#Champion may kin

[quinnred]

Tilshek: God of the Ugly Rage, WindRammer, He-Who-Drums-The-Summit.

Tilshek is the embodiment of warm storms, tantrum, frenzy, spasm, drunken fury, and unjust punishment. He is represented by the Urchin and Cactus in the South and by the Porcupine and Thistle in the North. Berserking warriors may don quills to evoke Tilshek in their rages, while others may wear a flower of a thistle or cactus to evoke his merciful servant, Mahtaa.

Tilshek was born from the abuse of two Feather Gods within the halls of The Sun. He emerged stillborn, fused with the bestial Jak that all Feathers Gods are pregnant with, and was denied feathers by his reckless parents. The babe was tossed from the sky and quickly forgotten upon the land. No god dare claim parentage as even they know shame.

Abandoned and with no guidance, the naked and pained god became a wild storm of knuckle and claw, scarring the land and terrorising all that lived on it. Only one, a young Manava named Mahtaa, would recognize this mindless wreaking as the divine bawl of a newborn god and calm it with soft word and tenderness and succour. The beaked giant would ever seethe, but placation allowed Mahtaa to guide Tilshek to the home of the Shell Gods, The Mesa.

The Shell Gods were impressed with the mad orphan’s strength and the wisdom of his guardian, asking what drove the new god to such a rage. He cawed to them that he was born of poor love and left naked and wronged, wishing that he could return to his home if only to pluck and maul his kin until The Sun hung red. The chief of the Shell Gods, mighty Zridtara, was greatly amused and sympathetic to Tilshek’s rage against their rival pantheon, welcoming him into his Mesa home as an honorary Shell God. Being too rowdy to live within it’s halls, Tilshek was appeased by sitting atop The Mesa, tended to by often smashed Godler servants and the soothing Mahtaa as he stared at the ever enraging Sun.

While the Godlers would serve their master divine boozes and sacrifices (and suffer pummeling due to minor grievances), Mahtaa’s role was to herd the ram skulled god away from fool furies. He became most needed whenever Tilshek was sent on an “errand” by his new kin, a distraction so the Shell and Feather god pantheons could visit and negotiate without conflict. As Tilshek would rampage across the mortal lands, Mahtaa would outwit his master and aim his rages away from innocent mortals, earning him the title “Storm-Guide”.

One day the tantrummer had been told of a piece of the moon that held Jak yolk, as it was the egg that The Mountain and The Sky conceived the Jaks from, and that it may yield him god feather. Mahtaa did not take this seriously, seeing it as yet another teasing of his master, yet Tilshek was ecstatic that his solar massacre dreams may yet be fulfilled. As they travelled Mahtaa would ponder that, if the moon yolk was real, should his idiot charge receive such a boon, even if it was his birthright as Feather God and as a Half-Jak? Surely he would not only kill his sun kin but also be slain himself in such a mad fervour?

And so Mahtaa would deny Tilshek his prize upon it’s discovery, allowing it to be taken and hidden by Godlers of the Feather Gods. In confusion, the normally unhesitating Tilshek paused for once in his life before striking down an offender. In those moments Mahtaa stood strong and loving, even as his god sprouted a pair of arms to strangle him with. But rather than suffocate, his head bloomed into a kind flower, his godhood blossoming into a champion of mercy due to his many good deeds. From then on Tilshek would ever carry the flower faced god as punishment for his betrayal, and in part as a comfort, like a child may clutch their blanket.

This arrangement would only end upon the coming of the Deiomachy, when peace between gods eroded and fate grew hungry for war. Tilshek silently granted his one and only mercy, releasing his beloved and loyal prisoner so as to spare him from the doom-drum of divine combat.

The Mesa would be capped by a false peak as Tilshek flung himself with a rising storm towards his twin-by-fate: Shrileket the Sun-Dropper. Their clash would announce war between the Feather and Shell, booming as only gods could for days until they fell upon each other’s impalements.

[slowthypiglordblr]

Toh Theory: Will the Titan aid Luz in the Final Battle, and has he been helping her?

Throughout the course of the Owl house (especially after the revelations from S2b) a question has been in the back of my mind. Has the Titan of the Boiling Isles been secretly helping Luz this whole time?

A major element of season 1 and early season 2 was Luz’s uncanny ability to discover and utilize glyphs, something witches and demons didn’t know existed until then. In a matter of weeks, Luz had mastered all four glyphs, and would eventually learn to combine them in only a few months. While this also stems from her artistic ingenuity (and reading some of Philip’s journal), it’s almost like the Titan itself had been guiding her as a sort omniscient second mentor. On the opposite, it took Belos/Philip Witterbane years to figure out the gylphs even requiring Luz to teach his past self the light spell (her first glyph). He even speculated that Titan would have such knowledge to begin with and was actively sabotaging him to prevent him from threatening the people of the isles. It’s fitting that the self-proclaiming “Humble Messenger of the Titan” was actually a false prophet despised by the being he claimed to serve where as Luz was unknowingly the Titan’s true champion.

Another interesting thing in “For The Future” of all the Hexsquad, Luz was the only one to stuck in the rift (a place she had previously visited in Yesterday’s Lie). The spiritual figure (who I presume is the titan’s soul) is desperately trying to reach, even waving at her to get her attention. Whatever the reason, the Titan clearly wishes to speak with Luz specifically as if he needs her for something important. 

This is mostly just a guess on my end, but I’m starting to wonder if Dana has been hinting this connection from the beginning. During the countdown for the season 2 premiere, Luz is shown resting inside the skull of a giant beast which seems to greatly resembles a Titan’s head. Another art piece shows Luz playing with a massive paper mache King’s skull, wearing it and even sitting inside of it. 

In the show proper, in the episode “Thanks to Them”, Luz and Hunter adorn themselves with a King and Owl mask respectively to face what they think is Belos returned. While this was mostly helped to give Hunter a much needed confidence boost, it might also serve as a symbolic function in the narrative. Hunter is revitalizing a part of his former identity as the Golden Guard whereas Luz wears the likeness of someone she views as a younger brother for emotional support. It also may foreshadow Luz drawing strength from the Titan itself in order to be on par with the Collector as what Lilith mentioned in “For the Future”, Titan’s magic can negate Collector magic. (Makes you wonder if instead of a CollectorLuz, we got TitanLuz, but that’s probably just me.)

.Before we get into Titan’s plans for Luz, we need to take reflect on elements on the small tidbits of information revolving around the Titans in general. As we can recall, the Titans were once the ruling species of the Demon Realm for an unspecified amount of time. One day, the Collectors arrived on their crusade of capturing and taking over other planets for their own agenda. The Titans stepped forth to oppose the Collector and drive them back, with the latter alongside the witches and demons who worshiped them and sought their extinction. This would lead to a long and bloody war which ended in both sides wiping each other out, save a youngster from each opposing species (King and our Collector). 

During this period of time, it helps to shed a small light on the Boiling Isles Titan likely as a person. While we don’t know much about King’s father, it’s in the face of the war and the slaughter of his kin, a he sought to protect his son (the last Titan) at all costs. He created an island hidden away from the Collector through a protective sigil inside a massive tower which King’s egg would be nurtured. As a last line of defense against any intruder seeking to harm his son, the Titan created an army of golems made from flesh and bone to protect and care for King. This proves to us that regardless of circumstance, King’s father loved and cherished his son more than anything in the world, even before his own life. 

This leads into the reason for the Titan seeking out Luz, the answer is as simple as it is profound, to be there for King. Ever since Luz arrived on the Isles, she’s had a massive positive impact on the island and it’s inhabitants (despite her believing the contrary). She helped Eda reconcile with her curse and her sister, she helped Willow, Gus, Hunter, and Amity overcome their personal struggles, reforge their friendships and come into their own, as well as play an important role in stopping the Day of Unity. But one of major accomplishments was with King, at the start of the show, he was self-centered attention seeking child lost in delusions of grandeur who often caused a lot of trouble her and others around him. But thanks in part to Luz, King not only learned that actions have consequences and to appreciate what he has, but also resolve his own identity crisis and discover his nature as a Titan. If not for Luz’s influence would’ve never become the mature, responsible, empathetic boy he is by season 3. Through that, it’s easy to see why the Titan would see Luz as the perfect person to watch over King, as well the world he created in his own death. 

