#Eireann: Asks

[lasatfat]

Hey, happy Friday.

I'm liking the “You need to keep your eyes open. Just a little longer.” from the hurt / comfort dialogue list. For whoever you're in the mood for writing.

hurt/comfort dialogue | @dadrunkwriting

Kind of a loose sequel to Blood of the Lion. Warnings for blood and serious injuries.

Blood of the Crow

Alistair is there when she wakes up. She must have been out a while, because he is dead asleep, bathed in the morning sunlight filtering through the material of the canvas overhead. She feels like she’s coming out of the worst migraine of her life. Her head is pounding, her vision is somewhat blurry, and her mouth tastes as if she might have been sick at some point, and then cleaned her teeth. Alistair will know what happened, she decides. She reaches out to prod him awake, and finds her hand bandaged and splinted.

She reached up instinctively, aiming to catch his wrist, but the blade plunged through her hand instead.

Eireann bolts upright, and instantly regrets it. The pain in her head stabs sharper. She tips over, onto her elbow, and suddenly Alistair is up and alert.

“It’s alright, Eireann,” he says, softly. “You’re going to be alright.”

Poison. Of course the blade was poisoned. She was going to die in the dirt, with only her murderer for company.

It’s coming back to her, but in bits and pieces, flashes she can’t put together. Someone attacked her, she knows that much, but she can’t remember how she survived. Her throat is so dry. “Can I have some water?” she manages to ask.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” He moves an arm up her back to cradle her. Her face ends up pressed into his chest, which is beautifully warm even if it does make breathing a little difficult. She might even enjoy it, if she wasn’t so confused. He clumsily shifts her to hold her head, and pours water sip by sip into her mouth.

He was leaning over her. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but there was only blood splashing into her own mouth.

Alistair sets the waterskin down, and pulls her a little tighter to him. “Eireann, you’re safe.”

It’s a lovely, sweet gesture, but it isn’t what she’s worried about. No, there’s something else, but her addled mind can’t parse it. She turns her face back towards Alistair’s chest, throat tight and aching, tears soaking into his shirt. “He was hurt,” she cries. “I hurt someone…I don’t…”

He fell on the blade of her staff. He was wearing armour, but the silverite sliced through it as though it were butter. For an electric moment, Eireann stared into his honey-coloured eyes, old eyes that had seen too much. Brown skin, golden hair. Pointed ears, pierced like hers, and small for an elf – perhaps there was some human blood in him. The left side of his face was marked with sweeping black curves. They way he looked at her, it was like he was seeing her for the first time, and he almost smiled.

“Eireann, he tried to kill you,” Alistair says, firmly. “He - Zevran, his name is - he told us everything when we found you. You hurt him when you fought back.”

Yes, that makes sense. He must have tackled her to the ground, and then stabbed her through the hand. She will have thrown him off, and grabbed her staff, and then he ran into the blade. That’s why he was leaning over her. And then…

Cradling the wounded hand to her chest, Eireann forced herself to her knees beside him. Her vision swam, but she clung with a vice grip to consciousness. He was still watching her.

“Jus…jusa lil longer,” she slurred out. She remembers how angry she was that her mouth wouldn’t work. “Keep yur eyes opn…”

Her right hand began to glow, as she passed it over the split in his armour. The split in his flesh. She could only summon a fraction of her mana, but she poured everything she had into him. It wasn’t enough to seal it completely, but it might just make it survivable.

Eireann looks up, with a wan smile. “I remember. I saved him.”

Alistair smiles back. “You did.” But the smile slips from his face, and now he’s the one confused. “Why?”

She doesn’t know. Well, that’s not true. She knows the reason, but she hadn’t even thought at the time, and she has no idea how to convey it. After Ostagar, and Redcliffe, and the Circle, it was all too much. So much death and suffering and fear. The thought that her life would end with her causing yet more of it…

It takes her several minutes, but eventually she finds the words.

“I was dying,” she says. “I didn’t want the last thing I ever did to be killing someone.”

Alistair chuckles, but not derisively. Almost as if he’s chiding himself for not knowing already. “You really are a rare person, Eireann.”

Eireann can’t quite manage a laugh, but she hopes the smile and sharp exhale get the same message across. “Is he still here?”

Alistair nods.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Not now,” Alistair insists, with an authority she hasn’t seen before. “You need to rest.”

“Will you stay with me?” she asks.

“I have so far,” he replies. “Yes, of course I will.”

Ever so gently, he lowers her back to the bedroll, brushing her hair away from her face. With her uninjured hand, she tugs on his shirt. She couldn’t pull him down on a good day, let alone in this state, but he takes the hint and stretches out beside her. His body is warm next to hers.

“Wait,” she mumbles, before she drifts off. “How did you find me?”

Alistair breathes another laugh. “Let’s just say, that dog of yours is starting to grow on me.”

Her right hand gripped Mabu’s harness, with the last of her strength. “Don’ let thm leave him.”

As last words go, they wouldn’t have been the worst.

[directdogman]

Hi! Do you happen to know what the makes of phone are for each dateable and Gingi (and if possible Karen's printer)? Randy's is easy but I don't know how to figure out what the others are. Sorry if you've already answered this, I tried looking for if you've had an ask like this before but couldn't find anything. Thanks!

Gingi is an Ericsson bakelite rotary phone (same as Crown.)

Oliver's a Slaney Telecom Eireann model phone

Karen's head isn't any specific printer, but just the concept OF a printer, modeled from scratch.

Bigfoot's an old disposable camera that was bought at a zoo maaaany years ago iirc.

