#Giving up the broken sword for the unbroken

[insufferablemod]

Hmmm..

[portrait0fthem00n]

Dream scenario for Alecto the Ninth - Alecto just comes and rips John apart and puts him into a tomb instead.

This is inspired by a seggsy statue of Medusa in the same pose, and considering that Alecto has apparently a little to do with Arthurian legend, and like gives me medieval or medieval art poster vibes (probably due to the writing style in the epilogue) I thought to give her some clothes that resembled that (but I ended up with a more Renaissance inspired dress, thought that fit better); and also I tried to get the text to look a little medieval.

[ID: Two digital drawings of Alecto The First, in a green-blue lightning. She is wearing a white flown dress that is reminiscent of renaissance dresses. She has manacles on both wrists and her neck. The chains on her wrist manacles are broken, the chain coming from that on her neck is unbroken and wraps around her waist. Her right hand holds the severed head of John Gaius and her left hand holds her iron sword. The sword, the head and Alecto’s mouth and bottom of her dress are covered in blood. The first drawing is only different from the second in that is has text written on it. The text is “That is how meat loves meat” written in a medieval-esque font. /end ID]

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Your arm is thrown across your husband's chest keeping him back, his hand tight around the grip of his sword.

There's a glass in your hand, half full of drink, spiderweb cracks crawling across its surface as you struggle to stay calm. The figure in front of you smiles, wide and knowing, their last words hanging in the air like a breath in the cold silence of a winter morning.

"Skin shrugger."

You take a sip of your drink, swirling it around in its broken glass; it's some sort of wine probably, but you don't like it. You'd rather be at home with a glass of cold nettle beer, a nice place of hot buttered wurzels and some shitty movie playing in the background while you feel the Warren settle around you.

Instead, you're here, at this wretched party.

You chug the last of your wine and sweep Adrian behind you so he's out of harms way.

"Good, go on, bring your DOG to heel." Says the figure, a Hulder with a hollow back and a massive fox's tail that ends in a wide toothy mouth that grins just like her painfully beautiful face. She's wearing a wedding dress and a veil, as if she's getting married. And she is, in a way, married to the thousands of bees taking up residence in her hollow back.

She's so deeply, terribly pretty, with her soft calves' ears and eyes the same blue as a glacier's entrails. Everyone at this party is so much prettier than you, so much older, so much better and more Knowing. Wild animals shaped like people, with next to none of the social hangups of said people. You feel ugly next to them, ugly and useless and small, a terrible cobbled together thing that Should Not Be.

Some stupid confused Thing that does not and NEVER WILL belong among them.

You hold out the empty glass and watch a Goblin in servant's garb take it before replacing it with a full unbroken glass of nettle beer. The Goblin looks at you with wide wet eyes, his ears and nose like yours. Depending on who you ask, Pookas are a breed a Goblin after all, it's one reason why everyone hates you.

You give the Goblin a slight nod and watch him scamper away to tend to the other guests.

You chug your nettle beer, you bring the now empty glass up with startling speed and smash it against the side of the Hulder's head at full strength. Her lower jaw detaches part way from the force of the blow and is left swinging by a piece of gristle, tongue dangling. She gurgles weakly, the bees in her back buzz unhappily as she eventually topples to the ground spilling honey, wax, and brood.

"Anybody else wanna play with me tonight?" You say to nobody in particular, pulling a chunk of comb off ground and popping it into your mouth. Some of the party members bristle, hands hovering by their weapons, others recoil and half fade into the shadows. You want them to try you, you want a reason to hurt someone else, and yourself in the process.

But nobody does, and after a few tense moments, the music starts back up and everyone gets on with their night like nothing happened.

The Hulder is carted away by her attendants, so she can heal herself in peace. You lick honey-gore off your fingers, plucking out shards of glass with your teeth.

"Didn't think so."

[qroier]

spiderbit lyrics in hozier songs, in no particular order apart from the fact that this is how they are listed in the document i made months ago. not definitive because otherwise this would be a million miles long:

We'll steal her Lexus, be detectives /Ride 'round picking up clues

We tried the world, good God, it wasn't for us

There's something tragic about you / Something so magic about you

Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword / Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know

There's something broken about this / But I might be hoping about this / Oh, what a sin

I'd be home with you / I'd be home with you

When my time comes around / Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth / No grave can hold my body down / I'll crawl home to her

My babe would never fret none / About what my hands and my body done / If the Lord don't forgive me / I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me

I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask you, neither should you / Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips / We should just kiss like real people do

You don't understand, you should never know / How easy you are to need

It can't be unlearned / I've known the warmth of your doorways / Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you

When I was a man I thought it ended / When I knew love's perfect ache

When you move / I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be / When you move / I could never define all that you are to me

I'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint / I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave

Who could ask you be unbroken or be brave again? / Or, honey, hope even on this side of the grave again / And who could ask you to be sound or to feel saved again? / But stick around until you hear that music play again

Whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was / Just as it was, baby / Before the otherness came / And I knew its name / The love, the dark, the light, the flame

And tell me if somehow some of it remained / How long you would wait for me? / How long I've been away?

Be that hopeful feeling when Eden was lost (lover, be good to me) / That's been deaf to our laughter since the master was crossed (lover, be good to me) / Which side of the wall really suffers that cost? / Oh, lover, be good to me

With the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet / Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat / Settle soft and as pure as snow / I fell in love with the fire long ago

But whose heart would not take flight? / Betray the moon as acolyte / On first and fierce affirming sight / Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight

I had been lost to you, sunlight / And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight / Oh, your love is sunlight

You are unbreaking / Though quaking / Though crazy / That's just wasteland, baby

If I was born as a blackthorn tree / I'd wanna be felled by you / Held by you / Fuel the pyre of your enemies

Ain't it warming you, the world gone up in flames? / Ain't it the life of you, your lighting of the blaze?

Remember once I told you 'bout / How before I heard it from your mouth / My name would always hit my ears / As such an awful sound

Some part of me must have died / Each time that you called me baby / But some part of me stayed alive /Each time that you called / Each time that you called

Do you think I'd give up / That this might've shook the love from me / Or that I was on the brink? / How could you think, darling, I'd scare so easily?

Darling, I would do it again, ah, ah / If I could hold you for a minute

And though I burn how could I fall? / When I am lifted by every word you say to me / If anything could fall at all, it's the world / That falls away from me

If there was anyone to ever get through this life / With their heart still intact, they didn't do it right

You know the distance never made a difference to me / I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea

You called me angel for the first time / My heart leapt from me / You smile now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth

That I'd walk so far just to take / The injury of finally knowing you

The sky set to burst / The gold and the rust / The colour erupts / You filling my cup / The sun coming up /Like I lived my whole life /Before the first light / (Some bright morning comes)

The waking up, having forgotten / And remembering again the full extent / Of what forever is

But after this I'm never gonna be the same / And I am never going back again

[n1ghtwarden]

on minthara's class, modifiers, and sub-class.

THE GODLESS PALADIN ( OATH OF VENGEANCE; HOMEBREW ). minthara says herself that 'while my faith is shattered, my oath still stands.' for a woman who has had every certainty taken from her and been ripped from all she's known, her oath remaining unbroken is important to her - it is one of the last remnants of her former identity and an anchor that she can hold on to and rally around.

as for the nature of minthara's oath, she does say that she was sworn to destroy all enemies of lolth - and looking at that, becoming a paladin to the absolute should have broken that oath. however, looking at the 5e homebrew binder, godless paladin's oaths can bend, not break, when the swearer is betrayed by their god. this bending likely occurred during minthara's indoctrination in the mind flayer colony. much like in the prison cells, minthara likely called out for lolth's aid, only to find the god she had spent her entire life serving silent. going off of her battle dialogue 'in the name of the absolute / in your name / in our name', minthara's oath shifted to the enemies of the cult once tadpole'd, before being freed by the party and finally becoming a full-fledged godless paladin by swearing vengeance against the absolute to tav/durge ( and there is something to be said for the devotion there; but that is for another post ); something that is solidified by her being unsure what will become of her oath once the battle is won.

her oath of vengeance carries the standard tenets, modified by her godless status - patron above all ( tav/durge will have her sword no matter what ), disavow the divine ( #fuckgods ) fight the greater evil, no mercy for sworn enemies, by any means nessecary, and restitution - the helping of those who have been harmed by her sworn enemies. minthara may never return to the path of a divinely bound paladin.

as a godless paladin, her abilities to differ from the traditional abilities of paladins - divine oath-bound or oath-broken included.

stench of the lamb. minthara can smell divine influence on another from up to 250 ft away, though stone and wood, and can identify the god as well. none of the divine smell pleasant to her, and depending on the strength of the smell, will make her physically ill.

resolve of the godless. minthara can identify objects of extreme importance to the gods; connected to stench of the lamb.

divine fury. minthara's anger towards the gods can be channelled into an extremely powerful smite - damage gets doubled.

defy the gods. minthara may resurrect a fallen person - either herself, or someone who she has sworn her oath to ( tav/durge ) and return them to the land of the living.