While the idea of prophecy and chosen ones does not fit the themes of the owl house, but take away the Titan’s preconceived divinity to the witches and demons of the BI and a new picture is formed. A father who in death left behind a world for his son to call home and a family to cherish, with Luz serving to guide him into becoming a good person in a way he could not. 

[witchofthesouls]

Someone please give D.C.!AU Soundwave a medal and a drink for dealing with the shenanigans. Also have to wrangle Tarn's general Tarn-ness.

First he had to deal with the donar clause was activated by Tarn and Tarn imprinted?! Wait he's seeker-kin and a has been a tank for ages." The telepath knows exactly why stascream was torn between lsughter and tears. Which means he has to be constantly be on guard that Tarn might try to trine with Lord Megatron.

Then he had to do with the twice accidentally very married couple being well married and also expecting more bitties. He knows in his spark his cassettes are to blame somehow regardless of the lack of evidence.

Then the chaos on board the nemasis caused by Tarn bringing back a pregnant conjux and a flock of bitties. Tarn being hyper protective made everything super hazardous just existing on the same ship. At least they gained two hyper compatatent medics. Even if Tarn's sexual tension was so high Soundwave had to take active measures to prevent three quarters of the ship from entering heats or ruts.

Then the Overlord Incident(s) culminating in premature newsparks, one very dead Overlord, an Soundwave discovering This nurse isn't some agent assassin, Camians, especially medical professionals, are just like that. Also that Camus has hazards that are insane and the planet is best avoided.

Speaking of which he had to browbeat Megatron into encouraging Tarn and the Nurse to call the Nurse's Mentor/Foster-sire so he could meet the bitties because Soundwave will be damned if he ends up gunning for the cause because of a misunderstanding. Also perhaps they can arange for him to teach medical techniques.

To top it all off inspite of the fact Tarn's dangerous broken coding and the couple are literally spark resonants powerful enough to smash through two layers of outlier grade baffels, Megatron wants the nurse to consider other potential sires or code doners since they are capable of kindling.

And all of this mess was basically caused because Tarn was a touch starved socially isolated virgin who wrote the damn doner clause with such specificity. Soundwave and Starscream have already pushed through amendments that allow the carrier to have their choice of potential doners amoung the unit responsible for the sire's demise.

The Donor Clause Au is such a mess. It has different versions at this point, depending on the take like 'What if Tarn had to be present at officer meetings," "What if Megatron was a High Priest of Megatronus Prime," and the current thought of "What if sparklings were ridiculously rare on Cybertron because Reasons."

In the verse where sparklings are super rare as in one newspark per full carriage (not the back-to-back-to-back clutches of three), Soundwave gets all the spiked tea he wants, his own spike milked by hand as he's one of the few mechs that 1) you actually like outside of the Peaceful Tyranny and 2) Tarn pre-approved in a very detail breakdown of very short over acceptable mechs in case your legal spouse isn't around, and he gets chirpy sparklings crawling into his lap.

Purring and happy with simple, one-tracked minds and emotions that don't give Soundwave migraines or induce distaste. He actually indulges the little ones as they paint his legs or tug on his plates or, in the case of the sparkling with a mess of a mouth full of sharp teeth, Soundwave utilizes his more heavily protected data-cables for the bitty to chew on.

Soundwave has never thought of parenthood as tapedecks can't carry sparklets, and finding a mech with a viable gestational chamber is akin to becoming a long-standing reigning Champion of Kaon, but...

Soundwave also nips those family yearnings because then he would need to deal with Tarn as a potential code-sharer along with your own idiosyncrasies as a Camien. Nor does he want to constantly deal with Ravage's and Ratbat's complaints of Tarn's super-charged, lust-addled repression. While the leader of the Justice Division may have the iron control to keep his highly charged field to his plating, any mech with a finely tuned sense of smell, like the majority of beastformers, would sneeze at Tarn's presence.

(If Tourniquet is around, the Hub would be fielding an immense influx of comms ranging from the Camien Healer's approval to take Decepticon personnel onto hazardous planetoids for a 'complete training experience,' Hook's bombardment of pulling the colonists into his division, and a flood of troops' terrified complaints/hopeful messages thanks as the Healer would literally hunt and drag any mech into his care, kicking and screaming with an unholy sense of cheer.)

The Cassettes, despite their denial, do get jealous the sheer amount of racket all six bitties make when the Justice Division troops back. No amount of patty cake, violent nursery rhymes, and edible paint will match the warmth and deep rumble of Tarn's frame or the Pet's yankable mane.

The bitties are defiantly chirping at their imprisoned state, being trapped by hard-light in mess hall.

As everyone goes through the usual song-and-dance because the mechs want to pick up a sparkling, but you're already at gate as a grim, no nonsense warden because the Justice Division are filthy from gore, dust, and dirt. You're on a third carriage and have no wants to deal with a sick clutch on top of it because the sparklings would try to lick it off a random, filthy armor piece.

It's usually easier to shoo Tesarus and Helex into Nickel's awaiting care, considering those two are the messiest and have a habit of inconsistent personal care. Kaon has his servos full tugging the Pet away to the communal showers. Vos enjoys being an ass because you tend to nick his cables with quick swipes of a scalpel as Tarn lingers and winds up both clutches over their papa and uncle.

Meanwhile, Soundwave is trying to make his escape because he knows Tarn is thinking about cuddles and you're projecting filthy X-rated scenes, but he's trapped by social convention and that sparkling still chewing on his data-cable.

Nurse blames the alcohol for the second clutch as well as disbelief since you shouldn't have sparked up. Not that fast.

The third clutch was just plain weakness because you could have put your pede down and stayed on the ship. But you didn't (and you're not thinking about the implications, no sir, not at all, you're most definitely not thinking about the taste of your legal Conjux's Energon and how his neck-cables felt beneath your denta-)

Tarn can be dense/oblivious as the Head of Idiot Sandwiches. Still doesn't know he had imprinted. He just knows he enjoys Nurse's company and the family life and feels more well-rested even with the chaos. (Aka his Seekerkin-coding is finally getting sociality it has been screaming for by latching onto a carrier-mate and resulting bitties). Tarn is patting himself on the back, being an excellent donor and upholding Decepticon creed, and thanks to Lord Megatron's clarification, he will do his Conjunxal duties!

(Cue everyone else staring at this walking disaster that's in deep denial he's been doing the enthusiastic husband role for a long while already, and Kaon is still awaiting for the orn that Tarn and Nurse will figure out their true feelings until then he has his evidence board, holos, and all the gifts under his floorboards that he's slowly giving to the intended couple.

The communication specialist was giddy, and Sixshot had done a sigh of relief when Tarn, miracles of miracles, had finally given into the impulse to bite a coaxing door-wing. The result had the poor guy hailing Nickel because your reaction was intense.)

High Command is in a deadlock on whether or not to update the Donor Clause, considering said ridiculousness is highly effective.

[andrevalias-tes]

Meet the Character: Bloodies-His-Face

Report for the Elder Council

Compiled by General Alexus Nipia

Frostfall 7, 2E 583

With sincere regret, I cannot make direct contact with the Elder Council as the 2nd Legion still has the lengthy task of securing Bruma and the surrounding area. May this letter find Councilor Lovidicus and the rest of you well, and may I also commend Chancellor Tharn on securing a temporary truce in the Three Banners War. Whatever brief cessation of hostility it may be, know that the 2nd Legion will use every moment to restore Imperial control in Cyrodiil’s north.

Onto the matter at hand, I received a request to keep track of a former Arena Champion by the name of Bloodies-His-Face. Recently, he attended the Varen Memorial Cup held in Kvatch and then again in the Imperial City (Akatosh speed her recovery). It would please the Council to know he spent time up here in Bruma (as recent as last week), and I personally got reacquainted with the champion.

