#Highland Times

[unspecifiedfigure]

watching the sunset together alive and well after early retirement <3

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter four

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw dubcon and period typical violence. read on ao3 here

There is a large exhale of wind as night turns into morning. You roll around in unfamiliar sheets, plotting how to escape when you are next given the opportunity.

Johnny’s father had been a saving grace. Although he accepted that you and Johnny were already wed, he had wanted it officialised at a wedding for everyone to see before he could allow you and Johnny to stay in the same bedroom together. You were granted to stay in Johnny’s chamber while Johnny would take one of the many guest rooms. With how you are woken up, you imagine that it hadn’t made much of a difference, your innocence already compromised anyway.

You were used to the wake up from Ian, the pinch of his fingers on your cheek as he was already half telling you what needed done - feed the chickens, brush down the horses, check on the stock at the back of the cupboards. You wake up, half hopeful, cheek already smarting as if in preparation of him. Johnny blinks down at you, half-lidded. Beautiful but terrible.

“I’ll be back soon, angel,” he murmurs into the tilt of your neck, leaving a slick kiss there that has you shuddering. You swallow down the urge to snap at him to get off of you, letting him do as he wishes for the moment. Your compliance earns you a hand down your side, Johnny huffing as he rounds his palm over your hip.

He lifts his head, suddenly, gazes at you for a moment. You blink up at him, the image of docility, which has him squinting. You stay still, let him cup your jaw in the broad of his hand. His hair is mussed up from sleep, fluffy and loose in the morning. His beard is only slightly thicker than it had been when you had first met, a little darker.

His pupils dilate then pinch, taking in the expressions of your face. “Ah willnae be gone long,” he says, serious in a way that sends a different kind of shake through you. A warning. You nod as best you can, your chin digging into his palm. He squints for another moment. His thumb digs into the soft give beneath the bolt of your jaw. Just before you can crack under his hard stare, it dissipates and he dips his head to steal another kiss from you. “Wait fer me,” he bids you, and leaves.

You watch from the window, as he takes his horse from Mrs Duncan’s nephew - the stablemaster. You sit at the window, holding your chin like a phantom ache that Johnny has left behind. You can see his head, no bigger than your nail, tilt back as if seeking you out in the window. You doubt he can see you but he stares for a moment, hand near his clavicle as if in prayer before he bows his head and Cerberus starts to move.

You sit and wait, watching as he starts the journey towards the small village just outside of the Keep. He gets smaller and smaller, barely a dot in your vision and then not even that.

You jump up and stride over to Johnny’s desk. The clothes that you had left yesterday are folded neatly on the ornate chair. You had managed to salvage your stays from your dress before it had been spirited away by Mrs Duncan at some point while you were away from Johnny’s room. Your new dress is a softer cotton, a light blue skirt and a thick, dark woolen shawl that you tie around your clavicle. The bag filled with what little things you had managed to bring with you sits in the chair, ready to be picked up and returned to where they belong.

You do your stays up slowly, knotting the string up your chest. Johnny has barely been gone for part of an hour. Although you would be on foot, you didn’t want to chance him spotting you while you were still so near to the Keep.

In the dark of Johnny’s room, the smell of him buried in his sheets even though Mrs Duncan had replaced them, you had planned. If Johnny was less eager, maybe you could have waited for a better opportunity to attempt to run away, but you had felt time slip from endless into mere hours, minutes. 

You don’t know where the closest priest is, likely in that small village just outside the Keep, but Johnny hadn’t seemed certain. His father had been discussing how the vicar may have been summoned to another village to perform burial rites just the other week, and so may still be making that slow journey back.

It is a risk, stealing away and going towards the village, with the chance that the first stable you approached, Johnny would appear. But, it was one that you would have to take. It would be too noticeable if you were to take one of the horses at the Keep’s stable, and you didn’t know how long the journey home would take on foot.

You tidy the bed, as if smoothing away any evidence that you had ever been there in the first place. You half-expect someone to catch you in the corridor, stop you and ask where you’re going. The few maids that pass you may give you a second glance but they keep quiet, scurrying like mice to wherever they need to go.

You exit out into the foreground, feel the sun beat down on your face, familiar, like an old friend. Long days out in the field, tilling until blisters form on your palms. Your skin itches with the sudden craving for it, and you set out, nose like a bloodhound. You don’t belong here, trapped in a room with Johnny and soft dresses. You need dirt under your hands, you didn’t realise until it was taken from you.

You cross the open ground of the Keep, people milling around as they go about their day. You reach the stone entrance, hesitate for half a moment before stepping from gravel into grass. Muscles tense as you wait for something to happen, for someone to stop you. The cacophony of noise behind you doesn’t suddenly stop, no one seems to take much notice.

You take another step then another, wanting to run, to get as much distance between you and the Keep as possible. You know you shouldn’t, though. You’re still in view of the Keep, and you don’t know if anyone is watching you too closely, but if they are, that may send them chasing after you. Better to walk, worst case you can always say that you were looking for Johnny, lovesick in the preparation of your nuptials, barely able to stand a morning away from him.

You imagine that Johnny will move on swiftly. Maybe rage when he first finds you gone, if you were trying to flatter yourself. However, another maiden would be in distress, and Johnny would swoop in and the story would repeat itself. You had half a mind to ask if you were the first woman that Johnny had brought home in such a manner, but had decided to leave it be. If you weren’t, you were likely to be replaced soon in any case.

It feels good to stretch your legs, stretching out your back as you go. You reckon that Ian will have something to say about your newfound laziness, a harsh wake-up required to get back to the realities of farm living.

You try to keep your mind occupied, but you drift back to thoughts of Johnny. You can vividly feel the press of his nose into your temple. His hands on your skin, rough and skirting, always shifting against you, as if trying to touch all of you at once. The dark hair across his chest, the thick press of muscle against his skin. You imagine another woman in his room, letting him kiss her the same way that he had with you. There is a bitter taste in the back of your throat but you ignore it. Only you can taste it after all.

Within the hour you have crossed the open grounds and are on the cusp of the village. It had been bustling when you had originally passed through, crowds of people at the market, selling and buying from stalls. Now, everything is still, a gust of wind blowing between cottages and whistling in a way that has the hair on the back of your neck rising.

The warmth of the sun seems trapped on the rooftops, unable to reach you on the ground. You hesitate, grass under your feet turning to dirt that has been packed in after being walked over so many times. There could be another village that you could visit, that you could beg a horse from, or even just directions and walk. But, you barely know the area, and another village could be a day away, and you could be heading in the completely wrong direction.

You shuffle, uncertain, and turn to look back at Dundardy Keep. Easily a mile away now, but you imagine that you can see the shadows of people in all of the windows. Watching you, keeping an eye in Johnny’s absence. You think you can see a figure, near the entrance of the Keep, and you wonder if you are being followed after all.

There’s nothing to be done for it. You step into the village, and make your way forward.

The loose fabric on a stall shifts against the wooden plank of its counter, wriggling like a hand in your direction. You stand in what seems to be the centre of the village, a loose circle, surrounded with abandoned stalls and a few cottages before they span down different paths into more homes.

You can hear the faintest sound, a murmur in one of the cottages. The lively scene that had welcomed Johnny is long gone, everyone gone into hiding. Nothing had been said about the village last night. Just that the local vicar may be in another village. Contrasted with the liveliness of the Keep, you think that you may have stepped onto another country, one with an absence of residents.

