#Bronze Wing Trading

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[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.

[talonabraxas]

Shirdal 'Lion-Eagle' Talon Abraxas

Ancient origins of the griffin

A legendary creature with the body, tail, and back legs of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and, sometimes, an eagle's talons as its front feet first appears in ancient Iranian and Egyptian art dating back to before 3000 BCE. In Egypt, a griffin-like animal can be seen on a cosmetic palette from Hierakonpolis, known as the "Two Dog Palette", dated to 3300–3100 BCE. The divine storm-bird, Anzu, half man and half bird, associated with the chief sky god Enlil was revered by the ancient Sumerians and Akkadians. The Lamassu, a similar hybrid deity depicted with the body of a bull or lion, eagle's wings, and a human head, was a common guardian figure in Assyrian palaces.

In Iranian mythology, the griffin is called Shirdal, which means "Lion-Eagle." Shirdals appeared on cylinder seals from Susa as early as 3000 BCE. Shirdals also are common motifs in the art of Luristan, the North and North West region of Iran in the Iron Age, and Achaemenid art. The 15th century BCE frescoes in the Throne Room of the Bronze Age Palace of Knossos are among the earliest depictions of the mythical creatures in ancient Greek art. In Central Asia, the griffin image was later included in Scythian "animal style" artifacts of the 6th–4th centuries BCE.

In his Histories, Herodotus relates travelers' reports of a land in the northeast where griffins guard gold and where the North Wind issues from a mountain cave. Scholars have speculated that this location may be referring to the Dzungarian Gate, a mountain pass between China and Central Asia. Some modern scholars including Adrienne Mayor have theorized that the legend of the griffin was derived from numerous fossilized remains of Protoceratops found in conjunction with gold mining in the mountains of Scythia, present day eastern Kazakhstan. Recent linguistic and archaeological studies confirm that Greek and Roman trade with Saka-Scythian nomads flourished in that region from the 7th century BCE, when the semi-legendary Greek poet Aristeas wrote of his travels in the far north, to about 300 CE when Aelian reported details about the griffin - exactly the period during which griffins were most prominently featured in Greco-Roman art and literature. Mayor argues that over-repeated retelling and drawing or recopying its bony neck frill (which is rather fragile and may have been frequently broken or entirely weathered away) may have been thought to be large mammal-type external ears, and its beak treated as evidence of a part-bird nature that lead to bird-type wings being added. Others argue fragments of the neck frill may have been mistook for remnants of wings.

Lucius Flavius Philostratus (170 – 247/250 CE), a Greek sophist who lived during the reign of the Roman emperor Philip the Arab, in his "Life of Apollonius of Tyana" also writes about griffins that quarried gold because of the strength of their beak. He describes them as having the strength to overcome lions, elephants, and even dragons, although he notes they had no great power of flying long distances because their wings were not attached the same way as birds. He also described their feet webbed with red membranes. Philostratus says the creatures were found in India and venerated there as sacred to the sun. He observed that griffins were often drawn by Indian artists as yoked four abreast to represent the sun.

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ the femme fatale admiral. ﹚: rishen herrera 1311 .𖹭 ݁

. . . wanna play his lovegame !? 🍒 : “ ayy. . . pobrecito, ¿Te estoy sonrojando, cariño? that’s adorable, look at me with those pretty eyes of yours, thaat’s it. ’  ”

꒰ verse ꒱ 1311

꒰ species ꒱ human 

꒰ ethnicity ꒱ mexican-indian

꒰ age ꒱ 46

꒰ gender ꒱ genderfluid, amab

꒰ mbti ꒱ intj/estj

꒰ alias ꒱ scarlet cyanide, admiral of aegis, admiral (herrera), (director herrera), boss (specifically his special division), rishie (yŭ xī)

꒰ story ꒱ 

driven by duty and justice; high off of the stakes and always ready for a challenge, we find ourselves rishen herrera. the admiral of aegis known for his quick wit and effortless charm. sarcastic and seductive, with a click of his heels as he steps through the halls of which he’s highly respected in.

from undercover missions to hacking mainframes, sniper to knifeman,

an assassin my trade and mastermind by nature, he strives for the protection of those who cannot protect themselves. leading his organisation with dignity and strength, while trying to maintain the conflict occurring throughout his city between human and supernatural alike.

it’s hard work but he needs to keep going. even if it takes endless hours and countless risks,

he has to.