I’d known of Bloodies-His-Face (Red to his friends, a privilege I had the honour of using but will refrain otherwise to maintain formality in this report) indirectly from my time serving under Varen Aquilarios during the Colovian Revolt. He’d fought in several skirmishes alongside Varen’s personal cohort across the countryside and on the Red Ring Road. He was particularly known for his ferocity when fighting against Emperor Leovic’s army; part of a personal vendetta I later learned.

Before he became an Arena Champion, Bloodies fought in the Coronation Cup held in Leovic’s honour a decade prior. Alongside him were a cohort of Argonian servants whom Leovic had conscripted to fight. Despite his best efforts to train his egg-kin, Bloodies outlived them all and was even forced at arrowpoint by the Emperor to fight the second-last of his kin. For this, he sought revenge and joined Varen’s Rebellion.

When we disposed of Leovic in 2E 577, many of us parted ways. Since then, Bloodies recounted adventures had in Blackwood, Morrowind, and even Skyrim. He had ‘kept busy’, as he told me. The Council, of course, knows that a year later was when the dread Soulburst occurred and the Dark Anchors heralding Molag Bal’s invasion appeared. To recount for the Council: during this time, Bloodies had rallied local Imperial guard and citizenry against the initial wave of Daedra, as well as the treachery of Legion Zero.

From what I understand, Bloodies-His-Face formed the Order of the Sacred Ashes after helping many citizens escape the Imperial Isle six months later. Though a brotherhood of pauper knights initially, it serves to remind the Council that Bloodies and his comrades battled Daedra and the Worm Cult across Tamriel. They even, at times, partook in the Three Banners War. However, he insisted that his knights swear to maintain peace and justice first and foremost over any provincial claim to sovereignty. I hope this would satisfy the Council’s curiosity to his allegiance from the start.

I did not manage to learn more of what he has been up to between then and the Varen Memorial Cup, as he spent most of his time in the region at Fort Dragonclaw. Once again: my deepest apology for not compiling a more recent dossier on the Sekiryu clan, but I can at least inform the Council that it would appear Bloodies-His-Face is deeply affiliated with them. In the least, it can only be beneficial that he is of respected standing among their number as the Council knows that the Sekiryu are descended from the Akaviri who fought Reman at Pale Pass.

In summary, my brief contact with Bloodies-His-Face has informed me well of his character and alliances. I can confidently report to the Council that if we seek the services of Bloodies, his Ashen Knights, or his contacts with the Sekiryu, then it can only mean good things for the Empire. And at such a dire time when our citizenry worry for the future, we could always do with more heroes.

P.S: Bloodies wanted to convey his interest in a position as a General of the Imperial Legion that Varen promised him. I leave that proposition to your discretion.

[twistedshipper]

prompt: "be careful" | Arthur/Morgana | Not Rated | Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings

{Long May She Reign} for @merlinmicrofic

“Be careful,” she had whispered to him once, her words impressed upon him like a lady’s favor about his arm, and he, deferential of her care, took her words to heart, promising in return, he would be the one to escort her to the champion’s feast, thinking her pleased.

And then, seasons later, it had been her bracelet she had coaxed him into wearing about his wrist, the silver one with the amber gem that gleamed alight in the sun, as it had accompanied him into the Perilous Lands—it will keep you safe, she had vowed—followed by her own, violet favor, kin to the one she had once promised to the knight, Owain; he had died moments later upon the same field Arthur had set out towards, the fallen token blowing, discarded in the wind.

Losses come and they go, he now realized, like friends.

They had been friends, playmates, grown up together. In more ways than one she had been his closest companion in those early days, almost a lover in the later ones, and as beloved as the sister he never had.

“Be careful,” she had warned before they sparred with their wooden, practice swords. And while he had not taken her words lightly, still he had met defeat each time at the end of her blade as she grinned devilishly down at him, pleased with her own victory.

He could not help but smile in return, thinking, then, it had just been a game they had both been complicit in.

Now, it was far from that. His father—their father—was locked in a vice-grip by guards with a red Rowan tree emblazoned on their breast, and Morgana was seated across from him, her lips colored the same bloodred, their father’s crown atop her head, and he, silently, in the alcove above watching the scene below, powerless to prevent it all from happening.  

Be careful, the triumph in her eyes glinted dark with malice.

If only he had heeded her warning back then, saw the signs for what they were, the games they had played, always ending with him on his backside, dumbfounded, gazing up at her in awed astoundment, as now he looked down at her ashamed.

Maybe then, he would have noticed that she had been their father’s daughter all along, so cruel in her compassion, that she had been born to be Queen, more so than he had ever, with all his schooling, been reared to be the future King.

[aroaceleovaldez]

do you have any other pjo alter human hcs? 👀

Yes!

Leo being dragonkin and Jason being a wolf therian are my two main ones. Like i mentioned in that other post, I imagine Leo's is more spiritual-origin and Jason's is specifically more psychological-origin from being raised by Lupa's pack. I already went over some of the dragonkin!Leo ones in the previous post so I'll focus more on the wolf therian Jason ones here- (under a cut for length)

Because all the Romans are trained by the wolves, plus a small friendly monster population in New Rome that includes dog-headed people, Jason just. does not think twice at all about identifying so strongly as a wolf. He just presumes that's a normal thing. Everybody else just thinks he's being Very Roman so they don't question it either. It probably isn't until he goes to CHB that he realizes not everybody feels like that.

That doesn't stop him and Leo from having a conversation about feeling like a wolf/dragon respectively and continuing to presume that it's totally not an identity thing they're gonna be thinking about A Lot later on and either Everybody Just Feels Like That or they're both just got the same oddly specific unique thing going on (it's not like it'd be the only thing - they're also both Hera's champions. maybe it's just a champions of Hera thing). It's fine, they'll figure it out eventually. Piper is extremely confused about what they're going on about though.

Jason is excited a very normal amount about the concept of werewolves. He's totally not mad that he wasn't able to defeat Lycaon in battle and gain shapeshifting powers. Definitely not. He's also definitely not jealous of Frank for having shapeshifting powers, or jealous that Nico and Reyna got to fight the lycanthropes more.

Leo is also immensely jealous of Frank's shapeshifting and is heavily considering trying to bargain with the gods to swap his fire powers for that.

Jason has an encyclopedic knowledge of like every werewolf myth from different mythologies and folktales and he WILL excitedly infodump about them.

The Greco-roman werewolf myths may have not turned out for him, but the minute Jason finds out that Norse myths are on the table he's begging Annabeth if they can go visit her cousin. For science. Just to see if the Norse werewolf myths are any better. By the gods he will figure out if safely and ethically becoming a wolf is possible somehow. (He has definitely also asked Reyna to use Circe magic to turn him into a wolf before. Up to interpretation how that went down.)

Jason using claw weapons!!!!! He definitely has fought with his teeth before but he gets his hands on some nice hefty and sturdy claws and he is THRIVING with them. If he could get some sort of teeth armor/weapon to use too, he would. Unfortunately that one's a bit harder to get so his real teeth will have to do for now, when an option. (He definitely bit Krios and is 100% up for using his teeth in a fight you cannot convince me otherwise)

Speaking of biting - Jason is a biter, just in general. He affectionately chews on/nips at his friends as both an oral stim AuDHD thing and a 'kin thing. Also playfighting/sparring with them. He'd probably get into quadrobics and parkour as well if given the opportunity.

Leo's not so much into that sort of very active stuff (or very platonically affectionate stuff). He's mostly hanging out with his hoard of machinery in his den Bunker 9. They're still shiny things, they're still his hoard. He's a bit more territorial of Bunker 9 than he'd like to admit since it's his space (also combo dragonkin brain/autism stuff) but trying to explain why is way too much of a headache for him, and most people stay out of there anyways so it doesn't come up much which is fine by him.

