to a tentative truce. Then they started talking, and then Lup was in a lot of denial, but seeing as she's committing grave robbery to complete a ritual that Barry's "pretty sure" will work, she has to admit that she has a stupid crush on the fucking ghost.

Her shovel hits wood with a hollow thunk, and she could cry in relief. She tosses the tool aside, and uses her hands to brush away the dirt on top. Barry said his mom is a simple woman, who always talked about getting buried in a plain box and not getting embalmed, so they were hoping she'd done the same for her son. Cleared of dirt, Lup finds exactly that. A plain wooden box. She grabs her shovel and brings the edge down on the box. After a couple good whacks and a few silent prayers to no one that there isn't a groundskeeper around to hear it, she's able to pull away enough of the lid to get at the remains inside. It's nothing but bones and a tattered suit. She takes a cloth bag from her back pocket and carefully removes the bones from the casket. She ties the bag to her hip, then climbs out of the hole and flops back onto the grass with a heavy sigh.

She doesn't dare stay there for long. She's already been here for way longer than she wanted, and the sun is on its way up. Fortunately, even though she wasn't able to find the "dig a hole" kind of magic in the old tomes she dug out of a dusty chest, she did find the "move dirt back into a hole" and "make grass grow" kind of magic, so she's able to cover up her crime and hustle her ass out of there.

Back home, she's in the basement with the carpet torn up, revealing a stain on the concrete that no one's ever really been able to get rid of. Runes have been carefully drawn in a perfect circle, centering on that spot. She's lit only by candles and the faint blue glow that comes off of Barry's spectral form as she arranges the bones in the middle of the circle.

"Perfect," he says, "that's perfect. Okay, I think we're ready."

"You think?"

"I know. I know we're ready. This will work. It has to work."

"It better," she steps out of the circle and picks up the old leather bound book they found deep in the attic, "I spent all that money getting your new documents."

"Thank you, Lup. You didn't have to do all this for me. You… you're amazing."

"Don't thank me just yet." She jerks her head towards the circle, "get in there."

Obediently, Barry moves so he's floating just above his bones. Lup looks down at her marked page in the book, at the words she's been practising over and over for months. She was never great at latin, but now she has to be. She takes a breath and starts the ritual. All she has to do is read the lines again and again until it's over. Until, hopefully, the spectre and bones are replaced by a living, breathing Barry.

On the first round, Barry's glow gets brighter. On the second, his bones start to glow. Third, the runes light up. Fourth, the candles start to flicker violently. Fifth and sixth, Barry's spectre starts to lower towards his bones. Seventh, he disappears into them and there's a flash of bright light. Eighth, there's a body in the middle of the floor now, but his eyes are closed and he's not moving. Ninth, his chest starts to rise and fall almost imperceptibly. Tenth, Barry inhales sharply, his eyes snap open, and all the candles go out.

It's pitch black. Lup stops reading. She can hear breathing, and it's not her own. She whispers, "Barry?"

"Yeah," he responds, "I'm- I'm here. Can we turn the light on?"

Lup drops the book and stumbles to the wall, feeling blindly for the switch. She winces when it turns on, having to take a moment to let her eyes adjust from one extreme to another. But when she blinks the spots out of her eyes, there he is. Sitting butt naked on the concrete floor is Barry Bluejeans in the flesh.

"Uh, Lup," he says, "could you- the robe?"

"Oh, right." From their table of supplies, she grabs his glasses and the robe she bought for him just in case old taboo resurrection rituals didn't take clothes into account. He wraps it around himself then starts trying to stand. He's a little wobbly, so Lup grabs his arm to steady him.

He's warm.

"Here," she unfolds his glasses and hands them to him.

He puts them on and looks around. "Can we go upstairs?"

"Of course."

She helps him up the stairs, and takes him out into the backyard. He takes a deep breath and looks at her, "it worked."

"It did."

"Lup, you're a genius."

"Glad you noticed, but you're the one that figured out the ritual."

"Run away with me."

She pauses. "What?"