 

꒰ appearance ꒱

deep maroon eyes, sharp eyes framed with beautiful black winged eyeliner.

soft medium-length, fluffy and curly dark brown hair that extend halfway down his neck and tickle just a bit of his back.

bronze skin with a wide array of beauty spots on the left side of his face and along his forearms

a very androgynous face that leans more towards feminine features, has some sharpness here and there

stands at 6’0” in height and has a slender figure

deep red stiletto nails, sharp enough to leave a few tears in the skin of his enemies.

deep red lipsticks that accentuate her lips nicely, and make that deadly smile of hers look all the more beautiful.

triple lobe piercings on either ear, with rose gold piercings covered or dangling with small rubies.

sometimes wears septum piercing, it depends on the day and time

midline tongue piercing with focus on the barb at the underside of his tongue

often, he dresses quite feminine, particularly the femme fatale aesthetic ( sleek red dresses, sometimes fishnet stockings, stilettos, dark femme makeup, etc ).

when he dresses masc it’s often by dressing in darker hues of clothes, rocking the look with lots of darker jewellery and overall makeup as well — using his makeup to bring out the more masculine features of his face

his hands and neck are adorned by minimalistic rose gold and red jewellery

rose gold rings littering his fingers.

has a navel piercing.

 

꒰ personality ꒱

teaming with sarcasm and sass, he’s known especially for his sharp tongue

known as a master strategist and mastermind, his intelligence and wit is another main characteristic for him

quite blunt. ties into his straightforwardness. can sometimes even come off as a bit monotone or exasperated

charismatic despite it all, yet in am effortless way. a sort of cool confidence that exudes off of him in everything that he does

is known to have a silver tongue when it counts. incredibly deceptive. a scarily good actor

flirty when he needs to be. knows how to wrap people around his finger. can be quite the seductress

observant and particularly calculating. he’s very quick to analyse and create a plan — which ties in well with his quick adaptability. might even be a bit cunning sometimes

always ready for a challenge, surprisingly likes making bets

can be cocky, especially when it comes to confidence in his intellect

can be irritated quickly but he has a controlled sort of annoyance and anger. an almost calm rage

a natural leader, very highly respected and feared

duty-driven and prefers to work rather than let his mind run in other ways

 

꒰ with a lover ꒱

teases but like in a very shameless way — he does not hold back with the small teasing flirts or playful pokes that leave you flustered in several different ways. whether it is out of shyness or embarrassment.

very flirty — he wants you to know and see how all over you he is. she must be marking you, musn’t she? make sure you know that you belong to him.

does not hesitate or hold back on the pda. his hands and lips roaming your body and touching you as much as possible. pulling you all flush against him is a necessity, he doesn’t care who’s watching.

displays a lot of his affection by physical affection. loving, careful and tender touches, and brushes of his hands on your face of wherever you allow him to touch. can be verbally affectionate too.

cannot get his lips off of yours, he likes pulling you off to corners and kissing you breathless whenever possible.

can get quite protective, a bit more than usual. this can also bleed into possessiveness, but he tries not to let it get out of hand.

always has to have his hands on you in some type of way.

can sometimes be rather clingy, both physically and emotionally. he clings to you in his sleep, a part of him always paranoid you will fade if he lets go.

tries to use the time he has with you wisely because he’s a very busy person — often being caught up in his work and such. he always tries to make up for it.

late night/early morning cuddles or little coffee dates in his office is one of his favorite pass times. he gets to be with his beloved, and that is honestly all that he needs to cheer him up after a bleak night or day.

can and will do your make-up if you ask him to, rushing to find the makeup kit and sitting you down in front of his large vanity to doll you up.

late night cooking with him that can turn into little dances around his apartment kitchen. the gentle sway of your bodies to the music creating fond memories and greeting the old.