In terms of more dragonkin-affirming activities though, despite his aversion to fire, Leo's fallen asleep in a fireplace/bed of coals/etc a couple of times in his life and he will never admit how comfortable and affirming that was for him. He does also generally feel a bit better about his fire powers if it's just the fire-resistance part, or if he's breathing fire specifically (because also it's just cool, and how can he not feel like a badass super big and strong dragon when he's literally breathing fire?) (that time in BoO he totally let loose his fire and turned into functionally a supernova of flames was also weirdly affirming for him and he doesn't know what to do with that information). He's also probably tried making arm stilts before, just to see what they're like, and if he could improve the design at all to feel and look more natural.

...Atypical pronoun sets? Atypical pronoun sets. It'd probably be awhile before they actually start using them, but I think both Leo and Jason might vibe at least a lil with he/its for otherkin/therian reasons. Leo also probably dre/drem/dris. I also think Jason would particularly vibe with wolfgender. He didn't know that was an option and once he does he really likes it. (Also have you seen the masc wolfgender flag? Look at that and tell me that's not Jason.)

Camp Jupiter probably has more alterhuman folks than CHB, just in terms of population sizes and also just given how they're trained/raised it probably comes up more over there. This does somehow simultaneously make Jason more convinced that it's just an average thing but also less aware that being otherkin/a therian is even a thing.

My friend and I have talked a lot about the absolute weirdness potential that might occur with being an alterhuman demigod. Can you imagine being some creature from mythology and then finding out not only do they actually exist in that exact moment in your world, but also they will try to hunt you down? Something something intense alterhuman linguistic debates about if you're a mythological monster does that qualify more as therian or otherkin (based on the proposed delineation of therian = real world creatures / otherkin = mythological/legendary/etc)? (second philosophical/linguistic debate happening in the background of feral/animalistic = therian / less feral/animalistic = otherkin delineation but if that monster was originally a mortal then which do they qualify as?) (third conference happening behind that one of demigods journaling their experiences as monsters who were originally mortals and how that impacts them as demigods.) The awkwardness that must exist from being like hydrakin or something and then having to fight a hydra. Or being a different kind of hydra than exists in the riordanverse (or, weirder, being hydrakin but Monster Donut hydra specifically and having to explain your odd inexplicable connection to donuts before you figure out that's a thing).

Again: Leo making 'kin gear for demigodsssss. Maybe he's the one who makes the claw weapons for Jason, who knows.

For other major characters: Annabeth would definitely be totally fascinated by daemonism and probably experiment with it at least a bit. Nico I could see vibing with voidpunk. Hazel I could also see vibing with just general label alterhuman relating to her whole being-revivied-from-the-dead situation. Maybe same for Thalia for the same reasons, or Thalia even vibing with being like dryad-hearted/kith due to the whole pine tree thing.

I got another ask about this so there will be more headcanons along these lines soon as well.

[sasslett]

Vrtra for the NPC ask!

He’d sensed them from the moment they’d arrived in his kingdom - three souls with unmistakable bonds to his kin. They had, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware of his presence… as far as he could tell, at the least. Until they strode into his hall, until the eldest of the three had called to pull back the curtain. 

“Nay, he hath the right of it - the time for artifice is past,” Vrtra rumbled, resolve shaking in his voice. “Raise the curtain.” 

The great wyrm carefully watched the expressions of the warriors standing before him as his true form was revealed - shock, awe, and a particular smugness about the one. Perhaps he could fool his people, but those who had forged bonds with his kin knew better than the rest. 

The eldest held the strongest connection, to that of his brood brother, Nidhogg - and though he may have been young, he sensed the weave of corruption that laced the man’s very essence. The other two, however, had not stains upon their souls, but… blessings, a pact, perhaps. The taller of them, the purple-haired one, whose soul held the unmistakable mark of Vrtra’s own father. 

Oh, Midgardsormr… He had heard his father had awoken, had pledged himself to a champion of Hydaelyn… and the great wyrm couldn’t help but feel a surge of joy, of hope at finally meeting the one his father had deemed worthy. 

And the woman by his side… was perhaps the most surprising of all. For within her laid a borrowed power of another of his brood brothers, of one most reluctant to trust, to lend himself to a cause. 

Hraesvelgr. 

It brought a smile to the dragon’s maw that his brother had, perhaps, finally healed enough to let another in, to confide in a mortal once more. 

And that told him all he needed to know about the strangers standing before him, that they were the saviors Radz-at-Han so desperately needed. 

[shallahi-and-snowflake]

Hello! Sorry about the roughness of my blog, I mostly just used this one for lurking before I ever thought to get in on anything.

I’m Shallahi Ksheh Bah-Teft, I’m… around… Nanish-er, that’s 20 years old, I think? (Years, months, days, and hours are different where I’m from.) (UPDATE: it’s closer to 22.) I’m human (mostly), Thaylen/Alethi, but I have longer eyebrows than most half-Thayleni. (I’m a Luxray Hybrid now, as of 2-29-24.) Yes, long eyebrows is a weird thing here. I tend to wear them over my ears, if that’s a good image to use as a metric.)

(Update: Apparently I’m Luxray-kin? I just figured it out, so…)

I’m from Kharbranth, also known as the City of Bells. I’m a Knight Radiant (something like a “Chosen” for a smaller, less powerful being. I’m of the Sixth Order, a Lightweaver of the Fourth Ideal as of 1-23-24), a Worldhopper (a “Faller” with more agency in where they go, basically), a collector of stories and knowledge and a lover of food and adventure!

I am a member of Bridge Four and an Incursionist.

I thought I was 6-foot-something, but I’m closer to 6-and-a-third of this world’s feet in height.

I use she/it/fae, and by your standards of gender, I would be transfeminine. (I transitioned by accidentally taking in an entire lamp’s worth of Stormlight, so no need to worry about HRT access, thank goodness. It’s such a shame that others can’t just breathe in magic and—poof! Be properly aligned to their Spiritual aspect.)

I may say words that don’t make sense to you, or don’t fit in the context you’d use them in, that’s just a consequence of the mixing of my own vocabulary and knowledge that I took with me here, me learning new words and assuming their meaning, and the Connection tricks I use to help learn new languages.

I said I was a Worldhopper earlier; don’t worry, while yes I might steal away to Scadarial or elsewhere for a bit, I’m making this world with weak storms, static grass, and colourful fluffy creatures my home. Like Shinovar but with more colour and less ksenophobia!

Now for you, Snowflake!

Mmmmm…

Ah! I am called “Snowflake” or “Snowy,” (She/Her) and I am a Patternspren or Crypticspren. A spren is… mmmm… a small fragment of a God. Not your gods, mind you. I am bonded to Shallahi, who you have already heard from. This world is strange to us. There is no Shadesmar, no Cognitive Realm that we could find. This means that I am just a Pattern on a dress or other form of clothing. I am dictating my words to Shallahi. Mmm… unfeminine.

(SH: Don’t listen to that stupid old book, it’s full of lies.)

I like lies. You know this.

SH: Then why let those lies dictate your life?)

Mmm… I am called Snowflake because that is how my Pattern looks. This is everything I can think to say.

I sign asks as ❄️.

I have a ton of siblings from Bridge Four, and also Oppy @freeroaming-curiosity is my sister!

Malkah (@faller-of-kharbranth) who just Fell here recently, is also my sister now!

Konnie @abyssanon is also my sibling, as well.

My little sister, who goes by Kitt but is technically a younger me, is at @kitten-of-kharbranth.

SALUTATIONS. I AM HER MAJESTY THE DUSK QUEEN LUNALA, THE PSEUDO-PATRON OF SHALLAHI.

My name, should you need it, is Nyx, and I use she/he/it/moon pronouns.

Should I send any asks, I shall sign them with -Her Majesty, the Queen of Dusk, Lunala.

Rose @hisuianhellion is MY GIRLFRIEND AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH!

I have 12 kids:

• Sword @sword-of-injustice, who talks like this. (Your pronouns.)

• Crystal @crystalclearribbons, who doesn’t live with me. (She/Her)

• Vivillon @shinx-oh, who also doesn’t live with me. (She/her)

• Fox (Eevee), who lives with Vivillon. (He/him)

• Illanero @zoruascanbetrainerstoo, who is the Champion of Hoenn, Kanto, Kalos, and Unova!! (All, but mostly xe/xem)

Xe usually travels with Cresselia/Zrosenza @moondreamscape. (she/it/dream)

• Svirak-Daughter-None, a Squawkabilly (She/Her).

