#Bronze Wing Trading

[lilac-5ky]

always darkest before the dawn (Satoru x Fem!Reader)

plot: your boyfriend finds you waiting on his porch after a mission you warned him against going.

tags: hurt/comfort with a silly ending cause I'm silly for this man.

wc: 2.4k

“Baby? What are you still doing up?”

The sound of his voice gets amplified with every step he takes toward the dim-lit engawa, a pleasant break from the incessant chirping of the cicadas slowly being traded for that of the first morning sparrows—midnight sky melting into the lightest shades of blue. Stars are sprinkled over the velvet canopy like powder sugar, a subtle bronze haze dividing the horizon from the heavens above, and you almost thank them for sending their most exalted angel your way.

He comes alive again—wings heavy from the blood that soaks them, its source hardly human.

The knitted blanket slides off your shoulders as you turn around to face Satoru, his otherwise sublime features wearier and more haggard than you remember seeing them this morning by your pillow. He carries a bag in each hand, his apology wrapped in layers upon layers of aluminum foil. You wonder what it tastes like. Last time was gyoza, and the time before that drunken noodles—always accompanied by some sort of dessert from some faraway corner of the map, which he (typically) promises to revisit with you.

“Welcome home.” You sigh, mustering a smile to distract him from the dried-up tears that stain the apples of your cheeks.

It was a long night, and his absence stretched it to eternity. You realized after he left for his mission that forever is a long time to be spent alone, especially when the last words you said to him echo harder than the cumbersome footsteps of his departure, scaring you into thinking that was the last you heard of each other.

No one ever told you that being with the strongest meant becoming stronger yourself.

It’s not fair.

He doesn’t miss the opportunity to call you weak, making a habit of teasing you when your puny arms fail to carry his excessive haul of grocery bags or when you can’t open a mere jar of jam without him loosening the cap beforehand. He doesn’t admit you are stronger than him, despite you being the one to carry his burden and your worries, the two brewing into a sickly cocktail of premonition you can barely stomach—one that initiated today’s fallout.

You feel wronged. Your roles were reversed against your will; the comfort of being the weak one viciously yanked from your grasp, feet forcefully put into a pair of shoes you were never meant to wear. You should be weak. He should be strong. You should be crying, and he should be comforting. You should be able to tell him, don’t go, and he should be able to stay.

But you didn’t. And he did not.

Unaffected by the war of contradictory motions in your head, Satoru plops down beside you, large palms emptying of the cheap plastic handles to fill up with you. The thrill of the fight still hasn’t worn out, muscles taut from the action, and eyes bright under their concealment. He feels warm, warmer than the blanket that’s now receded to your thighs, though not warm enough to appease the cold in your heart, goosebumps prickling your skin from the inside out like your body is trying to escape itself.

A lump forms in your throat from where his lips touch your neck, briefly and fleetingly, before they are replaced with the familiar fluff of hair. It’s ironic how he tries to fit in you. There isn’t a part of you that hasn’t been touched by him in one way or another, and if you could pull out your own guts to make more space for him, then you would. You’d let him consume you whole if that meant never spending a second without him.

You wonder if that’s how love is supposed to be. You aren’t sure. You don’t know if you’re just another person who foolishly let themselves worship Gojo Satoru—if, in your effort to get to know the real him, you became his biggest fan.

“You are abnormally quiet.” You point out, instantly hating how ragged your voice sounds. The only dissonance in the picturesque garden of his estate.

Satoru shifts in his position, heavy jaw rubbing sweetly against your bare shoulder, hot breath fanning your neck. “I’m just mimicking you.”

“Mimicking me?” A bit better this time.

“Mhm.”

You glance at him, following the curve of his nose down to the dip of his cupid’s bow, both highlighted under the waning moonlight. Even when the stars are slowly drained and those flattering shadows dispelled, his beauty remains a certain constant. He is so beautiful that your heart aches, a longing sigh caught at the far back of your palate, his soft smile begging for its release.

He won’t hear you say it. Not tonight.

You test out the waters with a teasing poke of your tongue. He does the same, mouths almost touching with how closely he leans forward. Then a pout. A scrunch of the nose. An unserious wiggle of his eyebrows that mirrors your own—an image far more perfect than the one you’re used to seeing in the mirror.

“Would you jump down a cliff if I did?” You taunt.

“Absolutely!” He breaks the loop, answering in less than a heartbeat. “You know I would. The world would be a horrible place without my sugarplum.”

“You know, you could save us both if you wanted.” You say with a level voice.

“The greatest love stories are sealed by tragedy.” Satoru argues back. “Romeo and Juliette. Jack and Rose. Orihime and Hikoboshi. Takeru and Hikari.”

You are quick to spot the odd one out. “First of all, stop sneaking in Digimon references thinking I won’t notice, and second of all, Takeru and Hikari didn’t die.”

“No, but they never got together.” He frowns.

You roll your eyes. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re soooo pretty. Did you do something to your face? Your dark circles look extra dark tonight.” Satoru tries to catch your cheek in his palm, fine sand slipping through his fingers as you pull away.

“Shut up!” Your mixed chuckles course through your body, reigning over the tremors that previously had you shriveling into a ball of tightly packed limps. Staying mad at him is impossible when he’s actually there; all mood for poignancy gone in an instant.

“You never answered my question.” A featherlight hum brushes against the shell of your ear, the pout easy on his tone. “What are you still doing up?”

With a knowing smile, you peer at the sky, feeling the press of his cheek on yours as he follows the movement of your eyes. “Whenever I miss you, the only thing that calms me is looking at the sky.”

“You know I’m not dead, right?”

“Say one more stupid thing, and that will change!” You warn with your pointer up. He kisses it. God.

You tap your finger against his forehead, urging some distance be put between the two of you. “Whenever I look at the sky,” you start again, “I see you.”

Breaking from his embrace, you shape two circles with your thumbs and forefingers, narrowing their size until they turn into a pair of minuscule goggles you lower over to where his eyes supposedly lie behind the blindfold. “See? Just like your eyes.”

“Oh, I’m not too sure about that.” Satoru gazes at the sky through your fingers, eventually tipping in your direction. He smirks, “I mean, the eyes of the Gojo Satoru are kinda hard to beat. See?”

Peeling the blindfold off, he lets your palms spread over his cheeks, azure eyes losing their vibrancy as your dainty fingers frame them better than any pair of sunglasses in his collection. He’s right. The original cannot compare. It’s not Satoru’s eyes that resemble the sky. It’s the sky that resembles his eyes, for in his 28 years, he’s managed to make something as ancient as time itself seem like a cheap rip-off.

“But I am flattered.” Warm palms cushion yours as he brings them to his mouth. You don’t realize how frigid they are until he starts blowing the cold away, smiling against them. “Means I’m always on your mind with how often your head’s in the clouds.”

“Can’t go one minute without bringing me down, huh?” Your voice frail once more.

“I can. But where’s the fun in that?”

You pull each other into a gentle kiss, Satoru’s arms snaking around your waist while your fingers cup his cheeks with urgency, fearing that by the time your eyes blink open, he’ll already have faded into stardust. He doesn’t share your concern, soft pecks interrupted by muffled chuckles, the taste on his lips giving you an idea of what he brought home with him.

“Pancakes?” Your tongue drags against his bottom lip. Foreheads pressed against one another.

“Mhm. Figured you’d be hungry for breakfast at this ungodly hour.” Satoru pecks your lips again and again, making it impossible to think straight, let alone answer, given how often your mouths are smashed together.

“How did you know I’d be up?” You breathe out.

“Hmm, a premonition?” He grins, playing with fire with how he mocks your previous words of concern. “My six eyes—”

“Do your six eyes tell you that you’ll be smacked in three, two, one!”

Limitless activates before your forehead can ram into his skull, the number of times you bob your head futile.

“One of these days, my anger will outdo your technique.” You promise.

“Can’t wait for that!” Satoru beams earnestly. “Maybe then I can teach you about domains too. Make my baby into the best—well, second-best sorcerer.”

Truly impossible.

The world quiets down as the final veil of the night is lifted from the sky and dawn begins its dance, everything it touches slowly coming into life. Light seeps between the yellowing grass blades, illuminating the morning dew that rests upon them. Water sparkles as it pours from the bamboo fountain, the constant thump setting the tempo for the birds’ song. Fragrance is drawn out of the towering pine trees, grounding the elegance of the showy blue hydrangeas. No room for despair in this imagery of hope, complete with Satoru’s presence, white lashes fluttering shut as he stretches like a cat in the sun.

You love him.

You know you do. You mean it every morning and every night when he makes you say it in between chuckles, slender fingers tickling the admission out of your ribs. You mean it when he moves heaven and earth to fulfill a stupid promise you made at 4 AM when you were drunk out of your mind and he tucked you into the comfort of your shared bed—somehow less sober without a drop of alcohol in his system.

You mean it when there’s sand in his eyes, when his breath doesn’t smell as peachy as one would expect of someone as ridiculously perfect as him, when his voice cracks during a sing-along. You mean it when his tongue licks the luscious coffee cream from your lips and when it greedily laps between the puffy lips down under.

There is so much you love about him that you’d run out of synonyms for words before you could jot them all down in a way that’s not dull to read, and still, you’d lose out on describing how exactly he makes you feel.

Because Satoru isn’t a person, so much as he is art. Sometimes he is just splash of colors across a canvas without the masterful strokes needed to hone him into a finished product. Other times, he is just the notes composing the wonderful lilt of his voice, too audacious to be deemed a symphony. He can be poetry too, spilling out of the ordinary 17-syllable arrangement of a haiku. But most of all, he is raw energy, an untamed torrent ripping through mountains and a whirlwind sweeping everything in its path.

It’s hard not to romanticize him in moments like this. They don’t come too often.

“You know, you don’t need tragedy to write a good love story.” Your tendency to break the silence festers into a bad habit. “We might be doomed by the narrative, but we are here to live. I’d rather live with you than die with you, or live a life without you.” You whisper, voice getting caught in your throat.

Sincerity always scared you, but if there’s one thing more regrettable than words you’ve said, then that’d be words that were never told.

Your focus shifts to your dangling feet, grass grazing your toes at the completion of each nervous sway. You are no longer touching. Not purposely at least, contact reduced to the slight nudge of your shoulders as Satoru leans against his to smile.

“Gotcha.” He says, not quite pressuring you to face him just yet. “It was easy-peasy, by the way. Yuji and Nobara did most of the work, while Megumi—he fell inside a curse’s stomach. It was hilarious! You should visit them soon; see how my kids have grown.”

Your lips pucker their way around your mouth, tongue poking at your cheek from the inside—prelude to a slow nod. Too uncertain to be directed at him. You regret bringing this up. You should’ve let yourself bask in his affections when they didn’t require a verbal answer.

“You worry too much.” Your uneasiness prompts Satoru to crane his neck and lay a tender kiss on the crown of your head. His voice serious when he says, “I won’t die.”

“That’s what everyone says right before they die.”

“But I’m not everyone. I’m Gojo Satoru, and I won’t die.”

You gulp, then huff a forced chuckle. “H-hey, that’s a pretty good catchphrase. You should use it in your fights when you’re about to deal the killing blow.”

“I have a better one. I’m Gojo Satoru, and I love youuuu~” He sings, seconds before his lips attack your neck, deft fingers mercilessly tickling your sides against the hard wood.

“God! You are so corny!” You blurt in between giggles.

“You love it!” He protests, a wild glint to his eyes. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Say it.”

“N-no way!”

“No?” The sadist stops his torture, finding new ways to torment you as he slyly moves toward the forgotten takeout. “Guess I’ll be enjoying these myself then. Thank me for the food!”

“Hey, Satoru! Wait!” You concede.

Maybe it’s fine to let him stand on the podium alone this once.

a/n: my mood is all over the place nowadays, suffering writer's block, wrote this as a self-indulgent 5 AM craze, help satoru brainrot too strong

[whosthere54]

Hi chat! I’m on vacation but here’s some food!

I wanted to do a Royal AU fable SMP thing that was Brothers Centric, so I have that planned out a lil bit in my notes and that’s what inspired this little one shot!

Hope you enjoy reading about prison duo :3

———

Icarus was finally able to escape the incessant crowd. They don’t think they’ve ever talked to that many people in their life.

They sigh, leaning back against the wall with their arms crossed over their chest. They scan the ballroom, watching the people of their kingdom celebrate an agreement of peace between the Overworld and the End. If only they knew how much arguing and force it took to get there.

They run a shaky gloved hand through their hair and just breathe for a moment. Their jewelry seemed to have changed from bronze to gold- not that they were complaining- and the seems on their gloves changed from a matching black stitching to a gold thread.

Interesting choice by Quixis, but not an unwelcome one.

Their eyes fall on their brother, all bright purples and greens, and his partner hard not to spot in the crowd for being as tall as he was. He and Fenris seemed so happy together. They couldn’t help but be happy for them.

Fenris surprisingly wasn’t wearing any armor, only dressier black attire. His muscular build was different yet so similar to Centross’s. He was wearing a different mask than usual, this one made of black lace with gold and purple details, his hair pulled into a bun with purple ribbons hanging from it as a marking of his allegiance to the End Kingdom.