[botanic-eden]

FÁILTE DE MO BHLAG! Dia Diabh!! This blog is a place for na Gaeilgoirí agus na daoine eile with an interest in Irish culture and language. Anyone who wants to learn the langauge and culture of Ireland is more than welcome to - feel free to send me any asks about Ireland - whether it's about pronunciation, questions about history, or just general interest. I'd be happy to help :)

Masterlist :

-> Amhranaí faoin Eireann (Songs about Ireland)

-> Cúpla Fóclóir ná Frasaí Faoin Droch Aimsire (A few words & phrases about bad weather)

SAOIRSE DON PHAILISTÍN!

[iironwreath]

Bloom [Iona]

[214]

Iona walked at her most brusque, hoping the speed would tear off some of her hurt and frustration. Westruun was in repair around her—the scent of smoke hadn’t quite abated from burning cultist corpses and the blood hadn’t been fully washed from the roads and homes. For a siege that couldn’t have lasted more than a few hours, it would take them weeks, potentially months to fix.

The rhythmic knock of hammers were an assault on her senses after spending so much time in the Verdant Expanse, and it felt like a load-bearing part of her had collapsed as well, throwing her off-balance.

It would pass. It always did.

She recognized why the hurt was so raw, so familiar, why it had burrowed so far under her skin. There was the obvious part: the closer she was to anyone, the more any insult would hurt. But she had had arguments with Eireann of the same nature—flinging words with the sole purpose of wounding. A sisterly spat.

One of the guards outside Bramblebiew directed Iona to the backyard, towards the oak they used to travel. Iona startled. Theotae needed to teleport back if she was going to secure Syngorn’s support, but so soon? Theotae wasn’t even staying for a cup of tea. It pained her to cut past the main doors.

Laughter reached her like chimes on the wind. It made her want to fold herself into the nearest crevice and weep.

She trusted that Theotae wouldn’t need her help to coordinate military help, but Iona still would have liked to help; bolster her arguments with personal experience with the Thorns and use her rank as leverage. She was relieved to stay, all the same. She would have asked to if Theotae hadn’t told her to.

Duty and family were always competing for her attention. She had never mastered balancing them—anytime she tipped her favour towards one, she felt like she neglected the other. For someone so long lived, she felt as though she never had enough time. 

Iona didn’t enter the manor so much as she felt like she’d escaped, even if the estate was also under repair. She exhaled a slow breath through her mouth.

Orla’s head poked around the corner of the parlour before she burst into a run. Iona caught her in a hug, cradling her head and tucking her into her shoulder. They remained like that, Orla repositioning her hands every so often to find new ways to clutch at Iona—because she was clutching, some remnant fear from the city assault likely still present.

Iona’s heart slowed and her center re-aligned; she remembered her purpose. 

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispered into her hair.

Orla crushed tighter. “Me too.”

Eventually, Iona pried Orla off, holding her by the arms to inspect her. No visible bruises, but a few shallow cuts had found skin around her face where she had no scales. Iona tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

“I eavesdropped,” Orla blurted.

Iona blinked, dropping her hands. She had expected Orla to fend her off and insist she was fine before Iona could air the question—that, or talk about the attack. “Eavesdropped?”

Orla worried her bottom lip with a mixture of nerves and consideration. She stole Iona’s hand and drew her back towards the parlour. “Come sit, I made tea.”

Orla led her to a couch seated in front of a large window overlooking the back gardens. The flowers, largely spared or cared to by Cihro’s father, danced and nodded their heads in the sunlight, creating a gentle, rolling wave of colour. The oak bristled behind them.

There were stragglers about, Cihro and Day’s family still talking, looking more relaxed. Orla would have seen Theotae leave. The window was like a frame for the stage of their drama.

Iona reached for the teapot on a coffee table, but Orla swatted her away, redirecting her towards dessert plates and a tray of sweet and savoury treats while she poured. Iona picked up a cannoli; she doubted Orla made them herself, but she’d requested her favourite in anticipation of her. Her sister’s kindness made her blink away fresh tears.

“I eavesdropped earlier, when you all arrived,” Orla explained, sliding a teacup and saucer towards her. She gestured to the cream and sugar. “I was waiting in the library for everyone to show up, but it sounded like you guys were talking about important business and I didn’t want to interrupt. Then it escalated.”

“A bit hard not to overhear, I’m sure,” Iona mumbled, spooning a thumbnail of sugar into her cup. “I’m sure the staff enjoyed listening as well.”

Orla’s cheeks flamed a shade similar to her roots, making her scales pop. “Yeah, they might’ve been gossiping about it when I went to make the tea and put the tray together.”

Iona sighed. She’d spent over fifty years in a noble’s home; that was expected, normal. 

“You’re not disappointed?” Orla asked.

“No, you were put in an awkward position. I’m sorry you had to hear. Normally this would be a happy affair.” It should have been, she refrained from adding, hiding her bitterness. Even if they hadn’t argued over Syngorn, there was still the matter of the Thorns’ ultimate goal and what that entailed. Stress was never far.

“Oh, I didn’t actually feel bad about eavesdropping,” Orla said, “I just felt bad there was a fight.” Orla finished preparing her own tea, setting the saucer across her skirt. “Is Elspeth okay? Did you talk to her?”

Iona’s mouth twisted of its own accord. “We had a disagreement.” ‘Disagreement’ was too soft a word for it, but Iona was reluctant to confess how poorly it went to Orla. Elspeth was Orla’s first true friend—not acquaintances by circumstance like the other outpost children, but staying consistent, connecting, being like-minded.

Orla laid her hand on Iona’s. “You should talk to me about it. Theotae’s gone, and I know you want to.”

“I don’t want to trouble you with it,” Iona said. “You just survived a city under siege. This feels less important.”

“We can talk about that after.” Orla waved a hand. “You’re allowed to break down with me, you know? I’m an adult. I’m your sister.”

Iona bowed her head. “I’m a hypocrite, aren’t I?”