• [Zeradin, a Zebstrika] (They/He).

• <Zan, a Dwebble> (He/Him).

• {Vinette, a Joltik.} (She/It).

• Palana, a Natu (She/Him)

• Navari, Eevee/Axehound hybrid, egg obtained from Quasar ( @rogue-nebula) (She/her? Hatched. Unknown.)

Here’s my Trainer Card:

Annoyingly, there are very few darker-skinned Trainers with blue eyes in the options. Nessa(?) here is the closest I could find.

Pelliper Mail is ON!

Same with Musharna Mail!

Don’t be afraid to ask me stuff, serious or silly!

In fact, don’t be afraid to be goofy with your asks.

Magic Anons are ON, but FILTERED!

Current Arc: Arc Shash (on hold sort-of), Purrsona! (more of a topic tag).

Previous Arcs: Purifying Waters Arc, Time Heist Event, Rotomblr in Wonderland, Lightweaver Luxray, Robot Rescue, Mini-Arc: Curse Of Angy Teen, Muse Mixup Madness (Get PMD’d (Luxrayposting)), Mini Arc: Pokesona Time!, Muse Mixup Madness (Shashariposting) Mini Arc: More Cat, Castelia trip!!

//No proshippers, no TERFs, no NSFW stuff. I don’t really want drama, I just want to have fun. Oh, yeah, also, POTENTIAL COSMERE SPOILERS!

//Sentient Pokémon are A-OK to interact, if previous reblogs haven’t made it clear.

//Self Insert Fallers and Branded are also clear to interact.

[rat-pagi]

Kaleesh Week Day 3 - Demigod

An animated short, based off of the last couple lines of If All Goes Well, which I now know of, thanks to @inonibird's Qymaen jai Sheelal playlist (if you haven't taken a listen yet, I highly recommend it, it's been a huge inspiration to me in all my Qymaen musings)

More specifically the last couple of lines--

You see, thing that gets me about about the Kaleesh concept of demigod is that it's both a blessing, to elevate another of your kin to godhood, while they still walk among you-- it demonstrates love, admiration, hope that they may bring about a better future-- and yet a the same time, it seems a curse. I mean, damn, how hard must it be to not only have the entirety of your populace looking to you to lead, but to also be expected not to really screw up because demigods don't do that (not to say there isn't a conception of gods/demigods making mistakes in most Kaleesh cultures, but it's still a Bad Thing that Doesn't Happen Often).

In the EU canon, there's a line that has stayed with me-- Qymaen never really agreed to become Grievous, not until his wives and children were led before him. I think that line's expected reading is that, when he saw them, he was moved to realize how much Kalee (and he) had to lose by refusing San Hill's deal. However-- I wonder if, along with that, there was also his demigod-hood among the Kaleesh to consider. What would it do to them to see their champion beaten, his body broken-- and by a shuttle crash, no less? At least discarding the remains of his Kaleesh body, the ideal of Qymaen jai Sheelal, the dreamer, the demigod was preserved. Even if it destroyed the man himself.

But that was the price that Qymaen was willing to pay.

[theirheartandsoul]

I'm unsure if it's the same over there, but over here, a gym leader cannot be removed from their position unless a few specific criteria is met. (Not all need to apply at the same time.)

1) They have broken the law with trial and proof. 2) All gym leaders and the Champion have agreed to it. 3) The gym leader is stepping down, which may be passed on to next of kin if said kin proves their skill.

You don't need to worry about being removed .. teens are like that, I'm afraid. Once that child sees how difficult it is to manage a region- and that being a champion isn't all about power- they'll most likely run with their tail between their legs.

-@dorakoryusei

YEAH UH- JUST FOUND OUT THAT THIS KID HAS A VICTINI SO THAT'S FUN-

also that's uh- not how it works here. i mean the first two are in place but champs can fire gym leaders if they just... feel like it.

theres a bunch of paper work but it can happen.

but um, i hope so- fucking hell-

i kinda just dont want this kid to become a champ??? he doesnt sound fit for it at all????

ill update in a moment uh hes almost at my chamber-

-gold

[slenderverseagainsthate]

Hello friends, Mod Lee here. Last night, the moderator team and I watched WhisperedFaith as a group. While watching the series, I began to experience a number of sensations and memories that I had never before felt. When looking at the character of Lee, my namesake while on this blog, I began to see memories from his perspective, and know things that would only have been known to him. It is through this I have made a discovery. I believe I am 'fiction-kin' for the character Lee. When I see him, I am reminded of myself, and I feel feelings that were his. I have his memories and talents. I hope you will all support me as I navigate this difficult process. I believe Mod Stan may be the Mo from my timeline, but I can't be sure, and I have yet to communicate this to him. If you see this, Stan, please message me privately. Looking forward to engaging with you all as I embrace my new life, - Mod Lee "Stand Up. A Champion Shouldn't Be On His Knees."

[acapelladitty]

Sandman Bloodborne AU 🩸🔪

Also posted over on AO3

The stench of smoke and cooking flesh ran rampant through the air as local hunters celebrated a victory over a beast a few streets away, their celebratory roast of the monstrous flesh ridding the corpse of its scourge. The night of the hunt was long and men took solace in the small victories. A kill here. An immolation there. Enough for the blood lust to be satiated and pride to bloom in their chests.

Hidden amongst the shadows, far away from the flames, two beings were careful to keep their shared presence to a minimum but no less messy.

Hob Gadling tilted his head away as the Corinthian claimed his bloodied prize from the fallen Vileblood. The fingers of the great nightmare moved with grim precision, plucking the eyes and slipping them to plump lips which lay just beneath the metal veneer which covered his upper features.

Blood. Fear. Desire. Insight.

This had proven to be a particularly delicious kill as the fresh corpse possessed a history of vile cruelties which they enacted upon many unfortunate humans, many of them from the damned Hemwick village.

Stood to attention once more, the Corinthian watched with mild fascination as Hob inhaled the scent of fresh blood like a familiar bouquet. He could see it, the way the blood called to the young hunter like an old friend and he smirked as Hob visibly inhaled deeply through his mouth to minimise the temptation.

"As the champion hunters of Lord Morpheus," the Corinthian stood to his impressive height as he wiped the residual drops of blood from his twin Blades of Mercy - named in jest from a flippant comment by his Lord - on the edge of his robe, "you truly do not appreciate the gifts our Lord has to offer." He continued with a slight goading tilt of his head.

Clearly still rattled by the unexpected appearance of the nightmare - even if it could do him no harm - Hob's bloodstained fingers were quick to palm the hilt of his moonlit sword with a shake of his shaggy head.

"I imbibe the blood, but the eyes don't interest me. I've seen enough, and Morpheus has not asked that I develop my insight. The danger is too great."

"Human weakness. A shame, then. The ones who succumb to the madness of the vileblood have wonderful sights to share. Delicious in their blasphemies. I know our Lord has tasked you with eradicating the escaped menace of Hemwick witches but they also know how to have a good time if you dare to indulge sweet Delirium and her frenzied daughters."

The Corinthian flashed a brilliant red-stained smile, his ocular teeth as obscured as ever by the steel crow-shaped mask.

-----

As the familiar looming doors of the throne room swam into view, a shudder rolled through the Corinthian's spine as freely as his lace-edged cape flowed across his shoulders. His Lord's voice rolled through the air, carrying through the very molecules like it belonged there.

"Fear the blood, Desire. Your influence will push them beyond the ability to dream and further into the arms of our dear sister, Delirium. And there, neither you nor I will be able to reach them. Fear the blood which you spread so freely, sibling of mine."

Ah.

The Dream Lord appeared to be entertaining one of his kin; Desire, Child of Appetite and Twin of Despair. The inner machinations of his Lord's relationships with the other great children remained a mystery to him, but Desire often sparked a true irritation within his Lord which often led to further delightful bloodshed on his part.