It was still Wolf though, that much stayed consistent.

Rae looked… nice.

He’s changed since they’ve last seen him. End markings now with deep lines of dark blue scarring similar almost to Athena’s scars from the wither sickness. An aftermath of the Skulk Sickness they assume. He seemed taller, which was odd. And he had an antler growing out of only one side of his head, decorated with gold chains and purple and green ribbons.

He was wearing a black dress, but it shimmered bright purples and greens when the light hit it. His hair was braided with blue orchids, all his jewelry having a matching orchid theme to them. His crown sat slightly askew atop his head, having been displaced since he’d gotten here. The purple and green jewels in it shined in the sunlight. He seemed so happy. Icarus couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen him that way.

It was nice to see him smile again.

Soon, Fenris traded Rae off for Centross. The two men laughing as Fenris spun them around. Centross wasn’t wearing his armor either, at request of fable, to make him more “non-threatening”. If you look around the citizens seem to be intimidated by him anyways, though the look dies down as time passes.

They all heard the stories. Some were true, some were not. The reputable assassin hired by Enderian herself to assassinate the prince, too much of a coward to finish the job. Some say he’s gotten soft, some say he’s a cold hearted killer, some say he’s just a man. The kingdom grew to respect him regardless. David Centross Mistvale. Their enemy turned best friend. Their assigned bodyguard. The person that is on their side no matter what.

Their idiot best friend.

He dressed nice, dark overworld greens contrasting with his purple scars. He looked like the end and the overworld mixed, black tinted hands and a tail only a bit different from the people of the end. And his wings. They had a structure similar to Rae’s dragon wings, though his were made of bone and whisps of purple the color of the void that faded out in a way so alike to ender particles. They were torn and burnt at the edges, but he was able to fly unaffected.

He had a mask shaped like the skull of a crow, black base with gold thread and green ribbon tying it to his head. They remember having to help him pick, him being so indecisive of what mask to have. Them picking out his earrings, dark metal feathers on gold chains, and giving him some other spare chains they had lying around to put on his mask.

They glanced around the room again, making eye contact for a moment with Rae. They gave him a soft smile and he nodded back, turning back to his partner as he switched off to dance with Rae again. They laughed, shaking their head slightly before turning their attention to their gloves.

They rubbed their eyes, trying to wake themselves up even slightly. Jumping when they feel a steady hand on their shoulder, looking up to find dark purple eyes looking back at them.

“Sorry, just me.” He offered them a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” They laugh softly, leaning back against the wall.

“Hm that’s alright.” He leans with his side against the wall, almost creating a barrier between them and the crowd.

They just talk, just existing for a while. Centross settled to lean his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. They watched the crowd for a bit, Icarus pointing out any important figures that they’d had to talk to- or hadn’t yet but were of note. After a bit of silence, Icarus rested their head against his shoulder. It was where their eyes were just hidden, pressed tightly at the curve of his neck.

He leaned his head just slightly against the top of their head, not saying anything but not moving them.

“You’re exhausted, when’s the last time you’ve slept?”

“Uhh… maybe Three days ago?”

“Gods Icarus”

“Look I’ve been busy”

“Not busy enough to not sleep, what were you doing with all that time birdie?”

They shrug.

“Just… paperwork or somethin’ I dunno.”

He hums softly. “We have to be here for five more hours and you can barely keep your head up, I can sneak you out if you want?”

They laugh lightly, ”If my father wouldn’t kill me id say yes.”

He laughs softly and nods in understanding.

”You can at-least rest your eyes for a bit hm?”

They shrug. After a little bit of silence, Centross runs his fingers gently through to mess with their perfect hair just enough so it’s lightly disheveled. They tense a moment, before relaxing and leaning into the contact with a contented hum.

He murmurs some soft reassurances, just continuing to mess with their hair, eyes continuing to scan the crowd for any type of threat.

After a bit of silence, Centross had honestly thought they’d fallen asleep. Though they mumbled softly, barely able to be heard over the other noise.

“Thank you.”

“Always.”

-=+=-

Rae missed this.

He missed dancing with his partner for hours, he missed laughing with him.

He missed the freedom peace gave them.

And they have it now, and it’s wonderful, and it’s scary, and it’s… he couldn’t really describe what he felt if he was asked.

He’d try for Fenris though.

His partner, his partner. He got to call him that now. His partner. His best friend. His wolf.

They had stopped dancing a little while ago, leaning against the wall with drinks instead. It’s been so long since they were able to talk freely like this. It was nice.

He laughed at something Fenris had said, before Fenris stops.

“Wait, Rae look” He says, pointing at the opposite wall, towards the corner of the ballroom. There, Rae saw Centross leaning back against the wall. When he looked closer he also saw his brother… his brother?

He saw his brother, perfect prince Icarus Morningstar, face hidden where it was resting against Centross’s shoulder, crown slightly uneven on his head where Centross’s hand combed through their hair. Their wings were still pressed tightly to their back, tail resting lightly over their leg, but they weren’t stood up straight and their crown wasn’t perfectly placed over their stupidly perfect hair.

“Oh”

“Yeah! Aw look at them!” Fenris leaned his head on top of Rae’s, looking at the pair.

”Are they..?” Rae asks, tilting his head to the side just slightly. He hasn’t talked to his brother in so long, but he would’ve told him that right? Or Centross or Fenris would’ve…

“No- not yet. They should don’t you think?” Fenris’s voice brings him back, eyes finding Icarus again.

“Yeah… yeah I think so.” He murmurs after a moment.

“Look at them. Little losers.”

“They’re our losers.” Fenris hums softly leaning more against his partner.

“Yeah.” Rae leans back, Fenris nuzzling against his hair.

My brother.

Our losers.

[sregnarkroywen]

Hokej na lodzie - Polish to English ice hockey vocabulary

THE LEAGUE

league - liga

team - drużyna

roster, lineup - skład

hockey player - hokeista

line - linia

national team - reprezentacja

transfer, trade - transfer

coach - trener

referee - sędzia

linesman - sędzia liniowy

fan - kibic / fan

THE PLAYERS

forward - napastnik

center - środkowy

left wing - lewoskrzydłowy

right wing - prawoskrzydłowy

defenseman - obrońca

goaltender - bramkarz

captain - kapitan

assistant captain - asystent kapitana

rookie - debiutant / żółtodziób

THE GAMES

regular season - sezon zasadniczy

game - mecz

schedule - terminarz

regulation time - regularny czas

period - tercja

intermission - przerwa

overtime - dogrywka

shootout - karne

final score - wynik końcowy

win - wygrana

lose - przegrana

standings - klasyfikacja

stats - statystyki

goal - gol / bramka

assist - asysta

point - punkt

THE CHAMPIONSHIP

playoffs - play-offy

round - runda

quarterfinals - ćwierćfinały

semifinals - półfinały

final - finał

(Polish) championship - (Polskie) mistrzostwa

gold - złoto

silver - srebro

bronze - bronz

trophy - trofeum

cup - puchar

THE EQUIPMENT

net - bramka

puck - krążek

stick - kij

helmet - kask

jersey - bluza

glove - rękawiczka

skate - łyżwa

pads - ochraniacze

goalie pads - parkany

goalie mask - maska

goalie glove - łapaczka

blocker - obijaczka

mouthguard - ochraniacz na zęby

THE ARENA AND FACILITIES

arena - hala

rink - lodowisko

ice - lód

locker room - szatnia

offensive zone - strefa ataku

neutral zone - tercja neutralna

penalty box - ławka kar

bench - ławka zawodników

blue line - linia niebieska

goal line - linia bramkowa

center line - linia środkowa

goal crease - strefa bramki

goal post - słupek

top post - poprzeczka

THE PLAY

offence - atak

defense - obrona

faceoff - wznowienie

score a goal - zdobyć bramkę

game winning goal - zwycięska bramka

hat trick - hattrik

pass - podanie

shot - strzał

shot on goal - strzał na bramkę

save - obroniony strzał

save percentage - procent obronionych strzałów

glove save - obrona łapaczką

icing - uwolnienie

time on ice - czas na lodzie

speed - prędkość

forcheck - pressing

backcheck - faza obrony

check - bodiczek

deke, dangle - drybling

breakaway - ucieczka

wrist shot - strzał z nadgarstka

backhand - strzał z backhandu

rebound - dobitka

redirect - strącenie

five-hole - piąta dziura

hand pass - podanie ręką

THE SPECIAL PLAY

power play - gra w przewadze

penalty kill - gra w osłabieniu

4 on 4 - cztery na cztery

5 on 3 - pięć na trzy

power play goal - bramka w przewadze

shorthanded goal - bramka w osłabieniu

empty netter - gol na pustą bramkę

THE PENALTIES

penalty - kara

penalty minutes - łączny czas kar

suspension - zawieszenie

holding - trzymanie przeciwnika

slashing - uderzanie kijem

hooking - zahaczanie

tripping - spowodowanie upadku przeciwnika

high sticking - wysoki kij

cross-checking - atak kijem trzymanym oburącz

boarding - wrzucenie na bandę

interference - przeszkadzanie

spearing - kłucie kijem

charging - natarcie

roughing - nadmierna ostrość w grze

fighting - walka na pięści

delay of game - opóźnianie gry

too many men on ice - nadmierna liczba graczy

elbowing - atak łokciem

kneeing - atak kolanem

concussion - wstrząśnienie mózgu

game misconduct - kara meczu za niesportowe zachowanie

misconduct - niesportowe zachowanie

minor penalty - kara mniejsza

bench minor - kara mniejsza techniczna

double minor - podwójna kara mniejsza

major penalty - kara większa

ejection - kara meczu

penalty shot - rzut karny

Translation based on this post by @liigainenglish

I’m by no means a specialist but if you have any questions (or corrections!) don’t be afraid to DM me :))

[bronzegods]

Marduk and Assur - Babylon and Assyria

Marduk and Assur are two Mesopotamian deities tied closely to their respective cities - Marduk with the city of Babylon and Assur with the city of Assur. In Pantheon, their destinies have been linked from early on, with their origins beginning in the Sumerian period…

The two deities are brothers, born at roughly the same time and sired by Enki, the famous god of the subterranean waters. Marduk, then named Asalluhe, was his child by Damkina, his wife, and therefore was more legitimate than Assur. Assur’s mother was an Amorite goddess that Enki was fooling around with, and given that Amorites were poorly looked upon by the Sumerians in this time period, Enki tried his damned hardest to conceal knowledge of said fooling around. Unfortunately, it’s more difficult to hide a godling baby that looks like you and has your family’s distinctive winged deity appearance, so he was left with a child that was for all intents and purposes unwanted.

Asalluhe and Assur grew up with disparate lives. Enki, not exactly known for his parenting skills, shoved his young sons off on other deities to raise them. In Asalluhe’s case, Utu the sun god was given the responsibility to raise one child. Dumuzi was given the responsibility to raise Assur.

Unfortunately, with Dumuzi’s proximity to Inanna, that didn’t bode well for Assur. While Asalluhe adored his “Uncle Utu” and changed his name to Marduk (calf of the sun) in appreciation, Assur moved away from the south as quickly as possible and returned to the outcrop of rock he’d been born at. The city of Assur formed around him, and as far as he was concerned, he was more than happy to stay far away from the south and all the bad memories it held.

As the climate changed, the southern Sumerian city-states dried up and Babylon came into power. With it, Marduk raised to power, finding himself beloved by the Amorite conquerors who took over Babylon. Marduk enjoyed kingship and power… until the gods of Hatti sacked Babylon and left him shattered. Damn Hittites didn’t even bother sticking around; the Kassite gods soon moved in and subjugated Marduk under their feet.

Assur fared hardly better. He built an impressive trade network, but his city fell into the control of the Akkadian Empire, the Kingdom of Upper Mesopotamia (Shamshi-Adad’s empire), and the Mitanni Empire. Only at the tail end of the Bronze Age did Assur start to regain his independence, enough to start challenging Hatti, Mitanni, and (Kassite) Babylon.

The Iron Age, though, is when the two really start to clash…

Illustrations commissioned from Eaglidots

[kariachi]

Random meandering worldbuilding thoughts for Pern...

Dragonkin

Firelizard fairs typically consist of around 30 individuals led by a single gold, whose job is something of a mix of that of a male lion and an elephant matriarch- to guide the fair and defend it from large predators and other golds who would take the territory

Wild firelizard fairs typically consist of a gold, a collection of her green sisters, any green daughters that haven't gone off with a gold daughter, and a collection of bronzes, browns, and blues that split off from their parent fairs to make their own way.

If you see a fair consisting of only Chasing ranks they're pretty much always going to be young- Chasers and golds pretty much invariably leave their parent fairs when they reach sexual maturity.

Gold firelizards are incredibly territorial and Do Not tolerate other adult golds when not bonded to sapients- having a Bonded seems to make the golds feel more secure and stable in their position.

Bronzes can exhibit territorial behaviors, but this inclination seems to vary by bronze. Non-metallics are rarely seen to exhibit territorial behaviors outside of prompting by the fair's gold.