You head down one of the paths, a few minutes later, emerging onto the other side of the village. There is a stable here, with a few horses, and the sight of them nosing at some hay, as normal as can be, fills you with a sense of relief. Here is reality, as welcome as a bowl of warm soup.

You stretch your hand to one of the mares, and she lets you pet down her nose, nickering at you softly. You worry your lip looking over your shoulder. The village is in hiding, no one is around to help you out. If you cannot get directions, at least it would be less exhausting to be heading in the wrong direction if you found this out on the saddle.

It feels wrong to steal, especially in the shadow of a Laird. Your own village were tenants, but Ian had always dealt with the rent, always spoken with the men who were sent out to collect. This close by to the Keep, you imagine the crime is tenfold, and the punishment even steeper.

You feel owed this, though. Dragged out here by Johnny, you feel that you deserve to help yourself out. Besides, once you were back in your home, you could return, ride one of your own horses and guide this one home. Johnny would likely be back in the Keep in that distant future, another bride on his arm. Hopefully, this one would be a bit more excited by the prospect.

You unclip the latch of the stable door, the horses huffing as you step inside. There are saddles hitched to the back wooden wall and you consider taking one as well before you deny yourself. It is one thing to steal a horse (borrow, you remind yourself), but it is another to just help yourself while you’re at it.

You do take some reins. You had ridden bareback on a horse before, but you hadn’t without reins, and you didn’t want to find out just now if you had the gift for it. You come back over to the mare who butts her head into your chest, affectionate in a way that has you giggling before you hush yourself.

You secure the reins in place before you toss them over the length of her neck, about to turn to guide her out of the stall when you feel the heat of a body behind you.

“Helping yourself out, eh?” A voice hisses, then there are hands on your upper arms, digging into the flesh. You don’t recognise it, and that makes your blood cool before it heats again, hot panic that almost spooks the horses when the man drags you out and you kick out, frightened.

You are tossed into the ground, a familiar experience that has you gasping. If the voice wasn’t Scottish, you might think that the last few days hadn’t happened and you were back on your farm.

You attempt to scramble backwards but the man is too quick. You are grabbed by your hair and dragged upwards. The man starts walking and you have no choice but to keep your pace with him, a hand on his wrist that is in your hair, as if to lessen the pain stinging your scalp. He’s muttering to himself, calling you a dirty thief, how you will seek penance. With the vicar seemingly gone, you wonder what that penance will look like.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, and regret it when he yanks on your hair to shut you up.

“Shut yer thievin’ mouth,” the man hisses at you. He’s much older than you, balding and worn looking. You think of those Englishmen who had treated you like a plaything. Only that third man had looked at you with true hate, the way that this man does. It cows you, forces you to lower your eye as best as you can.

You are brought back through those empty paths that you had walked down, and brought to the chapel near the side of town, where your captor kicks the door in and throws you inside before slamming the doors shut again. It’s quiet here, here is where the sunlight had been trapped, filtering in through the weak windows and caught in the pews.

You rub at your scalp, gingerly, and get yourself up, looking up the aisle to look at the pulpit at the end. This is likely where the Sunday sermon is read.

Ian was always more religious than you were. He always recited his sermons before bed, whereas you had only ever believed in God when you thought He may smite you.

You sit on the pew next to you and look over that confessional booth. Johnny may be a sinner, but he clearly believed if the reason he hadn’t fully taken your innocence was any type of evidence. You wonder if he had ever been in that confessional booth. Wonder if there was enough time in the world for him to confess his wrong doing to you. Or maybe it was all overshadowed by his saviourism.

You are bought with Englishmen blood. You worry your hands in your lap, wringing your fingers together. Wonder if Johnny will be back in time to watch his father’s people take your hand for thieving.

The doors swing open again after a few minutes, and you expect to see the man who brought you here, and he is at the front. He also seems to have brought the entire village with him, streams of unfamiliar faces all peering through the doorway to glare at you.

Half-hysterical, you wonder if they really are going to take your hand after all.

//

An hour later, they still have not taken your hand, but you wonder if they may do even worse than that. This is no longer a chapel, no longer a church. This is a courtroom, an impromptu hanging of the witch. You had thought that your crime was attempting to steal a horse, but instead it was disrupting their peace. One of the village’s sons had died, and everyone had been in mourning, waiting for the vicar to come back to read the burial rites again, just as he was doing for another village.

You don’t dare say a word, let them discuss your crime amongst themselves. You don’t even know how the boy had died, if it had been an accident, or an illness. You know that you have done wrong in attempting to take on their horses, even as justified as you had felt at the time. Out of some kind of penance, you decide to let them do as they wish, and then hopefully you can continue your plan of escape. Ian will welcome you back, one-handed or not.

The weeping mother casts a hateful look at you, as if you had been the reason her son had died in the first place. You squirm beneath her gaze, hot shame curdling in your stomach like an old friend. You had been brought to the front of the congregation, stood in front of the pulpit. A sad mimic of a Sunday sermon, in which you are preached to instead.

It’s a mob, even as they play sensible. Listing your crimes, but you hear the creep of mania in everyone’s mutterings. A child is dead, and no one is to blame. These people want someone to rip apart, and you have given them half a reason. You can hear them starting to talk themselves into a hanging, perhaps even throwing you down the local river.

“There’s nothing to be done for thieves,” the man who caught you demands, addressing the room. “Take a hand, and they’ll steal with the other!” He throws his arms out in gesture to you, damning you.

There’s a murmur of agreement, every casting you a distrustful look as if you could be stealing again as they speak. You try to stand as meekly as you can, but it seems to make things worse, if possible.

Everyone is speaking over each other, demanding justice, but you don’t think they even know for what. The doors open but barely anyone notices, and in walks Mrs Duncan’s nephew. He takes in the sight of the crowd and catches sight of you. You wonder if maybe he will speak in your defence, if he’ll tell anyone that Johnny will be expecting you back in his room in the keep, and if you aren’t there, but rather dangling from a rope, then he may be more than a little upset.

He says nothing, but gives you a long look before he stays in the doorway, foot holding it open. Shoulder against the frame as he watches the room. No one gives him a second glance, too caught up in their own rabble.

You stand there, and let them yell at each other, deciding your fate. Only stirring when you are grabbed again, and spun around. You are facing the pulpit the wrong way now, back to the crowd. You only have a moment to wonder what it is that they are planning to do, before your hands are braced on the box, and someone must rear their hand back and the strike of a whip slices down your back.

Even through the wool covering and the fabric of your dress and shift, it is a sharp sting that slices into your skin. You shriek, try to dart away, or turn around, but there are hands on your wrists, holding you to the stand and the whip cracks against your back again.

You feel each leather tongue of it lick its sting on your back, quickly following with an agony that settles into the muscle and has you arching as if to get away from it. You think about the man in your village, how his back had been carved into, flesh ripped open as they did this on his bare back. You cannot even imagine, even as a lesser version happens to you. An extra step of pain, like a new colour that hasn’t been invented yet.

You can hear them chanting for someone to rip open the back of your dress, they want to see the whip slice down into the bone. They want blood, want it to cleanse you. The heat of a body  at your side, fingers digging into the back of your dress as if to make this reality. The rip of fabric, the cheer of the crowd as the untouched skin of your back is exposed, ready for the kill.

Everything is stopped with a bellow at the door. You know it’s Johnny, and relief sags in your knees before a different type of fear takes its place. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?” Johnny shouts, and he must be shoving people out of the way if the scuffle you hear is any indication.