"Your delicious little pet awaits you, brother." Desire's warm tones, so unlike Dream's, swept through the air in a similar fashion regardless. "We may yet save our hunger for another night."

The Corinthian's heart jerked as he became an unwilling participant in their conversation, his mind fluttering with memories of each Vileblood he had consumed. Desire acted as their unofficial patron and their wrath was not to be scoffed at. One who scoffed at a Great Child would not be laughing for long; and that included one with as much power as he.

Regardless, the doors opened with the slightest of creaks and he did not hesitate to walk through. Weakness was not sewn into his being and it served him no benefit. His mask sitting heavily atop his face, he was thankful regardless for what little protection it offered.

Dropping to his knees as he approached the raised pedestal of the throne room, the constant presence of his eldritch Dream Lord enveloped the Corinthian like an ocean, lapping at his clothed skin and filling his lungs with every shaky breath as invisible eyes took stock of his bloodied state.

"May I witness you, Dream Lord Morpheus?"

"You may." The disembodied voice rang out, each syllable taut and measured as the grave as Dream acquised to indulging his most deadly nightmare with a physical form.

In a blink, the blackened throne was filled by a familiar but no less imposing presence. The inky hair of Lord Morpheus stood in all directions and the deep void of the robes which wrapped around his thin frame swirled and twinkled like the evening sky.

"To what do I owe this visit, my Corinthian, Blade of the Nightmare."

"I request permission to move against the School of Mensis." The Corinthian purred, standing from position to move towards his Lord with a serpentine gait, the allure of his physical form proving too difficult to resist. "The people of the Unseen Village speak of a monster he has crafted to challenge your rule. An abomination known as the One Reborn. I will bring you its many eyes for the disrespect while your shaggy-haired Hunter continues his pursuit of the Hemwick harridans."

The laugh of the Dream Lord is low and the Corinthian basks in it with pure delight for only a moment before schooling his features back to a familiar neutrality.

"You would move to kill that fool Micolash for such a lowly and petty show of disrespect? We both know his abomination could never hope to hold the true power of an Old One."

"I would kill him for less." The Corinthian smirked back before remembering himself and offering a slight bow. "With your permission of course, my Lord."

"Indeed." Dream hummed. His marble fingers rose from the arm of the chair to beckon sweetly. "Regardless, remove your helm and join me by my throne, my nightmare. It will please me to hold these discussions of your intentions with your true face and not this crow-like veneer you adopt as part of your games."

The Corinthian snatched his helm from his head with an undignified speed as his feet carried him swiftly to his Lord, his hardened heart fluttering at the close proximity.

[lhostgil]

I do sometimes wonder...

How long will it take before people realise that Kurt’s development and story during the Krakoa era of X-Books is fairly heavy-handed with its references with regard to the Prometheus mythos and relevant themes by extension. In fact, the whole of the Krakoa era (in particular, the Destiny of X arc, more or less follows the overarching classical Greek literature themes of Fate vs Destiny, Foresight vs Forethought.)

Without going in depth--

Prometheus in classical literature and mythology is the Titan God of forethought and crafty counsel; a figure considered to be a culture hero, and trickster in Greek mythology. Known as a champion of mankind/humanity for becoming a traitor to his fellow god-kin by gifting the spark of fire (that is stated to be the fire of creative power--knowledge in the form of civilisation, technology, the human arts and sciences; aka “human ingenuity”) to humans so that they may defy fate and surpass the gods. Further to that, his story is tied to Pandora’s box (unleashing of sorrows + suffering upon the world) and the spirit of Hope (“Elpis”); in fact, to some degree, Prometheus is seen (by extension) to be an ‘evil god’ for that -- blamed as the individual who caused blind hopes to live in the hearts of man. 

Kurt’s name literally means: “Bold/wise counsel” (following the Germanic roots of the word), it also means “wolf” (following the Turkic roots of the word). I don’t think it needs to be further explained on Kurt being a champion of humanity; many events in the comics display that, and the Judgment Day event speaks for itself. But the most damning of all I feel--isn’t that the philosophy (not religion; there is a very marked difference that people seem to enjoy brushing aside) he came up with in comics is literally named “The Spark”.

It’s that his home in Krakoa; the forked towers, is named the Narthex. 

In myth, Prometheus stole the spark of fire belonging to the gods in a hollow fennel; an item that carries the name Narthex--a Classical Greek word that the English language borrowed, and gave a definition that obliterated its original meaning.

The original meaning of Narthex, “giant fennel” had further derived meanings such as: an object that functioned as a schoolmaster’s cane and/or a singlestick for military exercise, as well as a splint for a broken limb. The term was also used to mean a container for medicated balm/ointment; thus appearing in medical works.

Now all most people know of the word is that its a term for a part of church architecture.

[didyoutrydynamite]

Tiamat's Declaration of War

Mighty dragons, devoted acolytes, gather before me, children of the boundless skies and flames. Today, I raise my voice not merely as Tiamat, the Dragon Queen, but as a herald of truth, a beacon of awakening amidst the shadows that have darkened our clouds.

For too long, the Council has masqueraded as protectors of our former dominion, their words veiled in deceit and their actions draped in corruption. Their promises crumble like ancient ruins, and their grip on power tightens with every passing breath. They claim to be a guiding force, yet they fight amongst themselves over more power, leaving countless victims in the wake of their ambitions.

And what of the so-called gods, those revered beings who watch over the realms? Their claims of benevolence echo hollow amidst the cacophony of their hypocrisy. While they sit atop their divine thrones, your suffering goes unnoticed. They preach of justice and order, yet their silence in the face of your struggles is a testament to their indifference. The boast their power and honor, yet they strike down all those who dare even think of taking their fair share.

But let us not overlook the pawns on this grand stage: the champions, the heralded heroes paraded as saviors of the realm. Yet, in reality, they are nothing more than tools of oppression, wielding their weapons to perpetuate the status quo that suffocates us. They dance to the tune of their puppet masters, all while we bear the weight of their battles and decisions, enforcing the Council's agenda without question nor remorse.

My kin, my loyal followers, the time has come for us to cast aside the chains that bind us. Together, we shall rise against the Council's tyranny, against the gods' empty promises, against the champions' false glory. Let our wings extend wide and our flames burn bright, for we are the force that shapes our destiny.

We are the dragons, the embodiment of strength and freedom. We are the keepers of ancient wisdom and untamed power. Let our roar echo through the realms, a clarion call to rally against the oppressors. Let our fire cleanse the taint of corruption, and may our unity forge a new era of true sovereignty.

Together, let us seize our rightful place, tearing down the curtains of deception that shroud our world. Rise, my children, and reclaim the skies that have always been our home. Let our defiance be a testament to the indomitable spirit of dragonkind, a legacy that will echo through history for eternity.

[motherodysseus]

Ptolemaea - A Prologue

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Original Stark Female Character (Alysanne Stark)

Warnings: Death, murderous thoughts, but nothing else... yet!

Word Count: ~2700

Summary: Lady Alysanne Stark buries her mother, the Lady Valaena Velaryon Stark. She and her half-brother Cregan, the should-be Lord of Winterfell, find themselves in a precarious position as their Uncle Bennard refuses to cede his regency. Lines are drawn, and plans are made.

Ethel Cain, the woman that you are... inspired me to write my first fanfic!

“And so, we commit to the crypts, the Lady Valaena Velaryon Stark, who leaves behind one trueborn daughter, the lady Alysanne, and one stepson, Cregan. She rests peacefully next to her husband, the late Lord Rickon Stark, and their son, the late Barthogen Stark. The North remembers her sixteen years of service as Lady of Winterfell.” 

It was cold in the crypts, but Alys could not feel it. Rage at this affront has seeped deep into her veins, which, while convenient for keeping warm, is rather less so for a funeral rite in close quarters.

She watches her Uncle Bennard closely. Pompous prick, she thinks ruefully. A usurper playing at a lord, and does he not look oh so pleased at that prospect. She imagines the many ways she could make him suffer for the continued slights upon her family. Admittedly, she does this most days, and finds it her new favorite way to pass the time. This sham of a funeral is not the first slight, though it is one of the most egregious.