The territoriality of golds was much reduced when dragons were developed, allowing for Weyrs to not have to spring up under every gold that hatches, but gold dragons are still less likely to form close bonds with each other than they are with lower ranked dragons, and feel the effects of overcrowding of their ranks far quickly and more sharply than the lower ranks.

Among firelizards greens only split off from their parent fair either when the population has swelled past capacity or to follow a gold sister, which makes trying to transferring greens between Weyrs it's own whole potential issue.

Bronzes, browns, and blues are the most commonly transferred ranks, both because they take to it so readily and because they yearn to transfer, age-old instincts telling them to set off and find new digs somewhere else. Under normal circumstances you can expect most Chasers in a Weyr to have hatched somewhere else.

Benden had a rough 450 years and a lot of cases of Chasing-pairs running off to who knows where.

This is known to the commonfolk as The Dragon Years, due to the number of small collections of chasers that settled in random locations around Pern. Later expeditions would find evidence some even made it as far as the Southern Continent.

The reduced territoriality didn't carry over as much to gold whers, and while they're far more tolerant of other golds than firelizards are they Do Not Share their territory.

Whers are, on the other hand, the only species of dragonkin that prefer to clutch communally. Firelizards and dragons will keep separate nests if at all possible, with golds getting first pick, but whers are more likely to pool their clutches together. It's thought this is likely a result of whers' tendency to allow adoption of their eggs, as opposed to dragons and firelizards who are loathe to let them out of their sight or even let others near them.

While dragons have their Weyrs, whers are far less centralized. You will, however, see wherholds pop-up repeatedly across Pern. Typically run by goldhandlers, these serve as both territories for bonded gold whers and as a form of minor crafthall for whers and handlers. Such inclined individuals and pairs can receive training as guards of settlements, caravans, or livestock, in mining and surveying, in hunting, and even survival and trade, before taking on work with relevant employers and/or transferring to learning at a Hall.

Greater Dragonkin have the highest rate of interspecies adoption known. Communal childrearing is the norm among dragonkin and their relatives- even seen in some species of tunnelsnake- and they readily accept other sapient species under their wings. Weyrbrats will commonly list dragons alongside their fosterparents, more than a few abandoned or neglected children has been raised nearly entirely by whers, and while less common even dragons raised by whers and whers raised by dragons are far from unheard of.

Dragonkin are firmly matriarchal, and many a Weyrleader has gotten hit upside the head with a reminder that while the humans may answer to him the dragons answer to the golds.

Dragonkin are primarily polygamous by nature. While it's not uncommon for them to have bestfriends and favorite partners, each will have a whole group that they Chase and/or allow to Chase.

Agriculture

Agriculture on Pern has a strong livestock bias, due both to their necessity as dragonkin feed and because they're the most cost effective and low risk option during a Pass.

Seriously, if Thread is coming you have to hope the dragons don't miss anything above your cropfield, while you can bring the most important animals under cover, and having a cropfield ruined means you don't get a harvest this season while having a pasture ruined means you need to harvest some of your animals early.

As a result of this a lot of items on Pern are made of animal products ahead of anything else. Bone, leather, horn, organs, sinew, hair, the Pernese do not waste a scrap.

It's also common for Pernese communities to switch over to increased fishing and fish farming at the beginning of a Pass, with the children of farmers often encouraged to get into the business early to ensure they're established when Thread brings with it a massive boom in fish populations and dip in the expense of raising fish.

In the end, you get more fruits and vegetables during an Interval than during a Pass, and a wider variety, while they become something closer to a luxury the deeper into a Pass you get. Strong focus becomes put on quick-growing, nutrient dense crops like beans, leafy greens, and select root vegetables, alongside anything you can grow indoors.

Humans & Dragonkin

The effect of dragonkin on the libido of humans not directly involved tends to be greatly exaggerated by Holders and Crafters. Greens and golds project when they Rise or Run, yes, but all it really does is ping off the horny receptors. Golds having more of an effect than greens and greater dragonkin more than firelizards.

Really with firelizards unless you have more than one involved in the Flight or you were already on the cusp of horny there's not gonna be that big an effect. Bystanders may not even notice. Dragons and whers, their bondeds really notice, dragons more than whers but still those bonds are strong and when either side gets caught up in intense feelings the other gets caught up as well.

Everyone talks about the horny but put a wherhandler on one of those wild rollercoasters and watch them and their wher become one entity in two bodies just as fast.

But yeah, if you aren't bonded to a dragonkin involved they're pinging off horny receptors, which leaves the response to really vary from person to person based on how horny they already were, their sex drive, how psychically inclined they are, etc.

But damned if a Flight or Run doesn't make for a good excuse when you get caught with the boss's wife.

Greater Dragonkin with very young Bondeds tend not to get involved in Flights and Runs, sometimes by choice and sometimes due to a feedback loop from their Bonded. In the former case they're more likely to just pick a direction and zoom, often with their Bonded riding, without putting out any pings until they've worn themselves out.

Searchdragons look for a lot of things while they're out and about, but mostly they look for dragon-shaped holes. Not technically, but it's a way to phrase it. Humans look for a lot of traits they think makes for a good rider but, the dragons are looking for people who have a space in themselves for a dragon to fit in. Firelizards don't need as much space, whers don't fit as much of themselves into their bonds (though they also look for people with wher-shaped spaces), but dragons need a lot of room in a person's person, and if it's not there then they just move right along.

[hyacinth-venom]

just remembered the fact that one of my first ocs wasn't even a gacha oc. and i had my gacha phase in 2019 like many of us did. my first oc was on animal jam play wild. when i was like. six or seven i think.

anyways, his name was Castle. ultimate edgelord. he was a black coyote decked in the bronze eagle set and those fake balloon wings. he was meant to be a void dragon or smth and i did all my roleplays with him. didn't matter where i went i was roleplaying with my baby boy Castle. labs, forests, royalty, schools, all the roleplays.

i kind of miss the times i could just shamelessly roleplay and i'd stay up all night playing out a storyline or hanging out with my old friends. that was peak socialization. now it looks like there's no more roleplaying and it's mostly trading whenever i go into the pillow room :[

[annikin-annotates]

Within a Wing Beat - The Blood Rite - Part I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen X Fem!OC

Word Count: 7.5K

Reblogs appreciated

Cluethael 

The sky outside her window was a deep indigo entwined with hues of deep blue and the last remaining tendrils of gold as the sun and moon traded places. Alia had braided half her hair into a coronet around her head, while the rest sat in meticulously fussed over waves. She bit back the urge to sigh and roll her eyes as Alia stepped back, admiring her handiwork before moving to the armoire to pick from the many, mostly unworn dresses; she had no idea why she even needed to wear a dress. 

Dinner was only a small affair between her mother, Emerie and Bragi - Emerie's husband, so there was never any need for extravagant gowns or intricate braids. She watched intently as Alia rummaged through the armoire, taking multiple dresses off hooks - holding them out and hanging them back up again. As Alia repeated the process, Cluethael couldn't help but suppress a small snicker, it earned her a half-hearted look from her handmaid. 

Alia had settled on a simple blue dress with matching moccasins, though she cringed at the thought of having to wear shoes that looked as if they would melt if they stayed in a puddle for too long. She was thankful that she was not yet old enough to be subjected to stays - no matter how freeing her sister claimed they were. Once she had been laced into her dress and her shoes had been slipped on, Alia took her leave, and it gave her a minute to admire herself in the mirror. 

She liked her upturned nose and the freckles that were smattered across her body, her arms specifically. Her eyes were also pretty - an interesting mix of blue-grey, a dark rim around her iris. As she turned from the mirror, she felt a sudden wave of pain in her jaw, her hand moving to her cheek as she scrunched her eyes and exhaled sharply. Her tongue ran over the front of her teeth as she made her way to her chamber door.

She was sure it was nothing to worry about.

The speckled brick of the small dining hall felt like home to Cluethael, its low backed chairs and their plush, deep purple cushions, with tapestries that depicted the descent of the Valkyries. Flickering candle light from the bronze candelabra that hung above the long, raw edge wood table, bathing the room in a warm, glorious glow. 

She was the last to arrive, as usual. All of her family sat in their chosen seats, her mother sat at the head of the table, Emerie to her right, Bragi beside her, and Cluethael to her mother’s left. They greeted her with wide smiles and nods as she sat down, flicking her wings over the back of the chair; she tried to ignore the worsening pain in her jaw, feeling a headache also beginning to bloom as well.  

Her family dined in the same hall almost every night, if it wasn’t here it was in the banquet hall at a feast. It was rare for Cluethael’s family to not dine together, no matter the circumstances. It was a chance for them to share what had happened in their days, things they found interesting; there was no talk of politics or of court that day. There was  only the love that the family had for each other, only laughter and happiness - a family. 

The rich smells of roast meat and vegetables made her mouth water, all of her favourites had been put out. Thick slices of venison sat on manchets, steam still rising from it. A hearty vegetable stew sat in a large copper bowl, the outside dented and dimpled with use. Smaller bowls were dotted around the table, each filled with something different, some with nuts and fruits, while others held potatoes, peas and carrots. A salmon pie sat in the centre of the table, its crust buttery and flaky, the salmon on top of the pie had been layered to emulate the petals of a rose. 

Conversation always flowed freely between the four of them; her mother would often talk about stories of when she was young, making Cluethael think that perhaps her mother missed the simplicity of childhood. She found her thoughts drifting to that sunny day when she and Aemond sat in the field of wildflowers for hours and talked, how she flew him back to the castle. His absence was often felt by Cluethael; she often wished she had become Queen Alicent’s ward. 

The chair scraped across the cobble floor as she stood up abruptly, the conversation stopping as they turned to her. 

“May I be excused, mother?” She asked, wincing each time she spoke. 

Her mothers eyebrows furrowed, “Are you alright, my girl?” her mother questioned. Cluethael watched as her mother’s eyes travelled to her plate, narrowing as she looked at the mostly untouched food, “You have hardly touched your supper,” she added. 

Cluethael smiled slightly. “I am well mother, just tired,” she lied, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth in an attempt to relieve some of the throbbing pain. She resisted the urge to sigh with relief as her mother nodded, allowing her to be excused. She all but turned tail and ran out of the dining room. 

The logs snapped and cracked in the hearth on the far side of her chambers, bathing it in a saffron yellow. Cluethael shed her shoes as soon as the door closed behind her, the heat of the fire had taken away the cold bite the stone floor had on her bare feet. Her small nimble fingers made quick work of the laces on her dress, thankful that due to her wings, that all her laces started at her waist and not at her nape. 

Her night dress felt soft on her skin as she slipped it over her head, allowing it to fall and settle on her shoulders. She perched herself on the bench seat at her vanity, beginning to slowly unpick the braid, brushing through it softly with a bristled brush to remove any tangles. Her whole head felt like it was in the smith's vice, with each hammer strike came another wave of pain in her temples. 

She winced at the pain as she made her way to her bed, sinking into the soft mattress, throwing the downy covers over her head to block out the glow of the flame. She forced her eyes to close and hoped that by the morning she felt normal. A restless sleep took her.

—

The throbbing pain in her skull roused her from her sleep, her eyes squinting from both the pain and the light in the room. Her hand came to rest lightly on her forehead to shield her eyes from the blinding light as she tried to huddle under the downy covers. She hissed and pulled away as a searing pain reverberated through her skull. “Ouch!” she cried. She closed her eyes taking slow deep breaths trying to quell the nausea bubbling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach.

Once she felt that the nausea had passed enough, she slowly sat up in her bed, her eyes half lidded to try and block out as much light as she could without closing them. A heavy breath escaped her lips as she gingerly shifted her legs to swing over the side of the bed, her wings fanning out on either side of her. 

She gritted her teeth and stumbled forward as she stood up, her hands jutting out to catch herself on the sturdy bedpost. Her breaths became shaky as she clung to the bed frame and she was terrified to move. Don’t be silly, it’s probably nothing! She reasoned with herself, continuing towards the long mirror in her room, eyes still half lidded. 

Her knees buckled as she got to the mirror, causing her to slide across the stone floor and scraped her knee; her lip trembled as the pinching pain in her knee worsened. Small droplets of blood began to bubble through the broken skin, she threw her head back in a silent cry. Why do all the unfortunate things happen to me? She thought to herself, shifting her body so she now sat with her non-scraped knee tucked up and her scraped one sticking straight out. 

She focused her attention to the bottom half of the long mirror where she sat, pretending not to notice the horns beginning to sprout from her head at first. The small nubs sat just before her hairline stopped, she let out a surprised cry; as she did so, she noticed the rather sharp pair of incisors that now sat in her mouth. That would explain the tooth ache last night, she huffed. 

Without thinking, she brought a shaky hand to the small horns on her head and closed her eyes in anticipation of the stabbing pain again. But her own touch was so soft she barely felt the roughness of the horn on her fingertips. Panic filled her veins, as if she had been doused in icy water. Gods, what do I do? I can’t show my face like this! People would think me a beast! Hot tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she looked at her own hideous visage in the mirror. 