The hands on your wrists are gone. You turn around to catch sight of Johnny, cracking his fist across the face of the man with the whip. The two men who had been holding you in place seem to be trying to get past as they see what their future has in store. You see them back away, stumbling into a pew and freezing as they watch Johnny rear his hand back again.

You blink tears out of your eyes and watch as most of the village floods out of the chapel, some staying and watching in horror. Johnny has the man who whipped you flat on his back, Johnny’s fist crushing into the delicate skin of his face over and over again, until there is nothing recognizable about him.

The sound of sobbing jolts you back to yourself, as you realise it is not your own. “Johnny - Johnny stop it!” You shout, falling forward and catching Johnny’s hand as he rears back to swing again. He shakes you off, forcing you back and into a pew which shrieks as it scrapes against stone. That sound seems to shake Johnny somewhat out of it, and he puffs, trying to catch his breath.

“Get him out of here,” he growls, forcing himself up and leaving the man on the ground. The man gurgles a little from what may be his mouth, blood frothing a little. You can’t look away from it, horrified. The justice for those Englishmen had been death and there had been something kind in that. This man doesn’t seem able to breathe, his nose crushed and flattened.

A couple of villagers scoop him up and cart him out, scuffling as they try to move as quickly as they can. The chapel is quiet besides the sound of breathing when the door finally swings shut at last.

Johnny stares at you, face still. You expect him to start on you next, maybe grab you and shake you around some. It’s frightening, how he just watches you, a faint twitch in his eye. The terrible urge to apologise sits in your throat but you swallow it down. You feel like you have been caught doing something wrong, even though you were just trying to get home.

“Vicar Jamie,” Johnny finally says, voice raw. His white shirt is stained in blood again, shifting down his chest and exposing the hair that grows there. You remember the bath from yesterday and flush, turning your head to who he is speaking to in order to distract your mind. A small, stout man, very haggard looking but dressed in Catholic finery stands near the doorway.

“Johnny, my boy, let us reconvene on this tomorrow, perhaps, give us some time to clean ourselves up,” the vicar tries to interject, but Johnny turns on him with such a veracity that has him shrinking.

“Now,” is all Johnny snaps out, mouth pulled back in a snarl that shows all of his teeth. His right hand drips red, a warning in itself.

The vicar nods, fumbles with his hands for a moment before he makes his way to the front of the chapel, neatly arcing around the smear of blood next to Johnny’s feet.

Johnny’s gaze returns to you, hot on your face. You hold your dress up on your chest, feel the cold air hit your back that has you shivering. His gaze holds no pity for you, and after a moment you glare right back at him.

The vicar shifts the stand that you had been shackled to, to the side and takes its place, avoiding your eye. Mrs Duncan’s nephew, who had stood at the door, takes a seat in the askew pew, face still as he watches you. A witness you realise, and a kick like a startled hare almost sends you tearing down the aisle.

Johnny’s hand on your upper arm catches you before you can seriously begin to run, yanks you into place.

A moment taken out of a play. You and Johnny, side by side. Your back exposed out of your ripped dress, a scared vicar who won’t look you in the face and a witness to your humiliation. Blood, cooling on the stone a step behind you, coating Johnny’s hands and his clothes.

You lean too far out of Johnny’s hold and you feel the tightening of his fist and you return to your place.

It's a sad affair, the vicar stumbling over his words as he binds the two of you together. Johnny is a barely controlled rage next to you, you can feel the shake of his fingers on your arm, squeezing and letting go, over and over. You don’t even have the official binding ceremony, the fabric that should tie your wrists together, the prick of blood. The vicar pauses as if to consider this, but quickly skirts past this as well. Likely, too much blood for a wedding ceremony already.

The vicar has barely finished before Johnny is snapping at him to get out. It’s a quick escape, a puff of air in your ear as he darts past you, Mrs Duncan’s nephew following shortly behind. The door snaps shut, fate sealed.

“What are you doing here?” Johnny asks, hot air huffing out of his mouth into your face.

You keep quiet, silenced in the face of his true anger. Before you had argued, snapped at Johnny, here is the first instance of genuine fear you have felt because of him. The anger he has that led to the murder of men who had hurt you, perhaps pointed at yourself for the first time. You wonder if he’s going to wrap his hands around your throat, squeeze like he seems to want to. There is a strange sensation of vulnerability, knowing your back is exposed even though it is hidden from Johnny’s view.

His hands come up and you flinch, missing the growl of frustration that comes out of him as they settle on your shoulders and wrestle you forward into your chest. “Why did they do this to you?” he asks, palms against your collarbone. The wrest of control, firmly in his hands.

You can’t look him in the eye, settle your eye-line on his clavicle again. The smooth skin, hidden in the dip of his throat. The itch from that horse ride - a lifetime ago - reawakens and you lift your hand, curl your finger in there. Feel the vibration as he grunts, feel the dip of his harsh swallow. Your name calls your attention. You look up, his eyes are dark, mad, even. You give into his tyranny. “I was trying to take a horse,” you admit. His nostrils flare, anger cracking across his face and you just barely stop yourself from flinching back from it. “I’m sorry,” you add, pathetic. Escape plan ruined before it even really started, you have nothing left to be prideful about.

He shudders, lowering his head to yours, the gulf of space now swallowed up with his proximity. You let out a meek sound when his forehead hits against yours, like he wants the bone to touch. “An’ Ah was out, findin’ us a priest to marry us, and you were tryin’ tae sneak out while m’back was turned,” he hisses out, hands clenching on your collarbone again, muscle and bone grinding against each other. You blink up at him, resigned to your fate. You felt the bite of teeth days ago, and had spent all of this time trying to hide from it. But, the stench of blood sticks and you must now reckon with it.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. Feel all of it, the drag of emotions as they sweep through. The mare out in the stables had been a lifeline and when you were dragged away, you felt it like the loss of Ian all over again. Leaving him behind had been one thing, but every attempt to get back has been a lesson in humility since.

You are a human, in the wraps of terror left by a god. Swallowing a cry that lingers in the back of your throat like a sickness, you hesitantly tilt your head back and nudge your nose against Johnny’s. He freezes, hands going still. A breath, shared between the two of you. Here is that smack of flesh after the fall, a day late, but now it registers. It was likely even before he woke you up with his mouth on the back of your neck. A lion lying with its mouth open, you were halfway down his gullet before you even noticed where you were.

Your husband now, you think, half-crazed, before you inhale his breath and press your mouth hesitantly to his. It’s clumsy, you only half know what you’re doing but he presses forward with a hunger that almost has you reeling back again. Johnny is a man to be offered an inch and takes a mile, his hands on the back of your head, pressing you closer to him even as he leans in.

You only half know how to kiss him, but you barely get a chance to learn before he is pressing your mouth open with his. Barely a moment to gasp in a breath before his tongue is against yours, slick and invasive.

You stumble back, still holding your dress up with your hands before you stumble into a pew. He pulls back for a moment and you barely manage his name before he’s picking you up and thudding down to his knees, dragging you down with him.

The cold stone sends a wave of cold through you that has you keening away from it and into the warmth of Johnny’s chest. He lets go of your head and it thuds against the ground, his arms worming around your back, skating past the ripped open seams of your dress and onto the bare skin of your back. He moans, deep and wanton into the curve of your chin, gives you a quick nip there before he drops his head into the crook of your neck.