THE NIGHT WARDEN ( HOMEBREW SUBCLASS ). recently larian updated the game to remove the title of night warden after recruitment, implying it's a cult title - but failed to expand on what the hell that even is and why minthara is the only one to have that rank. i don't care + didn't ask + i control the lore + L so i decided to go with a homebrew concept i found on reddit and use when i play dnd with my own group, as i thought it added some interesting depth and implications to her backstory.

the night warden is a melee subclass who have given their bodies to the stars in order to adopt an elusive, fluid fighting style that makes them difficult to catch. minthara was an extremely skilled and prominent raider before her time in the cult of the absolute. given drow's sensitivity to the light, the far away stars are some of the few things that do not burn a drow's eyes above ground; and for a young minthara, that became a source of fascination. when she felt the call to give a part of herself to them in exchange for power, it was all too easy for her to agree - despite the fact it drew the wrath of lolth and her family ( which resulted in minthara's first and only trial by fire for a second chance ), her assuming the subclass of night warden turned her into a fearsome raider - hard to catch, hard to see - and deadlier than any before her. her warband became one of the baenre's heaviest hitters as a result of this choice, and minthara does not regret it.

while this homebrew class talks about resistance to cold damage/extra cold damage, i have adapted it to give more radiant damage/resistance to radiant damage - an excellent addition for a paladin to have. the addition of an elusive and fluid fighting style would also compliment the drow dual wielding fighting style of draa velve she uses. extra abilities from this subclass include:

lunar dance. movement speed is increased; minthara gains advantage to dodges.

starry presence. minthara is no longer susceptible to radiant damage when channeling this.

bewitching glimmer. minthara can summon an aura that gleams with the light of the stars, disorienting, beguiling, and entrancing enemies.

stellar radiance. if gravely wounded, minthara will not be killed outright, but instead drop to the brink of death - her aura will blind all within her radius (allied or otherwise) in a flash before vanishing.

[grimweaver]

"Meravas: Asala" P1

An encounter with a scavenger, near the northern docks of Lake Calenhad, reveals the first solid lead in the exhausted search for Sten’s lost sword. Rejuvenated hope clashes with new anguish in him– finding Asala means his honor will be restored and he will be able to return to Seheron, but he will be obligated to leave everything he had grown to love in Ferelden… including his Kadan. It will be a bittersweet reunion. ~*~

            It was two hours past the last breath of daylight when the search for Brother Genitivi led the Wardens and their companions to the northern docks of Lake Calenhad. Its serene, delicate air was broken by a battle cry when they had exited the inn, minutes after being warned by the innkeeper that asking around about Genitivi could get them killed. The scents of gutted fish and lake greenery were quickly overpowered by that of smoldering flesh and leather when Morrigan called forth chains of lightning to strike a considerable number of cutthroats that ambushed them.  

            Aithne was always pleased when she and her comrades could emerge from a battle without sustaining major injuries, but had wished they could have kept at least one assailant alive to press them for the answers that the innkeeper could not give, in addition to their reason for attacking. It forced them to conduct the grueling task of searching the bodies for anything that might hint at where they should search for him next, hoping that none of it had been damaged during the battle. 

            “Morrigan! What spell did you throw at these guys??” Aithne shot out. A line of bodies had led her up the steep slope and to a pile of skeletal remains, tented by dense shrubbery and pine branches.

            Morrigan hurried over to Aithne and joined her inspection of the gruesome heap. “I didn’t do that ,” she said, wincing in disgust at the sight and smell of them. “These poor sods were dead before we got here… long before.”

            There appeared to be seven of them altogether, all male and well over six feet tall, with only tattered ligaments of leather greaves and gauntlets dangling from bones, consumed and stained by an accumulation of weeds that grew around the shallow areas of the lake. “Horns!” Cousland noted, when she came across the only body that still had its head attached to it. “I think they’re qunari!”

            Hearing this had jarred Sten, but he kept himself well composed. His approach to the remains was calm and dignified, showing no signs of the alarms echoing through his body from his head. There was no mistake about their race– all of the skulls had a humanoid appearance, but their canine teeth were sharper than common man’s, and there were two sets of horns on either side of the cranial area. That doesn’t mean that they are my brothers, he thought. They could be Tal-Vashoth mercenaries– they frequent this area . 

            Alistair, whom had scaled the slope just then to have a look for himself, inched the torch in his hand forward to broaden the reach of its light, which revealed details that were not so easy to see in the black shadows. More horned skulls could be seen, scattered around the area with other dismembered pieces, and– seeing the distinguishing features of the horns– Sten knew they were the rest of the Beresaad with absolute certainty. “Yes,” he confirmed. “They are qunari.”

            Their corpses were not supposed to mean anything to Sten… but they did. Aithne could tell, seeing the unblinking stare of hardened eyes filling up with a mixture of distant memories– the pleasant and the horrifying. He seemed completely unaware that his dormant anger and terror was visible until Aithne’s voice snapped him out of his hot, red trance when she asked him in a soft and sympathetic manner “They are your brothers… aren’t they?”

            “Yes,” is all Sten said, clear and unbroken by the mournful howling inside.

            “Back off!! I was’ere first!! ” blasted a male voice, as a human figure leapt out at them from blackened bushes. It startled them all back several steps– Alistair almost fell onto his backside tripping over a loose root. 

            Sten instinctively drew the red steel broadsword and stepped in front of Cousland. “You would be wise to not take a step closer, human!” he growled with intense viciousness. What a fine display of self-discipline it was, not allowing his current state of mind to become a slave of instinctual responses. But even when torch light had revealed the man to be just a ragged, wrung-out, harmless-looking old man, he did not lower his sword.             “And explain to us right now what your business is with these bodies!” Aithne added.

            “Aw, these blokes ‘ere?” asked the man. “I did not off ‘em and I don’t know who or what did tha– large animals I’d guess, by the looks of ‘em. I just got’ere to take my claim.”

            “Take your claim? ” Aithne grunted.

            “There was a guy ‘ere before me that sold me this spot–said he’d found giants and all kinds of crazy valuables. But he didn’t mention that he’d taken everything but the bones and the dirt already!” Giving the pile of remains a frustrated kick sent one of the skulls flying up into the air. It landed on a steep grassy incline a short distance from where the group stood, then rolled down the slope until it was stopped by the side of Sten’s left leg. To everyone’s surprise, there was very little reaction from the qunari. Truly, he was boiling over inside, but he kept himself together and just glared bitterly at the one that had severely disrespected one of his closest friends. The scavenger desisted fuming when he saw murder burning in Sten’s eyes. Fearing for his life, he backed several inches away from the qunari, and looked like he was readying himself to flee for his life.

((CONTINUE--))

(( All fics are locked for anyone that is not registered to A03. I've read that it's a good way of preventing AI from using them to generate "content". I'm on the fence about believing that it's 100% effective, though. Can anyone confirm that doing this has helped at all? ))

[thedemocraticallyelectedovahkiin]

Exploring Skyrim

I started this journey by first grabbing the mammoth tusk from the top of a cupboard in our homestead to take to Whiterun, the start point, in order to give it to Ysolda. I also dealt with Mikael for Carlotta and met Sam Guenvere. I also realised that I would no doubt be entering some very tricky dungeons and decided to get Uthgerd the Unbroken as a follower. I realize I should have done a poll for this but I will do one after whether to keep her or not. After this I headed north where I discovered and cleared Halted Stream Camp but most importantly it was here that 'A new hand touch's the beacon'. I then discovered Volunruud and by reading Heddic's Volunruud Notes I started Silenced Tongues. This was a tricky dungen considering I had no armour so I used Uthgerd to tank and do most of the damage while I sneak attacked, retreated and then snuck back. Defeating Kvenel was incredibly hard as he could one/two shot kill me, so I resorted to instructing Uthgerd to attack while holding back and waiting when she's down to reset her health before entering the fight when Kvenel's health was low enough I could help. I then carried on north and found the Lord Stone and Dimhollow crypt, which will be useful for the Dawnguard questline. Carrying on I discovered Frostmere Crypt where I was approached by Eisa Blackthorn and started the quest The Pale Lady. The quest was simple and the dungeon only had a few bandits that were easily dealt with. The pale lady herself was trickier and I had to replace the sword a few times in order to wait to replenish my health but between Uthgerd and I she was able to be taken down. Carrying on north I hit the destroyed Hall of the Vigilants which I looted for any new gear. I then went west towards Morthal and found Kjenstal Ruins before hitting Myrwatch. I completed the quest there and now we have a second player home. Although I had to use flames to unlock it but as that is a quest requirement I don't think you'll mind. I then went to Morthal itself before heading north towards Solitude where I discovered Morvath's Lair (useful for the Morthal vampire quest) then Folgunthur where I got the second Gauldur amulet fragment as well as the Gauldur Blackblade. Once Mikrul Gauldurson was defeated (easier than Kvenel I found) I carried on north where I discovered the East Empire Company Warehouse, Katla's Farm, Solitude Sawmill before heading south and finding Meeko's Shack. Next up Was Dead Man's Respite where I was lead by Svaknir's ghost through the dungeon until I came upon his corpse with the copy of King Olaf's verse before being taken to fight King Olaf. The resting dragur I dealt with by sneak attacking them before they woke up. When it came to King Olaf himself I let Svaknir deal most of the damage while doing sneak attacks from behind. I then set off towards the homestead where I discovered Crabber's Shanty, Orotheim, Swindler's Den and Broken Fang Cave. Orotheim was simply a bandit cave same as Swindler's Den where I contracted Rattles. Broken Fang Cave was differant in that it had Vampires but Uthgerd was more than able to keep them distracted while I attacked from behind. All then that was left was returning home with my new loot.