She did not know what to do nor did she understand what was happening to her, nobody her age had miraculously begun to sprout horns overnight. It wasn’t normal, this was not normal. The only person she could think to turn to was her sister, she would know what to do. She stood from the stone floor and pulled on her housecoat, ruffling her hair in an attempt to hide the nubbins protruding from her forehead.

She stalked down the hallway to her sister’s chambers, holding her breath as she passed her mother's solar. Silently she inched her sister’s door open, peeking through the crack to see her happily sitting in a large chair embroidering something on a large piece of cloth. Emerie’s head lifted to see the dishevelled mop of dark hair that belonged to her little sister. 

Emerie stood immediately and ushered her inside, the mild amusement faded as she watched her little sister look around the room in a panic. “What is the matter?” she asked softly, a slender brow arched with worry.

“Can you keep a secret?” her sister replied, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease a small amount when her older sister nodded. It was all she needed to devolve into a flushed panic of stammers and half sobs, trying to explain what happened. “I - I went to bed last night and everything was fine - I scraped my knee, I almost, I - I -” her sister stopped her stammering by pulling her into a tight embrace. 

“Sh, sh, sh. Take a breath - what happened?” she asked again, her voice a soothing balm on her anxieties.

 She took a deep breath, and then another before stepping back from her sister and wiped her tears before beginning to speak.“This,” she started, pushing her curls away from her forehead to reveal the two small horns on the brim of her hairline.

Her sister couldn’t hold back a gasp as Emerie's eyes connected with her siblings head.“Cluethael, you have to tell mother,” she chided.

She shook her head furiously. “No. I can’t. I won’t,” she argued, her lip beginning to tremble once more. 

Emerie sighed heavily, “Mother would want to know. And besides - it’s not as if you can hide them for long,” she half joked. She threw Emerie a half-hearted glare, she knew that her older sister was right, but how? How could this happen? What would she tell her mother?

She scuffed her feet in front of Emerie, who sighed and took her by the forearm, dragging her towards their mother’s solar. “No!” she spat in a hushed tone as she struggled in her sister’s grasp, her clawed grip didn’t weaken. The youngest sibling went limp in her sister’s grip, her knees colliding with the floor - she hissed from the scrape she forgot about. 

She nearly took her older sister with her as she fell to her knees and laid flat on her stomach, the cobblestone pressed to her cheeks. Emerie sighed heavily, rolling her eyes at a muffled, ‘I’m not moving,’ that came from the cumbersome lump of wings on the floor. Emerie bent down and took each of her ankles into her calloused hands and began to drag her to her mothers rooms. Her little talons screeched and scraped along the floor as she shamelessly let her sister drag her. 

Emerie heaved her sister to their mother’s door, leaving her to her own devices but not without first pointing a finger at her. “You tell her, or I do, Clue,” Emerie told her, her face incandescent with matriarchal potential. 

Cluethael pulled herself from the floor and knocked on her mother’s door, waiting for her soft admission of entrance. She had no idea how she would start the conversation, though she assumed she wouldn’t have too, as the ugly nubs would do it for her. She entered her mothers solar, the smell of citrus and crackling fire wrapped its tendrils around her, calming her. 

Her mother turned to greet her youngest only to stop short, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Cluethael closed her eyes and winced, awaiting whatever onslaught she would receive. Except there was no onslaught, no yelling, only a soft hand on her cheek. 

“You look so much like him,” her mother whispered, in a tone she couldn’t quite place.

“Like who?” she asked tentatively.

“Like your father,” her mother paused, “He had horns too.”

Oh.

Her mother adjourned any meetings she had for the day and took Cluethael to the gardens. Her mother shared how she met her father and what he had been like. Cluethael felt comforted with her mother's words, less alone knowing she wasn't the only one, how she now had a small piece of her father as reminder that he was still here.

Cluethael returned to her chambers that night with a book from the private library, running her fingers over the gold embossed lettering on the cover. She spent most of the evening and well into the hour of the owl reading her family history, where her father came from, what their family's roots were, every piece of knowledge she could get. 

It turned out that her family had come from Old Valyria, they had been an amalgamation of both human and dragon. The inhabitants of Old Valyria had meddled in blood magic to create a line that did not need to rely on dragons as transport. What is now known as her house was used as unwilling test subjects, having them ingest the blood to see if it would imbue them with dragon-like characteristics. 

It did.

They grew wings and tails and horns in some cases, some even grew to possess dark magic, but it all fell apart soon after it began. What little had been left of the house was destroyed in the Doom, but some members of the family survived, fleeing with Daenys Targaryen - after heeding her prophetic dreams. They settled in a region offshore, past the crownlands and further north than even the wildlings were willing to venture.

Drageheim. 

Cluethael dreamt of dragons and flames that night, of galant princes and sword wielding princesses, of worlds that felt so far out of reach. 

—

The next day, her mother brought her to court, very pleased that her youngest had sprouted a pair of ever elusive horns. Just in the process of walking from her room to the antechamber outside of where her mother held court, Cluethael had been stopped multiple times to be congratulated. She wasn’t sure why, but it made her feel safe, respected, and seen, she felt the same blood as her father’s coursing through her.

The blood of the dragon. 

For the first time in a long time, she sat through the entirety of court, her primary role was to listen, but sometimes it would be to greet Lords and Ladies that had travelled to seek an audience with her mother. Sitting in her chair on the dias with her mother, listening patiently to what the lords were saying. By the end of it all, she had learned that her people were to begin mobilising against the triarchy in the stepstones. Cluethael’s heart sank, an awful feeling washing over her, many people would be called to war; including her beloved teacher Kylan. 

The time for her to leave for Valkyrie training drew closer with each passing day, which meant that Kylan had to finally introduce her to live steel. Cluethael tried every weapon she could get her hands on, eager to try something new each day. But she excelled in a few weapons, a short bow, a rope dart and, naturally, a short sword. She spent hours each day with Kylan finessing her attacks and making sure her stances were perfect. 

The sword in her hand hummed in her hand as Kylan’s screeched against it, the sound ear piercingly sharp. Cluethael parried and twirled the sword in her hand, pressing the flat of the blade to the nape of Kylan’s neck.

“What do you expect to do with the flat of the blade, princess,” Kylan asked, a wry grin spreading across his bearded face, silver whiskers slowly beginning to become visible. 

“Not kill you,” she replied, myrth dancing in her eyes. 

Kylan shook his head, trying to hide the smile on his lips “All right then, off you go princess,” his tone light as he took the sword from her hand and shooed her off to attend her other lessons. 

Cluethael hated her lessons with her septa, a gaunt faced woman with sage green eyes and a short temper. She made her do all the things she thought she would never need, who needed to know how to needle work quotes from the book of the seven, anyway? Her writing was always slanted or her threads became tangled, she didn’t know how many times she had been reprimanded for throwing the blasted hoop across the room. 

Though she did agree that it was very cathartic to stab something over and over, especially when she imagined it was her septa's face. She may not have excelled in women's studies, but she did excel in history, astronomy, and languages - especially High Valyrian. She never understood how she picked the language up so quickly, but now she did. 

“Visenya iksin jittan naejot ondoso aegon naejot se vīlībāzma, ziry māstan hen se jēdar bē vhagar,” The septon said, his beady eyes snapping her back to attention. 

Cluethael cleared her throat, replaying the sentence over in her head, picking apart the words she did know, vīlībāzma was battle and Visenya was, well, Visenya.  “Visenya was sent forward by Aegon to the battle, she came from the sky upon Vhagar,” she answered. 

The septons eyes lit up, “Well done Princess, how about we try something a little more difficult,” he began. She spent the next few hours listening, translating and writing down any words she didn’t know in High Valyrian. The hours always seemed to breeze by when she was learning the language and about Old Valyria. 

Weeks passed, one day seamlessly bleeding into the next, she attended her lessons with her septa and septon, training with Kylan, and court with her mother. She spent every second biding her time for her nameday to arrive. The day before her name day celebration, Runa had suggested they leave early in the morning to fly to their secret island and watch the sunrise together. Cluethael had agreed without question, she loved spending time with her closest friend and confidant. 

She dressed early that morning, in her boots and fur lined leathers, the chill of the winter months was starting to set in. She wiggled her feet as she slid the knitted socks up her legs, putting on her boots and lacing them tightly. She brushed and braided her hair, pulling her dark tresses back from her face, her horns had grown some, now a few inches longer, slowly beginning to curl around her temples.  

Her footsteps were quiet as she made her way to the window, nimble fingers working at the locked latch until the window popped open. Her mother had the latches changed after Emerie had told mother about her late night flights, little did her mother know - the locks were rather easy to unpick. 

The settee beside the window was her stepstone to freedom, she climbed out through the window and let go of the ledge. The whipping winds of the surf below were strong enough for her to hover and pull the window closed. Her wings tucked to her as she entered a freefall, closing her eyes as she felt the wind lash against her skin. 

Flying has always made her feel free, flying was exhilaration, it was happiness - it was freedom. Freedom in a world where girls like her didn’t get a choice, they are groomed to do what their parents told them to do, and then later, groomed to do what their husbands want. That life wasn’t for Cluethael, she knew it in her heart. 

Cluethael met Runa on the cliff side, smiling at her as she hovered over the cliff’s edge “Hurry up then, Slow poke!” she giggled, diving down the cliff face and towards the endless rolling ocean. Both of them giggled and twirled around each other as they flew over the endless cerulean blue of the ocean, the expanse of darkness broken by an occasional ship and the foam of breaking waves. 

They had begun to fly higher and higher into the sky, through the soft clouds and to the headwinds, a trail of cirrus following both of them. They grasped hands and wrapped around each other, as if dancing in mid air, the weightlessness fueling their childish sense of wonder. Her wings instinctually opened to hover in the headwinds so she could enjoy the breathtaking winter morning that they had for themselves. The pinky orange hue was beginning to warm the icy blue sky, the sun's rays causing the harsh ridges of the snow crested mountains to shimmer and glow. 

The soft lapping of the waves against the rock below them was soothing, from where they were, propped up against an oak overlooking the ocean. “I wish we could stay here forever, just us,” Runa said softly, her head laid comfortably in Cluethaels lap. 

“I know, it's beautiful, it's our piece of the world,” Cluethael replied, running her fingers through her friend's russet coloured hair. She was unsure why she felt this way with Runa, her heart would quicken and her face would become hot to the touch when she was around, and more recently she had begun to stutter in her presence.  

There was a beat of silence that hung between them, neither of them wanted to address the dark cloud that loomed over them. 

“Are you frightened?” Runa asked, her voice soft, contemplative. 

Cluethael thought for a moment, she had never been more terrified than she had been in the last few weeks, with war looming and leaving her mother and sister behind for a year while she trained terrified her. 

After a moment, she began to speak. “No, I’m not,” she breathed. “I have spent my life preparing for this, my sister did too, as did my mother and her mother before her. I think if I was to be afraid, it would be an admission of my own weakness,” she lied. 

She could feel Runa pause for a second “I suppose you’re right, I think we should head back. The castle will be thruming with excitement about your celebration tomorrow,” Runa gleamed, though something seemed off about it, it was too toothy - too forced. Cluethael nodded, taking Runa’s offered hand to get up. 

“Race you!” Runa giggled, shooting up into the air.

“You’re on!” Cluethael replied, following close behind. 

—

The party thrummed with excitement, Lords and Ladies danced in elegantly choreographed dances as their children spun in circles until they became dizzy. Tapestries of their house emblem, a horned bat in flight over three mountains, hung proudly in the banquet hall. A band of minstrels were playing at full force, music filling every corner of the cavernous space. Cluethael had been dressed in her finest gown, a lovely shade of silver grey, small rubies hung at her lobes, her house colours. Her tresses had been braided with all types of wildflowers, black eyed susan’s, sunjewels, daisies, it took Alia hours of brushing and weaving to get them how she wanted them. 

The hall had been full of the rich smells of food, several long tables sat at the outside edge ladened with food of all types. Traditional dishes of thick chunks of beef simmered in a dark and sticky sauce, westerosi lemon cakes and her personal favourite; ginger cake. A beautiful sugar sotiltees sat as a centrepiece on one of the tables, depicting one of Cluethael’s favourite fables; The Descent of the Valkyrie. Sweet wine was served with a heavy hand, the more that guests consumed, the happier they looked and the more they danced.

Family from all over came to celebrate her name day and her venture to Valkyrie Village on the morrow. Though she was most excited to see her cousin Brynjar who had come from the Onyx city with his father Eriling. Cluethael had missed her cousin dearly in his absence, and was excited to see what mischief he had been up to. 

Cluethael ran to Brynjar as soon as she saw his dark mop of curls stalk into the banquet hall, Brynjar was a wily young man, always up to mischief and getting himself into trouble. She crushed him in a tight hug, a fit of giggles tumbling out of both of them as they almost tumbled onto the floor.

“Brynjar! How have you been?” she asked, vibrating with excitement.

He grinned a toothy grin at her “I have been well cousin, I have missed you, playing japes by myself is not as fun without you,” he replied, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. 