"Lup, I- god, I'm being an idiot right now, but I like you so much, and I think we make a great team, and I can't stay here, but I want to stay with you." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, this is stupid, the whole reason we even talked was because you wanted to stay in the house, I shouldn't have-"

"No," she cuts him off, "I mean yes. Yes and no. It's not stupid, and honestly I stopped giving a fuck about the house ages ago. Let's run away. We can live in a shitty apartment and you can work your way back up to a PhD and we can complain about people together and one day we'll get a house that no one's ever been murdered in and no one ever will be murdered in."

He smiles at her, and he's so much more handsome in flesh and blood. "I like the sound of that."

She leans her head on his shoulder and admires the gardens. "Do you think I could charge extra for the house since it's been ghost busted?"

"I don't think anyone will want to live where a ghost busted."

[liminal-zone]

courage, dear heart

i wrote a thing! 

AO3 fic link: atomic blonde

fandom: Narnia/LOTR crossover | ship: Susan Pevensie/Éowyn, background Haladriel

rated: mature | tagged: crossover, canon compliant, pining, Gender Politics with Clive Staples and John Ronald Reuel, post The Horse and His Boy, bittersweet

Summary: It’s not the first time a power beyond understanding ripped Susan away from her home to fight in another world’s war. And in this strange country, she will find her courage.

Set as Frodo becomes the ringbearer, set after Susan returns from Tashbaan and the Battle of Anvard is won.

a/n: Written for @thenarniaficexchange 2023 for @syrena-of-the-lake. Is this fic just a string of references from all seven narnia books, at least five lotr books, various narnia and lotr films, a lotr tv show, Churchill’s “we shall fight on the beaches”, and Shakespeare? Maybe so.

Two canons in a blender, my favorite scene in this is when the Dark Lord Sauron comes to Queen Susan in her dreams to take her apart and finds something he didn’t expect. And my heart aches to answer an unanswered question in the fic about magicked memory loss and the Problem of Susan, perhaps in a sequel. 

Excerpt:

Her hands are dirty from drawing the circle, fingers burned from the blue fire.

The bright magic ring she wears is cold, very cold; cold as the bottom of the sea. And it sings of power, not of the flesh, but over flesh. The power of the Unseen World.

In her mouth is the language spoken before the dawn of time. Before the Deep Magic was written. Before the Sun and the Moon were made. “Call her up.”

*

It’s quite sudden – the searing sound in her ears and then a great pop – and she’s no longer riding alongside her sister in the wilds of Galma but in a strange, alien land.

She stills her horse, and is surprised to find it not the dumb Galman beast who was a pleasure to ride along the sands of the ocean, but a great stallion fit for a warrior of renown. The shabby islander saddle is now richly ornate, covered in symbols she does not recognize. The windswept sea of grass smells sweet; rich earth beneath and a warm yellow sun in the endless blue sky above. Massive forests and towering mountains in the distance, and far off to the south, clouds of smoke. No recognizable landmark of any kind.

This curious little girl from Finchley has experienced travel between worlds before, but she does not quite remember the first time. Something about a mother who loved her and a great stairwell and the numbing horror of nonstop destruction; all faded in memory and deemed unimportant, lost. She is now queen of a great country; taller than her brother, the High King, and a remarkable beauty sought by highborns across the known world. Her raven-colored hair and red lips, haunting the dreams of many. Her gracious kindness, a balm to her loving subjects once subjugated by winter and a witch.

More importantly, she still remains curious.

For she is Susan, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, Queen over Narnia under the High King Peter, the Lady of Cair Paravel and Protector of the River Rush, Blessed by the Radiant Southern Sun, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, Daughter of Eve, the Gentle.

And this strange country, unknown to her, is Middle Earth.

*

Her magical horn came with her, tied to her belt. There is no hesitation as she raises it to her lips. Father Christmas had said “–wherever you are–,” so she blows it, calling for help in this alien place.

The full velvety sound rings out across the grassy plains, ringing up through the nearby mountains and reaching forests unknown and reaching foreign ears in their towers of stone. (Perhaps even reaching the power that brought her here.)

A rider appears in the distance. Susan narrows her eyes, considering if this is friend or foe. She only has a dagger and her wits, which may be enough.

It is a warrior with a shield on his arm. He rides a white steed and golden horse hair flows out of his helmet. He shines bright like the famed white stag and Susan feels an intense urge to chase this rider at once, to put an arrow in his heart and drag him to the ground.