“I’ve been so patient, wanted it tae be right between us, angel, didnae want to ruin us,” he groans, hands greedy on the bare skin of your back. “But, it’s alright now, I’ve done it right, jus’ let me -”

He barely seems able to finish a thought, tugging your dress down, dragging your torn slip and underskirts with it. He barely manages, as unwilling as he is to get off of you as he does it, so they end up pooled around your waist, nipples pebbling in the cold. He coos down at your chest, pinching one of your nipples meanly until you hiccup.

“Johnny, can’t we go back to the Keep, I won’t run again, I swear,” you start, feeling overwhelmed tears start to prick in your eyes. You don’t want it to be like this, on the cold floor of an unfamiliar parish. You aren’t sure of the technicalities of what comes next, your father hadn’t been forthcoming when he was alive, and your brother refused to say, always deeming it unladylike to ask. You knew it was something frightening, and heard some of the women describe their husbands as beasts during the act. You know how the animals look as they do it, saw the rutting of a stallion in a mare once, how she had shrieked as she was mounted.

“You were the one tae drag yerself out here,” Johnny points out, half-muttering to himself. He gnaws on your collarbone before he gives you a sucking kiss there. “Ye’ve made yer bed, sweetheart.”

He shifts himself up onto his knees and lifts your ankles up, yanks your skirts and dress down, tossing them over his shoulder with barely a glance. You’ve been bare in front of him before, not even a day ago, but this feels different. He looms over you, eyes dark as they seem to take in every inch of you. The stone beneath your back is cold, leaving gooseflesh all over you as it steals your heat.

He splits your legs across his lap and you jump, hand trying to reach down to cover the apex of your thighs but he catches your wrists in one of his hands, transfixed with his gaze between your legs. “There she is, oh angel, she’s so beautiful,” he murmurs, a thumb reaching down to pull the seam of you further apart, something that has you squirming in shame. “Knew ye would have such a sweet cunt, so pretty.”

“Don’t look down there, it’s unseemly,” you protest, voice weak. Your thighs clench with the need to close but you only end up squeezing your knees on his waist.

“All mine,” he continues to mutter, thumb coming up to round over the top of your sex, a feeling like a curling heat in your stomach starting up. It has you jumping, hare kicking out its legs before a hand soothes over its ears, pins them down. Your reaction seems to gratify him, has him rubbing his thumb until it’s almost mean, eyes hot on you for even the smallest reaction. You start to whine, deep in your chest, the feeling just on this side of just too much.

“Johnny, Johnny, please,” you sob, barely understanding what it is that you are pleading for. 

He lets up, petting down to your entrance which you can feel flutter at the press of his fingers. He pushes and you feel his finger push into you, a whine coming out of you like a wounded animal. He pants, not even blinking as he watches it, barely pausing before he’s pushing in a second finger, which almost has you bucking him off. He shushes you, half distracted by the sight of your cunt swallowing his fingers and leaving them shining. “So good, angel, so good,” he mutters. You hate that the praise has you trying to swallow down any of your complaints.

He lets go of your wrists and they lie, useless across your belly. Still watching his fingers move in you, his other hand tugs over the sash his kilt has made over his chest, yanking on it until it unravels and it is also tossed to the side. Lifting your knee to press a clumsy kiss to the side of it, he lets it drop again and pulls his hand away from your sex with a mournful noise and pulls off his white shirt.

Now that both of you are naked, Johnny seems to get quicker, breath coming fast. He quickly hitches your legs further up his waist and drags you closer to him. Stone scrapes at your back and you hiss, which he barely acknowledges with a quick kiss to the underside of your breast.

He drags his hand up your slit and gathers the slick that has gathered there, and slides that over his cock, moaning with his mouth hanging open as he looks at you beneath him. “Been dreaming o’ this, bonnie. Knew it was you, was always you,” he murmurs, smoothing his other hand over the curve of your hip, as if memorising the shape of you by hand. “Nothing wrong wae it now, jus’ the two o’ us, always, always.”

He braces one of his hands just over your shoulder, the other to guide his cock to your sex and notches it against your hole. It looks monstrous, now that you can bring yourself to properly look at it. Nothing like the faint sight of it you had seen in the Bible once, the mushroom head is red as Johnny pulls back skin to expose it. He intends to push it inside you, just as he did his fingers, but the head of it looks to thick to manage it.

“Johnny, it’s not going to fit,” you start to say, but that just makes Johnny groan and shush you, giving you a squeeze on the hip.

“Of course it will, angel, ye were made fer me,” he tells you, and you can see the pull of muscle in his bicep as he starts to push.

For a moment, you think that you’re right, it’s not going to. But, then, you can see the give of muscle, the parting of flesh and see yourself swallow the head as a tremor runs through you. A strange, foreign feeling. It feels half-invasive, as he pushes into you, the rest of you transfixed by the furrow of his brow as he watches the parting of your flesh around him.

“Oh, oh fuck, angel, oh shit,” he curses, continuing the slow guide into you until you feel it stop, as if you cannot take anymore. 

“Johnny,” you sob, looking back down to see only half of him is inside of you. “Johnny, take it out, I can’t -”

“The best cunt ever, the prettiest girl, fer me, all fer me, oh angel,” he rambles, eyes rolling back into his head as he shifts his hips. Pulls out of you just enough to push back in. You whimper with it, as he tries to grind even more of himself into you.

It's not working, leaving you sniffling beneath him until he grunts in frustration and brings his thumb to your clit and starts to work you in little circles.

His other hand hoists your thigh further up his waist, and he catches sight of your teary expression. Forces what must be an attempt at a soothing smile but all you can see is the clench of his jaw, the sharp edge of his teeth. You wonder if he likes the look of the pinch of your brow, the part of your mouth as you start to loosen up just a little. Even the few tears that drip down your temples. His hand on your hip smears blood into your skin, but you barely notice, trying to catch your breath.

“There we go, c’mon jus’ relax, honey, make it good, there we are,” he coaxes you, a tendon throbbing in his throat. His thumb on your sex makes everything a little slicker and more of him disappears into you, until he finally bottoms out, his thighs pressed flush against the back of yours.

A whine escapes you, painful and high and you cling to Johnny’s chest, coarse hair scratching at your palms. “Johnny,” you start again, unable to look down at yourself again, see the ugly stretch of yourself around Johnny. Everything throbs, you can feel him in your lungs, buried deep and irrevocable now.

Johnny is out of it, both his hands brace over your shoulders now, a tremble in his broad shoulders. You can see the white of his eyes, unreachable, as he groans long and drawn out. “The tightest cunt, knew ye would be so sweet fer me, dreamt of this, of you,” he rambles, pulling his hips back just enough to snap them back into you.

“I can't,” you stammer, but he just shakes his head roughly at you, beyond words. Braces himself on his knees and starts to grind against you. Pulls himself out and then pushes back in. It's a strange sort of pleasure. The stretch of flesh smarting a little before the clumsy rhythm starts to warm you up. Sweat slicks your back until the stone beneath you is warm with the fever spreading through you.

Johnny seems to come back to himself for a moment, thumb dropping back down to the peak of your sex, roughly rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. The pinnacle of the male body, all dark hair and rippling muscles, all bearing down on you. You can see the tense of muscle triangulating at his abdomen, flexing with each thrust into you.

He quickly seems to forget about you, hand dropping away in favour of sliding around to the small of your back and hitching you up. Your hands scramble for purchase, clinging to his forearms as both his hands keep only your shoulders against the ground.

“Johnny, no, don’t,” you protest, mouth opening on a shaky breath out as his thrust into you feels dirtier like this. You catch sight of the altar, the smooth wood built by holy men at their parish. Blasphemous, to consummate like this in here, Johnny makes it filthy, something that you imagine must be wrong even as you start to twitch your hips towards his thrusts, wanting it.