 

꒰ strengths ꒱

mastermind: very strategic and calculative, intelligent — rishen is a mastermind, able to create tacticts and strategies at a quick and efficient level

combat: is extremely skilled in combat and knows his way around different techniques, new and old.

stealth: particularly stealthy along with being extremely light on his feet.

martial arts: is very skilled in an array of martial arts

acting / deception: extremely skilled in the art of deception. good at putting on a pretty face and swaying people around before catching them in their act and exposing them.

weapon mastery: has quite the adaptability with weapons and uses his analytic advantages to learn them quicker

adaptability: as previously mentioned, rishen is an extremely adaptable person, and weapons are not all that he is adaptable in. being good at adapting with environments, people and fighting techniques.

advanced tech skills: admiral herrera has always had a bit of a knack in the advanced technical skills from firewalls and defence to hacking and configuring

 

꒰ weaknesses ꒱

heart condition: has a rare heart condition that he was born with, subjecting him to heart attacks throughout his life. it is vital to keep him calm to avoid cardiac arrests.

unstable hands: ( sometimes ) his hands can get a bit shaky and sometimes convulse due to physical trauma issues.

 

꒰ relationships ꒱

copper: boyfriend ( it’s complicated ) ( emotional support shrimp

emerald: boyfriend ( it’s complicated ) ( emotional support bunny

alessio agresta: enemy

jìngyí agresta: enemy

zhào yŭ xī: work partner, best friend, younger sibling figure.

zhào yizé: friend, work partner

zhào hàoyú: enemy

zhào haitāo: neutral, work partner

yuè mèng yáo: on and off work partner

zhào mùchén: enemy

shimada takara: friend, work partner

kyung seong-jin: enemy

shalika vaishya: right hand, best friend

 

꒰ extra ꒱

really loves ducks — he thinks they are adorable

he is particularly skilled in aerial dancing

will be grumpy if he doesn’t have his cup of hot chocolate in the morning ( yŭ xī handles it mostly )

he can speak spanish ( latin american ), hindi, a decent amount of chinese

plays the bass, he was in a band

[a-shrieking-cloud-of-bats]

DF Posting: KingChannels - Year 2

Here we are again.

The Bedroom Floor, which as of the end of year 2 was housing every single one of our dwarves. There's three more wings like this, along with some larger bedrooms up top for our more distinguished (read: cranky) fortress members. I'd say we're using... maybe a third of them?

Looking forward I think I took too many pictures of dwarf stats and likes and such, but here we are again regardless. We left KingChannels last year with planning out our barracks/trade depot combo, and the future trap tunnel I will be using to bolster our defenses. We began year two with adding two new members to our Militia, Sigun Libadkivish and Kogan Rithas. Both mostly unskilled, but you need bodies sooner rather then later so they can get trained up when that barracks gets built.

the two new happy members of our militia

Shortly after this addition I had a realization that creatures can Climb, now. As a result I reexamined the wall around our fort and had the realization that enemies can probably just climb over it, so we're going to have to add a plan to build an overhang on the top of it, to prevent goblins from just scrambling up the walls and rushing into our main fortress. The trade depot/barracks/kill tunnel doesn't really Work if they... you know, don't go through it. Other then that realization not much happened early in the year as we were honestly just waiting for more dwarves. We finished putting some statues up in the temple, along with starting smoothing it out, but we need more haulers, more masons, more everything. The first year being as dry as it was on migrants was quite bad for our momentum, especially given the number of large scale constructions I'll be doing in this fort, but thankfully with Aban on ring making duty we should be sending out quite the impressive signal to the mountainhome soon enough.