Quests:

quest lines active: Before the Storm (main), Dampened Spirits (thieves guild), Good Intentions (college of winterhold), Mourning Never Comes (dark brotherhood)

quests started: The Grey Cowl of Nocturnal, A Soul Divided, The Rising Dead, Forbidden Legend, Guest for Dinner, Hendraheim, No Stone Unturned, Dawnguard, The Break of Dawn

mic quests: learn more about the thieves guild from Delvin and Vex, return the queen bee statue to Delvin, join the Imperial legion, join the Stomcloaks, Talk to the companion leaders for work, speak to the Jarl of Falkreath, speak to Constance Michel about adoption, participate in a drinking contest with Sam Guenvere

Places Discovered:

Halted Stream Camp

Volunruud

the Lord Stone

Dimhollow Crypt

Frostmere Crypt

Hall of the Vigilant

Kjenstal Ruins

Myrwatch

Morthal

Movarth's Lair

Folgunthur

East Empire Company Warehouse

Katla's Farm

Solitude Sawmill

Meeko's Shack

Dead Men's Respite

Crabber's Shanty

Orotheim

Swindler's Den

Broken Fang Cave

Enchantment's learned:

Fortify Smithing

Frost Damage

Fortify Conjuring

Shock Damage

Spells learned:

Transmute mineral ore (alteration)

Shouts learned:

Life, Aura Whisper

Flesh, Ice Form

Frost. Frost Breath

Whirlwind, Whirlwind Sprint

Apparel:

Head: Silver helmet, Thieves guild hood (prices are 10%better), Shrouded cowl (with and without mask) (bows do 20% more damage), Leather Scout helmet, Fine hat, Shrouded hood (sneaking is 25% better)

Body: Dwarven armour of conjuring (Conjuration spells cost 15% less to cast), Steel armour, Thieves guild armor (carrying capacity increased by 20 points), Shrouded armor (Increases Poison Resistance by 50%), Scaled armour, Fine clothes, Shrouded robes (destruction costs 15% less to cast)

Hands: Steel Plate gauntlets, Thieves guild gloves (lockpicking is 15% easier), Shrouded gloves (backstab does double damage), Scaled bracers, Gloves, Shrouded hand wraps (Double sneak attack damage with one-handed weapons)

Feet: Dwarven boots of waning fire (Increases fire resistance by 30%), Steel soldier boots, Thieves guild boots (pickpocket success is 15% better), Shrouded boots (Wearer is muffled and moves silently) , Scaled boots, Boots, Shrouded shoes (Wearer is muffled and moves silently)

Shields: Dwarven, Elven

Jewellery: Amulet of Arkay (Increases health by 10 points), Amulet of Dibella (+15 Speechcraft), Amulet or Stendarr (Block 10% more withyur shield), Saarthal amulet (Spells cost 3% less to cast), Gauldur amulet fragment (Increases magicka by 30 points), Gauldur amulet fragment (Increases health by 30 points), enchanted ring (Increases health by 20 points)

Weapons:

Orcish bow

Orcish battleaxe

Dwarven greatsword

Elven warhammer

Ebony war axe

Orcish mace of winnowing (absorb 20 points of magicka)

Eduj (Target takes 10 points of frost damage to Health and Stamina)

Dragon Priest dagger

Staffs:

Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson(Target takes 25 points of damage, and twice as much Magicka damage)

Staff of Magelight(Ball of light that lasts 60 seconds and sticks where it strikes)

Goblin totem staff (Lightning bolt that does 40 points of shock damage to healt and half to magicka, then leaps to a new target)

Staff of Sparks (Lightning that does 8 points of shock damage to health and magicka per second)

Steel staff of War (Elemental damage that does 4 points per second to health, magicka and stamina. Targets on fire take extra damage)

Staff of the Familiar (Summons a familiar for 60 seconds whereber the caster id pointing)

Wooden Staff of Shaming (Creatures and people up to level 8 flee from combat for 60 seconds)

Scrolls:

Scroll of Firestorm x2 (A 75 point fiery explosion centered on the caster. Does more damage to closer targets)

Scroll of Blizzard (Targets take 20 points of frost damage for 10 seconds, plus Stamina damage)

Scroll of Dread Zombie (Reanimate a weak dead body to fight for you for 60 seconds)

Scroll of Ice Spike (A spike of ice that does 15 points of frost damage to health and stamina)

Scroll of Circle of Protection (Undead up to level 8 entering the circle will flee)

Scroll of Ice Storm (A freezing whirlwind that does 50 points of frost damage per second to health and stamina)

When polling please be aware two handed weapons will be included in the right hand poll while staffs and shields are in the left.

[deathmybride]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ these violent delights | davos blackwood (part 3) *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ❤️‍🔥| Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ❤️‍🔥

ship: davos blackwood x fem!oc

warnings: angst, descriptions of battle

summary: cersha and davos face the aftermath of their decisions.

word count: 1551

a/n: thanks so much for all the love on parts 1 and 2! i'd like to give special thanks to @aemondslove @disillusioned-phantasma @anaviieiraaa @deepestlovert @flordiakilos @kitty2694 @kpopfanfictionfantacies @sometings @nikkilsworld @gladiatorgladiator @borislava17 @oshun22 and most especially @spider-stark for their support by re-blogging or commenting on one or both of the previous parts. It really means the world to me, and I can't express how grateful I am for any feedback or support on this series! It is quickly becoming longer than I anticipated so do let me know if you want to read more :)

Dusk had settled by the time their bowls were empty. Cersha’s eyes were dark pools as she regarded him, their stillness unbroken but for the flickering candlelight. They were tapers made from beeswax, and they sweetened the air between them. Davos picked his teeth broodily with a fish bone and tried to hide the burden of her stare.

“I must return to Stone Hedge.” She rose to her feet and took up her belt and scabbard.

“What?” His eyes darted to her. “You can’t leave!”

“Men, ever the authority.” She tutted, though her tone softened when she saw the panic in his eyes. “My father will be worried. I will return to you on the morrow, on my honour.”

“You ran away from home in the midst of a battle!” Davos struggled to sit forward. “If you go now your father will lock you up for good.”

“You know nothing of my father.”

“I know my father.” A pleading look creased his features. “He coddles my sisters like baby lambs. That might not be the case for you, but listen to me now. If my daughter disappeared like that- might have been dead for all I know- I’d never let her out of my sight again.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Well, no.” He flushed.

“Not even a base-born child with dirt beneath her nails?” Her wry smile faded as she saw the longing in his eyes, her hand wresting on the pommel of her short-sword.

“Not one.” He lowered his face as he shook his head. “But that’s not the point. You know I’m speaking true, if you leave now you might never come back.”

“I must.” She pulled her grey cloak about her shoulders and fastened it. To Davos, she looked like an outlaw queen.

“You snatched me from the battlefield,” He went on, eyes hardening in anger like a cornered dog. “You stole my valour, you sullied my name as a Blackwood, and what now? You’d leave me to starve? I have dishonoured myself time and again this day and I’ve yet to have my fill of it. I beg you now, Bracken, don’t leave me here.”

“You are thankless.” She muttered, slinging her quiver across her torso. “I found you wounded and unarmed, and I spared you where my kin would have cut your throat. You went with me willingly, and you call me turncloak? And still you make demands of me! More, more, more! What more should I give a man like you? I have already given too much.”

“And I’ve taken too much! This never should have happened, but it has, and now it must be righted. Kill me now, or stay and nurse me, but don’t abandon what you started.”

She stalked around the table until she stood before him on the bed.

“You started this as much as I.” She said darkly. “I will stay with you until you can walk unaided. From then, you will find you own way back to Raventree Hall and speak of this to no-one. The tale you tell in its place is up to you.”

Dawn had not yet broken when Cersha woke from her restless slumber. A week of sleep atop a folded spare blanket under the table had stiffened her bones and she ached for her feather bed at Stone Hedge. Night after night, Davos asked her into his bed and night after night she refused, tempting as the offer was. ‘Let’s stop playing games,’ he would shuffle close to the wall and open his arms, voice low and gravelly with exhaustion, but she would steadfastly stick to her place on the floor. Even behind the defences of the table legs, her dreams always were fraught with choking smoke and splashes of boiling blood, and often she woke sweating and screaming for her father, her stomach roiling with guilt for hiding from him. She never left the hidden clearing but under the cover of night, and often she and Davos would sit in the grass outside the cottage and listen to the search parties call for her as they passed by.