Your protests just make Johnny groan, your hips still propped up on his thighs, but he bends his torso down to press against yours. His head against your clavicle, you can feel the sweat building on his forehead smear against your skin. “Yeah, Ah’m a dirty man, aren’t I, sweetheart?” he asks you, biting at the side of your breast before broadly licking at your nipple, both of you whining together when that makes you clench around him.

Everything is slick, you can hear a wet sound as he works between your thighs and you want to cringe, ashamed even as you barely understand. You can hardly think, a fever in you that is spreading, but Johnny is burning even hotter. You slide your hands up to his biceps and cling to the hard muscle there as he thrusts into you.

Breathy sounds are punched out of you, punctuated with each collision of Johnny forcing himself deeper into you. It's lewd, the smack of flesh, but you feel hazy, dreamlike. Johnny continues rambling above you, his mouth working, the scratch of his beard across the soft skin between your breasts, but you can barely hear him.

There is a rising heat within you, and it spreads like disease through you, muddying your thoughts until you tilt your head back. Dig your temple into stone as if to try and grind your mind back into your body.

You’re wrestled back into yourself, Johnny refusing to let you look anywhere else. You understand why those women described their husbands as animals. Johnny is a huffing beast above you, slavering over you he gives and takes, over and over until you are senseless.

He stills, groans deep in his chest, his forehead resting on your chest, and you feel the twitch and sudden heat of him spending himself inside of you. The fever stills and festers in you, leaving you feeling itchy. Johnny snaps his hips a few more times, then drags it out, lazy as his mouth drools into your skin. Stills inside you, but you feel high-strung, still too tense.

Your hands twitch, fingernails catching against taut skin. Johnny huffs, amused but breathless. “I’ve got you, m’girl, so greedy, eh?”

You have half a mind to protest, he's the one who’s swallowed you whole, not the other way around. But your mouth opens and nothing but a choked whine spills out when his hand drops down to your sex again and works you over.

Still buried so deep, every flex is different like this, Johnny groaning his agreement into your sweaty skin. “Johnny, Johnny, please - !” You beg, legs kicking out as your vision gets blurry, and suddenly your back bows, a sob bursting out. A fresh slick of liquid around Johnny, and he thrusts lightly, half-soft now, whining at the overstimulation of it.

He keeps going until you start to squirm too much, almost launching yourself across the floor and he stops, laughing into the curve of your breast, still half whining to himself. He smooths his hand up your thigh and to the curve of your backside. You can feel the wetness of his fingers, but you feel too dazed to be too embarrassed of it.

“Knew ye’d be so good,” Johnny murmurs, squeezing at your backside. You hum, bone deep exhaustion dragging you down. You lift a hand up and drag it into his hair. He melts, his weight digging you further into the floor.

You become aware of the sopping wet beneath your thighs, wincing as you shift your hips and feel wetness slide down and join the sweat that you have left on the stone. Sweat cools in the divot of your throat, the small of your back, sticking between you and Johnny. The length of his body pressed against you, hard muscle against the soft give of your skin. He seems to like it, a hand squeezing at the give of your arse, the other smoothing over whatever flesh you have left to give him.

“We should get up,” you murmur, your chin on the crown of his head. He huffs like a lazy dog, but after a moment where you think he isn’t going to get up at all, he finally starts to shift with a sigh.

Johnny reaches between your thighs and pulls himself out of you, you wince at the stretch, watch with morbid interest at the white shine left behind, caught in the hair that covers the base of his cock. Johnny is equally as enthralled with what he’s made of your cunt and it’s only when your thighs squeeze shut that he shakes his head and stands. He gives you a firm pat on the backside before he hoists you up, a mean laugh at your squeak. “C’mon, up we go, lassie,” he says, teasing and light. He seems fond now, still a little more harsh than you want him to be, but he nudges his head against yours again, a mimic of how you were as you were joined. “Nothin’ between us, now, ehh?” he adds, blue eyes digging into yours.

His nose nudges against yours, your skin buzzes with the remnants of his touch. There is no stone left unturned, everything split apart under Johnny’s hands. Ripe fruit, ripped open and left to rot.

“Nothing,” you echo, and he smiles like the sun. There is man’s blood on his right hand and you can smell the metal of it when he cups your face and brings his mouth back to yours. A clash of teeth as you bite back even as you are swallowed up.

“Let’s go home,” Johnny murmurs, pulling back with a slick noise as your lips separate. You don’t think you know where that is, but you let him gather your skirts back up to half cover you before he gives you his kilt and fastens it around you. Damning, to wear the red of the Mactavish clan. The final nail in this coffin, solidifying who you are now.

Cerberus is outside, pawing at the ground and snapping his teeth at any of the villagers who get too close. Before you are ushered onto the saddle and away, you catch sight of the mare you had been about to escape on. Your bag of your belongings from home sits abandoned in a heap next to the stable. Your spare cloak, your spare shift. The last remnants of home.

It is all swallowed up as Johnny stands in front of you. You let him hoist you up and you curl into him as he slots into place behind you. The world is caught around the edge of Johnny’s shoulder, filtered through into your vision.

Cerberus starts a slow canter back to the Keep, and you dig your forehead into Johnny’s collarbone. Every step takes you further from your land. Johnny’s hand on the curve of your tummy, his chin on the crown of your head. There is a bottomless feeling in your stomach, but Johnny smooths his hand over your belly and catches it in the palm of his hand.

[serpentface]

Taighr A Teng, current high priest of Finnerich and beloved populist monarch, posing in his eclectic mix of royal regalia, a simple commoner's cloak, and dancer's garb.

---

His career as king has, so far, been notably impressive.

He had his starts as a lesser nobleman from the plains on the northwestern edge of the region. This northern region was never directly occupied by the Imperial Wardi invaders and only loosely controlled by the tributary puppet government, and the rebellion against this loyalist government and the resulting Finnerich civil war originated here. He rose to prominence in this war, eventually functioning as the general of these rebelling forces.

These forces utilized guerilla tactics and light archer cavalry (the latter being central to the warrior culture of northern Finns) to great effectiveness, and Taighr received a bulk of the credit for this. He claimed to have been visited by the solar chief god Neghri and cloaked in his armor. He never declared himself a possible king, but his confidants (conveniently) publicly urged him to undergo a rite of kingship to prove his god-given invulnerability, and he was successfully seen to perform the naked dance through fire unscathed. This granted him acknowledgment as truly chosen by Neghri, and planted the notion of Taighr being potentially a legitimate king (a status that is usually hereditary, and only granted to high lords when not) in the minds of many of his people.

Afterwords, he prominently fought on khaitback half-naked, clad only in the garb of a dancer (Neghri is a god of the dance among many other things). His claims of divine armor seemed to hold true- he never suffered any more than flesh wounds in over three years of sustained warfare.

He led battle in which the Wardi general Odomache was captured and killed, and is heavily suspected to be/popularly championed as the one who executed her with her own handcannon. He will neither confirm or deny this, but has the gun in his possession and sometimes appears with it in public. Either way, his role in this pivotal battle, subsequent expelling of Wardi troops, recapture of the capital and eradication of the Wardi-loyalist government cemented his status in the minds of a significant majority of his people. He performed the fire dance yet again in the capital and was formally declared king in the aftermath of the war.