Orla bent closer to catch her words, squeezing her hand. “Yeah, kinda, sometimes. Not sure what you’re referring to here, but if you have to ask, the answer is probably.”

Iona had to search for the words to explain, but she did, walking back through what happened step by step. She omitted some key details—that Elspeth’s mother killed the former Margrave, what she had said about Iona looking away if she changed the world. Iona was concise, sticking to what ached the most: Elspeth’s refusal to meet her eye, throwing Iona’s care back in her face. She didn’t cry proper, she had walked that out after all, but her face burned and her eyes misted over.

There was a residual, pearl-sized piece of anger through it all, something she hadn’t felt in the moment but had formed with time as a way to protect against the hurt. She didn’t deserve Elspeth’s ire, but her concern weighed heaviest, making it easier to dismiss.

There was a part of her that felt especially wrong telling this to Orla—not because she was her younger sister or for fear of burdening her, but because Orla was one of the many wronged by Syngorn, arguably among the worst.

“She’s so young,” Iona added as Orla digested. They had gone through two cups of tea each and stress-eaten almost half of the food. Iona had to push away the tray so she didn’t upset her stomach. “She’s so much like you. I must have thought I’d have the same sway with her, that she’d trust in me.” She cradled the empty cup closer to her stomach. “I feel like I made a mistake in going after her. I should have been here, with you.”

“You’re stubborn,” Orla said matter-of-factly. “It just means you care. You don’t like to leave things. It won’t change what you’ve done.”

“No,” Iona agreed. “But I do regret it, if only to save us both the discomfort.”

“If it wasn’t you, it might’ve been someone else.”

A heavy, uncomfortable silence followed.

“Does it bother you, how she talked to Theotae?” Orla wondered.

“Not exactly.” Iona was relieved to find she meant it. “I don’t like to see Theotae upset, but she’s used to derision. Comments and attitude like that usually slide off her; she’s too self-assured and she’s been doing her job for too long. I think the only reason it got to her at all is her respect for the Thorns and knowing that her brothers and I care for Elspeth. But my friendship with Elspeth is an unlikely one, I think.” She managed a shadow of a smile. “Theotae will be fine. She’ll use her frustration to get what she wants.”

Orla brightened with a return smile, but it dimmed shortly after. “She’s going through a lot. Elspeth, I mean.”

“She is. The Thorns, too. I fought with them, but…” The magnitude of their fight in Tempestar and in the Jungle eclipsed almost everything she’d done in over two centuries—and the Thorns did it again and again, interminably. “They haven’t had time to slow down and reflect. Or they’ve chosen not to, because if they do, they might hesitate to take the next step.”

“For a while I thought they were heroic,” Orla said. “And I mean, I still do, they’re pretty heroic. Can’t deny that. But having lived here, I can see how tired they are, too. I don’t know if I’m surprised there was an argument, they all seem like they’re holding on by a thread sometimes.”

Iona set aside her cup and framed Orla’s face in both hands. It wasn’t unlike holding Elspeth’s—their scales covered the same crest of cheekbone, but Elspeth’s had a spark to the touch where Orla’s were just warm. This time, her gaze was met, not rebuffed. Orla had truly bloomed into herself.

“What?” Orla asked.

Iona squished Orla’s cheeks so she resembled a fish, and laughed lightly. Orla tried to look unimpressed but couldn’t hide her amusement.

“You’ve just grown so much, is all,” Iona said. “I’m happy to see you this way.”

“You saw when I was born, of course I’ve grown.” Around the joke, Orla smiled in understanding.

“Thank you for listening, sweetie, it’s helped,” Iona said, and lowered Orla’s head to kiss the top of her hair.

[nikatyler]

You know what? I kinda liked it in the previous BC how I only wrote some dialogues, and then for some others I just said which interactions I used. Look, it's July when I'm writing this, it's hot outside, my laptop is hot, my head is hot and I'm one lazy writer. Imagine these conversations yourself, please and thank you.

Cassie: Praise 'Cassie's Story', Tell Ghost Story (there we go!)...and then Cassie wanted to go to the pool lol

Eireann: Praise 'Eireann's Story', Hypnotic Gaze, Deny Being a Vampire (okay Maeve)

River: Praise 'River's Story', Tell Ghost Story (okay now it's already getting a little annoying and it's only been the 2nd time lol), Chat

Wren: Praise 'Wren's Story', Accuse of Being a Sellout (thank you Wren -_-), Ask About Day

[sebnameyourcar]

What's the deal with the Irish broadcaster?

BUCKLE UP i’m so glad someone asked

ok so i’m gonna bullet point this. it may be long

• it was revealed a couple of weeks ago that RTÉ (raidio teilifis eireann/ radio television ireland - our national broadcaster payed for by the taxpayer) had under-declared the earnings of Ryan Tubridy

• who is Ryan Tubridy you ask? he’s the host of a radio show but more importantly, he used to host our Late Late Show for years (ireland’s longest running and most famous talk show)

• IMPORTANT INFO: Tubridy stepped down from his role as host in March

• it is revealed by an audit report that RTÉ had been making secret payments to Tubridy even though he had promised to take a pay cut. because he had been earning upwards of €400,000

• his secret payments amounted to an extra €345,000 of TAXPAYER MONEY

• keep in mind ireland is a tiny, tiny country and our media and journalism landscape is so small. competition is basically zero and nothing justifies that much money

• also quote unquote normal RTÉ employees are paid dirt and all had their pay slashed in recent years and have shite benefits and so are justifiably raging that a man who only worked a few hours a week as a presented gets this much fucking money in secret all because he’s a big name “talent”