The weather had been mercifully still, and while the mist had cleared, there was enough smoke still in the air that they could keep a fire overnight, and this morning it had burned down to a low smoulder. When she stirred the embers she saw the curve of Davos’ sleeping frame in the spark-light. The last of the poppy tea had gifted him a deep and unbroken slumber, and he did not twitch or whimper under the burden of dreams. She could not ignore the pang of guilt in her stomach as she turned from him and slipped into the night.

The smoke from the burning mill still hung in the air and stretched the first half-light of dawn into a pink haze when she returned, grey eyes clouded by ghosts. The Blackwood sat up in bed, dark eyed, hunched and bristling like a squalling raven.

“You’re up early.” She remarked hollowly, setting her bow by the door and throwing a sack of morels and watercress down on the table.

“You left me.”

“I’m back now, am I not?” She avoided his eyes, stripping off her quiver.

“You said you wouldn’t leave without telling me.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “For all I knew you were gone for good!”

“I brought us a rabbit.” She unhooked the carcass from her belt and held it up by the ears. The paws knocked together as she shook it. “Be grateful.”

Davos scoffed but said nothing more, instead taking to glowering in silence.

“You will have to walk without me today.”

“Why?” He saw noticed then that she gripped the table’s edge with such force that her knuckles turned white. He spoke her name softly, urgently. “Cersha. What happened?”

“The Blackwoods have taken Stone Hedge. I saw my family in chains, our Sept ablaze… I saw Queen Rhaenyra’s banners hanging from our windows. I saw men hanged in Blackwood colours, their feet bound…”

“Deserters,” Davos spoke, horror ringing through his voice. “From the border stones. I cannot go back.”

“The lives we had are over. Was it worth the price?” Cersha turned, and when he saw her glassy eyes were mirrors of his own, he would have asked her the same question.

“Why were you at the battlefield that day?” His voice had lost the heat of accusation. “Why is this our fate?”

“I came for Aeron.” She admitted, sitting for the first time at the edge of the bed. “The news reached us early that he had been slain in a skirmish over the border, but fool that I am, I thought… I hoped I would find him there, wounded but alive, and well enough to follow me to safety. Of course, when I saw the carnage…” For a moment she returned to the slicing reek of blood, to the roar of scores of screaming men, the clashing, bashing metal on metal, to the men wallowing and moaning in the welter of mud and gore. “I knew it was hopeless. I thought I would die that day. I nearly turned and ran, but I saw you trying to stand and I thought, in a place such as this, where the Stranger walks amongst us and mud smears across the heraldry… a life is a life. If I saved you, perhaps in some way I would be saving him.” Her voice broke and a hand flew up to cover her face. “How could I know it was your sword that cut him down?”

An apology turned to ash in his mouth, and Davos swallowed it drily, feeling it take seed in his stomach. He reached for her, brushing his fingertips across the back of her hand. Could she blame it on the desperation for comfort, or genuine forgiveness, neither could say, but she released her fist and let him lace their fingers together.

“I must ride to Riverrun and appeal to Oscar. He will not stand for this wanton violence.”

“Your old flame?” He smiled thinly, and to his relief she managed a chuckle.

“He is my friend, but not fit to be my husband.” She turned to him and squeezed his hand. “Will you come with me?”

“I can’t. I cut down the first man, I fled the battlefield, wherever I go, I’ll be hanged. I’m fucked, Cersha.”

“Oscar is merciful, as is his grandfather. He could send you to the Watch.”

“I don’t want to join the fucking Watch! Come on, Cersha, if Oscar Tully is as just as you say, he will avenge your family. He will put this to rights.” There was a question in his eyes, an unmistakable eagerness.

“What do you ask of me?”

“Ride north with me. We could seek asylum with your kin on Bear Isle. There is a war brewing and this is the first of many battles. I would not have you caught up in this, you are far too precious to me-”

“Davos.”

“Please. I have nothing left to lose but you.”

“Don’t speak like that.” She whispered, aching inside and out. “I must help my family.”

A shuddering sigh left his lips and defeat filled his eyes.

“Then I will ride with you, my lady.”

[wordslikesilver]

Hear me out, version of the four horsemen of the apocalypse that strive endlessly to fight against their namesakes. Darksiders kinda played into this with the first two games but the fact that they just straight up changed famine and pestilence to be “fury” and “strife” will never not be silly to me.

War is at first a diplomat in the most hopeless situations fighting a losing battle as the conflict keeps growing, and then he’s a soldier, a one man army of peace upon the battlefield. You will tell yourself you are just and righteous and War will know you are false as he stands between you and the weak. You will try to keep the grinder going, to put more people through it and when you try to push past him and he will push you back. When you wage your holy war, when you enter the threshold of your child’s room with a belt in hand, when you raise your hand because you know they’re too weak to fight back or stop you, War will be there. War will beat loudly on the jail cell bars of your victim’s chest when their heart feels too weak to go on any longer. War will be the one to cleave through the cycle of abuse and hatred he’s watched you perpetuate so gleefully. He wields a red sword known as Time and when Time enough has passed, the ones you thought you could destroy will stand before you, unbroken, unafraid of anything you told them you could do. There is no fear you can strike into their hearts that Time and Love cannot kill. War knows this better than all who breathe. He has known Love deeper than any conqueror shall ever know and he fears not your darkness, because the sun shall always rise.

Pestilence is a researcher and activist in times of plague and hatred. A sickness rises. A movement of bigotry and short sightedness takes root in the hearts of the many. Pestilence pushes against it, harder and harder each day, educating and campaigning at every hour and opportunity they can find. The ignorant and stubborn stay ignorant and stubborn. They do not truly know the pain they pass on to their children. Pestilence will sit with them, let them cry their hearts out then ferry them to a safer place one day, a place that accepts them, that teaches them that to be seen and understood is what real love is. The ignorant will ask themselves on their deathbed why they feel so alone. Pestilence will hear them and walk away. The angry, the poisoned, the wretched and the damned shall watch their mothers and fathers rot with sickness and isolation and Pestilence will know what killed those rotten souls, what brought this wicked misery upon their hearts and snuffed them out. Pestilence will always know what you did and will shed no tear turning you away to keep safe the people they love more than you ever did.

Famine works weekends in soup kitchens. Weekdays raising funds for charities and churches that shelter and feed the sick, the dying, the hungry. She knows the name of every girl who thought the mirror looked too wide and every mother who would do anything to feed her newborn just a little bit more if she could. She has broken bread with the naked and dirty, she has given her biggest helpings to the ones too sweet to know how stolen from they are by the rich and gluttonous. When the day comes that there is a name she cannot remember, just one too many for that wondrous and ancient memory to recall, she will come for your feasts and she will break open your coffers and give and give and give what she takes from you to feed the ones she loves. You will know her by the green of her hood as she slings her flaming bottle-arrow at the riot squads that fall before the mob. When that day comes and you have nothing left, she will know your name too and you will be the first she does not regret forgetting.

Death is a mortician. They sit with the corpses brought to them, one by one and loves them dearly. They lean in close and listen to their stories and wash their bodies clean their souls like old textiles that must be restored. Death is a historian. They love stories. They love restoration. They love cycles and they love the backs of books and they love you. Death is a preserver. To end is to achieve a finality that death loves with all their heart and they will carve out a new nook in their library for your story too. Their favourite stories are the longest ones. The mundane ones. The brilliant ones. All of them. A cosmic love that cannot be fathomed on a scale we could ever perceive. They are all the favourites of Death, the pale rider, the one cheering us on to write them just one more story before the end. And, the most terrifying part of all, is that Death doesn’t fear when these stories will no longer be made, because that shall mark the ultimate end of the grandest story ever told and it’s just such an endearing thought isn’t it? So one day, when the final rider comes forth upon the earth, it will be because the story is over. It will already be concluded and there will mark the final conclusion of the magnum opus of Death’s infinite memory. One day, when Death comes, it will be to simply collect the story and you will not be there anymore. You will be known, you will be loved and you will be gone.

[smallgodseries]

[image description: Twilight. A single lamp glows as the sun sets on this challenging part of town. Upshot of an imposing anthropomorphic cat in rough clothing that might suggest a buccaneer, one hand a fist, the other holding a long knife or short sword in a manner that suggests comfort. The cat bears an eyepatch over their left eye, and wicked scars are visible wherever their skin and fur are exposed. They have a prosthetic below their left knee. Text reads, “246, Dark Alley, small god of Survived Hardships”]

• • • • •

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that’s not always true. Sometimes what doesn’t kill you just makes you harder and more brittle, scarred and stiffened by the unwanted agonies of a world too big and too cruel for any single person to understand. Dark Alley understands that very well. Alley is the small god of the ones who survive. Not the ones who thrive, not the ones who pass unbroken, just the ones who somehow manage to keep standing.