He entered into kingship under the near-worst of circumstances. His kingdom has been decimated and politically fragmented in the aftermath of two decades of Imperial Wardi occupation as a grain tributary/colony, and the onset of a multi-year drought began that very year.

Part of his success against this adversity rested in seizing unprecedented and wholly centralized power. The former system of kingship rested upon a council of lords that each governed their own territories, with a king's power Publicly resting in his authority as high priest but practically resting in his lords' alliance and loyalty. He declared this system to be responsible for Old Finnerich's downfall (already a very widely held belief in the general public) and executed almost all the remaining lords (who were also political rivals, having a claim to the crown more legitimate than his own by the traditional standard) and their kin under accusations of being Wardi loyalists.

These executions extended further to many lesser nobles and other identified traitors, in the end wiping out a sizeable portion of previous authority figures. He replaced executed lords and nobility with trusted loyal compatriots and popular public figures, and made efforts to legitimize his reign by taking the daughter of a former lord (who had died a martyr resisting the original Wardi invasion and was widely beloved) as his queen.

This capitalized on general public sentiment of distrust of surviving former leadership (who, if not loyalists, at least Submitted to Wardi occupation) and was a move favored by the majority of commoners (who received none of the fringe benefits that benefited loyalist nobility under Wardi rule, and this invasion occurred in the context of Preexisting tension and peasant revolts). This was not, of course, a universally accepted move, but Taighr's merciless treatment towards accused traitors along with general public favor for his action has gone a long ways towards dissuading dissent in these first years of his reign.

He has so far used his heavily centralized power to great effectiveness in rebuilding efforts and famine response. He reduced taxes on commoners, supplementing this lost income with the very substantial liquidated assets of the former lordship. Much of these assets were grain, which has been stored en-masse and rationed and periodically redistributed to alleviate the famine. The hardier, more drought resistant grain (particularly a strain of barley) has been heavily invested in planting projects. He divided the lands of his executed nobility and civilians killed in war and granted it to members of the peasantry to farm with increased status as landowners, which has caused a sizable migration to the fertile southeast of the region.

Some of his most recent maneuvers have involved resumption of raiding Wardin and Bur's trade ships and coastlines. The piracy has been beneficial to securing needed resources and wealth, while the raids (which have largely hit villages and small towns that don't have a Lot to offer mid-drought) have more of a function of terrorizing weakened enemies and building public morale in trying times. He's also in the process of courting a neighboring kingdom of Hrolje (with historical trade ties to Finnerich) into full allyship against their shared enemies (Imperial Wardin, the Burri republic, and several Royal Dain kingdoms).

A drought (which has lasted six years so far) occurring the very year he took the crown is a spiritual issue as well as a practical one. As the people's high priest, he should have the power to commune with the gods (particularly Neghri, chief of the gods with whom he has a singular connection as king) and prevent such a thing from happening. The public reaction to this drought has been varied, but most see its occurrence immediately following the expulsion of Imperial Wardin and defeat of its high priestess as significant. Many consider this to be the foreign god Odomache's vengeance, and question why their own gods (who are much more powerful and hold total sovereignty over this land) have not intervened to help them.

Taighr's public stance is that this is not quite the case. Their own gods have sent this drought to both punish their enemies and to test the Finn people. They have not forgiven Finnerich's surrender to their enemies, and require proof of the people's loyalty and strength before they will call the drought away. This message is harsh but hopeful in tone, and has been embraced (or at least accepted) by a sizeable majority. A sense of purpose to their suffering (HEAVILY bolstered by effective practical measures of famine alleviation) has gone a long way to keep Finnerich's general populace unified and confident in their new king in the face of adversity.

He has had tremendous success so far, but his rule has clear potential for future instability. While he is very popular among the peasantry, not everyone loved the whole 'mass execution of political rivals and their families' thing. Some members of these families are known or suspected to have escaped (and potentially have more legitimate claims by tradition than Taighr does). His reduced taxation on the commoner class cannot last forever, and his functional creation of a new landed peasantry class is untested and likely will not remain stable in the long term. A small but not insignificant minority interprets the drought not as a test but punishment from the gods for the acceptance of a false king.

---

Taighr has shunned most regalia for his public image. His outfit here has only the bare minimum regalia of the torc and headdress (along with his tattoos), and the rest is dancer's garb and a simple cloak. His image is partly as a maneuver to appeal to his people, who simultaneously desire a traditional king (as their protector and benefactor who can commune with the gods) but are utterly disillusioned with their former dynasty for having so deeply failed them (and being somewhat unfavored even before their surrender to Imperial Wardin).

His choice to partly neglect a traditional 'royal' image emphasizes his outsider status from this now heavily scorned ex-dynasty, while still appearing in such a way that legitimatizes him as a king to public perception.

The arm tattoos and banded motifs on the headgear contain symbols widely used in Finn art, but are forbidden to be worn as tattoos for anyone other than kings (unless the right has been granted by a king in recognition and blessing). A kings rule is marked with arm and leg bands added for each year of sovereignty, with symbols chosen to represent the character of each year and a king's accomplishments and actions therein. These tattoos tend to be flattering in their meaning and serve to cement a chosen narrative into the king's very skin- his successes are lauded, his difficulties are acknowledged but framed as a struggle in which he remained strong/will ultimately be triumphant.

The first year shows an abstract symbol of unification and brotherhood, representing his role early in the war when he had already emerged as a military leader was first acknowledged as a potential king. The second denotes clouded skies and an obscured sun, representing the struggle and uncertainty in the height of war. The third shows victory by the arrowhead, celebrating the end to the war, Finnerich's restored sovereignty, and the expulsion of invasive elements. The fourth shows the motif of maize, denoting the sense of hope and regrowth in the first year free of tributary occupation (somewhat in contrast to the reality of the drought). The fifth shows clouded skies yet again, as this was when public elation over their victory was thoroughly quashed by the drought not only Not Stopping but having its worst year of all, one of the more difficult years of his sovereignty. The sixth shows foundations, a sense of rebuilding in regards to great public works and triumphant management of the famine, a year in which more rain came and his land/grain distribution system entered full swing. The seventh shows an abstract symbol of clasped hands in unity and arrowheads, celebrating allegiance with Hrolje and great success in raids against enemies. He is in the eighth year of being recognized as a king, and the latest one has been outlined but not completed.

The tattoos on the back of his hands mark his status as legitimate king chosen by Neghri, capable of communing with the gods and performing acts of magic. This symbol is completely forbidden to be worn by anyone besides a king (including on clothing/jewelry/etc) and is the ultimate symbol of lordship, sovereignty, and connection to the chief of the gods.

His head (not directly visible here) is artificially lengthened, having been bound in infancy. Artificial cranial deformation is a widespread practice among many of the North Viper peoples, where it tends to be associated with beauty, nobility, and/or a semi-divine status. This practice is reserved exclusively for the hereditary nobility (kings, lords, and lesser nobles) of Finn culture. The trend for most Finn headgear to be very tall and pointed is at least related, giving a person a noble and dignified bearing (regardless of their skull's actual length).

[chipper-smol]

<.<

>.>

*dragons your blorbos*

[magnapinna-sp-a]

Just finished my trip to Scotland. What a scam.

Didn't even see any Highland cows or cause any apocalypses after eloping with my lover

[adventuresofalgy]

The weather on Boxing Day in the wild west Highlands of Scotland was disappointingly dismal, dark, and dripping wet, but it was also unusually calm and mild, so Algy decided to explore his assistants' garden, which he had not visited for a wee while.