Cluethael rolled her eyes, “I have no doubt that you and your japes are fine without me, you nearly set the stables on fire the last time you were here,” she giggled.

“Hey! You helped with that!” Brynjar laughed, nudging her arm playfully. “Oh! Before I forget, I have a gift for you,” he added, handing her a long, thin wooden box.

She raised her eyebrows in suspicion and gingerly took the box from his hands “Is a snake going to jump out at me?” she questioned, her eyes narrowing. 

Brynjar shook his head, wild black tresses grazing his shoulders “Not this time, I promise you will like the gift.”

Cluethael sighed before opening the box, a small gasp escaped her. Inside the box sat a thin silver chain with a black gem set with small diamonds, “Oh, ‘tis beautiful Brynjar. What a lovely gift, thank you,” she gasped, slipping the chain around her wrist and allowing Brynjar to clasp it for her. 

She spent the rest of the night dancing with her cousin and her friends, pushing away the thoughts of tomorrow. For now, tomorrow was forever away. 

—

There was silence when she woke, deafening silence. 

Cluethael couldn’t shake that heavy feeling gnawing at the pit of her stomach, it made her feel as though she would be sick at any moment. Grey clouds hung heavy in the sky outside her window, it seemed as though the whole castle was in morning, preparing for the departure of their children.

Her mother came to dress her that morning, taking the time to delicately brush and braid her hair, weaving prayers of strength and protection into each strand. This morning would be some of the last few moments she had with her mother for a year. She pretended that she couldn’t hear her mother speak her prayers in their native tongue, or the wavering in her voice as she spoke. 

“Kostilus gaomagon daor rual morghon naejot gūrogon ñuha riña ” 

 Please do not allow death to take my child. 

“Kostagon se ra isse se guēsin henujagon ñuha riña sagon”

May the things in the forest leave my child be

“Ñuha riña ēdruta māzigon lenton naejot nyke” 

My child must return home.

“Mīsagon zirȳla hen ōdrikagon”

Protect her from harm. 

She bit back the tears as she watched her mothers face knit tightly with worry as she fussed over the tail of her braid. “Mother, it is okay. I will come home - I promise,” Cluethael offered, taking her mothers trembling hands in her own unsteady ones. Her mother pulled her into a tight hug, resting her head on top of her own, she hugged her mother back tightly, swallowing the thickness that had begun to gather in her throat. 

Cluethael dressed herself quietly, pulling on her leathers and tying her boots. As she did so, she found her mind drifting back to a silver haired boy, she wondered what he was up to and if he could feel what she was feeling right now. Descending the stairs felt painstakingly slow today, like time was trying to claw her backwards. She walked in front of both her mother and sister today, for the first and last time, she was the guest of honour.

The sacrificial lamb.  

Hushed whispers fell over the crowd amassed in the castle courtyard, as the three of them entered, all of them bowing their heads in respect to the royal family. The vague shapes of a murmuration of winged bodies became more and more clear. Emerie shifted nervously at her left, running her hand instinctively over her belly, her mother rolled her shoulders back - she could feel the nervous energy thrumming between them. It was only then after so many years that she finally questioned if this was what she really wanted, but would turning back now after so long be worth the shame? 

It was now Cluethael realised why her mother longed for the simplicity of childhood. 

Her eyes shifted to the stone steps beneath her feet, she couldn’t bring herself to look any of the returning girls in the eye. All of them looked so sad. Their eyes were sunken, dark and rimmed with redness, as if tears had recently been shed. A firm hand gripped her shoulder as the newly minted warriors returned to their families, she could see some of them flinch as their parents embraced them, others out right pushed them away.

She had seen many girls her age come and go from the Valkyrie camp. It wasn’t until now, the day that she was destined to leave - that she saw the looks on their faces, or the fact that nearly half of them were missing. They looked aged and so broken - like they had seen too much too young, the same look that Emerie had when she returned. 

The thrumming of blood rushing in her ears drowned out the conversation her mother was having with a greying Valkyrie. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene laid out before her, she could already feel the years of confidence that had been building in her beginning to fizzle out. 

The flight to Valkyrie Village had been long and arduous, her shoulders ached and her stomach rumbled for food. On arrival they were given one pair of training leathers and one pair of boots, she couldn’t help but feel left out of the buzz that ran through all of them. She felt disjointed from the group and from her own friend, who had left her almost instantaneously to make other friends. All of the girls looked upon Cleuthael with scornful eyes, you do not belong here, they told her. 

Maybe they were right.

They had all been ushered through the winding frost bitten pathway to a warm and well lit feasting hall. Its ceilings were high and rounded, the upper part of the hall was surrounded by a  balustrade. Instead of being fed, they found themselves gathered around a long table full of rocks, all of them different colours and shapes. A blonde haired Valkyrie with dark feathered wings and striking blue eyes stepped towards them.

“Take your time in looking, the rock you choose will be the rock you take to the summit at the end of the year. You will guard this with your life, it is your sworn duty to get it where it needs to go. You will not receive a back up, if you lose it - you leave,” she spoke firmly, her voice sounding millenia older than she looked.

An oval shaped onyx stone called to her, its edges were jagged and thin, it looked unassuming - but dangerous, just like her. She stepped forward without thinking and plucked the stone from the table in front of them. 

“Looks like the Stupid Sow picked her stone,” a gaunt face, buck toothed girl giggled, Cluethael glared at her, but ignored it.

“Cluethael is a part of your sister hood, you will treat her with respect,” the blonde woman chastised. Though Cluethael could tell that none of them would heed the warning. She waited silently as the rest of the group picked their preferred rocks, some picked pebbles, which she thought could be too easily lost. While others chose rocks that were far too big, all because they looked more interesting. 

Dinner had been fine, for the most part. A small wooden bowl of pottage, containing a few cubes of meat and bran and a slice of brown bread on the side. It was simple, a smaller portion than what she was used to but she was sure that overtime she would become used to it. 

The first day of training had been hard, harder than any drill Kylan had put her through, they worked through numerous stances again and again. Held swords in their outstretched arms until they shook with the weight and then started the process again. Girls cried out in frustration and pain, and when training was over, they would take it out on her.

She thought that perhaps this experience would allow her to make new friends and strengthen the friendships she already had. It seemed that Cluethael was not worth knowing or getting to know, instead she was ostracised, called names and bullied relentlessly. No matter what she did, they would always find a way to make fun of her for it, not even Runa stood by her. 

It was days the girls were particularly harsh that she found she missed her home the most. She pined for the days when she had a soft feather bed to sleep in and food in her stomach, the days before she had been sent here. The bullying became worse as Cluethael grew because as she grew - so did her horns. It did not matter if she had proved herself time and time again that she was a force to be reckoned with.  

—

“Alright recruits! Prepare yourselves and meet me at the training grounds!” A tight-lipped Valkyrie barked into the barn where Cluethael and the other recruits slept. 

Cluethael pried her eyes open, the light streaming in from the open barn door, groaning at the pleasant tingling sensation as she stretched her tense muscles. Her bones groaned and ached as she stood to begin dressing, the novelty of being a Valkyrie in training having worn off many moons ago. 

She tightened the laces on her leathers, the worn material having become soft and malleable as it conformed to her body. Cluethael made quick work of her hair, brushing and braiding the tresses around her head. The tighter and closer the braid was to her scalp; the less likely her opponents would be to use it as means to force her down. 

As she stepped from beneath the thatch roof she lifted her head to gaze at the glorious sight before her. A thick layer of powdery snow blanketed everything, towering pines that lined the path to the training grounds bowed under the weight of it. Thick fog hung in the valley below the village, rolling and lashing at the mountainside like waves against a ship. 

There was nothing as stunning as the sky above her, a tapestry threaded with silks of lavender, blue and gold. The warmth of the sun just cresting over the snow capped mountains that stood steadfast in their positions around the valley. Cold snow met her hands and face, followed by a chorus of shrill cackles from the group who had made it their personal mission to make Cluethael’s life hell.  

They pointed and laughed at her, she had lovingly been given the pet name ‘Goat girl’; it seemed that in the absence of adults, young girls only became more vicious. She sighed as she brushed the snow from her face, the icy water dripping underneath the neckline of her leathers. Her mother always taught her to take the diplomatic approach to nastiness, to turn the other cheek after one had been struck. 

She did not wish to turn her cheek anymore.  

Cluethael walked a few paces behind the rest of the groups, admiring the tree-lined path that skirted along the edge of the forest. It seemed to be teeming with life, birds flitting from branches to their nests, their kill still squirming between their breaks. Woodland creatures scampered deeper into the underbrush at the sound of the group, eyes peering over fallen logs, waiting for it to be safe once more. 

The training ground was a simple clearing in the trees, lined with rocks and cleared of snow, the dirt beneath it frozen solid. The same tense-faced Valkyrie that had roused them descended from the sky, the beats of her wings enough to send a few of the girls tumbling to the ground. Cluethael shielded her face from the wind that whipped around them, a giddy grin spreading across her face. That simple action was enough to remind her why she was here, to become a warrior.  

“This day officially marks one month to the Blood Rite,” she clasped her hands together, her talons were weapons in their own right. 

“To celebrate that, you will start to spar each other, now is the time to put all you have learned to use,” Cluethael stood tense as she watched the Valkyrie scan the crowd of girls.

Stopping on a familiar ginger haired girl, and then on a chestnut haired girl. Cluethael’s stomach twisted painfully as she watched both girls step forward, Brynn caught the staff with ease, while her opponent fumbled, the pole slipping from her fingers and falling into the dirt.  

The chestnut haired girl - Aeilswith she believed her name was, was slight of frame, her arms no thicker than the staff she held in her spindly fingers. Brynn was going to eat her alive, and there was nothing she could do about it, once a challenge begins it cannot be tampered with. 

“No better time than now,” the Valkyrie prompted. Neither girl moved from their spots, “Well go on then!” she shouted, pulling them both into the ring before stepping out of the way.

What ensued after Aeilswith stepped into the ring was nothing short of blatant brutality, Brynn had struck her so hard that her bones snapped with the force. Aeilswith’s scream tore through the air, it was agony mixed with frustration, the exercise was stopped short and Aeilswith was carried from the training grounds screaming in pain. 

Dinner felt sour that night, the rabbit in the stew was far too gamey - not suited for eating; the barley was grainy and -

Something wet slapped her cheek, she brought her hand up to wipe it from her face - it was stew, the thick brown substance was enough for her to surge from her seat. Making her way to where Brynn and her gaggle of girls sat, all of them forcing down smirks as she approached. Nudging each other and waiting for her to speak, it was the final stroke for Cluethael. 

What her mother had failed to tell her was that some people would not appreciate her presence, regardless of her niceties. They would get in her way in spite of it, there would be no more, she would quash it here and now. 

“If you have a problem with me, Brynn. Instead of being a child, take it up with me directly. Meet me at the training grounds after the candles are snuffed, we will settle our differences.” She didn't give Brynn time to make a snide remark, as she turned on her heel and left the hall. 

She made for the outskirts of the village to pass the time, sighing as she perched herself on a boulder. Her gaze moved upwards towards the velveteen sky, the stars looked as if they were crystals sewn onto a gown fit for a goddess. Without warning her voice bubbled up her throat, bringing with it a name shehand not spoken in a while. 

“I know not if you are listening, father - but if you are, please tell me what to do,” Her throat burned as it constricted, hot tears pricking at her eyes. She rolled the seven pointed star between her pointer finger and thumb, tarnished over time from the repeated motion. 

“I do not know how all those before me did this, I don’t want to do this anymore,” Cluethael choked out a sob, suddenly ceasing as footsteps broke the silence. 

“Oh father save me, I know not what to do!” Brynn mocked viciously, her fiery hair glowing even in the moonlight. 

“I see you have brought friends,” Cluethael bit. She was not surprised in the slightest that she had brought back up with her, it was in her nature to make a show of everything she did. 

Neither of them wasted any time in moving to the circle, both eager to take the other down a few pegs, both of them snatching a staff each from the rack by the circle. They circled each other, sizing one another up before striking. Brynn lunged at her, her lumbering frame allowing her to evade the attack. Bryn recovered immediately, lurching towards Cluethael, Brynn’s staff cutting through the air and making contact with Cluethael’s knee. 

Cluethael hissed at the sudden pain in her joint, grinding her teeth as the brought the staff down, colliding with Brynn’s shoulder. Wood splintered and cracked as the staffs clashed, both weapons were thrown down, the training exercise had become a brawl. Cluethael’s body was sore and stiff but she gritted through the pain. Pushing herself past the threshold of pain and well into the realm of agony, the cheers of delight went unheard, her mind honed in on the red haired opponent currently trying to drive her talons into Cluethael’s throat. 

She threw a punch that sent a resounding crack through the air, Cluethaiel’s muscles groaning in protest as she did so. Her opponent staggered back a few paces, and Cluethael switched from a defensive position to an offensive one. She wasted no time advancing on her,  knocking her down with a beat of her wings, Cluethatel pounced on the red head, pressing her talons to the base of her throat. 

