#Hollow Cairns ;;

[zulixity]

Do you really wanna die as a virgin boy?

[willtheweaver]

Some locations and structures to include in your forest

Abandoned shrine

Alchemist’s lab

Ancient ruins

Army encampment

Battlefield memorial

Boathouse

Bridge, log

Bridge, stone arch

Bridge, suspension

Bridge, wooden beam

Causeway

Cablin

Cable car station

Cairns- grave markers

Cairns- trail marker

Cave system

Caved-in tunnel

Cemetery

Clearing

Campsite

Castle (robber baron or otherwise)

Collapsed building

Dam

Dirt track

Ditch, defensive

Ditch, henge monument

Dock

Dragon’s lair

Elven settlement

Fairy ring

Farm

Ferry landing

Ford

Fort, earthen

Fort, stone

Fort, wooden

Game trail

Ghost town

Guardhouse

Haunted ruins

Hermit’s hut

Hollow hill

Hunting lodge

Hunter’s hide

Inn

Logging camp

Manor house

Mine

Monastery

Outlaw’s hideout

Overgrown ruins

Potholes

Paved road

Portal

Quarry

Railroad

Rail station

Raised platform

Roadside grave

Sacred grove

Sawmill

Sky burial platform

Signpost

Stone circle

Summoning ring

Switchback

Temple

Tollbooth

Treehouse

Troll cave

Tunnel entrance

Turnpike

Village

Waterwheel

Watchtower, stone

Watchtower, wooden

Witches’ cottage

Wizard’s tower

Zip line

[tomalbon]

Poem #84

On The Convalescent (Gwen John)

There is no scenery, no staging

To gatekeep nor bind in scrutiny

By the line’s deliberate dissolution.

Just simple paraphernalia interlinked

In spells of blue and beige inventing

Their own deathly transitions. Finally,

The world asserts the drabness of its fixtures;

The strange world where I was a mere stray.

Just the calm, the obliterating calm

Dredging songbirds form the celebrated

Dead to peculiar animation.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

They said to them, but those ghoulish men

Picked clean their ethereal remnants

Long ago. Mounts empty as fallow

Vowels, rummaged by body snatchers,

Gave only cairns, and they took them for

Punctuation the same shade as her wallpaper.

No, not death inside them, but use,

Harping through wind chimes of bird bones.

Her downcast eyes could easily be dreamt

From litanies of those unredeemed places,

Sprawling from the pages’ ant-marked script

Like malaria, misting the graveyards

Of their egos. Flightless, rooted, earthed

By afflictions of mock deathlessness,

This is the grief of every life we

Never live. The songs are spent, slaughtered,

Hollow as birdboxes, and their liquids

Dissolve the lines and smudge the colours

And muddy things they could never really say -

And we face its enormity and it looks like peace

Only because we succumb to the same

Tongueless stupor. Yes, she could be sleeping,

If only words still opened to immortal dreams.

-

[themostdearofspaghettis]

I KNOW in my heart that Carpenter is gone and that Paige is gone. However there is a feeling in the back of my brain that it would be nice. Just for a moment. If Carpenter manifested the strength to drift on, closer to the polluted lands, maybe even limping for a while with the god winds at her back, until she comes to a willow tree. One with crocus flowers blooming around its roots. One with thorns so large they act not as a prickly shield but as a shelter against the shrapnel in the wind. One that has a knot that looks like the face of her friend Paige. One that has a hollow shaped like an embrace, where she can lay down and finally meet the Cairn Maiden covered in the last traces of the Trawlerman but not eaten by him, sheltered in the arms of the first and last prophet of the Wound Tree who let herself be taken but not changed into something violent. Who might have heard the last echoes of a plea from her partner, her fellow god-maker, to change into something beautiful or maybe something funny and took it to heart because she always was stronger than the god in her skin. Who wanted to leave evidence that she began this journey looking to make something different and she succeeded if only for a while. And Carpenter can finally close her eyes, and tell herself that this is the place, and she can be right.

[rookwurmwood]

The Hidden-Folk

Woe to those unwary souls who so carelessly tread about the wild, lonely places; for that is the domain of the Hidden-Folk. To intrude upon their realm is to doom oneself to a short life of suffering and misfortune. When lost in the forest, keep to the path of the deer. For all beasts, great and small, still abide by the olden ways which mankind so easily forgot.

According to Scripture: In bygone days, the angel Lucifer made war with God and his heavenly host. He and all his armies of rebel angels were banished from the heavens into the cold, unfashioned outer-darkness as punishment for their pride and arrogance. Forever damned to drift among the empty expanses of cosmic oblivion. However, those spirits who claimed no side in the war of heaven where cast down unto the infant earth. They fell from the sky like snow. Some landed in the cold bogs and raths, others fell into the stones and mountains, while most would land in the briar-choked forests. Here is where they would forever remain. Other Hidden-Folk find their beginnings as the forlorn souls of the unhallowed and unbaptized dead who were intombed within the great mounds and cairns which dot the landscape.