Her mother was Velaryon, and she belongs to the sea. Even her father knew it – he had made provisions within his will to allow for his beloved second wife’s remains to be taken back to her birthplace of Driftmark, once the time came. 

Now, that time had come, and much too soon. Taken in the hour of ghosts not a sennight past, a fever made quick work of Alys’s mother. Maester Lymon had done what he could. “It is like no fever I have seen, Lady Alys,” he said, after barring her from her mother’s side. He had written to the Citadel, and pored over all the texts available within the walls of Winterfell. But it did not matter. The fever snatched her away in a day and a half. Alys did not even get to say goodbye.

Her greatest protector and champion, her comfort and her safe harbor, is gone. And, rather than fulfilling her mother’s wishes as she ought, Alys is forced to watch as she is locked beneath the ground in an unmarked grave behind her father’s imposing statue. It looks eerily like him. Her eyes fall shut as imagines her father’s spirit inhabiting the statue, granting it just enough life-giving force so that it may lift his sword and lob Bennard’s head clean off. 

Her father always said, “he who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” Alys knows that if he were alive to see such treasonous behavior from his own kin, he would make quick work of it. But her father is not here. Nor is her mother, or her little brother. All that remains of their family are her and Creg. Strong, steady Creg, who, despite his age and status, holds her hand tight in his. 

He is a good brother, Alys thinks. Mayhaps I could have him nail Bennard to the mound so I may use him for target practice. She suppresses a snort. Nay, he may be a good brother, but he is no kinslayer. It is possible that he could be persuaded, if I swore to not hit the usurper somewhere fatal. 

Creg squeezes her hand – in comfort or in remonstration, she cannot say for sure. Perhaps her snort was taken as a repressed sob by others, but she finds it unlikely her brother would not see through it. She schools her face, working to mask the tumult of pain and rage and yes, hilarity at her own violent thoughts, into one of passivity and demure sadness.

“You have the blood of two ancient peoples flowing in your veins,” Alys’s mother had said once after she had landed herself in a spot of trouble – a rather common occurrence. “You are the blood of Old Valyria and the First Men. Your spirit is ruled by your wolf’s blood, 'tis true, but your heart is of the sea. Your wild nature is a gift, though many will seek to punish you for it. You must learn to shield yourself.” 

Alys’s mother taught her to play her part, and she would not fail her now. 

After several moments of silence, those invited to pay their respects to the late Lady Stark begin to make their way out of the crypts. A sea of faces nod toward Alys and Cregan, and she quietly takes note of each. Karstark, Mormont, the many Flints – are those the ones of Widow's Watch or Flint’s Finger? – Glover, Hornwood, Umber, Manderly, the Boltons of the Dreadfort – a dreadful people, truly, with their flayed men. She shivers, and Cregan squeezes her hand again, and moves to pull him into his shoulder. He thinks me cold, but I have my rage to keep me warm. She lets him hold her, though it does little to quell her growing fury.

No Velaryons are in attendance. Her mother was not only denied her funeral rite, but denied her kin, too, in Bennard’s haste to bury her. “Her illness could be catching,” he had said during the preparations. More likely he wanted to be rid of even the memory of her, Alys thinks, the perpetual thorn in his side and his greatest adversary in his quest to gain Winterfell in full.

Her Velaryon uncles may be the greatest seafarers in all the Seven Kingdoms, but even they could not have made the trip in time. Mayhaps if they had mounted their kin's dragons, but even then, it would be close. She cannot be certain they would have made it at all, what with the recent betrothal and looming wedding of her cousin Laenor to Rhaenyra, the Princess of Dragonstone, but it is yet another slight that they were not even considered. She was forced to write to them herself to inform them of her mother’s passing. There has been no word back, but this is not surprising. Ravens can only move so quickly, no matter how pressing the contents of the missive.

One by one, the guests file out. Nearly all the lords in the North have come to pay their former Lady Stark homage. A testament to her character certainly – though she was an outsider, she did much to earn their respect and ensure their wellbeing. The North prospered under her father and mother’s care. Yet, Alys knows the lords of the North did not make the trip simply to honor her lady mother, nor does she take offense. They are as much here for mourning as they are to take stock of their Lord Paramount. Rather, the man that should be their Lord Paramount, for Cregan turned eight and ten not five moon turns ago. He is a man grown, and well past his age of majority. But their sniveling, spineless wretch of an uncle refuses to cede his regency. “Winter is coming,” he says, “and neither of you have seen one yet.” 

Yet, Cregan, like Alys, is a Stark. Winter is Coming; it is always coming. And no Stark worth their salt would be unprepared for it. Winter is Coming, and the North needs a strong lord to lead them through. Winter is coming, and I swear it by the Old Gods, the end of your rapacious power grab is, too, Alys prays silently as she stares daggers into her uncle, putting as much will as she can behind the prayer, so the Old Gods see fit to make it so.

“Come, Cregan,” Bennard says, interrupting her violent thoughts. Yet again. Bastard. “The lords and vassals are only here for a short time, and you must fete them.” He waits for Cregan to fall into step, his nose upturned. Power suits only strong men, Alys muses. 'Tis easy to tell a weak man with power, for when they speak, it looks as if they have smelled sheep dung. She squeezes her brother’s hand, hoping he receives her message to stay behind. 

“I will meet you in the hall shortly, Uncle. Alys and I will take a moment ourselves to pay respect to our mother. Then we shall join the mourners at the feast.”

Bennard looks as if he is about to fight him on it. Alys can almost hear him in her mind: “But Cregan, she is naught but your lady stepmother, and the lords are waiting. Come now, you must away.” As if the Lady Valaena did not help raise Cregan, who lost his own mother to the childbed when he was not yet out of the nursery. She loved Cregan as if he were her own, and he loved her the same. 

Alys prepares to cut her uncle down with her tongue alone, but, as Bennard’s eyes fall upon her, it seems he decides against crossing her today. Even the village idiot is bound to be right once in a great while, she thinks as he makes his way from the crypt.

The Stark siblings stand side by side for a time. The crypt is quiet now, but Alys finds no peace in it. 

“I am sorry, sister. For all of it. This is not how this was supposed to occur,” says Cregan. Alys remains quiet. “I tried to sway him, but he would not be moved.” The silence lingers on, as Alys chooses her words carefully.

“'Tis not a dance, Creg – he cannot be swayed. The time for persuasion is at its end. Every day he remains in power, he grows bolder. You must see this for what it is – a coup.”

“Alys, please. What you are speaking of, it is unthinkable. In front of our dead kin, no less. And I am no kinslayer.”

“No, you are not. Nor am I asking you to be. But you are the Lord of Winterfell. And it is high time you act like it.” 

“Alys –”

“Hear me, Cregan, and heed me, too. If Bennard is bold enough to go against Father’s wishes, wishes he laid out plain upon his death, what is to stop him from continuing to do so? From undoing everything he built? If the words of his Lord, his own brother, mean nothing to him, then we must call him what he is. He is a man without honor. He is a leech and –,” Alys manages to stop herself before the word usurper leaves her lips; she knows her brother would not appreciate it, as true as it may be. 

“– he cannot be trusted to act in the best interests of House Stark, nor can he be entrusted with the care of the North. Maester Lymon says the days are growing colder and longer, not that we cannot feel it for ourselves. And now, fevers and sickness –” she sucks in a breath, looking toward her mother’s unmarked tomb. Gone, gone, they are all gone, we are all that is left, we cannot fracture. 

“He says all the signs are there to make for a truly terrible winter. Yet Bennard does not act, nor does he yield his power,” Alys’s rage is growing, but she cares not. If there is anyone she can share this with, it is her brother. “He and his sons prance about as if they are the lords of this keep. They are not. And if he will not bend, he must be broken.” Her voice cracks, as her emotions finally overcome her. 