When darkness fell he was amazed to see a sudden eruption of Christmas lights, and flew over to investigate. Algy was particularly intrigued by a pair of small illuminated reindeer, and being still full of festive high spirits, he just couldn't resist jumping onto the back of one of the deer. Crying "Way for the Sport of Kings!" Algy started to race away with his new Christmas scarf streaming out behind him… But strange to say, he did not seem to get very far on his galloping, galloping steed:

Now is the season of Carnival. Who's for the sunlit course? Who's for the beat of galloping feet And the day and the way of the horse? Who joins the dance, tho' Lady Chance Pleasure or pain may yield, Who comes to the call of Carnival? "Seven to four the field!" This is the week of the Carnival And the sign of a brighter dawn In men's affairs. Who sheds old cares Where gay frocks fleck the lawn? Who would forget old days of fret? Who comes to the call of mirth And the conquering steeds? … They're off! Who leads? And the hoof beats spurn the earth. Then, Hi! for the height of Carnival, Gayer than all gone past: And the nameless fears of the deadening years Forsake men's minds at last. Bright jackets flash beneath the sun As the roar of the crowd begins, And lifts and swells at a great home run: "Who leads? Who lasts? Who wins?" Ho! for the call of Carnival! Way for the Sport of Kings! And men, grown sane, turn once again To all that high hope brings. Who's for the Carnival? Who grows gay Where galloping Fortune speeds Around the turn to gallop our way With the galloping, galloping steeds?

[Algy is quoting the poem Carnival Time by the late 19th/early 20th century Australian poet C J Dennis – a poem about the multi-day horse racing event known as the Melbourne Cup Carnival, held in November, and not about carnival in either the sense of a fair, or the time of wild celebration in Christian countries prior to Lent.]

[fraternum-momentum]

this might be out of topic but how do you practice drawing anatomy and how long have you been doing it? I can't stop staring at the near naked figure with that black scribble around his hips

i guess this is a bit of a more difficult thing to explain since i don't really have a concrete process to it? i just kinda do whatever and hope for the best AFHAFHAF

i haven't taken anatomy seriously until about 3 years ago-ish? mostly because i was too lazy to actually sit down and study the different muscle groups n stuff,, shit, even now i'm not consistent with it

but! i do have some tips ? kinda ?

what i usually do is study from reference :]]

(i couldn't find which pictures i used for the nigel drawing but here's loki)

once u've learned the different muscle groups (it's boringgg but it would help a LOT) drawing anatomy from references would be so much easier bc you would recognize which muscles are at play + how the skin stretches + fat distribution + lights and shadows etc etc.

magic poser is great for poses but for anatomy itself imo it's better to go for actual pictures of people itself because sticking to that could constrict you into drawing a specific body type. like,, treat it as a skeleton, or a crutch that can assist you rather than the main thing itself ?? (i hope i explained it right)

(that's how many references i have in my board 😭😭 jesus)

[aethernoise]

dawn again

[blackbirdffxiv]

Oh hey I actually gposed for the first time in a few days. Anyways, ✨she✨ (And no edits this time!) Shader: Elvashades "Duca" - Sugar Hunter Preset Pack

[Lookbook]

[sketchelium]

yt thumbnail for the upcoming new environments in our mh world playthrough :) I have learned how to properly use the lasso tool and I am thriving.

[bookishfreedom]

so, i went to scotland. yes, it was life changing

the entire trip felt straight out of a fairytale. we swam in the fairy pools. we frolicked with sheep. we spent hours wandering castles, museums, and bookshops. we ate many scottish breakfasts. and yes, merry of soul, we sailed on a day, over the sea to skye

and during the hours we spent driving through the gorgeous scottish highlands, we also played that song ad infinitum.

although originally inspired by outlander, this trip was about so much more. it was about stories and magic and history and falling a little bit in love with the world at every turn.

until next time, Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Sláinte

[groovyfrog420]

Oscypek/Highland Cheese Cookie

heyyyy guess who finally finished their cookie run oc concept! (more rambling bellow)

He's a calm, quiet type - doesn't understand the Golden Cheese Kingdom's obsesion with riches. He much preferes the beauty of nature around him. He can be found on the sand mountains, just near the borders of the Kingdom, enjoying the breeze and playing songs on his flute.

I wanted to mix the clothes of a "baca" (shepherds who make oscypek) with something that wouldn't look too out of place in GC Kingdom - wasn't easy, since one is a rather cold region and the other is a desert. He is a bit of a loner tho, so it's alright if he doesn't fully fit in with the rest of the citizens

Here's a link so you can learn more about the cheese! It's legally protected as "national tressure", fun fact. It's also really damn good with cranberries (hence all the little cranberry details lol, like the cranberry bead necklace! HUGE shout out to my friend for that idea btw)

[the-raindeer-king]

Another COD au that I'm too lazy to write. This one is for the og games because it's about ✨️ Captain MacTavish ✨️ it's a time travel au based off these adult romance novels that I read in high school.

So reader is from our current time, and accidentally stumbles upon some fae magic stuff, maybe you get tricked, idk, and gets sent back in time to medieval Scotland. Right into the lap of Lord John MacTavish (not really but god I wish.)

Now, this could progress via one of two ways. The first is that you're mistaken for MacTavish's arranged bride, who was supposed to arrive a week ago. Or one of the servant ladies finds you after a freak storm, shivering like a newborn foal, and convinces MacTavish to let you stay while they try to figure out who you are. Either way, your brash attitude and lack of modesty is refreshing to MacTavish, who's never been a fan of meek women.

Regardless, no one believes you when you try to plead your case. That you're from the future and you don't know how you got there. Maybe you give up after a while, besides things are good with Lord MacTavish. Or maybe you're able to convince him by knowing things that no one should know, and he gives you his aid in trying to return you to the future.

You end of falling in love (duh) but, the fae who sent you here, Roach, is in serious trouble with Fae King Price for meddling with human affairs, and now he has to send you back. I personally think it would be so so funny if you got sent back in the middle of having sex with MacTavish.

You end having to find Roach again to plead your case, and he takes you to Fae King Price to ask to be sent back. As much as he doesn't want to, concerns about the time continuum, you're clearly distraught. And if he doesn't take pity on you, there's a good chance you'll take darker routes to get back.

And this time, when you get sent back, it's literally right into the lap of Lord MacTavish, who glad to have you back and eager to make up for lost time.

[serpentface]

THE HIGHLAND KHAIT: AN OVERVIEW

The Highland khait, known internally as the feydhi, is a landrace breed of the Highlands of contemporary Imperial Wardin, and highly distinctive from all other native khait in the region. Their horns are notably unusual, being curved and pointed and frequently asymmetrical, which is often cited as a result of their folkloric origins as hybrids of khait and the (asymmetrically one-antlered) scimitar deer. They are very stocky and small for a riding breed, typically standing no more (and usually less) than 55 inches at the shoulder. Their coats come in a wide variety of colors and patterning, though a majority of individuals are dun or gray. Their manes are notably short and stiff, and they lack the beards common in many other khait breeds.

While notably slower than other khait, feydhi are very surefooted and have notably smooth gaits, able to move at a steady trot over difficult terrain with minimal bouncing for the rider. They are extremely strong for their size, and fully capable of carrying most adult riders and heavy packs, and pulling plows.

Their hair is longer than average but provides little insulation and they do not grow winter coats, and instead rely predominantly on fat stores to cope with winter conditions. They are easy keepers that can gain and maintain mass with very poor grazing, though most require supplements of grain to their diets to gain sufficient fat stores to survive winters in the highest settled altitudes.