To demand wishes? Perhaps. The urge is unknowable.

But no: this is no white stag, nor a magical creature of any sort.

And Susan does not yet know that this is no man.

Susan called for help, and help has arrived in the form of Éowyn, the Lady of Rohan.

*

It is a cautious meeting and neither dismount.

The rider’s gaze is appraising, obviously noting Susan’s foreign dress. There’s the uncommon length of her raven hair, adorned with the lush island flowers of Galma. The dagger and white horn at her side, and the ease in which Susan is managing a stallion. The queenly posture; a regal confidence undoubted. (This is learned behavior. Pevensies can trace their lineage to poor fishermen in East Sussex and poorer soldiers from Normandy.)

Susan’s assessment is this: the young rider is a dangerous warrior, lithe and well-knit in frame, made all the more queer with his open courtesy to a stranger.

“What country, friend, is this?” Susan asks.

The rider tilts his head. “This is Rohan, my lady.” His voice ringing out clear.

And what shall I do in Rohan? Susan thinks, miserably.

“Are you in need some assistance, my lady?” the rider continues, a look of concern in his gray eyes. A pause. “I am Dernhelm, at your service.”

*

Dernhelm listens to her tale and “strange sorcery” is his response. He thinks a moment before: “Have you experience with witches?”

Susan gives a smile, but it is a bitter one. She knows more than some about witches.

After Susan explains, Dernhelm nods. “The way I see it is this: you have appeared here through magic, for what reason, I cannot say. And you have appeared in Rohan, for what reason, I cannot say. You are no servant of the Dark Lord, there is something true and honorable about you.” He stops there for a moment before a continuing in a most peculiar tone. “The wizards have no interest in queens; what is a woman to the affairs of air and earth? So, the Lady of the Golden Wood, she must be behind this and her reasons could have promise in them.”

“The Lady?” Susan echoes quietly. There are hags that called Her “the White Lady.”

“She is a great sorceress. An elf-witch of terrible power who dwells in Dwimordene.” Dernhelm looks grave. “It is said that all who look upon her shall fall under her spell and are never seen again.”

Susan shivers, thinking of the horror of Jadis’ castle. Of Tumnus’ look of terror, frozen in stone.

Dernhelm continues. “My brother believes she is a myth, and–” he pauses as if pained by a memory unspoken. “My king’s advisor says webs of deceit were ever woven in Dwimordene.” He raises his chin, and his eyes are shining bright. “But I believe differently. There is an old, old tale of this elf-witch helping my annointed forebear, the first of our kings. I choose to believe that tale. I choose to believe that in our time of need, the Lady came to our aid. High honor to protect the king and his men, and dread magic too. And perhaps, perhaps if she is behind this, she can be reasoned with and you can return home. Should you have the courage, you seek her out.”

“Then I shall go to find this Lady of the Golden Wood,” Susan says. “If you will take me there, sir. For I do not know the way.”

The man sucks in air and holds it a moment before: “For this journey, you have my sword, your grace.”

[sw5w]

[ All Hooting, Cheering ]

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:03:50

[memories-of-ancients]

this human document was written last Summer by a Japanese captain of infantry. the introduction and conclusion have been written by his American friend Seymour Gordden Link, dean of liberal arts at Andrew Jackson University in Nashville Tennessee.

When I attended Columbia University sometime ago I was fortunate enough to be one of two Occidentals admitted to intimacy with two Chinese students, Chang and Kim, and two government - fellowship scholars from Japan, Tatsuo and Mitsui. The latter's true name is not given because identification would doubtless lead to his immediate execution as a trader to his government.

We have corresponded for years. Our correspondence has dealt largely with the arts. Although Mitsui is a great mathematician, he is also a great lover of painting and poetry, of flowers and comparative linguistics. This multiple development is more frequently encountered among the Japanese intellectuals than anywhere else on earth. Most of what I have been lucky enough to absorb about the intricacies of Japanese grammar on honorifics and social usage, I owe to Mitsui. All that he knows of contemporary art and literature outside the Orient comes, he has said, from my letters. And we have exchanged mutual references to our Chinese friends Chang and Kim.