She struggled beneath her weight and Cluethael pressed her talons harder on her throat, enough to draw blood. The alarming notion that she could end Brynn’s life with a simple slice of her claws, it both excited and terrified her. A firm hand ripped her off of her opponent, sending her skidding across the icy ground. 

She was descended upon by three sets of talons as she struggled and kicked her attackers, not keen to give up without a fight. She let out a guttural scream as she forced her talons through one girl's hand, she pulled back in a panic, clutching her hand as golden ichor poured from the wound. It was enough to scare off Brynn’s cronies, leaving them to unleash on each other. 

Flashes of all they had put her through ran through her head, like rapids down the side of a mountain. Her anger carved away pieces of herself, for months she let them do as they wished to her, letting her anger grow from a flicker to something biblical. It was something incoherent and inconsolable. 

Her anger came in the form of a calculated slash to the back of Brynn’s knee, dropping her to the ground. Cluethael was mid strike to Brynn’s face as she was interrupted by a booming voice;

“And what do you think the both of you are doing?” the voice exclaimed, causing both Brynn and Cluethael to stagger back from one another. 

Brynn and Cluethael were dragged from the training circle battered and bruised, Brynn with a cut on her throat, a slashed knee and a black eye, and Cluethael with a busted lip and a bloody nose. Cluethael did not care about the bloody nose or the fat lip; she had succeeded in showing Brynn that she was not to be trifled with. Even if it did mean that she would receive punishment, she would gladly take it, victory was enough to leach the pain away and replace it with pride. 

[st-just]

Random worldbuilding question #9!

re:

What aesthetics are considered “advanced” or “futuristic” in your world - canvas wings, shiny chrome, smooth plastic? How has this changed over time?

Okay so realizing after the fact that I’ve got at least three different relatively thought out settings each of which have multiple cultures/groups who probably have different answers for most of these questions, so! Lets pick semi-randomly and then lose track of the question and write seven hundred words of vaguely related free verse.

In most of Abhari, to be ‘advanced’ is to be similar to the latest fashions of the Sublime Commonwealth – the Committee on Industry and Progress is almost universally considered the most important body of state below the Grand Secretariat itself, after all. To be advanced means to be godless, the harvests and tides governed by mesmerisingly complex arrays of mirrored bronze directing aether in accordance to the dictates of Universal Reason. It means rectangular fields and ubiquitous canals, and government by sexless bureaucrats in grey coats and red hats, without family name or native tongue. Schoolhouses and conscription, and architecture that’s long on geometric patterns and short on portraits or idols.

‘Futuristic’ goes a bit beyond that, and the palette to draw with is clockwork and light. Pocketwatches and orreries and everything in between, automota doing the work of couriers and carriages on immaculate city streets, or self-propelled artillery crawling along mountain passes on spidery legs. Grand, illuminated libraries where the secrets and histories of the entire world have been transcribed into a single comprehensible tongue for any member of the public to peruse. Mirrors and lamplight and eyeglasses, and endless, endless reams of paper; every page full of facts and figures, or carefully transcribed reports.

Outsider the Commonwealth, there’s more variance. The artificers and guildmasters of the Holy Illyrin Empire and its sprawling array of vassals and dependencies would, as a rule, take being called ‘futuristic’ as a grave insult, to imply that their work is in some way distinct from their august predecessors is very nearly the same thing as calling them a fraud. Every worthwhile secret of craft and artifice was discovered by ancient masters centuries ago, even if it has perhaps only been unearthed and put to use quite recently by an appropriately respectful modern disciple. To be advanced in the positive sense in to be similar to the Imperial Court, and when the seasons change aristocratic fashion filters out across the land with some delay but enough force to make up for it.

The most impressive and famous workings are full of pomp and ceremony, ancient ritual and treasured heirlooms. The fashion at the moment leans towards ostentatious luxury – floor length cloaks and gowns, proudly displayed tokens of divine favour or noble patronage, cloth of gold and magnificent jewellery, a whole language of gems and patterns to advertise how ones sabre or necklace is enchanted. The most glorious are waited upon by called and bound devils, the right to command the labour of a condemned spirit and set the terms of its parole proof of their honour and lineage.

Conversely, no genius or savant of the Free Cities would object to having their work called futuristic – the heroic figure wresting some world-changing secret from an ancient tomb or the mind of a demon or the depths of their own imagination and winning fame and fortune for it is exactly what all of them are aspiring to be. If a well-read traveller’s image of a ‘city of the future’ isn’t one of the Commonwealth’s idealized and efficient geometric grids, it is surely Celmy or Khasal, sprawling and three-dimensional, full of unmapable paths that cut across each other at nonexistant angles to create impossible shortcuts.

To be advanced is to be rich, to sit at the heart of a globe-spanning trading empire whose markets are full of spices and textiles from continents away, to live in a city that others fight for the chance to visit, where the mere fact of citizenship is enough for magnates to woo you with feasts and festivals for your support in the Assembly. Little distinction is made between a novelty unearthed in a foreign land and brought home and one invented in a workshop down the street – the fact of something being an exotic novelty makes its presence as futuristic as any truly new innovation, and as worth showing off. The aesthetic is spectacle without much thought for restraint or modesty – silver and flame, strongmen and fleshweavers, ecstatic communion or sadistic demonbinding, monumental architecture or a more efficient mill; anything at all that demonstrates a personal surpassing of ones natural state.

[pandrosion]

There’s a phenomenon among right leaning Western men which is sort of embodied by Costin Alamariu, better known as Bronze Age Pervert on social media. It’s the veneration of a variety of fascist ideologues such as Yukio Mishima in tandem with the Nietzschean revival of European paganism. They think of them as their predecessors whose philosophical acumen they have inherited in order to channel a primordial and archaic masculinity, and the political consensus among the dissident right is that “men are naturally inclined to defend their culture and ancestral heritage”, until the men in question are Arab Muslims, their Arab counterparts and Palestinian men in particular are somehow expected to be anomalies of nature by being complicit in their own extinction. For a seemingly radical political grouping they are rather politically illiterate as they presuppose that nationalism is solely a Western prerogative and not an avenue for people overseas anyhow. ( At least Richard Spencer and Nick Fuentes have a somewhat coherent position in regards to geopolitics and acknowledge that any native population is going to resist foreign occupation. )

The irony is of course that Palestinian men in particular encapsulate the Apollonian spirit by taking up arms in their late teens and early twenties and thus irreversibly altering history, the immediacy and instantaneity of the present ultimately rupturing the future. When a random male in the Jenin refugee camp in the West Bank says “I have no other choice but resist until I die because as things are, I’m dead while breathing”, that encapsulates the Nietzschean vitality and archaic ideals of masculinity more than any aesthetic moodboard uploaded on social media by Alamariu and his audience of gymcels. Their primordial and archaic European belligerence is confined to the virtual domain where they just engage in the right wing equivalent of self referential identity politics, it is ultimately nothing but the mere aestheticization of politics, as Walter Benjamin put it.

Where are the Landian accelerationists? Oh right they are going back and forth in a thread on X, while male teenagers abroad are disrupting international trade and causing economic losses of about 360 million euros per hour.

What’s particularly curious about the dissident right is that a considerable amount of some of its most notable figures, e.g. Costin Alamariu or Mike Cernovich, are Jewish ethnonationalists, which explains their hostility towards Arab Muslims in particular, while simultaneously exemplifying that Zionism is in fact an extension of European fascism. Fascism just happens to be a juxtaposition of distinct ideas hence why Nietzsche, a disabled man of Slavic descent, eventually became a figurehead of German fascism along the way.

[goldenguillotines]

4, 17, 21, 47, 46, 54 Ast/Zev!!

//SHAKES IN MY BOOTS AVOUT THEM!!!

What’s the relationship like? Smooth? Rocky?

Smooth! Surprisingly so. Of course it wasn't all sunshine rainbows and an immediate click together but Astera is a stubborn fish. Both supporting eachother with their struggles, pain and lows. Astera will always be there for Zevire and always has her back. Having her around is always a wonderful pick-me-up, can't help but making everyone around feel and expierence her joy with Zevire.. That's her mother fucking PALE!!

Do they ever trade clothes?

ALWAYS!! I think Astera often trades vests/jackets with Zev. Despite her clothes being bright whites and her colors.. She does wear that dark red of Zevs well.. And he likes how his colors contrast with her.. I think he owns a few different styles in his wardrobe if she wants something more subtle..

What do they like when going out for food?

MAN.. Astera prefers Zevs cooking over fast food but he prefers Hispanic or Indian cuisine.. but Italian is some of his favorite too.. She loves to drag her around to different places to try different things together.. and find the spiciest chicken wings.. Nothing has been spicy enough !

What are the dates like?

FUN!!!!! Depending on the mood, I think they go out for a little chaos or lowkey times out at a bar when they've got the time.. Little arcade trips, but one with those ddr machines and the punching bag mini games. I think sometimes Astera might drag her with to see her fight a bunch of people for fun

What do they like the least about each other?

Im certain that Zevire might not like how fickle Asteras mood can get, paired with part of his blood color being bronze.. It's a bit of a tricky mine field to traverse. She doesn't intend for her feelings to be so back and forth.. but it's something Astera is working on!

I think Astera wishes Zevire would be more open and not close off as much as she does when she's under stress. He can't blame her, however he wouldn't want her to force herself to open up about something while she doesn't know how to react. She's able to work through the frustration easily, because it's not a big deal. She will always be there for Zev..

What do others think of them dating?

The friends agree: this was bound to happen. I don't think anyone is upset or angered or shocked? I think Ria and Naka are both especially supportive of her and Astera..

[stiffyck]

I have two poems :3c

Watcher’s Tenet

Stood before the ring of Kings,

With wings of broken bone,

With shrivelled voice of swelled up throat,

And visage carved of stone.

Choked by tears that betray him,

Pathing dirt, furrowed grooves –

Turn to rivulets on his cheeks.

Before he thinks, his hand moves.

To hide his traitor eyes

But memory has a soul its own –

His skin cracks where fingers meet

And bleeds to touch unknown.

With a draining sob despite his will

O Xelqua fought to stand

And acquit his words and slaughter acts

With carmine down his hand.

It pools the shade of clemency

And dazzles bronze and gold.

Covered in passion’s blood and bruise,

O Xelqua’s tale untold.

the flow is a bit clunky around the middle part but that's okay I like this poem. there's also this, about scar, forever unfinished

Saint Gladheart

But the Devil is an artist,

God of evanescence.

With a hand lithe to paint

His Angel’s acquiescence.

Master of con was He

Who monopolised the grain.

Traded tongue and smile

With everything to gain.

YOOOOO THESE ARE SO GOOD WHAT THE HELL

[crowjack20]

Ullante post 4:the worldly knowledge

Glossary->

Griffon:used like people or folks, plural Griffons

Avetherian:the scientific name, like homo sapiens, plural avetherians

Roo:used like man or boy, masculine term for avus, plural is roos

Hen:used like girl or woman, feminine term for avus, plural is hens

Gryphus:name for pawed avus, plural is gryphus

Hippus, the name for hooves avus, plural is hippus

Harpy:the name for avus with hands(most don't know the difference between primates and non-primates with hands, so pseudo-harpies also are referred to as harpies), plural is harpies

Dromaeus:the name for (typically) beakless avus with clawed wings, often huge and have weird long tails, plural is dromaeus.

worldly details->

The Bushsand empire and the Tundrafrost empire are both in the early-to-mid iron age, the other kingdoms are in the middle of the bronze age.

Glass hasn't been invented yet.

Owning books or knowing how to write isn't common, but not rare, about 65% of the population knows how to write, and about 75% of the population owns books, 90% of the population knows how to read. books/most papers are usually parchment or papyrus, official records, birth certificates, contracts, written laws, ect are usually written on wood, stone, or clay tablets. Most writing utensils would be brushes, basic feather ink pens, or very basic charcoal pencils

Rudimentary explosives do exist, mostly in the form of leather bags or hard-leather balls or canteens overfilled with rendered animal fat(usually whale or seal blubber, but pork and beef grease will do) when doing large scale bombing(buildings and such) it'd either a be a big barrel of the grease. The most advanced personal weapons are crossbows and shootspears, while many hunters still prefer traditional bows, these other weapons are better with huge game(elephants, trunkos*, dinosaurs, hippos, moose, ect) and as weapons of war. There are two main types of crossbow, the warbow and the slaybow. The slaybow's mainly for hunting, being a more traditional kind of crossbow shooting bolts. The warbow is mainly a weapon of the battlefield, having larger barbed bolts with a heavier draw weight than other bows and crossbows. Shootspears can be described as a modified longspear, being handheld projectile launchers that use elastic bands and triggers to fire deadly mini-spears, small sharp-rocks, which load and fire one at a time(think single-shot rifles or slug shotguns) with elastic springs that release when the triggers pulled. As for large-scale weapons, catapults, titanbolt launchers, and barrel-bombs are common

Most fabrics can be found in the Eastern Empire, since harpies are the most dexterous and can actually make these things, but trade means that some fabric finds its way to other kingdoms, and a few harpies do live in the Bushsand empire so some fabric stores are found there as well. This also means that overall, leather garments are more common in the non-eastern empires

Advanced candies don't exist, however, things like fruits wrapped in honey, baked cacao beans, honey crystals mixed with fruit juice all exist along with honey and fruit

Dairy products such as milk, cheese, yogurt, and ice cream don't exist, mostly because it's weird to drink another animals milk when your own young don't suckle so it's never been thought of.