Feydhi can adapt well to the hotter lowlands conditions than other Highlands livestock largely due to this lack of thick hair. Because they require no supplement to their diet to maintain condition, they are very affordable khait and an asset (along with a few other specialized lowlands breeds) during dry seasons, and see wide use throughout Imperial Wardin (particularly as pack animals along trade routes). They often survive a little too well in the lowlands, being adapted to sparse mountain pastures rather than seasonally abundant grasslands, and can be prone to obesity when allowed to graze freely.

They show a small degree of selection for milk production due to the import of dairy to the regional diet of the Highlands. Their milk has the highest fat content of the native livestock, but a notably gamey taste that is generally disfavored. It's used primarily as-is for basic sustenance and medicinal purposes- growing children and pregnant women are encouraged to drink feydhi milk to build fat stores, and mounted herders will often ride lactating mares in the winter and subsist largely upon their milk. Their meat is also the fattiest of any of the regional livestock and (unlike their milk) generally regarded as the best in taste, though their value as riding animals and more expensive upkeep prevents their consumption on any regular basis.

Rendered, chilled feydhi fat mashed with berries and eaten on bread is a seasonal delicacy eaten at midwinter feasts. It is considered an obligation of a wealthy ruling clan to slaughter some of their khait and provide the fat for this meal to their dependents, and an indication of failing wealth and authority if they cannot. A phrase translating as 'rich in cattle, poor in fat' invokes the notion of having a clan having superficial wealth (in cattle, which can largely sustain themselves on poor grazing and thus can hide a loss of material power for a period) but a heavily insecure position (unable to actually afford to lose their more high maintenance assets), and is used colloquially to describe a person or people giving hollow performances to mask lacking or lost substance.

They have some unique behavioral quirks among khait, such as a propensity to use their lower teeth in allogrooming to rake and scratch each other. This favoring of their teeth also lends more aggressive animals to biting (in addition to the far more khait-typical headbutting and kicking), a behavior that seems reserved exclusively for humans and is rarely used in intraspecies conflict. As with all bovidae, they no upper incisors and their bite can only do so much harm in most circumstances, but they can cause significant damage to the fingers of the unwary. They are also known for their tendency to consume bite-sized animals such as small birds when given the opportunity- this is not atypical of khait (or many grazing herbivores at large), but is emphasized in combination with their tendency to bite to cast them as uniquely carnivorous.

Their temperaments are regarded as notably stubborn and somewhat testy, but this is made up for with their intelligence and generally calm demeanor. Feydhi are most prized for their bravery- they do not spook easily against wild predators and can perform some functions as livestock guardians, readily chasing off small threats and known to stand their ground against even large predators, particularly hyena (the most populous and routinely threatening predator in the region).

This trait is commonly noted in folktales- one western mountain pass is said to be haunted by the ghost of an old gray mare who stood guard over her master (a noted drunk, who had fallen off her back and passed out) against a pack of hyenas for an entire night. When her rider awoke the next day, he found her dead and bloodied with her horns stuck into a hyena's side, having killed the predators but succumbed to her own wounds. He was so sorrowful that he resolved to never drink again (outside of holidays, and perhaps weddings) and buried her under stone. Travelers through this pass customarily pour out liquor and leave little offerings of grain for the animal's spirit, which is said to be seen at night from a distance, standing vigilant atop its cairn, but vanishes when approached.

The settlement cycle stories of the Hill Tribes go into extensive detail about the cattle and horses brought overseas with the migrants, but elaborate little on their khait and imply that a riding culture did not exist during the settlement period. The stories tend to describe people as walking on foot or riding their cattle, and khait riding is only mentioned in descriptions of proto-Wardi mounted nomads in the lowlands. It is likely that khait riding (rather than sole use as pack animals) was an adopted practice post-settlement, and possible that khait were not brought along with the migrants to begin with.

The actual origins of the feydhi breed are ambiguous as such. Old Ephenni folklore mentions tiny 'fairy' khait living in the Highlands that predated the arrival of the Hill Tribes, suggesting that these animals were already established as feral herds. It's highly possible that these herds were are a relic of the cairn-building civilization that existed in the Highlands prior to recorded history and had already long vanished (likely in a combination of plague and dispersal) prior to the settlement. The stories of feydhi being hybrids between foreign khait and native deer is also suggestive of such an origin, with wild deer as ancestors being a mythologized twist on feral khait.

Feydhi do not have the same status of cattle or horses as fundamental to subsistence, with much of their use being in utility as pack animals and transport over difficult terrain. However, they play very significant roles in the livestock raiding aspects of warrior culture, where they are used for quick exits and to help drive cattle and horses. Their roles in other aspects of warrior culture are more varied between tribes- some use them near-exclusively for raids, while others rely on them for open combat. Khait warrior culture is most central in the western Urbinnas tribes, who each consider themselves to be the most skilled riders and uniquely specialize towards mounted archery. The Urbinnas tribes have a long history of interaction with the lowlands Ephenni Wardi (alternating cycles of conflict and trade, and a half century of allyship against Imperial Burri occupiers). Both groups have a strong history of mounted warrior culture, and each claims to have introduced mounted archery to the other.

Khait also play roles in regional combat sports, which include mock battles and raids, races, archery, and most famously khait wrestling. The latter involves two mounted riders attempting to wrestle one another off their khait, gain control of their opponent's mount, and then successfully lead both animals out of the ring without their opponent re-mounting. This sport requires very calm, collected animals that will not panic while being fought over, and the measured temperament of the feydhi is well suited.

[ahollowgrave]

The ancient Leuke, worked under Emet-Selch in tending the underworld. Her soul, when sundered, eventually becomes Odette.

Leuke had a rather an uncanny ability to find wayward souls and return them. It is likely that her working with the Underworld is what allows for Odette's resurrection and it most certainly is the root of her affinity for ghosts and other ashkin. She and Emet were never romantic! He did met her one time and then arranged for her to be moved to his employ. Seeing in her something to cultivate and nurture. Rumors quickly spread of her being groomed to be his replacement, though she never believed this herself. Very much a 'I'll believe it when I see it' kind of person. Generally kind and well-meaning but also described as 'off-putting' by her fellows. This is technically my second draft at an Ancient! Specifically one connected to Odette. I am very enamored with her... Will have to brainstorm what her exact role was but for now!

[astriiformes]

Related. I have been thinking. About vehicles for the Road Trip AU.

The hobbits (and eventually also Aragorn) definitely drive to Rivendell in Merry's minivan--I have not picked a model yet, but something very Practical--but after that the Fellowship obviously need a larger vehicle and I think the answer is a pre-2007 Ford Expedition (models after that only have 8 seats instead of 9)

Also Frodo hotwires a Kia Soul (probably) to get himself and Sam to Mordor after the Fellowship falls apart. (Bilbo taught him how) but I haven't made up my mind yet what Gandalf shows up in when he returns so I need all your input. I am considering making Shadowfax a 2007ish Toyota Highlander because my family bought one of those when I was maybe 10 years old and the thing still fucking runs, which I feel like is the right energy for the King of Vehicles, but I don't know if it's the funniest answer.

Other candidates: An equally old (or older) Honda Accord because they have the same sort of energy, something else known for being very fast or indestructible (a Toyota Hilux would be great except I'm setting the AU in the US and you can't get those here), or a car that's just funny to imagine a wizard in. Please give me your thoughts.