Cregan reaches for her, and pulls her into his arms, hugging her close. He may have grown into a fine warrior – the finest the North has ever seen, they all say so – but, like all wolves, he has a soft underbelly, one he only exposes to his family. Consisting of only me now, and it is at this bitter thought that her anger dissipates, and the tears finally flow. The last true wolves in Winterfell stand under the eyes of their lord father’s watchful statue, surrounded by the quiet ghosts of the many Lords and Kings of Winter and all their assorted kin.

“You are right, Alys. By the gods, it is almost vexing how right you always seem to be,” Creg mumbles into her hair. Alys lets out a watery chuckle, and she can feel Creg smile as he pulls away. He holds her shoulders and looks down at her. “Are you sure you would not like to be the Lord of Winterfell?”

“Nay, I would not,” Alys says, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “The job requires far too much paperwork for my taste.” 

“But you are the strongest student Maester Lymon has ever had, as he tells all and sundry.”

“Yes, but a great many do not listen, and those that do would find that the Maester has plenty of notes to give on the sorry state of my figures. He says I ought to marry a rich lord, for if I do not, I will surely render him destitute.” They laugh for a moment, before silence lapses again. Cregan hands drop to his sides as Alys turns back toward the statue of their father. 

“He means to sell me, Creg,” Alys whispers.

“He will not. I will not allow it. 'Tis written in Father’s will, you are to choose your lord husband. And I mean to uphold it.”

“Yes, and it was written in his will that Mother’s remains were to be taken to Driftmark. Bennard made his position clear today; he cares not for Father's wishes. Furthermore, it is as you said, he will not be swayed by you. He will sell me to the highest bidder, and gladly. You know he cares not for me. And once I am made into a broodmare –”

“Alys, please –” Cregan turns from his sister and begins to pace like a caged beast. A habit of his since he was small, let loose when frustration overcomes him.

“And once I am made into a broodmare for some faraway poncey prick of a lord,” Alys continues, “he will come for you. ‘When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.’ Is this not what father taught us? And what his father taught him? Bennard may be an idiot, but he is still a Stark; he knows this, just as well as you and I,” Alys watches Cregan tense, but pushes on. The time to mince words is at an end. 

“We have never been more vulnerable, Cregan. Mother commanded much respect as the dowager Lady of Winterfell, and championed your cause. Her and the Maester worked to shore up your claim and secure fealty from the great houses. We must continue her work, and we cannot afford to fail. Bennard did utter something of value this day – the great lords of the North and their vassals are here, and they are looking to you. We must rally them to your side.”

“Enough, Alys. It is enough.” Cregan stops his pacing. Alys watches his hand squeeze Ice’s pummel, and his head drop. 

“Brother –” 

“Yes, you are right. You are always bloody right,” he says, consternation coloring his tone. He turns back to her. “You are a wolf, there is no denying this, but you are so like Mother. I imagine she would be proud to hear such wise counsel from her daughter. But must we plot in front of the dead? Does it not seem…I don’t know, unseemly?”

More gifted with the longsword than with words, my brother, Alys smirks. “It is more scheme than plot, Creg. But your point is sound. Come, let us make haste. We have much to do if this scheme is to properly hatch into a plot, anyhow.” 

Alys grabs hold of her brother's arm. As they make their way from the crypts, she glances over her shoulder. She yearns to throw herself at her mother’s grave, and beg her to return from the Merling King to her side. Though she did not get her rite, and the Old Gods may have her remains, her soul is with the sea. It always will be.

Alys wishes desperately to hold her mother close one last time, to feel her hands card through her hair, and even to hide herself in her skirts as she did when she was naught but a child at her hip. “So that I may go everywhere with you, Muña!” 

But the time of childish fantasies is at an end. Winter is Coming, and there is much to be done. 

[wealmostaneckbeard]

D&D World Building

The Continent is split between The Iron Oligarchy, Tribes of the God-Corpse Woods, and The League of Pact-Cities.

The Iron Oligarchy

A dwarven-giant industrial/trade conglomerate. Their territory covers the tallest mountain range in the Continent, Vulkan's Gift, as well as large swaths of the Underdark. Profits are split 50/50 between small and big kin, as the ancient contracts dictate (Which must never be violated lest ruin come to all who signed it). Big Kin are fire, stone, cloud and thunder giants, as well as their Goliath servants. Small kin are Hill, Mountain, and Deep Dwarves as well as Rock/Deep Gnomes. As their name implies, most iron goods sold across the Continent are produced in their forges. The Oligarchy use their wealth to maintain a professional army supported by mercenary auxiliaries. Standard oligarchy army formation consist of one or two giants hurling projectiles over slowly advancing shield-wall fighters commanded by war-priests of Vulkan. Mercenary Goblinoids and Drow provide much needed fast/stealth attack power. Experimental clockwork fighters and (slightly) more reliable Golems are kept in reserve for special occasions. These forces are necessary for the defense of the Oligarchy's forges, mines, and trade convoys against raiders as well as more disturbing threats. Soldiers who have earned many honors might be invited to serve at the Oligarchy's Planar Gate. These honored champions may go on expeditions to the elemental planes of fire and earth where rare materials can be extracted.

Tribes of the God-Corpse Woods

It is said that long ago a deity was killed in a particularly gruesome fashion, it's remains scattered across the Continent. From it's dismembered flesh a great and resilient forest grew up. Tribes of Humans, Orcs, Elves, and Forest Gnomes patrol this forest alongside Ents/Dryads, Lycanthropes, and Fey guardians. While the tribes can unite together against common enemies they are divided by beliefs regarding the future. The Singers of Spring believe that The Deity will be reborn from the earth and bring about a new evergreen age. These followers prosthelytize for the protection of the woods, the benefits of having a connection to nature, and the arts of druidic magic. The Zealots of Summer cite numerous blighted grounds within the forest where the undead rise as evidence that The Great One was undergoing some dark corruption and had to conflagrate itself before it was too late. These followers are militant slayers of evil but are willing to make sacrifices and compromises for the greater good. The Revelers of Fall believe that there is a Coming Pantheon of Gods waiting to be summoned if the right conditions are fulfilled. The Revelers search for mana infused places across The Continent where they perform experimental rituals ... which have been responsible for one demonic outbreak, two separate births of benevolent small gods, and an islet tainted by The Far Realm's influence. The Prophets of Winter believe that the God-Killer is still out there somewhere, sated for now but could be roused to destroy the world if someone does something REALLY foolish. The prophets give orders to assassins to ensure that the only one who knows how to awaken the God-Killer is the soul-scrap of the Nameless Dead God that the prophets secretly commune with. A single Tribe of the God-Woods can have many members of different races and beliefs, making the whole Tribe seem highly unpredictable to outsiders in both combat and diplomacy.

The League of Pact-Cities

This alliance consists of 5 diverse urban centers linked by magical infrastructure and political ties. Serendipity is the nominal capital of the League and home to a large population of Githzerai and Flumphs who draft works of arcane legislation. Kraken's Bane is a half-sunken port kept busy with sustainable fishing/trade (and an occasional monster hunt) that's inhabited by various oceanic races such as Tritons and Sea Elves. Drakkenhope is a holy city for Dragonborn and Kobolds, where priesthoods of Tiamat and Bahamut see to the needs of the masses as well as blessing delvers who search the Ever Shifting Catacombs for dragon eggs to return to the surface for hatching. Recurrent Wing is a flying city filled with Air Genasi, Aasimar, and Aaracrocka residents who work at yards where skyships are built and maintained. The city of Harvestville is (obviously) the bread basket of the Pact, home to Goliaths, Humans, Halflings, and Earth Genasi who work their supernaturally fertile crops year round. The Pact-Cities rely on four tiers of Security Teams to deal with threats of escalating proportions: Beast Control Teams are locals equipped and trained by the Pact to handle outbreaks of hostile creatures. Anti-Brigand Teams take down corrupt officials within city boundaries and criminals that retreat outside them. Combined Arms Teams are highly trained casters and warriors, deployed via magic anywhere deadly precision force is required. Finally, Massive Crisis Teams can fortify locations and prepare citizens quickly for the onset of military invasions or planar incursions. Teams are encouraged to recognize each other's authority, knowing when to step in and help, or step back and ask for help.