Avetherians are generally omnivores, with a little influence of their species half in their diet, but mostly based on kingdom and personal preference(ex:a vampire bat-vampire ground finch would consume blood, probably would eat other things more often. Or a otter-stork would love fish, but would eat other things)

There are other sophonts on Ullante, but they'll be revealed later...

Humans don't exist on Ullante itself, but there are some magic cave-portals that take you to earth(no, avus can't and don't use magic or know what it is)

Magic does exist on Ullante, but avus can't use it. The magic manifests itself in the cave-portals, enchanted items that are found throughout the continent, they cannot be made or destroyed, simply used, the magic also manifests in super-powered individuals.

All real world species of plants and animals are found here, as well as some creatures from Dylan Badja's Serina(bumblebadgers, squorks, canitheres, tribbats, grapplers, trunkos, carnackles, ect), tribbetheriums hamsters paradise(marewolves, tigerillas, ripperoos, rattiles, slaybers, hamyenas, lycanines, walkabies, rhinocheirids, ect), and Keenan Taylor's Kaimere(Nokutlak, rukel, bokodu, dire jackal, greater baboon lemur, ect).along with these beasts, there's also creatures that's gone extinct in the last two centuries(thylacine, dodo, passenger pigeon, Falkland islands wolf, Caspian tiger, ect). There are also some animals that are downright prehistoric, such as dinosaurs and ice age beasts, not many but some:sauropods, yi qi, ambopteryx, tyrannosaurs, spinosaurs, mammoths, smilodon, megaraptorids, and Madsoiids. Animals that won't be here are almost all molodonts and circaguadonts, the only exception to these are sawjaws

Where all the empires touch, there's an area 5 times the size of New York City where avus of all kinds mingle with no disturbance, and everyone mostly gets along, with bustling markets, diverse population. The place is called Alshoon

Avus classes->

Gryphus:avus with the mammal half of any extant pawed mammal(felines, canids, bears, most mustelids, anteaters, digging animals) and any extant bird, reside mostly in the Bushsand Empire

Hippus:avus with the mammal half of any extant hooved mammal(this means both the obvious, and the less obvious, like aardvarks, elephants, rhinos, hyraxes, and bandicoots) and any extant bird, reside mostly in the Savanah Empire

Harpy:avus with the mammal half of any primate and the bird half of any extant bird, reside mostly in the Eastern Empire

Pseudo-harpy:avus with the mammal half of any non-primate handed mammal(most rodents, some mustelids, most marsupials, and raccoons) and the bird half of any extant bird, reside mostly in the Eastern Empire(they're called harpies because they don't see the difference between a primate and any other mammal with hands)

Dromaeus:avus with the mammal half of any extinct mammal and the bird half of any maniraptoran dinosaur, reside mostly in the Tundrafrost Empire

Palaeus:avus with the mammal half of any extinct mammal and the bird half of any extinct bird, reside in Alshoon

Kingdoms->

Bushsand Empire:home of the gryphus

Current monarch:Queen Suture

Capital:Andiru

The Bushsand empire's a land of deserts, badlands, canyons, and dunes occupying most of the western parts of the continent. They are in allegiance with the dromaeus of the Tundrafrost Empire.

Taxes:anyone who rents land pays a biannual tax to whoever they bought it from, if it's the land was bought from a royal, than a monthly tax. Payment is usually money, but could also be goods or labor, it depends on the owners preference. If you own land, none of these things matter and it's just a small annual tax.

Common exports:stone(lots of quarries and mines, so stone is common), leather and meats(hunting is a very common sport/occupations there), and gemstones(natural byproduct of mining, plus it's plentiful in the badlands)

Food:

Tundrafrost Empire:home of the dromaeus

Current monarch:Emperor Core

Capital:Danyix

The Tundrafrost Empire is a land of cold ice and snow to the north of the continent, often with blizzards lasting days, snowing 9 months a year. They're in allegiance with the gryphus of the Bushsand Empire

Taxes:anyone who rents land pays an annual tax, but if bought from someone of importance(royal guard, infamous war veteran, ect.), than a biannual tax. Payments usually money or labor, depends on preference. If land is owned, then just a small annual tax.

Common exports:leather and meats, water, precious metals, furs, gemstones, and lumber(lots of forests in the southern woods)

Eastern Empire:home of the harpies

Current monarch:King Locustpine

Capital:Ourukh

The Eastern Empire's a massive stretch of forest that lies on the eastern edge of the continent, with temperate woods in the south, jungle in the middle, receding to cold pine woods up north. The kingdom has 2 very significant social classes:hightrees, the rich elite 1st class that live in expensive big houses up in the canopy, and the groundlows, the ghetto downhome 2nd class that live in shacks and cabins

Taxes:any hightree who bought or rents an estate from an average hightree pays an annual tax of money or labor. Any hightree who bought or rents land from a military official, a council official, or a royal pays a monthly tax of money. Any groundlow that bought or rents land from a hightree pays a huge monthly tax of money, and a sales tax on food, materials, and fabrics(also huge)

Common exports:lumber, fabrics(silk, cotton, and wool), seafood, gemstones, and poultry.

Savanna Empire:home of the hippus

Current monarch: Queen Stampede

Capital: Balamn

The Savanna Empire's a relatively average sized kingdom mostly along the southwest of the continent, being a terrain of grasslands, prairies, rolling hills, and lowlands.

Taxes: if land is rented, there's a small bimonthly tax of money or goods, but if bought from someone of importance(barons, big-time businessfolk, veterans, etc) it's a slightly larger monthly tax. If land is owned to begin with, then a medial trimonthly tax

Common exports: straw, hay, grains, beef, pork, mutton, and leather

[elendiliel]

Taking Flight

Just a bit of sliver-of-life nonsense that happened after a recent re-read of With a Side of Rust by @blueskyscribe (which I highly recommend, by the way).

---

“What have you been doing to these?” Knock Out shook his head in exasperation. He knew he was excellent at his job – he wouldn’t have survived as Megatron’s CMO if he weren’t – but the task in front of him was proving more challenging than anticipated. Still, he wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet.

“Using them,” Glitch said infuriatingly calmly. “General wear and tear mounts up over the centuries.”

“Especially if you don’t bother with proper maintenance.” Knock Out could admit to himself that that was a little unfair on his young colleague. The Autobot “field-tech” and visitor from another universe took as good care of almost all her equipment as anyone in their shared profession, better than some, but her most important tools – her hands – were scratched and scuffed perhaps beyond even his considerable ability to restore to prime condition. The damage was purely cosmetic; whether she were working on a patient or flying a ship, her hands moved as fluidly as any forged medic’s. But they were still painful to look at, and Knock Out had offered to do something about them during a lull in the Autobots’ (and Predacons’) battle with Unicron, an offer she had accepted. Following through on that seemed to be the Autobot thing to do, so he was dutifully doing it.

As he moved on to another scratch in her bronze plating, it struck him that she was almost literally putting her livelihood – and, in a sense, her life – in his hands. A medic’s career was often dependent on their manual dexterity; the best equipment in the universe was useless if its operator couldn’t control it properly. Being a field-tech clearly meant a great deal to Glitch, and yet she had entrusted the key tools of her trade to a former enemy who had tortured and tried to kill her, harmed or threatened a number of her friends, and been quite open about his selfish reasons for changing sides. Before he knew it, he was asking her, “Why are you letting me do this?”

She studied him for a long, unsettling moment, giving the distinct impression she was trying to figure out exactly what he meant by his question, then waved her free hand dismissively, channelling her inner Ratchet (his universe’s Ratchet, at least). “Per-lease. We’ve been inside each other’s heads. I know you’ve managed to hang on to some integrity, which is pretty impressive in the circumstances. And I can look after myself.” Despite appearances, Knock Out thought. Strange though it seemed to him, the young ‘bot had “come online” many centuries after the end of her reality’s last major Autobot-Decepticon war. Scars notwithstanding, she seemed to be a civilian to the tips of her delicate-looking fingers and upswept winglets (more like a car’s door-wings than those of her fellow two-wheelers from Knock Out’s home universe). But the ex-‘Con medic had treated too many Vehicons damaged by her inbuilt electromagnets and other medical tools to believe that.

Even before, as he wished she hadn’t reminded him, he had used a cortical psychic patch – on Lord Megatron’s orders – to gain access to her memories, and seen the Cybertron where she had grown up – a war-damaged world always prepared for the next conflict. And not much more before she somehow reversed the process, gaining access to his memories – including some he didn’t like to acknowledge, let alone share. He’d tried not to flinch as she alluded to that particular episode, but her sharp eyes – adapted for scouting – missed very little. And she seemed to have about as much control over her voicebox. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

“Not really, no,” Knock Out agreed. “But,” the newspark’s honesty seemed to be contagious, “it’s about time one of us mentioned the – rhinoceros in the room, is that the phrase?”

“Elephant,” she corrected him automatically. “No idea why. Elephants are bigger, but generally less aggressive, especially when unprovoked. Or so I gather. It’s often said that they never forget; I’ll have to look up whether that’s ever been verified.” Belatedly, she registered Knock Out’s be-quiet-and-let-me-concentrate expression, and obeyed it. He might not have known her for very long, but he knew a budding monologue when he heard it, and preferred not to have to listen to one when he was trying to work. Especially one about organic lifeforms, of which he had never been very fond.

But as it turned out, he couldn’t stay silent, either. “Where did these come from?” He indicated one of a number of shallow scratches on her left palm and fingers, distinguished by an unusual V-shaped depth profile both end-to-end and side-to-side, according to the scanner he was using to monitor the ultrafine procedure. (His eyes were good, but not quite that good.)

“Birds,” was her initial, baffling answer. His blank expression must have prompted her to explain further. “The ones that nest in or visit the tree that grows in our base in Detroit. Prowl used to feed them, and now it’s my job – or it was.” Concern and homesickness flickered across her face, very briefly. She must be at least as aware as he was that no Autobot worth their brand would let any being go hungry if they could help it, even an organic. “A few trust me enough to eat out of my servo, which is – quite something.” A soft smile lit up her whole face. “And well worth a few scratches. Last winter, one of them turned up with a broken wing. I don’t know how it happened, or how far he had to walk, but he came to me for help, so of course I took care of him.”

“Put him out of his misery?” Knock Out regretted his automatic, callous reaction even before the expected expression of shock and horror formed on Glitch’s features. He was dealing with an Autobot, not a Decepticon. “No! Set the fracture and fed and housed him until he recovered, of course. Which was quite a circuit-shredding experience at first. Bird bones are strong, but they’re hollow, to reduce the mass the wings have to lift, so they feel fragile. Especially if you’re my size, let alone yours.” Glitch was tiny for a Cybertronian who wasn’t a Mini-Con, not much more than half Knock Out’s height and skinny with it. “The whole time I was splinting his wing, I was terrified I was going to do more harm than good. Managed it, though.” That soft smile was back. “When he was able to fly again – you know that feeling when you know a patient’s going to make it?” He did, very well; there had been times when it was one of the few things that kept him going. “Like that, but more so.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Knock Out returned his attention to the task at hand – pun not intended. Less than a minute later, his tools must have found a sensor cluster by accident, because she burst out laughing, her winglets fluttering as though she herself were a bird. Some delicate but dangerous creature, whose elegant plumage and enchanting song distracted others from her sharp beak and sharper claws. (Come to think of it, he hadn’t known her winglets could move like that – they were usually folded as flat as possible against her back in the field, and held stiffly behind her shoulders the rest of the time, ready to form the sides of her vehicle mode at a moment’s notice.) “That tickles!”

“Sorry.” The word felt oddly rusty in his voicebox. Though he’d mollified plenty of disgruntled superiors in his time as a Decepticon, straightforward apologies weren’t his usual method. Glitch really was rubbing off on him already.

“It’s fine. I wasn’t prepared, that’s all.” She brought herself under control, winglets returning to their normal position. It was quite impressive, the way she could just switch off her naturally expressive body language like that. Impressive, and a little worrying. “To return to the subject of birds – there are a few breeding pairs that nest in Prowl’s tree. The same ones, year after year, he thinks.” The present tense perplexed Knock Out for a second. Wasn’t Prowl the one who sacrificed himself to reconstruct a shattered Allspark? Then he remembered she had mentioned that his ghost put in occasional appearances still. (Was that possible in his universe, and were there limits on who could come back? Better not drive down that road.) “One batch of fledglings made their first flights the day before I arrived in this reality. I was on Cybertron, but Bee sent me a vid. Would you like to see?”