Despite our cool new temple some dwarves are still unhappy; namely Sigun himself. He did get caught out in a snowstorm to be fair; dwarves Hate being outside in bad weather, to the point that it can lead to traumatic memories. He later learned something from it (the importance of self sacrifice, foreshadowing as a military dwarf?), but it's still dragging his mood down I believe despite it being "good" for him.

Unfortunately migrants are determined by how much stuff you ship out on the dwarven trade caravan and the first two migrant waves this year were completely dry. Expected, but unfortunate. While waiting for the trade caravan to arrive we carved out the living room floor (pictured at the top of this post), and doubly used this as an excuse to explore a new layer, as it was made partially of chert. A new layer of stone means new potential for ores, which means maybe we can get the militia armed sooner rather then later.

Regardless the liason Eventually arrived while we plunked away at the trade depot. It didn't get to experience the luxary of trading in an Actual Room, with an Actual Roof, but there's always next year. The outpost liason told us next year they want Sheets (whcih is to say, paper or parchment sheets), and Anvils. Not a great thing for us given we're building a library. We'll probably just go double time on the stonecrafts this coming year, but maybe I will sell some paper; the library is a ways off yet after all.

Meanwhile we requested, Steel, Iron, Bronze and Silver bars. Steel, Bronze, and Iron are obvious, we need to get our militia armored sooner rather then later, and I have no guarantee of there being a significant amount of military grade metal on site, but the silver is something special. As I've said we're building a library, but it Is the focus of our fort, so I wanted it to be a little bit more then stacking rocks. We are making the library mostly out of sterling silver, an alloy of copper and silver, with other ornamental metals to accentuate things a bit. Gem windows also.

Anyway we bought some random gear they brought, a few iron and bronze bars, as well as a single silver bar, and a bunch of cheese wheels for the dwarves. I always like buying random food when the caravan comes, dwarves like the variety and it's often quite cheap. Higher value food makes dwarves happier too, and cheese is rather high value for an uncooked food. We also bought our first book.

A scroll concerning the moon and how it moves around in the sky. It'll go in the library eventually, obviously. Note the value too, very expensive. We're going to need a more robust economy if we're gonna get more non fortress written books.

Literally two days after the caravan left we got a migrant wave and it was a Big one. News travels fast. The migrant wave was, even better, mostly military dwarves, two melee and two ranged. I went ahead and augmented our belowground trade depot pillboxes with a link up to another barracks for the ranged dwarves. They need a bit more space to do their training, so underground suits them fine as well as being easier to expand outwards.

Our four new militiadwarves. The melee squad is now up to 6 strong, and these two are skilled! Good tidings indeed. For those curious, Udin and Eral are marksdwarves, Doren and Ber are meleedwarves, Sword and Axe specialists respectively. They'll be a big help.

On top of these four, we got another 7 dwarves, totaling up to 11 dwarves. Basically everything I could've asked for. The construction effort on the trade depot speeds up near instantly and we get it structurally complete before the end of the season. Just need the floors and roofs now.

In the process of waiting for the depot to finish, I realized we had no water within the walls of the fort. I set about planning a cistern for the nearest murky pool so we can get some renewable water going, hopefully, if we get enough rain to refill the pool. If not we'll still have Some water, we hopefully wont' need much before we hit the caverns and hopefully find a much larger source of water.

At any rate after the sorting out of the migrant wave was over I set to making a weapon out of the iron we bought. The next long term goal for the miners, now that all of our basic needs are being met, is to find the metal on site so we can get our militia into metal armor. Exploratory mining will begin soon, but I also dug out some extra room on our workshop floor for our fledgling metal industry.