She loves her brittle, bruised, brutalized faithful, and does what she can to protect them from a world that never sees a single dance with suffering as sufficient, a world that would be more than willing to come at them again and again and again, never giving them the opportunity to heal. She isn’t the small god of healing, not the keeper of the kintsugi either literal or metaphorical. When the shelves come crashing down, she’s not the one who has the glue. But she’s the one who might keep you breathing long enough to reach the helpers. She’s the one who’s got your back, even when you feel broken, even when you feel like breaking down.

She has a soft spot for Trinette, who has survived hardship, but never known it, because she never noticed. For her, hardship is just one more beautiful thing in the path to tomorrow, and Alley wants to keep it that way. Alley is, in the end, a god of innocence; she knows that many never have the chance to preserve their own, but she’ll fight for it when she can, and she never gives up before she has to, and she never surrenders.

Alley herself has known hardship, but she doesn’t speak of it often; those gods of kintsugi, she’s been to see them, she’s been shattered and stitched back together, and what’s in the past is in the past, now and forever. She wants to help her followers. She wants to see some forms of suffering lost forever.

She wants you to be safe, in whatever way you can be, now and evermore.

• • • • •

Please join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

WordPress: https://leemoyer.wordpress.com/

Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com

Mastodon: @SmallGods@mastodon.world

[robininthelabyrinth]

Jin Zixuan knows what he wants, and that’s to be the next pretty but useless Madam Jiang. All that he has to is 1) pass his title of heir to his new brother, 2) convince JYL to fall back in love with him, 3) not embarrass himself. Three easy enough goals, right? -🙃

ao3

Untamed

Jin Zixuan was almost – almost – not surprised to open his eyes and find himself sixteen again.

Instead of, you know, dead.

Honestly, it just seemed like the perfect capstone of his life of happenstance: born an idiot, raised an idiot, continued to be an idiot, realized he was an idiot, remained an idiot but a better class thereof, and somehow despite all that managed to hit the jackpot of luck not only once but twice – the first in being born in the right womb, the second in convincing Jiang Yanli to give him a second chance despite the aforementioned unbroken streak of lifelong idiocy.

Possibly because of. She thought he was cute.

Anyway, as if to make him pay up for that amazing streak of luck, just when he’d finally achieved all the things he’d ever actually wanted – a wife that loved him and who he loved in return and a son to dote upon – he had, for the first time in his life, grown up and decided to not be a complete idiot…only to immediately die.

Being reborn seemed pretty much part and parcel with the whole stupid tragedy.

Not that he regretted inviting Wei Wuxian to come visit. That’d been the right thing to do, and Jiang Yanli had been so happy – it hadn't even been his fault; it had been Jin Zixun’s ambush that had ruined it all, really. Jin Zixuan wasn’t even entirely sure what it was that had actually killed him, whether it was a stray arrow or a misplaced sword or even the Ghost General gone berserk, but he was sure that if his stupid cousin hadn’t decided to attack, Wei Wuxian would have come and left in peace.

If he hadn’t rushed out by himself to try to fix things, to make sure the one thing he’d ever managed to do right by Jiang Yanli worked out well, then maybe he wouldn’t have ended up leaving her and Jin Ling behind.

Alone.

In Lanling City.

He shuddered even to think it.

Jin Zixuan knew that there were people who loved their sects – passionately, devotedly. Jiang Cheng had been one of them, defying death itself to resurrect the Jiang sect in his parents’ honor and reestablishing it as one of the Great Sects. And then there was Lan Xichen, the steadfast and honorable, who had sacrificed everything, even honor, to make sure his sect’s books survived what they had feared would be the end. And all this was to say nothing of Nie Mingjue, who had come to power painfully young and had played the game of politics that he so despised in order to stay the course, to avenge his father and keep his sect strong…

Jin Zixuan did not love his sect.

He did not love his city, he did not love his people. He had wondered if it was a failing in himself, but then looked at the rest of his family and realized it was just his blood running true. Lanling Jin had a soul of rot and a heart of stone, each one of them careless and indifferent in their own way – his father couldn’t give a damn about his sect except in the sense that it aided his personal power, his mother the authority it gave her whether through her husband or her son, his cousins the impunity they could derive from it…

Jin Zixuan had told Jiang Yanli about it when she agreed to marry him, worried that she'd change her mind when she learned the truth but even more worried that she'd wake up one day to find herself trapped and disappointed in him. But she was as ever the luckiest thing that had ever happened in his life: she’d said that she would be fine because she had him by her side, and he would be fine because he had her, and they would balance. He’d accepted that argument – and then, of course, he’d gone and died, like the idiot that he was.

And yet, somehow, he’d been reborn, granting him another chance to change his fate, and this time, this time, he wasn’t going to deceive himself.

After all, it seemed pretty clear from his last life that he was never going to not be an idiot, and that fate wasn’t too happy about him trying to stick his nose into politics or major events.

This time around, he wasn’t going to struggle against his destiny – Jin Zixuan was going to accept it.

He was going to be absolutely useless.

He sat up in his bed, observing that he was in the Cloud Recesses, and that his eye hurt; it must be not long after his fight with Wei Wuxian, which meant his engagement was broken. He’d have to win Jiang Yanli again – still, he’d somehow managed it last time around, so that wasn’t what he was worried about.

No, the main problem was definitely how he was going to manage the whole “be useless” part of his ambitions – and for that, he needed the advice of an expert.

“Nie-er-gongzi, can I ask you for some advice?” he asked.

Nie Huaisang blinked blearily at him. “Jin-gongzi? It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s important,” Jin Zixuan said apologetically. “It’s something that only you can help me with.”

“…me?”

“Yes, you. I need to learn how to be a good-for-nothing.” Jin Zixuan thought about it. “Also, I need to get in contact with Meng Yao. He’s at the Unclean Realm now, right? Someone needs to inherit Lanling Jin, might as well be him.”

Nie Huaisang blinked owlishly at him.

“…okay.” He pulled open the door. “I think you’d better come inside.”

[cdroloisms]

consider- after the whole "reviving Tommy" thing comes in and does the whole pic thing again- but this time dream lunges for the pic, trying to grab it from sam, and they fight for it, and sam ends up stabbing through dreams left eye, far enough to kill him. dream respawns blind in that eye.

ooh anon ,, this is such a good prompt but . *head in hands* MAN,, half-blind c!dream living in my head rent free. on one hand, narrative parallels! and on the other hand ,, pain. so, so much pain.

anyway, have this quick ficlet set in current roommates arc! 

tw: EYE TRAUMA, GORE (in ask), implied torture/abuse, violence, mentioned child death, injuries, trauma, prison arc, pandora’s vault, dark portrayal of c!sam

Techno is pacing around the cell for something like the fifty-third time after sending Draem to break the obsidian when Dream snaps, neck twisting over to look at him with the one eye exposed by the cracked edge of his mask narrowed in a rather unthreatening glare.

“Will you stop that?” he hisses, and Techno hesitates, shrugs.

“I dunno,” he says simply, walking back to the bell. He raps his knuckles on it once as he passes, humming at the wave of new channel member and one of us from Chat as the echo subsides. “I’m not going to lie, Dream, there’s not exactly much to do here.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dream’s voice drops, for a second, from that over-tense harshness the guy refuses to give up, becoming softer around the edges, more casual than meant to rile up and provoke. Seconds later, his jaw tightens, and he looks away to stare back at the block, humor gone. “Figure out something else to do. I don’t care.”

“Hmm,” Techno makes a considering noise before pacing back to the bell and letting the back of his hand meet it with a quiet clang. “Nah.”

Dream makes an irritated, wordless sound of frustration, but otherwise does not stop in his chipping away at the obsidian block. Techno watches him as he circles around - the line of his lip, from where it peeks out behind the mask, is flat and slightly downturned at the corners, speaking of his frustration, but otherwise he seems mostly relaxed. Techno steps forward, stopping in his tracks at the opposite side of the cell when the other man’s posture tightens suddenly, shoulders rising to his ears, chin ducking to his chest. The smiling face of the side of the mask that hasn’t been shattered stares at him from behind a curtain of matted hair. Techno steps back, watching when he swings over to Dream’s other side and he relaxes again, shoulders falling, muscles untensing, and frowns.

Usually, people have a weaker side when fighting - it’s something he’d become especially adept at picking out in fights, giving him an edge over his opponent. Personally, he’s relatively ambidextrous, easily able to maneuver around and wield a weapon on both sides, and the versatility has proved to be a valuable asset on the battlefield. As a shield fighter, Dream isn’t offered the same flexibility when it comes to switching hands, but Techno remembers being impressed by his range of movement anyway - unlike most, who fail to properly wield and move around the awkward weight and shape of a shield in their non-dominant hand, Dream’s movements were fluid, unbroken. He wielded the shield almost like a second sword, not simply blocking hits as much as he would catch and redirect them in a way that benefited him most. He hadn’t had a weak side, from what Techno could remember of their spars, despite the specialization, he met every thrust and strike on either side with an easy movement and laughing air.