But the other morning came a letter more moving than the others, and more disturbing. While I hold it to be a thing of personal and sacred to me, I offer it in the hope that readers will profit from the small glimpse into the heart of " a thousand Mistuis" and will refrain thereby from too hasty a surrender to the drums of jingoism - S. G. L.

Tokyo, Japan

July 15, 1937

Link sensei,

Writing this I do now in great and lementable haste for the fear is that soon no letters will go out. War has no respect for the things of the heart. And here is War. And here soon one small unwilling captain of infantry will wake from a night of rest and look around to discover he no longer is honored by the friendship of his great friend and teacher in America.

For war enters into the heart where it is not welcome and makes a strange chemistry; and my American friend who once said he had a great love for one small Japanese scholar, will think only of many small captains of infantry making many unpopular battles. He will hold on to the last and say all men are brothers and that he thinks the same thoughts and loves the same poety and speaks the same languages with his former Japanese brothers. but he will remember these things better of Chang and Kim then he will remember them of Mitsui.

For Chang and Kim will be in the war on the side where the heart leans and mitsui will be on the side that the heart is turned against. And he will forget that not a thousand Mitsuis can make a war or stop a war. he will forget that Chang and Kim and Tatsuo and Mitsui and Larson and Link once walked together beneath the shade of trees of the Columbia campus and ate together at the cafeteria and read poetry together in many languages.

And what of Chang and Kim? they who once called Mitsui brother now join their countrymen and blind hate of a thousand Mitsuis. And Mitsui dare not send them a letter full of his ancient love. It would mean the firing squad.

Once upon a time, so long a time it seems, Link sensei wrote in Mitsui's book English translation of a poem, because Mitsui showed him a scroll with a painting of long green plains that led to Fuji. This is written in the heart as War approaches. it says:

All that comes to pass

Of the warriors proud dream

Is this summer grass.

Because the scroll is beautiful and because it has memories in it of the happy years in America it is now enclosed as a parting souvenir of Mitsui who will fall in battle with a bullet from Chang or from Kim and his heart. Please to someday inform these brothers that their bullet entered Mitsui's heart only to find there love and brotherhood and great sorrow.

Here is the death song of Mitsui:

These grasses that bent

Underfoot will lean as soft

Over the cleft skull.

And in the deep roots will drain Love and peace that filled the brain.

Sayonara brother.

Mitsui

I shall never see my "small unwilling captain of infantry" again. He will lead his troops into action and then with his arms at his side walk calmly into the drum fires, thinking as he dies of his Chinese friends, Chang and Kim, and perhaps, I hope, of his American friend whom he did the honor to call sensei, teacher. Thus he will pay homage at once to his ancestors, his Emperor, his friends, and his dream of peace on earth, good will to men. S.G.L.

[octahedral-chaos]

After thinking about it, here goes a ball of wild horses (not confuse with feral horses), though is less a single horse and more like a whole group, hope you like them.

Equiferus or Cebrus

Used to be common sight in the pasteurs across the Land Betweens from Altus to Tombward, passing through Rauh, Grave Plains, Cerulean, Caelid and Limgrave, however their numbers had fluctuate across time.

During the administration of the Hornset the Land Betweens were widely depopulated opening space for large herds to grass on and increase their numbers, even if hunters and divine beastes keep their numbers in control

During the reign of Godfrey great numer of battle were fought and the movilization of forces demanded a great number of supplies, while cebrus were not the only animal affected, they were displaced by the stableshiments of herdeds that would took hold upon the plains for their livestock which indeed affected negatively their population.

After Queen Marika the Eternal veiled the Land of Shadow, many of the existing pack were isolated from each other, causing the divergence of different groups. So the ones on Altus divergenced from the ones in Limgrave, Caelid and Tombward while the ones LoS difference itself too.

During Radagon reign, the ones in Altus suffer the most, as most pasteurs were reclaim by farmers and herders to supply Leyndell constant demand for food, isolating them to small pockets near Gelmir, paralely the ones in Limgrave, Caelid and Tombward also suffer by this trend however not at the same level large packs were still common sight near Agheel and Stormveil.