Small beginnings. We might eventually upgrade to a magma furnace, but honestly I find setting up a little forge hovel near the core of the earth a pain in the butt, as much as I like it aesthetically. Maybe we'll pump magma up, though that presents its own risks. Maybe if the cavern water pumping goes well.

The new forge was put to work immediately making an axe for one of the recruits. The other recruits claimed the purchased gear, and we are that much better armed for any aggression.

Shortly after our military got armed, we had our first strange mood! A posession, unfortunately, but we'll take what we can get. Ingish grabbed some Chert and Rough Bloodstones, and made a scepter.

I'll probably give it to a noble as a ceremonial piece or somethin. Or maybe just put it in a display case in the library somewhere. It does refer to a historical event from our civilization, The Rag of Palms so that's pretty nice.

Around this time winter hit and the murky pools froze so I set out to make that cistern. It's a small one, mostly to get the water out of the pool and under a roof, so the pool can refill. Honestly also did it just because I like messing with fluids in dwarf fortress. Honestly no idea how I haven't made a pumpstack yet.

The intermediate form of the cistern. I want to add some stone block walls and floors eventually. The blue on the right is obviously the frozen murky pool, the lever controls the floodgate, and the stairs go down into the cistern for when we need to hook it up to another cistern to bring it to the fort proper. This is mostly just to allow this particular murky pool to refill, giving us more water in total, over time. This Does present a potential hole in our security, but as long as we don't leave the floodgate open it should be fine. Should

This occured pretty much simultaneously with the smoothing of the temple being finished, creating a nice meeting place for the dwarves, which should hopefully help lighten the mood. We've gotten a number of mildly unhappy dwarves, and sure enough, after this all got smoothed out that number slowly dropped. And then immediately rose because everyone ran out in the snow and got pissed off about it, as dwarves do.

Luxary. We'll probably add some tables and chairs and such in here at some point too. Floor's a little barren. Also yes that is a llama statue. The cube statue is of a bogeyman, I dunno why it's shaped like a cube. Tileset restrictions on largely procedural creatures I'd imagine.

Once that got done I set the smoothers on the dining room, for similar reasons as to the temple. Areas dwarves frequent are important to make look nice, for happiness reasons. They never got around to even a single tile before the end of the year because they were too busy making stone blocks. A mostly good thing. The temple is probably enough for now.

As the year plodded on towards its conclusion the barracks part of the trade depot was finished, and our dwarves began to train. Shortly after the recruits graduated to novices of their given weapon types, and earned a Sword and Speardwarf title. The beginning of a hopefully long road.

They're not training in here as of this screenshot, but they're headed there!

We hit another bit of a lull as winter ran on, started making a floor for the main room of the depot and got that much closer to actually moving the depot inside it for once. The roof is still needed but we have an honestly absurd amount of blocks so it'll be done soon I imagine. The extra labor really helped. At some point while closing up the year a militiadwarf got trapped outside the walls at some point. I did have the drawbridge down at one point so haulers could bring some wood from outside the walls in, but I don't know why he would have left. Will have to keep my eyes open for further excursions. If there's some gap in the defenses that the dwarves are wandering through, we can expect any enemies to wander through it too. And dwarves won't climb to my knowledge, even if they know how, so that couldn't have been what happened either.

At the end of the year, the fort had its first child birth, Lolor Rimtarilir. Child of Kogan Rithas and Sigun Libadkivish who may sound familiar. The two dwarves we put in the military at the start of the year. We've come full circle. Unfortunately last time I played mother dwarves carrying their children had a nasty tendency to use them as shields, so Lolor may not be long for this world. Then again, he only needs a year to start walking, so maybe he'll be fine.

We can only hope. Also yes, dwarves are born with a full set of values, preferences, and life goals. Minute One this baby knows Exactly what it is doing with its life. Must be nice.