• under questioning by the government last week, waaayyyy more drama is revealed: RTÉ made a sketchy sponsorship deal between Tubridy and Renault to sneak money to him without it showing up on company accounts, RTÉ used a barter account (complicated, basically a third party/secret account) to get concert tickets, rugby tickets, and CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL tickets to their board members. all with taxpayer money

• it is revealed today that there are MULTIPLE barter accounts

• all this is happening while RTÉ shut down regional radio stations and refuse to pay their journalists a living wage

• RTÉ knew there was a storm coming back in early March, and people are theorising that’s THAT is why Tubridy stepped down. greedy coward

• RTÉ’s CEO also promptly resigned a couple of weeks ago and the whole board is trying to blame stuff on her

• oh also there have been some succession-like moments in the questioning sessions last wednesday and thursday, including when RTÉ’s CFO didn’t know what his salary was

• basically the entire country is gonna refuse to pay their TV licence now in protest of how our money is being used to sneak more money into the pockets of people who are already earning more than ordinary people make in a decade

here is a quick article with more detail than my tired brain can provide: https://www.irishexaminer.com/news/arid-41172604.html

[latestinbollywood]

Val Joyce Age, Wiki, Biography, Death, Parents, Wife, Ethnicity, Height, Net Worth & More

Val Joyce Age:- Val Joyce was famous for working for RTE. Recently he passed away at the weekend. He was also presented late date for more than 15 years. He has also presented several famous and warmly remembered radio programs. In this blog, you can read all about Val Joyce's Age, Wiki, Biography, Death, Parents, Wife, Ethnicity, Height, Net Worth & More.

 Val Joyce's Death (Cause of Death)

The former RTE presenter passed away last weekend. He died on Saturday night in BlackRock, surrounded by family members. He died on 9 October 2022.

Who was Val Joyce?

Val Joyce was a well-known RTE presenter. He also served with the Irish Hospitals’ Sweepstakes as an accountant. He has started his radio career in 1950. At that time many sponsored programs were broadcast on Radio Eireann. In his career, he was also presented with Sound of Light and Pop Call, and also Airs and Races.

Val Joyce Age, Wiki, Birthday & School

Val Joyce celebrates a birthday that was not disclosed to him. His exact date of birth was not mentioned yet.  He was now 58 years old. His zodic sign was not known. He took birth in the united kingdom, that's why he belongs to the British nationality. He has completed his school at a local high school. After that, he completed his bachelor's degree but his college details are not known.  

Val Joyce Wiki/BIO (Age, Religion & Education)

Real Name Val Joyce Nick Name Val Known As  RTE presenter Last position  RTE presenter Date of  Birth N/A Birth Place Uniden Kingdom Residence Uniden Kingdom Nationality British Age N/A Zodiac Sign N/A Gender male Religion N/A School Local High school College N/A Ethnicity White

Val Joyce Parents, Siblings & Ethnicity

Tejeswini's father's name was not known. His mother's name was not known. His father and mother's profesion details are not known. His sibling's details are not mentioned yet. His father and father have pictures not available on google.

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Val Joyce's Wife, Girlfriend, and Relationships

Joyce's marital status was married. He got married to Vera Joyce. His wife also passed away 6 years ago. The couple had five children's names are not mentioned yet.

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Val Joyce Height, Weight, Body Measurements & More

Height 5 feet 10 inches Weight 79kg Body Measurements N/A Hair Color N/A Eye Color N/A Shoe Size N/A

Top 6 Facts About Val Joyce

- Val Joyce was famous for working for RTE. Recently he passed away at the weekend.  - His age details are not known. - Val's father's name was not known.  - His mother's name was not known.  - He got married to Vera Joyce.  - He died on Saturday night in BlackRock, surrounded by family members.

Wikipedia, Instagram, and Social Profiles

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Frequently Asked Questions- FAQs

Q.1 Who was  Val Joyce? Ans. Val Joyce was famous for working for RTE. Recently he passed away at the weekend.  Q.2 How old was Val Joyce? Ans. Val Joyce's age details are not mentioned yet. Q.3 Who are  Val Joyce's parents? Ans.  Val Joyce's father's name was not known. His mother's name was not known.  Q.4 What was Val Joyce's Height? Ans. Val Joyce's height was 5 feet 10 inches. Read Also: Tejaswini Behera OPSC Biography Read the full article

[the-shrimp-alchemist]

I was sad after finishing my rewatch of fmab and your blog is full of top tier content, my serotonin is back and anxieties (almost) gone :)

Glad to hear it!! There is so much Good Content out there to heal the wounds of finishing fma :)

[ocean-blue-whump]

Family Meeting

For @amonthofwhump Mafia Madness! Prompt: Family Business

Tagging a few people who might be interested: @painful-pooch @whumptakesthecake - let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: pet whump, BBU, lady whump, organized crime, heavily conditioned whumpee, derogatory language, mention of severed fingers, not super heavy on the whump but a look at the McIntyre family, consensual sex mention

***

“Does the pet really have to be here for this?” Siobhan asks, crossing her arms across her chest from her seat at the head of the table, her pursed lips painted mulberry purple. 

Rhys smirks. “Of course she has to be here. My toy can be good.” He sits down in his chair and pats his lap. “Up.”

Pumpkin gives Rhys a longing look, climbing up into her Master’s lap and burying her face against his chest. He grins, running his hand along her back. His gorgeous toy. So obedient. So perfect. 

Siobhan rolls her eyes. “I still don’t understand why you bought a Romantic. My Guard Dogs are much more useful.” 

“You have no appreciation of art, dearest sister. My Pumpkin is a masterpiece. Carefully crafted. Made for me.” Rhys combs Pumpkin’s short black hair out of her face. 