Once again, Techno paces until he’s entirely on Dream’s left side, watching him all the while. Once again, Dream tense with every step he takes towards the opposite end of the cell, ending with hunching over himself significantly, jaw clenched and tight.

“Are you hurt?”

Dream flashes a look at him, unimpressed, and yeah. That’s fair - it was a dumb question; the other man is absolutely littered with cuts and bruises on every visible inch of skin, obviously malnourished and even more obviously marked with a patchwork of pale, pinkish scars. Techno huffs at Dream, still watching him incredulously, and gestures at his crouching body.”

“Well obviously I know you’re injured, but you’ve been really jumpy around your left side, man. You haven’t been hiding any life-threatening injuries under that jumpsuit, have you? It would be really awkward if you just dropped dead one day, I’m not gonna lie.”

Dream goes still, before shaking his head slightly with a harsh puff of air.

“Figures you’d notice that,” he mutters, almost to himself, before turning to look at Techno with a small, tight-lipped smile. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say nothing…”

Dream laughs, short and without humor. His hair swings in front of his face, and Dream ignores it as he goes back to chipping at the obsidian. Techno winces, sensing that he’s hit on a sore spot, and backs off, presuming that the other man is done with the conversation.

“I’m blind. In my left eye.”

Or not, apparently.

“Uh,” Techno rolls his shoulders back, trying to catch a glimpse at Dream’s face underneath the mess of his hair and his mask keeping it out of sight. “I’m guessing that’s a recent development, then?”

“Mmhm,” Dream goes back to the obsidian with seeming renewed determination. Techno sighs, waving away the curious chants and questions from Chat blind? Teletubby blind? Not pog. Is that from quackity? E e e e and battling his own awkwardness to figure out what to say next. Gee, thanks for the bombshell, Dream. You sure know how to make a conversation uncomfortable.

“Is it from Quackity, then?” He asks, finally, remembering the scar that had clawed across Quackity’s face, a large, ragged thing from the rough edge of a pickaxe. It had been a harsh death, not that he’d thought much of it at the time, and the clear remnants of it on Quackity’s face and in the newfound fogginess of his left eye seems all the more relevant here, with Dream’s newest revelation. He’d hardly put it past the man to take someone else’s eye as revenge, even if Dream hadn’t been the one to ruin his vision in the first place.

“Nope, surprisingly,” Dream seems to shrug, popping the ‘p’. “Was from Sam, actually. He got mad after I killed Tommy, gave me this in return. I don’t even think it was on purpose, but you know. Shit happens. He ran.”

“Kinda sounds like a garbage warden, I’m not gonna lie.”

“He probably could’ve fixed it, if he bothered getting a regen. He didn’t, though. He left basically immediately after, didn’t come back for weeks. Bastard. Left me in here with the child for another few days- what an idiot.”

“Doesn’t sound like the smartest decision,” Techno says, finally, and Dream laughs slightly before going back to his obsidian. Techno watches him for a minute, before going back to their bell, carefully feeling along the smooth surface.

“You want to see?” Dream says, suddenly, and Techno’s head snaps up.

“Uh,” he flounders. “I guess?”

Dream’s hands go to his mask, trembling slightly as he unfastens the buckle in the back. Techno thinks he’s seen Dream without the mask fewer times than he can count on one hand, watches silently as he eases it off to look him in the eyes. His cheeks are pale, gaunt, eyes startlingly wide. There’s a cut still healing along his right cheekbone, a bump along his nose bridge from where it’d been broken, before. A small, thick scar rises from his left eye socket, and the eye within it is glassy, unseeing, paler as if covered by a slight film. He looks tired, shadows under his eyes, slightly scared. If he’s being honest, he looks young, human. Very, very human.

“When we get out,” Techno says, keeping his voice light as Dream goes to fasten the mask on his face again. “I’ll get Phil or someone to make you an eyepatch, or something. Really sell the whole homeless schtick you’ve got going on.”

“Techno,” Dream starts, exasperated, and Techno grins.

“Or maybe a pirate is more fitting. You like pirates? You know, if you have a ship, you won’t be homeless anymore-”

“You are the worst,” Dream huffs, and Techno laughs as he goes back to pacing around the cell, careful to stay on Dream’s right side.

“That’s not an answer, you know,” he continues, and Dream shakes his head.

“I’ll tell you when we get out, then.”

“Sounds good,” Techno smiles despite himself. That must be the first time that Dream admitted that they were going to get out. Guess you aren’t as hopeless as you thought, nerd. “We’ll figure it out when we get out.”

[drabbledummydump]

Fenris kicked the door to the mansion in with little concern for either foot or door. He was furious, terrified and beyond all disgusted with himself.

He had abandoned her, naked in her bed. His fist found an unbroken piece of décor, some sort of ugly wooden idol, and shattered it against the wall. His mind reeling with memories returned, only to dim back into nothing. He knew it wasn’t her fault, he knew being with her might actually help him remember more permanently. But he had run away, again.

The thought of remembering his past terrified him as much as he yearned for it. The vivid dreams he had had after his night with Hawke were more than he could bare. He remembered giggles, the scent of smoke and soup on a stovetop and a small toy sword. The vivid images that accompanied the memories had dissipated as soon as he woke up.

Then he saw her. Beautiful and serene as she slept beside him. Amarantha Hawke. A saddened whine threatened to leave his throat, but he forced it down. He did not deserve to mourn his own actions. He had seen the hurt in her face when she realised, he was leaving and not coming back. She had smiled at him, said she understood, that she would never ask for more than he was willing to give, but her smile was strained, her eyes watery and her voice trembling. He left anyway.

Fenris growled and flung an empty wine bottle into the cold fireplace. It was beyond any stupid thing he had done before.

She was warm and kind and he had hurt her. He had thrown her away and abandoned her in such a vulnerable state after taking her. He hadn’t meant to. He had not expected himself to be such a coward, to flinch at the weight of his own emotions and so blatantly ignore hers.

Fenris slumped onto the makeshift bed her had made for himself in front of the fireplace. His heart breaking. For Hawke, for himself, because he was still trapped as a slave in his mind. Terrified of having anything good that could be taken from him. Danarius had left him one final cruelty, by making him so scared of being hurt that he’d become the kind of man who’d hurt someone else instead. And Hawke, his lovely Mara, had taken the hurt for him, just like she took the hurt for everyone else. She had let him break her heart so that he might protect his own. Because she understood, she truly did, that he was broken and terrified and she didn’t want that for him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. A slave that cried easily never lasted long with the sadistic magisters of Tevinter. But for once, even though he did not feel entitled to them, he allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks. First a single tear, a tiny moment of weakness he could allow for his broken heart. But one turned to many, a single silent tear, turned into a flood of agonised weeping, accompanied by desperate wails and whimpers he had not thought himself capable of.

When his knees could no longer hold him, he fell to his elbows, fists balled and furious, sorrowed hiccups came out of him completely out of his control. He could no longer still himself, all he could do was wait till either his tears dried out or his voice faltered.

And so, Fenris wailed and wept, crying for losing the only good thing he had managed to find for himself, and losing it to a fear brought to him by his former master. The hatred for Danarius burned within him, as fiercely as the love for Amarantha Hawke. Because even though he left, even though he had told her he could not be with her, Fenris loved her with all the shattered pieces of his heart.

[dionysusbisexual]

torture + geraskier

I really hope you like it, I am not the best at writing straight up  whump n torture scenes, though it’s brief and focuses more on Jaskier getting better.

Find it on ao3

____

Jaskier sat in the cold, desolate cell, beaten and bloodied and half gone. He had been captured by Nilfgaard in one of his heart broken, drunk stupers and ever since dragged through hell, they had tried to rip his mind open, tear it apart, but his magic prevented the mage assigned to ruin him to gain access to any of his memories --and barely any of his thoughts in general-- that may endanger Geralt. When that didn’t work they had taken to different tactics, a deep scar across his back, hand bruises on his neck, his fingers cut with bones broken along with too many other wounds to count, covered in his own blood. He was leaning against the wall panting, closer to death than he ever had been when he heard the guards approaching. “Look at the little songbird, trapped and mute, unable to escape.” He said, his voice condescending and mocking. Jaskier rolled his eyes but didn’t speak. He found it wasn’t worth it. By sheer luck -- for them-- they had put Jaskier in partly iron shackles, weakening him significantly. “Nothing to say?” Jaskier didn’t react. The guard didn’t seem like this, hitting hard and knocking him over. “You know… This could aaaall end if you just told us where the Witcher is” the guard said crouching down in front of Jaskier. The bard simply spat blood in his face before saying “Probably fucking your mother.” not his best line but, well, cold you really blame him? The guard growled before pulling Jaskier by his hair and throwing him against a wall. He started  to stalk towards Jaskier as he lost consciousness, his last thoughts quite simple. At least he had granted Geralt his blessing.

The last thing he felt was a punch to the stomach and the last thing he heard was the squelch of a sword through a throat.