And from that point the year drove to a close uneventfully. The trade depot will be finished next year, and we can begin on another project, expand the cistern network, hopefully get some equipment forged, and maybe start to look at building that library. If not, I'll look into a non library secure storage place for books somewhere, to keep them out of the hands of thieves, as they don't go into any stockpile inparticular, so that scroll's just kinda... hangin out in the trade depot undefended. Costing 1000+ dollars and all. Need to get that taken care of. Probably should've done it this year. Oh well!

Until next year. Our fortunes rise and fall together.

[cadere-art]

Is your worldbuilding based off an already created work? (I have a feeling it's not but I'm not great at recognizing fandoms)

Also I want to know more about the worlds referred to in the species descriptions you've posted. Are we talking planets? Realms? Continents? How does travel happen?

All my work is original! I think it's cool that fandom spaces exist but I've never been a big fandom person myself.

I have, mainly, three settings I'm working on, from most recent to oldest: Ostbaye Moon is a sci-fi setting I'm occasionally working on with my husband for a TTRPG project which may or may not eventually come to life. I haven't really posted about it here and I'm not actively working on it at the moment. This setting is set on an habitable moon of a gas giant which is coveted by different alien factions who want to exploit, inhabit, protect it and more. This setting has several planets and stuff implied but is centered on that moon. This setting has some sort of FTL and wormhole tech but it is somewhat unimportant to it.

Pigeon Aéropostale, which I've been posting about recently, is a story set in the fantasy setting of the Endworld / Le Terminal. The Endworld is a planet or a dimension which has a one-way connection to a few other worlds, including ours. When a lot of things die in a small time/space region, there's a chance that at the moment of their death, they will find themselves alive and intact in the Endworld. No one has ever returned to one of the origin worlds from the Endworld - most people in the Endworld were born there, descendants from people who, at some point in the past, materialized from a tragedy in their origin world. The Endworld is planet-sized (whether this is constant or the Endworld is expending is a source of in-world debate), but the story mostly happens in Iscea (Iscée), a country rolling into industrial revolution at full steam in which Sébastie Jayde, illegitimate daughter of a trading magnate, is trying to build the first postal airline out of aviation's first hiccups.

Uanlikri, my oldest (and biggest) setting, is a fantasy setting with no magic whatsoever that I would personally rather describe as a bronze-age sci-fi. There's a lot of anthropological intent to Uanlikri. Uanlikri is one of the continents of the antiole world - the one with the dinosaur guys (there may or may not be antioles in Endworld as well - there were, when I was working on it 10 years ago, but now that I'm working on it again I'm not sure I want to keep them in. Time will tell). Uanlikri is a large continent, slightly smaller than Africa. There are other continents on this planet, but for the sake of my sanity, I'm not touching them except to the extent where people there have active relations with peoples on Uanlikri. Travel on Uanlikri is mostly by foot or by boat. Most of my work on Uanlikri is centered in the Basin region, which I haven't really posted much about because I've been busy working on my "Peoples of Uanlikri" vignettes for the peoples of the South, but suffices to say that the Basin region is a mediterannean-ish theater of empires hitting eachother and themselves on the head over centuries. The Basin region of Uanlikri is home to two stories I hope to write someday, both about the fall of the Namitan Empire, a large polity in the North of the Basin: The Flight of the Winged Serpent, which recounts the life and death of the last Emperor of Namitie, and Empire's Wake, which takes place in the vassal state of the Protectorate of Ranai as the Empire crumbles into civil war after the death of the last Emperor.

[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

[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 pi��ści

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 :))

[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.

[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. 

[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 :[

[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.

[ashcoveredtraveler]

Moth Types/Physical Variants

So I was looking through art of the moths of Hallownest and thought about what I could design for my versions of them. But then I thought: Why not have some variations between the moths? And while I am at it I can write how moths work in general.