Siobhan sighs. “You just like wasting money.” The oldest of the McIntyre siblings has always focused on cold, brutal efficiency, especially now that she’s had children and the lines around her eyes are starting to show. Rhys often wonders why her husband Fergal puts up with her—until he remembers that they married for money, connecting the McIntyre family and the O’Sullivan family. 

Still, Rhys chuckles. “She’s not a waste. She’s very well trained. And good at what she does.”

Darragh, the youngest brother, makes a face. “I don’t want t’ hear about your sex life, Rhys,” he says, his voice slightly slurred from drinking. “Tha’s what the pet is for.” Darragh, just twenty-six, wears band t-shirts to these business meetings, his intricate Celtic tattoo sleeves on full display. He’s got more kills under his belt than most of them.

Except for Rhys and Nessa. 

Aine shakes her head and takes the coffee cup away from Darragh, smelling it. “This is just alcohol!” she says indignantly, pushing her glasses further up her nose. Aine is the youngest and the smartest, handling most of the finances. 

“Will both of you shut up?” Nessa snaps. She’s wearing a sunhat indoors, her red hair pulled into a bun. “We have business to do.” Nessa is the fifth oldest and a twin, but Eireann…

Pumpkin’s grip on Rhys gets impossibly tighter at the sound of Nessa’s voice, snapping Rhys out of his thoughts. He smiles and rubs circles onto the pet’s back. 

Nessa, thirty years old, can be ruthless. Especially with pets. 

“What’s the problem, sister? Ran out of hair dye this morning?” Donal, the second oldest, rubs his beard and gives Nessa a smug look. He handles drug and human trafficking for the family. 

Nessa pulls out an ornate dagger, inlaid with pearl. “Watch yourself, Donal.” “What are you going to do to me with that toothpick?” he growls, tensing up.

“She’ll do to you what she did to that Platonic,” Darragh says. “Gut you like a fish and keep you alive for it.”

Nessa nods. “Exactly.”

“Sorry I’m late!” Tiernan says, running into the room and taking his seat. “The wife needed my help getting our boys to school.” Tiernan is the fourth oldest, just three years yonder than Rhys, but already burdened with three children. 

“I told you that marriage was a mistake,” Siobhan says, her voice neutral. “You should have married that nice Fitzpatrick girl.”

“I didn’t like that Fitzpatrick girl. Or her Romantic.” Tiernan sighs. “I love Zoe. That’s what matters. You and Fergal are fucking miserable.”

“We didn’t need to be in love to procreate.” She pours herself a glass of whiskey. “All we had to do was fuck.”

Rhys and Donal burst into laughter, Aine chokes, her face bright red. 

Nessa stabs her knife in the table. “Can we please get to business now that we’re all here?”

“Not all of us,” Darragh mumbles, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a long swig.

“Don’t fucking mention her!” Rhys yells, pushing Pumpkin off his laugh to lean over and grab Darragh by the shirt, pulling him in. Rage blinds his senses as he growls, “That traitorous bitch has no place here. Eireann is less of a McIntyre than Siobhan’s mutts.” He gives Darragh a shake. “Got it?”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Darragh stares down at the table. 

Rhys nods, hoping that was enough to resolve the issue, and sits back down. Pumpkin is on the floor, perfectly still despite the bruise forming on her temple. Rhys pulls her back onto his lap. “Let’s get this over with.”

“It’s about damn time,” Donal says. “What’s on the table for today?”

“Updates from each of you on last week’s assignments.” Siobhan leans back in her chair. “Let’s make it snappy. Fergal and I have to handle one of his enemies.”

“And Rhys promised me a turn at that thing,” Nessa says hungrily, her eyes latched onto Pumpkin. 

The pet whimpers, hiding her face in Rhys’s chest.

Rhys tuts and rubs her back. “You’re upsetting her, Nessa. She doesn’t like you.” He puts two fingers under Pumpkin’s chin, turning her face up to look at him. “But you love me, don’t you, sweet thing?”

The look she gives him is filthy, her eyes half-closed, curled up against him. “I love you, Master. I’m loyal to you.”

“Good girl.” Across the table, he mouths to Nessa, Cattle prod after the meeting.

She nods, her face lighting up with excitement. 

The McIntyre family doesn’t fuck around, and Tiernan, the smiling family man, picks up his backpack, pulls out a grocery bag, and dumps a pile of severed fingers onto the table. “Let’s start this off with the Providence Mafia.”

[marauders-aesthetic]

The Red Thorns Adventures

Chapter 1 : Kingscross Station

September 1975 King’s cross Station, England

Blathnaid POV

Getting to King’s cross Station was always difficult. I had to get to the portkey on time, but with Mother always fussing about my appearance. I hurry with my luggage, bag full of books and my guitar. I look like I was going on holidays. Well not exactly! I’m a witch you see! And I need to get to get to platform 9¾. It doesn’t exist you say? I’ll let you in on a little secret… It does! It is located between platforms 9 and 10, you just go through the wall and voila! I’m currently doing that with my pet fox-squirrel Teto.

I can see it! The Hogwarts Express, it’s recognizable red color with its impressive black smoke coming out of it, here to take me home! I walked to my compartment to find Eireann already there. She is one of my best friends. She is a muggleborn Hufflepuff! What is a muggleborn? Oh well it’s someone like me! Who have non magical parents! She lives in Cork, Ireland with her parents who are writers and artists. She has blond hair and blue eyes. She has a younger sister who is in the same house as her. Eireann looked up to see me.

- Bloom, she shouted and hugged me

- Hey Re! How are you?

- Aaaaaah There you are, exclaimed my other best friend Saoirse as she let her bags drop at her feet.

Saoirse is a Ravenclaw, she has brown eyes and gorgeous long chocolate hair. She is a pureblood from Dublin, that means both her parents are wizards. She is an only child and she is a fighter, black belt in judo and karate and she is a pro horse rider.