___

Geralt was carrying Jaskier, desperately trying to wake him up, while not jostling him too much, he made it to where Yennefer was, disposing the last of the guards before opening a portal, Geralt took a deep breath and ran through it, practically sprinting towards Triss to save hi- the bard… He has lost the privilege of calling him his years ago.

They quickly set Jaskier down on the table and Triss got to healing him slowly. Geralt was a mess, had been a mess ever since the mountain. At first he had thought it was because of Yennefer but after finding her, after missing the noise, after growing to despise the silence. He knew he had missed, needed, Jaskier.  He has tried to track down Jaskier, tried for three years to no avail until a rumor spread tha a the great Bard, Jaskier, had been kidnapped. And Geralt knew in that moment what had happened and blamed himself. It was not a short healing process, with all the physical damage done, it had taken Jaskier three days to wake up. Three days that Geralt spent by his side, refusing to leave the room to eat, which led Eskel to bringing up his lunch and staring at his brother, usually giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, it led to Lambert not teasing him and Ciri spending time with her new father figure in Jaskiers room, always worried because he had gone completely non verbal. Geralt eventually did fall asleep, something had avoided doing by sharpening his sword and changing Jaskiers bandages. He fell asleep holding Jaskiers unbroken hand softly.

__

Jaskier awoke to a weight on his uninjured hand, panicked at first until he saw Geralt holding it, fast asleep and looking peaceful, pure confusion bubbling inside him until it was joined by anger and hurt. This seemed to have woken up Geralt, whose first instinct was to hold Jaskiers hand tighter until he realized he was the cause of that smell. He stared at Jaskier, unable to form words, pre relief that Jaskier was awake before noticing the expression on Jaskiers face.

Jaskier snatched his hand away and tried to move away from him on the bed only to be met with pain.

“Please, please don’t move.”

Jaskier looked at him with confusion, Geralt never said please. He was still glaring at Geralt, though, distrustful and weary. After weeks of what he had gone through he wasn’t feeling particularly kind.

“Jaskier” Geralt rasped out. “The mount-”

“Leave it. I’ll be out of your hair when I’m healed. Give you your life's one blessing.” Geralt flinched and pursed his lips. “Get out of my room.” Geralt hesitated, wanting to say something before leaving.

Jaskier lied there, trying his best not to cry when a sorceress and Yennefer entered the room, seemingly to check on him. He tried his best not to be too hostile to Yennefer, he had a feeling she and the other woman saved his life. “Jaskier.”

He didn’t respond, she sighed.

The other mage approached him and gave him a warm smile, she seemed much kinder . She was frankly beautiful, maybe if he was younger and less… Exhausted he might have even tried to woo her. “Hello, my name is Triss, I’m glad to see you finally awake, we were worried that I lost you for a second there. He tried to give her his best smile “Jaskier, but you probably knew that. How long till I can move.” Triss’s smile dropped a little. “I’m afraid you’re going to be bed ridden for a few more days. He frowned. “Ahh, I see. Well, give me the sinopses, doc, will I ever play again?” he said, a bit dramatically. He felt his hand nearly healed and along with his own magic he knew he’d be fine, but reassurance was never bad.

She huffed, “You’ll be fine. You won't play for another week though, I suggest staying here until you can.” “It would be a waste if we spent so much time just for you to ruin it, Bard.”

Jaskier glared at Yennefer but conceded. “In fact… You should stay with us.” Triss said softly. At that Jaskier let out a bitter laugh. “I would rather not. I’ll head back to Oxenfurt, put on a good glamour like I should have in the first place.” Triss frowned. “I’m afraid that that isn’t possible… The safest place is here, in Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier grit his teeth and decided not to argue for the time being, too exhausted to protest.

___

The next few days went as the following, one of Geralt's brothers would come up, talk to Jaskier and get him to eat. Later on Ciri would come in and talk to him, having someone from back home to provide her comfort, him being relieved she made it out alive.

Once he got out of bed… Geralt would give him food, make sure he didn’t strain himself and be a general frustration. Jaskiers hurt over the mountain warring with the love he still had, with the affection brought through Geralt's actions.

He knew what the others were doing, trying to get him to see Geralt was trying to change, but Jaskier kept convincing himself it wasn’t so ntil it reached a boiling point.

“Stop.” His voice was firm, expression stormy. Geralt was currently serving him food, both haven woken up at night from their own, cruel nightmares. Geralt paused before turning to Jaskier. “Jaskier,”

“No. You don’t get to… Fucking take care of me and try to act like nothing happened. I don’t need your fucking pity and I don’t need your family participating in whatever fucking game it is you’re playing.”

“Julek, it isn’t-”

“Don’t you dare fucking call me that! How dare you, how dare you push me away for years and deny our friendship, how dare you tell me I’m the worst thing that happened to you and then-and then save me and act like it never- like you haven’t shattered my heart into a million pieces you absolute bastard!” He was crying at this point, shaking before falling into the chair behind him. Geralt had nothing to say, pausing before he slowly walked towards Jaskier and kneeled before him.

“Jaskier… I- hm. The words I said on the mountain” Jaskier flinched “I didn’t mean them I- Yennefer was gone and it was my fault and you were there and I-I wanted to hurt someone, I wanted to be alone and to push you away. I was wrong, I was so wrong.” he took a deep breath “You’re… You’re my life's blessing, you’re the good choice I’ve made. I’m so sorry. Please, let me prove to you that I’ve changed, that I can treat you better. That… I want to be kinder. I… I am a selfish man, I do not deserve your forgiveness but I want to stay by your side.” Jaskier stared at the man in front of him, sincerity in his voice before taking a deep breath. “And if I don’t want you to prove it? If I want to leave?”

Geralt grimaced “Then I will let you leave.” Jaskier reached out and cupped his cheek.

“I’m still mad but I forgive you. I think I forgave you a while ago.” Geralt gave the smallest smile “But I can’t… I-I love you Geralt. I can’t be by your side while you and Yennefer play h-”

“Yennefer and I aren’t together. She and Triss are in love and I. Hm. I love you too.” he said the last part softly, as if afraid that Jaskier would take back his words with his admission.

Jaskier looked at him shocked before  giving him a watery smile “Then I will stay by your side… But I can’t. I need time, I want to take it slow.” Geralt nodded “I will wait. I will make it up to you”

Jaskier pulled Geralt up “Well, you can start with a kiss.”

[circlingravens]

Kien had been given a tour of the camp-- at least, that’s what he’d been told it was. Given that it’d consisted of Valen pointing to various features (three of them, to be exact), and giving him one word descriptions such as ‘tents’, Kien wasn’t so sure it counted. Either way, the driver and cart had rattled off, and he was now here. Stuck in a war camp. Expected to fight in a war.

The others had introduced themselves. There were six in total, other than himself, but for once in his life, Kien couldn’t remember many of the other names. The General and Valen he knew from the first conversation, and Mora, because she was the only female, but he’d been too distracted in his worry and fear to memorize the other names. Though, he’d noticed there seemed to be more tents than elves, rather than memorizing names.

Chewing on the inside of his lower lip (he knew it was a bad habit), Kien glanced around, trying to somehow summon the names to his mind. Shouldn’t he try and meet the others?

“Princeling!” He was torn from his thoughts by the gruff voice of the General, and he spun, realizing he’d just been standing in the dead center of camp for several minutes now. He turned towards the voice, eyes immediately going to the elf. “Yes? Sir?” He hurriedly tacked on the ‘sir’.

“Let’s see how well you can use that fancy sword, shall we?”

Kien didn’t respond, but moved quietly over to the older elf, who jumped over the railing of a roughly circular wooden ring fenced off beyond the line of tents. The Prince followed, cringing at the quick movement. Stars, he hated his… injury. Shouldn’t it have been fixed by the healers, back home? Why’d they left it so bad?

Once Kien entered the ring, the General sunk into a fighting stance, drawing the sword at his waist. It was nowhere near as ornate as Kien’s, but it was a perfectly functional and well tended weapon. Mimicking the movement, Kien took a stance of his own, expression fiercening slightly.

“You know, it’s not necessary to glower at-” the General lunged, sword coming up in a vicious downwards stroke. Kien leapt nimbly backwards, years of training taking hold. The sudden attack wasn’t enough to take him by surprise. Even as he moved, his own sword came up to parry, and he batted the blade away, before fluidly striking in an attack of his own. Then the pain surged, and he doubled over, arms dropping before the attack was finished. The same training kept his grip tight on the hilt of his sword, but he made no move to strike out again.

Even as he gasped, entirely taken in by the pain, blinded by it, the cold edge of a sword touched his throat, right under the chin. His sword hand twitched, as if to bat it away, then fell limp once again. Kien staggered forward, and felt the sword whipped quickly away, and an arm catch him. Then all went dark.

He awoke to the touch of a cold, wet cloth pressed to his back. He laid on his stomach on a hard cot of some sort, armor removed, and topless. Someone was cleaning off the gashes, touch firm, but gentle.

As Kien sucked in a quick breath, the cloth was lifted, and whoever it was yelled out, “He’s awake!”