During Messmer Crusade, while at first large packs were hunt for their flesh, the destruction of settlement and confiscation of lands lead to the opening of several pasteurs, now that the Crusade has slow and LoS had barren of most people, large packs not seen in living memory had grass freely, only controled by the march of furnance golems and occasional wolves.

The shattering had caused an increase of cebrus almost al over LB, Rykard march destroy many farms and towns, opening space for new pasteures to grass one, while the statement between Volcano Manor and Margit forces prevented the recovering of this spaces for herders and farmers; In limgrave the large levis taken by Godefroy and his subsecuente absence lead to a reduction of settlement opening space for new packs, later on was exacerved with the attack of the Redmanes during the siegue of Stormveil; while at first Caelid was home of some packs, the presence of Dragons keep them reduced in small pockets, however with the bloom of Aeonia, all natives packs are at best case extinct, but there are still packs migrating from North East Limgrave romaing the North West borders.

Regarding cebrus their aparrence, the height is not above one could expect, going at 5fts (1.5m) at shoulder, of grey ash coloration, stripped legs and dorsal strip too, are of light frame not suitable for riding in normal circumstance but yet apt for load work.

Varieties

The Cebrus on Gelmir and Altus their life under the Erdtree has make them to have a particular golden coloration over their backs that contrast heavly with their strips, some had mixed with feral horses of Leyndell army, as result they had grown to larger sizes and occasionally breath fire.

In Limgrave, North Caelid and Tombward, their distance and diverse terrain had allow them to keep certain consistency, those blessed by erdtree present twisted horns on their forehead and across their spine, however those are realively new and older treat are still sightable.

In Rauh, Scadualtus and Grave plains their life beneath the Scadutree has make them their strips to be of deeper colors and covering larger areas that before, those on Scadutree has mixed with feral horses of Messmer army, making them to be larger and heavier, more suitable for work and riding.

In Cerulean Coast their isolation of greater plains has make them a bit smaller while their diet of cerulean flora has affected their pigmentation, making older examples to have glowing strips of cerulean/carmin coloration that heavly contrast their dark body.

The old bleesing of the crucible is still viewable in all varieties, but is prominent between those in Rauh and pockets in Siofra & Liurnia, those specimens know as Old Cebrus or Divine Budding Beast, grown small buds on their body that with time bloom in branches that grown to mimick large antlers, those are a favorite of Ancient Spirit Followers and Erdtree Guardians, the later which often attempt to tame.

OUGH I LOVE THIS IDEA?!

Holy stars this is so in-depth and I love it. The idea of wild holy horses is such a cool take on my initial question-

[whencyclopedia]

Battle of the Little Bighorn

The Battle of the Little Bighorn (25-26 June 1876) is the most famous engagement of the Great Sioux War (1876-1877). Five divisions of the 7th Cavalry under Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer (l. 1839-1876) were wiped out in one day by the combined forces of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors under the Sioux chief Sitting Bull (l. c. 1837-1890).

Custer located Sitting Bull's camp by the banks of the Little Bighorn River (known to the local Native Americans as the Greasy Grass) in modern-day Montana but had no idea how large it was or how many warriors were present. Having been given a free hand to wage total war against the Plains Indians, Custer divided his command as he had in 1868 at the Washita Massacre. His plan was to attack the camp from opposite sides and close on it in a pincer movement, capturing the women and children as hostages, and forcing whatever warriors had not been killed to surrender. He sent Captain Frederick Benteen (l. 1834-1898) to scout, and Major Marcus Reno (l. 1834-1889) to position himself to strike at the far side.

When Reno launched his attack, however, he was met by a large force of warriors under Sioux war chief Gall (l. c. 1840-1894). Benteen, who had been ordered to bring ammunition to Custer's position, instead tried to support Reno but wound up joining him in retreat. While Gall was driving back Reno and Benteen, Sioux war chief Crazy Horse (l. c. 1840-1877) led a charge against Custer's position.

Custer and all five companies with him were killed in what has come to be known as "Custer's Last Stand." The battle was a decisive Native American victory but could not be capitalized upon because of the public outcry for revenge for the death of Custer, a popular hero of the American Civil War who had also made a name for himself as an Indian Fighter.