She sat down next to Re:

- What happened love? I asked

- What do you think? she snarled, My parents! They want me to be nicer to the Slytherin Purebloods this year!

- What? Why… I don’t understand…., whispered Eireann

- DAMN RIGHT IT’S WRONG! shouted my bestie Shannon Murphy

She was wearing her signature leather jacket and combat boots. She was holding her bike helmet while letting her beautiful black hair down.

- Shan don’t shout, I exclaimed

- Her parents are going to marry her off to some rich pureblood who can’t even fight for his own life, she snapped in her Belfast accent, Oh and by the way, I just ran into you know who!

- Oh no, said Re scared

- She doesn’t mean Voldemort, I reassured

- Don’t say his name, snapped Saoirse

- Sisi! Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself, I said eyeing them, she meant the idiots, I added

Shan sat next to me. What you need to know about Shannon is that she is from Belfast like my own father. Her dad is a muggle while her mother is a witch. When her dad found out about this, he threw her mom out the door. Shan still sees her mom of course; she lives outside of town and is a herbologist. Shannon has two older siblings, Marl and Niamh who are non-wizards. Shannon is my best friend in the world. She rides a motorbike and is an amazing photographer. She looks tough on the outside but I know better. She is passionate about English Lit. She was wearing an oversized sweater today!

- Shan… what are you hiding, I whispered urgently

- Can we not? Please…

- But … fine! But you will tell me when we reach Hogwarts, I sternly said

Shan looked away to talk with Sisi. I looked at my friends, our group of 4, The three musketeers! We were known as the Red Thorns. Why? Because we always wore a rose pin on our clothes. We started to talk about the year, our 5th, that was about to start, that’s when Snow mentioned her costume designs:

- So, Snow! Got our Halloween costume done, questioned Saoirse excited

- Of course! I have the sketches here!

Re took out her sketchbook out and showed us drawings of our new costumes. They were amazing! This year we were sure to win, the group costume contest. Every year our rival gang, the Marauders, would beat us. We needed to beat them! It was a matter of Pride as the Red Thorns. Oh! You must have heard how Sisi called Re, Snow? Well before the end of our 4thyear, the girls and I became what is called Animagus. That means that we can transform into our spiritual animal. It is a very difficult process and very dangerous. But we managed. Re is a snowy owl, that is very rare! Sisi is a mare but her Patronus (spiritual animal if you wish) is a Abraxan Winged Horse, we call her Spirit. Shan is a phoenix but her Patronus is a Thestral, I still don’t know how that happened… She goes by the name of Flame. And what about me? Well, I’m a cute bunny. The name is Midnight, but beware….

What is it? what are our costumes? Hahaha a player never reveals his cards my friends. You will have to wait and see. Anyway, we have arrived. We have arrived to our home for another year, Hogwarts…

@hpaestheticsstuff @padfootspuppy @padsmoonyprongs @prongsandlilss @helleiaiwritting

[lasatfat]

for dadwc prompts, how about eireann and "A freshly painted vhenadahl" from the dragon age artefacts prompt list?

artefacts of Thedas prompts | @dadrunkwriting

Shadows and Tall Trees

“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine, making the green one red.” – William Shakespeare, Macbeth

The vhenadahl casts its dappled light over all the memories Eireann has of the alienage. Even as a child, she received no answer for why it was there, why they painted it every spring, or even what it was meant to do. “It means ‘Tree of the People,’” was the most her father could tell her, as he handed her a brush and a little pot of scarlet paint. More of it ended up on her hands than on the tree, but still, he told her she’d done a good job.

Odhrán Surana is dead now. He died in his daughter’s arms, and she cannot ask him anything else.

Eireann stands beside the vhenadahl, in the gloom of approaching twilight. The smell of new paint cuts sharp through the miasma of destruction and poverty, through the fourteen years since she had helped to paint the tree. She is alone, but for that memory. She doesn’t know how to be anything else. She can’t hold her mother, can’t reach out for comfort, can’t cradle the child resting in her womb, because when she looks at her hands now, all she sees is her father’s blood draining through her fingers.

She places a hand on the bark. It’s still tacky. When she peels her hand away, her palm is patched with paint. So she touches it again, and again, and again, until the tree is scattered with the voids of her handprints, and the vhenadahl’s patterns are ruined, and her palms are streaked red, white and pink. Anything to hide the stains of that memory.

They find her at nightfall, slumped at the foot of the vhenadahl, covered in the evidence of her outburst. Nobody blames her. The tree can be repainted, but her father cannot be returned.

[hellotomyoldheart]

quotes i can’t stop thinking about

part three

“& ‘i’ came out. (i’m sorry, father. ‘i’ wasn’t my fault.)” - toi derricotte, speculations about “i”.

“and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. and you go home to a cold bed and think, that was fine. and your life is a long line of fine.” - gillian flynn, gone girl.

“i will kill you and eat you raw.” - madeline miller, the song of achilles.

“& how else to explain grief but as this mirror? this impossible joy that will not let you hold it.” - brenna twohy, draco malfoy looks into the mirror of the erased. 

“at parties i point to my body and say this is where love comes to die. welcome, come in, make yourself at home. everyone laughs, they think i’m joking.” - warsan shire, the house.

“nothing ever ends poetically. it ends and we turn it into poetry. all that blood was never once beautiful, it was just red.” - kait rokowski.

“my english class had read macbeth in the fall, but only now was it starting to make sense why lady macbeth could never scrub the blood off her hands, why it was still there after she washed it away.” - donna tartt, the goldfinch.

“maybe i love you, maybe i’m just kinda bored. it is what it is till it ain’t anymore.” - kacey musgraves, it is what it is.

“maybe love shouldn’t.” - phil kaye & sarah kay, when love arrives.