Sunlight flooded into the tent as a flap was pushed asides, and another figure joined them.

“Well, soldier. These are certainly some wounds you have here.” A pause. “You’ve been whipped.”

It wasn’t a question, but Kien nodded anyway. The movement was miniscule, but there. He could almost hear the frown in the General’s voice as he spoke again. “Nobles aren’t whipped. Who are you?”

Before Kien could spit out some lie through his surge of panic, another, softer voice interrupted.

“General, please. Don’t interrogate him now. He must rest.” A soft huff, but Kien assumed he’d nodded when the question wasn’t repeated.

After a moment of silence, Kien gritted his teeth, and moved, pushing himself upwards, and twisting until he was sitting, facing the two others in the tent. The one with the softer voice had protested, but Kien ignored him. Even as he sat up, the other scars on his torso were thrown into plain view, though they were a bit less incriminating. Small, long healed cuts from training sessions past, mainly. His back was the worst.

As he sat up, his eyes darted over the two others. The General, and a younger looking elf, though still older than Kien. The other elf looked kinder, somehow.

Both the General and the other elf exchanged a quick glance, before the other sighed, nodded, and stood, exiting the tent with a quiet, “I’ll return. I’ve got to get some cleaned water.”

Kien frowned at the reddened bucket on the ground beside him, and bloodied cloth. His wounds had broken again, then. Why hadn’t the healers fixed him?

“You’re a good fighter. I could tell that, even now. You’ve been trained. Well. That points to you being noble, but those wounds could not possibly belong to one.” The Prince just swallowed, and ducked his head, remaining silent. Apparently, sitting up made it so he no longer needed rest, and was open to be interrogated.

A quiet growl of frustration, then, “I understand wanting your privacy, but I must keep my men safe. Why are you here?”

“My father sent me.” He’d already said that, hadn’t he? It didn’t reveal much.

“Will you intentionally be a danger to us?”

“No.”

Another pause. This time, it stretched into a long few minutes of silence, before the General inclined his head. “You’re telling the truth. Very well. But know this: if you make any move towards any of us, I can, and will beat you, and kill you. Training or not.”

Kien met his gaze evenly, before inclining his head ever so slightly. Then he froze. How had the General known he was telling the truth? Why was he so certain? Understanding dawned, and his eyes gleamed gold as he slammed down mental barriers, going stiff. The flinch of the General told him all he needed to know.

“Get out of my head! Why were you in there? Stop!” Panic laced every word. He kept his thoughts warded, but what if something had slipped? How much did he know?

The General stood suddenly, expression darkening as he looked down at the young elf. “You do not give orders, soldier,” he snapped. “I will do as I please, to keep this group safe. I am the General here, not you.” A pause, before his voice gentled. “I didn’t see anything, anyway. Your wards are strong. I just wanted a sense of what was the truth. Whatever secrets you have, you may keep, unless they become a danger to the battalion, or I suspect they will.”

Kien grit his teeth, forcing himself to take deep breaths, eyes remaining closed. With each breath, he ensured his mental walls remained towering, unbroken. When he opened his eyes, they were blue again, and calm.

“I apologize. Thank you.”

The General merely nodded, then called, “Leon!”

The elf from earlier returned several seconds later, ducking into the tent.

“Finish your work, I want Princeling back on his feet.” A small smile was offered to Kien, then the General was gone. It seemed he was safe. For now.

[aimeelouart]

So anyway, my accomplice wonderful writing buddy encouraged me to do unspeakable things to my protagonist and consider what she would be like if she and my antagonist had swapped places as children. And now my heart hurts.

Anyway, some freewriting under the cut of my swapped protag fighting with my swapped antagonist in front of the normal universe cast because, you know. Why not.

Vitari comes stumbling out of nothing, but it’s not the Vitari any of them have seen before. His hair is short-cropped and neat around his head, not wild and uneven. He’s dressed in full armor, beautifully-crafted armor, like the High King’s or Queen’s. He’s beat to hell, but on closer inspection, his scars are gone, replaced by a smattering of smaller, lighter scars that were clearly much better cared for. He gasps for breath like he just finished a marathon, pushing back to his feet with a wince. He doesn’t seem to notice them. His hands move quickly, and suddenly he’s veiled in concealing darkness.

A second person steps into being with far more fanfare. “Oh princeling!” she sings, striding out with the sinuous grace of a hunter. “Running away so soon? I wasn’t done with you!”

Lora⁠—unmistakably Lora⁠—grins like a mad thing. There’s a cloth tied securely across her eyes, but a familiar golden glow shines from behind it.  Her hair is long and unkempt, falling like a lion’s mane of red curls around her. A plain white band covers her breasts, and she’s dressed in a sailor’s simple canvas trousers tied with a blood-red sash, nearly identical to the Vitari they are used to.

And she’s covered in scars. She’s covered in even more scars than Vitari. She bears them like a badge of honor, or a poisonous animal’s bright warning colors.

“Come out come out wherever you are!” she lilts, raising a hand. A ring of bight green fire bursts forth with her at the center. It traps Vitari as well, who hisses and is forced to drop his veiling darkness. She turns her face to him with a grin. “There you are! Don’t tell me you gave up so soon, princeling.”

“Of course not,” he says evenly, gauntlets lighting up as he summons (or re-summons) a sword and shield. “Just putting us on equal footing.”

She scoffs. “As if you and I could ever be equals.” She runs a tongue across her teeth. She, too, has a pair of familiar-looking gauntlets strapped to her bare arms. From them she pulls forth a long whip. “Ready to die, princeling?”

Vitari’s lips press into a line. “You don’t have to do this, Lora, we just want⁠—”

“SHUT UP!” In a move so quick it’s a blur, the whip dissolves and a crossbow takes its place, firing a bolt that Vitari catches on his shield with a grunt. “Don’t invoke the dead unless you’re willing to pay the price!” 

He gives her a hard look. “You are not dead, Lora.”

The crossbow becomes a long spear which she points at him, lips curled into a snarl. “Ameliora was a weak, ignorant little child who died a long time ago, stupid prince. I killed her myself!”

His expression becomes one of raw pain. “Please,” he begs, “don’t do this. Don’t make me fight you. We just want you to come home, please. They never would have stopped trying to find you if they’d known—”

She throws her head back and howls with laughter before he can finish. “I am Nemesis, Unbroken, Fire of the World’s End! Naïve little princeling, if I have a home, then it is the Void to which I will send you.” She grins at him again, wide enough that it borders on a snarl. “The Royal House of Perdel will end by my own hand, Vitari Octavius, and it starts with you.”

Vitari’s jaw clenches. “Then it would have to end with you, wouldn’t it.” he snaps back.

But her grin only widens. “The world crumbles like ash around us and you think I intend to outlive it?” She prowls a few steps closer, wreathed in flickering green flames. “Silly prince. I go to the Void, and I take your Empire with me.”

Anguish crosses his face. “Then you give me no choice,” he whispers. He dismisses the sword and shield, instead reaching into a pouch on his belt and pulling out a short braid woven from several different lengths of hair, half dripped in long-since dried blood. He holds it in cupped hands, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing a spell. His eyes are not blue like the other Vitari’s. They are gold⁠—like Celsus, like Caius, and like Lora. Like the child of a blood adoption into House Perdel.

She looks genuinely surprised by the braid, eyebrows rising beneath the blindfold, and then she laughs like a delighted child. “You would throw away your precious Virtue and call on darkness? Oh princeling, I’m so flattered by your stupidity! As if that could ever work on⁠—” 

He sings a word of command⁠—a resonant remain near me⁠—and she gasps, staggering and clutching at her chest. “NO!” she cries, disbelieving. Vitari looks relieved as he continues the spell, as if he hadn’t entirely expected it to affect her.

She screams, high and shrill with rage, and charges him like a raging bull. A long curved scimitar materializes in her hand as she leaps and swings to take his head from his shoulder. “AMELIORA IS DEAD! YOU CANNOT COMMAND ME!”

But the scimitar doesn’t connect with Vitari’s neck, as she intended. Instead, a bright golden barrier appears when the blade is within a foot of him, flaring like the noonday sun. She’s thrown back violently, tumbling across the ground nearly to the edge of her own firey ring.

Vitari cannot stop singing the spell, lest it be broken. But his eyes speak clearly, to her and to the audience they ignore—no, Lora. You are not dead.

She charges three more times in rapid succession, each ending the same way, until her skin is raw and bloodied. “I’LL KILL YOU!” she howls. “I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL⁠—” then she stops abruptly, chest heaving, and an unhinged grin crosses her face. “You want to save me so bad,” she giggles, wiping blood from the corner of her lips with a trembling hand. “So badly you would throw aside all your silly Virtues! Alright, princeling.” She extends a hand, summoning forth a long, sharp dagger. “Let’s see you save me from this!”

 Vitari blanche, face paling as he reads the intent in her wild eyes, but he cannot stop singing even as he watches her plunge the blade directly toward her heart.