Usually, Knock Out’s automatic, instant response would have been, “no.” While he admired Earth’s automobiles (some of them, at any rate), the same could not be said for its inhabitants. He’d barely tolerated humans even before Breakdown’s… encounter… with MECH, and at least with them one could hold a semblance of an intelligent conversation. Other organics… eesh. But while he’d weathered Megatron’s wrath, Starscream’s rudeness and Soundwave’s sheer creepiness perfectly well for aeons, as it turned out, he was not immune to wide dark-blue eyes and an open, earnest expression. (More open than even most Autobots’ in Knock Out’s universe, let alone any Decepticon’s. Glitch’s world had been shaped by war, but she hadn’t lived and vented it for anywhere near as long as any other Cybertronian he knew, and, Primus, it showed.) Besides, he’d done as much as he could in one session for her left hand, and could use a break. “All right.”

Her delighted grin shone like a tiny sun as she unfolded a miniature datapad concealed in her right arm (honestly, how many mods did one ‘bot need?) and called up the file she wanted, projecting the vid above the small screen so that Knock Out could see it more easily. Judging by the quality, it had been taken directly from someone’s visual cache, probably “Bee’s”. (The other universe’s Bumblebee, most likely. It didn’t escape Knock Out’s notice that Glitch had a band of yellow paint on her right wrist, interrupted by a black stripe, which looked to have been worn away, repainted and damaged again in the previous few months.)

The focus of the recording was a tree that seemed to have grown through both the floor and the roof of an Autobot-scaled building, and specifically a branch on which perched a family of birds Knock Out didn’t care to identify – two adults, their colour schemes indicating that they were of different genders (he’d somehow managed to learn that much), and a motley assortment of scrawny little ones of the same species, their feathery plating barely complete. The excited but otherwise unintelligible chatter that had been in the background faded away as first the caregiver birds demonstrated the takeoff, flight and landing procedures they wanted to teach their fledglings, and then, one by one, the bitlets – birdlets? – tried to copy them. A few managed it straight away; others couldn’t quite stay airborne at first, and by the sounds of it at least one ‘bot had to be prevented from attempting to help them. But before long, all the tiny aerials were swooping around as though they’d been doing it all their short, perilous lives, much to the delight of the watching Autobots, including the one next to Knock Out, cooing over the display like an overgrown pigeon. (He could identify that species, if only because one couldn’t escape it on much of Earth.)

Not that he really minded, he realised. A few times, before the war, he’d seen newly sparked fliers being taught such basic techniques by their mentors, and, diehard grounder though he was, the sight had never failed to fill him with hope for the future, however short-lived. It still had the same effect, even aeons later, on a wrecked planet that could only create new lives because of a devastating sacrifice, watching another world’s non-sapient fauna teaching their young ones. Life, robotic or organic, would always persist, no matter what.

“Breakdown would have liked to see that,” he heard himself comment as the recording finished. He wasn’t sure why he’d let that slip, but he couldn’t take the words back. And he needed to talk to someone about his late partner at some time; who better than someone who already knew what had happened to him (up to a point), who understood even a little of what it was like to lose a partner, and who had been trained to be discreet? (He was aware she’d told the other Autobots about Breakdown’s… ending, and found he couldn’t be too angry with her for that. Life might be easier if they knew, and he didn’t want to discuss it himself.) “He may have acted the brute, but he could be surprisingly gentle with people and things that didn’t pose a threat.”

“So I gather,” Glitch said, a comfortable level of sympathy colouring her voice. She paused for a moment, then asked, “Do all Decepticons wear masks, or is it just you two?” Judging by the flash of annoyance in her eyes, that had just slipped out, too, but she didn’t try to retract the question.

“It wasn’t exactly a mask,” he corrected her. “He did love to fight, but – it wasn’t the only thing he loved.” It still hurt too much to dive too deeply into that topic, he discovered, so he redirected the conversation a little. “And what do you mean, you two?”

“Takes one to know one,” she answered with a sly smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you’re what humans at this point in time call a precious cinnamon roll – don’t ask me why – under everything else, but there’s more to you than meets the optic. And you don’t have to take the mask off right away, but – you don’t have to keep wearing it all the time, either, not any more.”

Takes one to know one? “But… you’re an Autobot.” A stupid response, but his brain module was still short-circuiting as he tried to figure out why an Autobot would have to pretend to be anything they weren’t. They were supposed to be all about honour and honesty and talking about one’s feelings – weren’t they? (He filed the rest of her reply away to be parsed later. One thing at a time.)

“I’m also what’s known on Earth as “autistic”.” He’d heard the term before, never in any helpful context. She didn’t provide much context, either. “I don’t really have all the right words to describe it, but the short version is that my processor’s wired differently from those of most ‘bots. Not better or worse – just different. Sometimes too different to allow me to fit in in the “great Autobot machine”.” She rolled her eyes at that last phrase, almost concealing a flare of pain. Knock Out wondered idly who had coined it, and whether they were still available for dissection. Or vivisection. He didn’t really mind one way or the other. “I learned centuries ago to wear just enough of a mask that I could pass for nearly normal, but that comes with its own problems. Mostly the effort it takes to keep up the illusion of sanity. If I’d stayed on my Cybertron much longer – it wouldn’t’ve ended well. Being posted to Earth, though, gave me a chance to spread my winglets a bit.” She suited her actions to her words, winglets fanning out to their fullest extent. “I recommend.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he assured her. “But in the meantime, I still need to fix up that other hand of yours.” She held it out, and remained mercifully silent as he worked. She’d given him a lot to think about, but their conversation had made one thing clear. Grounders though they were, like the fledgling birds, they had both taken flight in recent months or years – she to Earth, he to the Autobots – and both were, or would be, all the better for doing so.

[evermorehqs]

CATCHING MY BREATH, STARING OUT AN OPEN WINDOW

Jasmine Ahmadi is based on Princess Jasmine from Aladdin. She is a 29 year old human, lawyer, and uses she/they pronouns. She has no powers. Jasmine is portrayed by Medalion Rahimi and she is open.

CATCHING MY DEATH, AND I COULDN’T BE SURE

As an only child to the Sultan of Agrabah, Jasmine had become accustomed to the solitude of her father’s palace, a silence that grew louder after the loss of her mother. Although her father tirelessly tried to appease Jasmine and help her through her grief, he had a country to run and couldn’t always be there for her. It didn't take long for her to grow accustomed to being alone. She learned to become independent even in her loneliness, to turn to books for conversations and her animals for company, however you always want what you do not have, and Jasmine wanted to be free of the palace walls. The young woman could spend hours staring out her windows, wishing beyond anything else that she could be out there - an idiom about grass being greener was not one she was aware of. This restless need to escape only grew stronger as she approached the age of marriage, when her father called upon every suitor available to try and win her hand. And just like her mother, Jasmine wanted to marry for love, if she was to marry at all. Coming to Evermore was a whole new adventure for Jasmine, a chance to explore cities and countries without the unsettling presence of guards, or pressure of marriage from her father. She was finally free to have adventures like the ones she would often fantasize about if she ever made it out of the palace. Much to her dismay, Jasmine traded her golden cage for a bronze one when she discovered that in this town she was also trapped, just like at home. There was more space, more room for her to spread her wings when compared to the palace but it was still, in a way, very much a prison. The only saving grace for the princess was that here in Evermore she was allowed to make a difference, to choose her own destiny and live as freely as she possibly could. Without the crown confining her to one path Jasmine was now untethered to any expectations, and awaiting whatever adventure Evermore has in store.

I HAD A FEELING SO PECULIAR

❀ Jane Porter: Jasmine had never really had any friend of her own, so meeting Jane felt like it was fated! To meet a woman as intelligent and opinionated as herself, it could not get any better! ❀ Zachary Binx: An unlikely pairing bound by similar stories of isolation and feeling trapped. But he is a cat person, and so is she! ❀ Francesca Framagucci: F is for FUN and also Francesca! She’s taught Jasmine a couple of things about letting go and being yourself.

THAT THIS PAIN WOULD BE FOR EVERMORE

[thenhlteaissuperhot]

any tea from the czech hockey world that north americans may not know?

To be honest, there is not much, which wasn't already covered even by the American media - from the top of my mind:

During last year's Worlds, Filip Hronek (who, back then played for the Red Wings) and Dominik Simon (who started his 2021-22 season in Pittsburgh, then was traded to Anaheim, and now plays in the Czech league) had an actual physical fight with each other behind the scenes. Prior to that, the team actually played rather poorly and visibly didn't have the best chemistry, making people question why. Simon ended up leaving the tournament (also cause Hronek apparently wanted him to and refused to play if Simon stayed), his family apologized for him taking the heated emotions even outside of the ice, and the discussion about it then just died out cause Pastrnak arrived and the Czechs won the bronze medal after several years.

Patrik Bartosak, a talented goalie who was actually on his way to the NHL as a Kings prospect, playing in the AHL for them for three seasons, ended up being charged with twelve domestic-related charges involving his back then's girlfriend, including a felony assault charge alleging he tried to strangle her at an apartment. Naturally, this just completely ruined his NHL career and he ended up coming back to the Czech Republic, where his scandal wasn't taken that seriously and he actually managed to more or less overshadow it with his performance - not just in the Czech league but also during the Worlds and Olympic Games.

Then in late 2019 and early 2020, he suddenly put his career on halt cause he began to have severe mental health issues, which he tried to solve with alcohol and dr*gs, forming an addiction to them, eventually even by s*icide (one day, he was completely wasted, sitting in a car at a gas station, wanting to end it all, but he, fortunately, called the police instead, which came to get him).

There actually was one post-game interview from that time period, where was visibly high, which immediately began trending and led to him taking a step back from his career to seek professional treatment:

After coming back to hockey, he moved to play in Finland, for a short while even in Russia, still being invited to the Czech representation. Last year he was accused by his own father of physical assault - it was after the father of his wife, with whom he now has two kids if I am not mistaken, contacted his father and warned him about Patrik once again falling down the messy spiral of alcohol and dr*gs.

His father tried to have a talk with him about it but, and I quote: "I warned him that he had a responsibility for his two children and his wife and that he should behave accordingly. Not be a lout and walk around every day under the influence of substances. I don't say alcohol on purpose. I tried to reason with him and he ended up grabbing me by the throat, dragging me all the way down the hall, and slamming me against the neighbor's door."

Important to note, that his mother also ended up speaking to the media and saying: "This information was leaked to the newspapers by a man who used to harshly beat up the said "naughty" child every time he came home from the pub." - so yes, childhood trauma and abuse at its best.

[3vocatio]

I noticed you tagged the "cat" post as "OC: Living Creature." I don't think that's at all the same as my "cats" tag and I'd love to know if this is more of a concept or character and anything you'd be willing to share or link me to. Hope you're having a good day too!

hey there! i do have an answer for you, but it may be a little more than what you bargained for...nonetheless i hope it satiates your curiosity! down below are mentions and a depiction of,

cw: cults, implied torture, gore

proceed carefully ^^

“the living creature” is one of my ocs! their true name is mishenka, and they are the child of a poacher who was killed by a vengeful, demonic tiger spirit. years pass, and the child became involved in a pact with the tiger, serving as its vessel that would attract the attention of a cult who demanded to witness the glory of “the great beast”. being young and impressionable, mishenka did not have the means to fight against the crowd for as much as they wished to—they succumbed.

eventually mishenka would be saved by a man named solis, a royal sorcerer of what was known as kuviel's court, and although they were used as a study (and experiment) for the sorcerer's endeavors, they did not mind. they would earn the title of, “the living creature” from solis himself, for mishenka's beating heart was interconnected with a demon that once walked as a mortal tiger.

beyond the wheels that chariot God's throne, bronze hands imbue eternity with secret perfumes: the laughing darkness of Sophia moulds itself to this strange attendant's wings, to its many eyes, its many mouths; it caresses the space between them, tenders the flesh with a soft lover's touch. it asks: for how long will you oil the aches of the world, Not-One? for how long will you lust? the attendant does not answer. it was not gifted with a voice.

.

.

.

but this is not the “living creature” that is the focal point of my tags. the original, mishenka, is part of a doomed timeline caused by the same sorcerer that had saved them and the other twelve confidants, “godtongue” being among them. no matter their efforts to put an end to solis' horrors, all thirteen members would eventually perish every time the timeline repeated.

this issue was brought to the attention of cosmic beings, who devised a plan to grant the confidants an opportunity. although this world, cibruthea, would be eternally doomed, there will be a chance for children born of earth to put an end to it. they will not know of cibruthea, nor any cosmic horror, but their world will be inevitably altered by the events that have occurred and they will inevitably take notice to it.

the plan was for remnants of each member's soul to watch earth's events unfold until they have found their respective child to receive their favor in the same prophesized timeframe.

mishenka never succeeded in dealing in fair trade with the demon, nor have they ever been able to stand freely on their own. they wished for someone to live out the life they hoped for; they wanted to see who they could've become had it not been for the greed of mankind. their goal was to seek someone like them, born with a bond to a spectral beast, and to indirectly bring them aid.

the new living creature is named khoussanë. although human, many mistake her to be a demon—her appearance and mannerisms are altered by her own deal made with such beast. she's playful, down-to-earth, and is similar to a loyal puppy in the body of a monstrous wolf who will rightfully defend her family til her last breath.