“i want to be the only thing touching him. i want to be the only thing that ever touches him again. i will be envious of every shirt he ever wears, the cuffs of his coats, the trousers going soft with wear where they rub his inner thighs. every snowflake that ever falls upon his lips, every piece of bread upon his tongue. i want to breathe him, feel him fill up my chest until my ribs strain and i break open like ripe fruit beneath a paring knife. i would be raw. i would freckle and blister in the sun. i would teach my body to regrow my heart each time i gave it to him, over and over and over again. heart after heart after heart- every one of them his.” - mackenzi lee, the gentleman’s guide to getting lucky.

“‘coach still talks about her all the time,’ chris said. ‘he calls her the best that never was. why’d she quit running, do you know? i never understood that.’” - m.o walsh, my sunshine away.

“you keep calling yourself empty and you’re starting to believe it.” - neil hilborn, you can look.

“you hold an absence / at your center / as if it were a life.” - richard brostoff, grief.

“i awkwardly tell you i like your t-shirt. you say it’s just a grey t-shirt. you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry. only the sun has come this close, only the sun.” - shauna barbosa, gps.

“i’ve known nights so cold the body is unlikely to bleed.” - michael lee, the only worlds we know.

“i’m remembering our first date, how you told me you couldn’t imagine marrying anyone who wasn’t jewish and i told you, just as earnestly, as gently, that i couldn’t imagine getting through high school without killing myself. and you said well that gives us three years.” - eireann corrigan, she tries out for varsity recklessness and only makes jv.

“if i knew your pain, i would bear it.” - mahbod serajj, rooftops of tehran.

“it's true. somewhere inside us we are all the ages we have ever been. we're the three year old who got bit by the dog. we're the six year old our mother lost track of at the mall. we're the ten year old who get tickled till we wet our pants. we're the thirteen year old shy kid with zits. we're the sixteen year old no one asked to the prom, and so on. we walk around in the bodies of adults until someone presses the right button and summons up one of those kids.” - jonathan tropper, this is where i leave you.

“you used to say, on a good day i only break his heart once.” - shane koyczan, a good day.

[highway-to-helltalia]

Be still my sodding heart (USUK)

Author’s note: I didn’t want to do this, but you forced my hand by having such a tempting prompt. I do love a bit of Cardverse. USUK was the ship that introduced me to Hetalia and I guess I still have a soft spot for these dorks. 

@usukweek

Word count: 518

Arthur had been King of Spades for as long as he could remember. His parents had died when he was young, and he was the only one of their children who bore the mark.

He knew his older siblings despised him for this. He couldn’t help that he was born with it and they were not, but he’d be lying if he tried to claim that he wasn’t smug about it. Eireann and Danny had always detested him, and mostly tried to go about their lives without acknowledging their youngest brother; Alasdair had tormented him since he could walk, and probably before then; Dylan had been the only one he ever got along with, but even he had turned his back on Arthur when the latter started to parade around the castle wearing robes with the symbol of spades emblazoned on the back, exactly overlaying the spade-shaped birthmark which confirmed him as the rightful king. 

He felt truly alone in the world, but he wasn’t sorry. He was better off alone, without his siblings bossing him around, or a Queen to share his power with. All he really had to deal with were the Jack of Spades, Yao, and of course his idiot personal servant.

“What is my schedule for today, Jones?” Arthur asked, holding his arms out.

“A meeting with Yao first thing,” Alfred said, sliding Arthur’s fine robes emblazoned with the symbol of spades over his arms. “Then archery practice, horse-riding, and a meeting with the head of the mason’s guild.”

“Hm, so not too busy a day.” Arthur shrugged so the robes sat comfortably on his shoulders – Alfred was always too careless for them to fit properly. “Fetch me a cup of tea, would you? I’m parched.”

Although Alfred stood behind him, Arthur could hear the eye-roll in his voice as the servant sneered, “yes, my lord.”

Shaking his head, Arthur bent over his dresser, selecting a golden spade-shaped clasp to secure his cape. “And less of that attitude.”

“I was just talking,” Alfred whined, clinking the precious crockery with such force that Arthur winced. “Would you rather have me not speak at all?”

“Yes, that would be preferable,” Arthur muttered.

“Well, tough.”

There was an audible gasp from the guards at the door.

Arthur turned on his heel, almost starting when he found that Alfred was stood less than a foot from him, a teacup balanced on the saucer in his hands. “You should know better than to show that kind of impertinence to your king.” Arthur enunciated each word slowly, in a menacingly low voice. “I could have your head for that…”

“And yet…” Alfred placed the saucer in Arthur’s hands, holding his gaze steadily. “You won’t.” He winked, then spun around to strut out of the chambers.

Arthur watched him leave, then huffed indignantly when he was sure Alfred was out of earshot. Gripping the saucer tighter to combat his trembling hands, he tilted his head towards the ceiling. “Be still my sodding idiotic heart,” he grumbled. Of all the people in the world, of course it had to be Alfred bloody Jones. 

[iironwreath]

Quaff [Orla]

“We’re approaching one of the gates,” Iona called from outside. The side-to-side rock of the covered wagon slowed, but didn't stop. The Emerald Archers sitting inside with her shared a look, then watched for her reaction. Orla didn’t love being a spectacle when she wasn't choosing to be, so she ignored them and poked her head out through the back flap and leaned over the side. 

Westruun was the grey area between what she expected and what she didn't. It occurred to her that she’d never seen a city in person before, only in paintings, on maps, breathed to life based on her family’s spoken word. Cities in the Feywild sounded more fantastical, even if Eireann was prone to exaggerate. She was technically in Syngorn and D’Aval as a baby, but she couldn’t remember anything except dizzying spots of light. 