(I was inspired by this post by @cloudyswritings)

Basic Biology:

The blood color of moths is based on whether they are more in tune with Dreams or Nightmares. In tune with the Radiance or Grimm. Pale golden blood makes them more in tune with the Radiance while those with bronze blood are more in tune with Grimm. This would be the spectrum of colors

Moths run warmer than other bugs. Their normal body temperature is the same temperature as a beetle with a high fever. This means that they don't get cold very easily, but can't overheat.

Since they don't get cold as easily, they don't "hibernate". In the winter when most other bugs are asleep, they are awake. But during this time they are a lot slower and sometimes don't have to eat for days on end.

Moths are both nomadic and have also settled down. Tribes communicate through dreams so the nomadic can find the tribes that settled down. They would stay there for about three years and the purpose of this is to trade off some moths so some would stay settled in while others would travel around the waste. This is so the tribes could be genetically diverse and that's why you see many different colors of moths, even with a small tribe as moths are always traded around. But these meetings usually happen once every 5 to 30 years, it depends on the cycle and paths that wondering tribes travel.

Moth's wings are extremely thick. It would be extremely hard to cut them up or penetrate them. This makes moth wings very valuable on the black market as it is harder to get.

Standard Moth:

Rarity: Common

Description: These moths are the most common type across Hallownest. They have a range of how tall they could be, but they are generally taller than the average Hallownest citizen with a few exceptions(I'm looking at you Seer). They have a combination of fur and chitin around their body. The forearms and legs are comprised of chitin while the arms are fur.

Fluff: Their fluff is comparable to the fur of dung beetles. The fur can be made of any type of finish, straight and wavy. This causes the retant to have a lot of heat, and it is generally very warm.

Diet: They can eat a mix of meats and plant-based food, but they prefer vegetarian options as they are more filling and give them more energy.

Colors: These moths are made up of simple colors, usually multiple shades of the same color. Just like paints, moths follow color theory. If a red and a blue moth were to have kids, they would have purple children. Now if two purple moths were to have children they would have a mix of purple, red, and blue children since the purple moths have both blue and red pigments with them.

Moths: The Seer and Thistlewind are standard moths.

Butterfly Moth:

Rarity: Uncommon

Description: These moths can be mistaken as butterflies if they conceal themselves properly. These moths are skinny and lengthy, mimicking butterflies.

Fluff: Their fluff is thinner than other moths, but their hair is thicker than butterflies. Just like the common variety their fluff could be straight and wavey.

Diet: They are just like the common moths, but they are more inclined to eat meats.

Colors: Their wings are more intricate than the normal moths. They have more designs and more colors, but their body is typically black. If two butterfly-like moths were to have children, one would inherit the design of the wings and the color of the other.

Moths: Lurien and Xero(kinda as he is a hybrid)

Owl Moth:

Rarity: Extremely Rare(No full-blooded one lives in Hallownest)

Description: Some of these moths aren't recognizable as moths, and most share owl-like features like claws(inspired by this post[The last photo] by @/mipexch). They live far, far away from Hallownest, living in nomadic tribes and in small numbers. They are massive. Within this sector, there are many physical traits including mandibles, beaks, three pairs of wings, having the ability to turn their head 180 degrees, and many alien/bird traits.

[Note: as I am still thinking about what the wastelands would be like. An idea I had was that some places are straight-up radioactive. Maybe birth defects are higher because of that. But I am unsure what I would do.]

Fluff: They have wavy to curly fluff. while this fur is thick, it is the most useful and can travel everywhere. Their fur isn't as absorbent so it doesn't get dirty as fast. Some moth's fur also has tendrils and feathers.

Diet: They can eat a variety of things. You can't be too picky if you live in lands that barely have resources.

Colors: They are typically a variety of deep rich colors. The colors can be monotone like the standard moths or have intricate patterns like the butterfly moths.

Moths: Markoth (Kinda) and Markoth's dad(But he's dead)

This is a general doodle I made for the owl moths. I want them to be extremely imposing and just generally weird. I didn't convey it well in this drawing, so I will draw them more eventually.

[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