After the Battle of the Little Bighorn (also known as the Battle of the Greasy Grass), the Native American leaders went their separate ways to avoid capture and execution. The last major engagements of the Great Sioux War were US victories (or a draw, in the case of the Battle of Wolf Mountain), and, with the Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and others pushed onto reservations, the Great Plains were open for colonization.

Background

According to the Yanktonai Sioux Chief Lone Dog's Winter Count (a yearly account of events from 1800-1870), "White soldiers made their first appearance in the region" in 1823-1824 (Townsend, 128). The Sioux had little to do with them until 1854 when 2nd Lieutenant John L. Grattan arrived at the camp of Sioux Chief Conquering Bear (l. c. 1800-1854) and demanded the surrender of a man he claimed had stolen a cow from a passing wagon train of Mormons. Conquering Bear refused the demand, Grattan's men opened fire (mortally wounding Conquering Bear), and the Sioux then slaughtered Grattan and the 30 troops under his command in what came to be known as the Grattan Fight or the Grattan Massacre, leading to the First Sioux War of 1854-1856.

Prior to the Grattan Fight, the US government had negotiated land rights and territories with several nations of Plains Indians, including the Sioux and the Cheyenne, through the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851, which stipulated, among other terms, that the United States had no claim on the lands occupied by those nations. Southern Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle (l. c. 1803-1868) was among those who signed the treaty, which was never honored by the United States and was broken in 1858 when gold was discovered in the region, prompting Pike's Peak Gold Rush and an influx of settlers. Further encroachments led to the Colorado War (1864-1865), during which Black Kettle's peaceful village, flying the American flag and the white flag of truce, was attacked in the Sand Creek Massacre of 29 November 1864.

Black Kettle at Sand Creek

Stone Rabbit (CC BY-SA)

As more settlers claimed Native American lands as their own, Oglala Sioux Chief Red Cloud (l. 1822-1909) launched Red Cloud's War (1866-1868) in defense of his people's land and to force the United States to honor its treaty. The war concluded with the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 but, that same year, Black Kettle, his wife, and between 60-150 Cheyenne and Arapaho were slaughtered by troops under Custer's command at the Washita Massacre on 27 November. The treaty of 1868 established the Great Sioux Reservation, but this was broken when, in 1874, Custer discovered gold in the Black Hills, sacred to the Sioux (and other nations) and part of the lands promised them. The Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876 that resulted from Custer's find ignited the Great Sioux War when the US government demanded the Sioux sell the Black Hills and the Sioux refused.

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[rjalker]

an eat the rich story from 1907

A young man, named Beam, was telling a fanciful story when Wall entered.

"From the plains of Elysium were sent across all the dangerous wastes on the way a gentle and beautiful tribe of sheep to dwell on this earth, then uninhabited and fertile. To guide them safely the Great Shepherd provided a guard of dogs, fleet and fierce, with long fangs and untiring limbs. Through many a battle they brought the beautiful and gentle tribe of sheep to this earth, fed on the way by the commissaries of the Great Shepherd supplying both sheep and dogs with food suited for them.

"But on the earth where the luscious grass grew thick, the sheep spoke to the commissary of the Great Shepherd saying:

"`Here is food more exquisite than that we had on the way, we need no more from your hands.'

"`And the dogs?' asked the commissary.

"`If the ungrateful animals do not relish the food of this exquisite earth, 'tis their own fault,' replied the sheep; `besides their task is done. What further use can there be for them, on this safe-guarded earth—what foe can come nigh us? '

"So the commissary withdrew.

"And while the beautiful peaceful sheep nibbled the grass of the earth, the dogs lay faint and dying. One old worn-out hound could drag his limbs no more, and to him a lamb came, and with the sportive grace of its kind kicked with its soft white legs at the muzzle of the decrepit useless dog. The tender foot was entangled in the old hound's fangs—the starving jaws closed upon it, and food and life better than all that had ever been given him coursed through his veins. Invigorated, he rose, and going to where his brothers were lying, waiting for death, he lay down amongst them. `Where have you found food?' they asked in surprise. `I have eaten a lamb,' he replied. They viewed him with horror, but some of the younger ones soon after pulled down a sheep.

"And the race of wolves arose—a race justly handed down to execration in all the tales and histories and stories the sheep have told, but it is no less just to tell its origin."