Westruun's defensive outer wall jut into the air instead of trees, but Orla spotted those, too, at a distance. Buttressed away from the road, they weren’t quite as big or in bloom as the trees in the Verdant Expanse. Iona had explained that in detail, at least. They were charming, she thought. If they were going to make her sick, it’d be because of their pollen and not their magic. 

Iona could only explain what must’ve been the skeleton of Westruun without the full picture. She’d said she didn’t want to spoil anything that might’ve been a surprise.

They stopped to answer to the guards. They granted Iona access without fuss and she spurred the horses into the city proper. They were forced to a crawl, but it allowed Orla to soak it all in.    

“Can I sit up front with you?” Orla asked.

“Of course.” Iona stopped the horses and shuffled to make space, moving her sword and quiver to her opposite side. Orla clambered out and raced around the side, then took Iona’s offered hand to climb up onto the wooden bench that made up the driver’s seat. Iona focused ahead, but the corners of her mouth upturned softly in profile.

Orla quaffed in sunlight unfiltered by trees, bent forward and straining her eyes to survey every person as they walked or talked or shopped. She started to give herself a headache—the people never seemed to end, too many to focus on. Largely human, but she started seeing features she’d never seen before—horns, tails, tusks, people at hip-height, people at door-height.   

“It smells awful,” she said, leaning back. Iona’s hand had been hovering just behind to grab her dress in case she went too far, and it returned to the reins. 

“It smells like a city. You get used to it.”

“Syngorn smells like this?”

“No,” Iona said too fast, defensively. She relaxed as quickly as she prickled. “It depends where you are. Same as here.”

“You’re in an estate all the time, of course it smells nice.”

“And you’ll be living in an estate, too.” Iona smiled at her. “I’d advise you to be polite to them, they have a lot of people living there. But I don’t think you can out-weird them.”

“There’s no reason I can’t be weird and polite.”

Orla linked her arm with Iona’s and rested her head on her arm, away from her pauldron. It wasn’t comfortable—Iona’s leather chafed against her cheek with the movement of the horses and wagon—but Iona leaned imperceptibly back in her direction, content to be an observer to her newfound freedom as much as Orla was. 

[nikatyler]

Maeve’s Bachelorette Challenge

It’s that time of year again! (wait, am I planning on doing one every summer now?) Yet another one of my sims is looking for a partner, and she’s doing so through a special show.

You can learn more about Maeve here.

Requirements:

YA sims, any gender; human or vampire.

Vanilla or banilla.

Give your sim at least one negative trait.

Do NOT use the Irresistible trait. In the past, I’ve noticed that sims with that trait distracted everyone from interacting with the bachelors and I feel like not talking to the bachelor/ette kinda defeats the point of a BC, so.

Keep the CC minimal. Please, don’t use CC clothes or nondefault skin colours.

No sliders.

Please, set all outfits for your sim.

I have all EPs and most SPs (all except for the Katy Perry one, Fast Lane and the movie one, iirc), so you can use stuff from all these packs. Although this is tied to my lepacy, I’ll play the BC with all my packs.

Introduce your sim, but it doesn’t have to be anything long or complicated. Take it easy. 😊 (or not, if that’s more your style)

Private download for now, please.

DEADLINE: June 26, 2022. I will not be extending it. So that was a lie, the new deadline is July 1st, 2022.

Interested? Send me an ask and I’ll add you on the list!

I might hate myself for this decision eventually, but as I’ve already teased, I will be taking fourteen sims for this. Considering over 20 of you said on my poll that you would like to join, I want to give a chance to as many of you as possible. With that being said, I don’t actually think we will get 14 contestants, but if we do...wow. It’s gonna be fun, and chaos, and I’m really looking forward to it. 😅

Slots:

1. @poisonfireleafs - Maude Grant

2. @dragonplumbobs - Olive Little

3. @wisepeanutcollector - Cassie Summers

4. @forgottenhollowss - Lilith Delacroix

5. @simside - Pierce Whitlock

6. @wanderingsimsfinds - Mavis Fenlon

7. @ommlette-du-plumbob - Chase Ramos

8. @cas-sims

9. @portpromise

10. @cyazurai - Eireann Connolly

11. @plumbob95 - Flynn Hammond

12. @toxoplasmajuice - Wren Burchett

13. @arogaba - River Wells

14. @wannabecatwriter - Timothy Scott

[sapphiremaid-archive]

"Should we die in battle, they will surely sing of us."

• Loved by Éireann (she/her)

• Mun is 27. Muse age is verse based.

• Dark themes/nsfw/etc all occur on this blog, in line with themes which frequent the ASOIAF/GOT series. Because of this, this blog won't interact with anyone under 18 and there will be no NSFW whatsoever with anyone under 21. Any triggers will be tagged appropriately with "tw: (trigger)".

• This blog is both book and show based. Mun is currently reading A Dance With Dragons.

• This blog is mutuals only. All follows come from @eireann-ooc so please check I follow you from there before liking starter calls/sending memes etc. If we aren't mutuals but you'd like to plot, feel free to jump into my IMs or ask.

• I prefer to stick to familiar muses and fandoms. I've tried writing with non-familiar in the past and it just didn't work for me. I also respectfully ask that anyone wishing to interact has a knowledge of the ASOIAF universe.

• This blog is open to interacting with multiples of the same muse.

• Activity on this blog tends to be slow. I work full time and will be heading back to university in September so obviously those take precedence over writing.

• Finally, I will absolutely not tolerate harassment/God modding/any activity which will make me uncomfortable. Role-playing should be a fun activity and unfortunately I have come across my fair share who think this is a job.

• Other places to find me: @mxnofhonour (Jaime Lannister), @gcldenlioness (Cersei Lannister), @thetaleswetell (multimuse)