All of these unclean spirits dwell under the earth, only venturing out from their hollows and burrows when the sun sinks behind the horizon. They shy away from humans, living in company of none but their own. They are just as likely to help as they are to harm those who enter their lands as they are capricious things whose temperaments often change on a whim. Those who live close to the wilds have been known to offer blood to placate their wrath and spare their families from their wrath. As the dreaded Book of Dead Names says:

"...blood is the very food of spirits, which is why the fields after the battles of war glows with an unnatural light, the manifestations of the spirits feeding thereon."

Some have even been known to impart their knowledge of wicked spell-work as boons for these offerings. Which often led to many civilizations believing that these spirits were gods of the forest. There are even tales of Witch-Cults offering up kidnapped children to these spirits in exchange for command of the otherworldly. Many Occultists still call out the names of these "Old Gods" around the monoliths of old on Samhain Night.

Much like their kin, the demons, the bodies of the Hidden-Folk are composed of a sort of vaporous cold-fire which they can will into whatever shape might suit them best. They can be fair, grotesque, or corpse-like with some even taking the forms of animals. Though the prevailing descriptions always tell of haunting beauty and bestial features like hooves or a tail. They are semi-corporeal and are able to interact with the world around them yet they cannot be seized as they are not beings of flesh and blood. However, iron implements (particularly swords) frighten the fairy-folk greatly as the blades can pass through their bodies with ease as if they were being cleaved by them. Bear in mind, they are immortal and attacking them will not kill them, but they will endure the agony of death when struck with iron.

[acourtofquestions]

Made it out alive,

He scanned the starry sky, the slumbering lands beyond, the Lord of the North above.

It hit him a heartbeat later. Erupted around him and roared. Over and over and over, as if it were a hammer against an anvil. The others whirled to him.

That raging, fiery song charged closer. Through him. Down the mating bond. Down into his very soul. A bellow of fury and defiance. From down the hill, Lorcan rasped, "Rowan." It was impossible, utterly impossible, and yet--"North," Gavriel said, turning nis bay gelding. "The surge came from the North." From Doranelle.

A beacon in the night. Power rippling into the world, as it had done in Skull's Bay.

It filled him with sound, with fire and light. As if it screamed, again and again, I am alive, I am alive, I am alive. And then silence. Like it had been cut off. Extinguished.

He refused to think of why. The mating bond remained. Stretched taut, but it remained.

So he sent the words along it, with as much hope and fury and unrelenting love as he had felt from her. I will find you.

There was no answer. Nothing but humming darkness and the Lord of the North glistening above, pointing the way north. To her.

But I think I lost it.

"If Maeve is indeed bringing her army to Terrasen, then it only confirms that we were right to come here. That we must convince the khagan's forces to go northward after this. It is the only chance we stand of succeeding."

Aelin ran her hands through her hair. Streams of blood stained the gold. "I cannot win against them. Against a Valg king and queen." Her voice turned to a rasp. "They have already won."

"They have not." And though Rowan hated each word, he growled, "And you survived two months against Maeve with no magic to protect you. Two months of a Valg queen trying to break into your head, Aelin. To break you!"

Aelin shook. "She did, though."

Rowan waited for it.

Aelin whispered, "I wanted to die by the end, before she ever threatened me with the collar. And even now, I feel like someone has ripped me from myself. Like I'm at the bottom of the sea, and who I am, who I was, is far up at the surface, and I will never get back there again."

He didn't know what to say, what to do other than to gently pull her fingers from her palms.

"Did you buy the swagger, the arrogance?" she demanded, voice breaking. "Did the others? Because I've been trying to. I've been trying like hell to convince myself that it's real, reminding myself I only need to pretend to be how I was just long enough." Long enough to forge the Lock and die. He said softly, "I know, Aelin." He hadn't bought the winks and smirks for a heartbeat. Aelin let out a sob that cracked something in him. "I can't feel me---myself anymore. It's like she snuffed it out. Ripped me from it. She, and Cairn, and everything they did to me." She gulped down air, and Rowan wrapped her in his arms and pulled her onto his lap. "I am so tired," she wept. "I am so, so tired, Rowan."

"I know." He stroked her hair. "I know." It was all there really was to say. Rowan held her until her weeping eased and she lay still, nestled against his chest. "I don't know what to do," she whispered.

"You fight," he said simply. "We fight. Until we can't anymore. We fight."

She sat up, but remained on his lap, staring into his face with a rawness that destroyed him. Rowan laid a hand on her chest, right over that burning heart. "Fireheart." A challenge and a summons. She placed her hand atop his, warm despite the frigid night. As if that fire had not yet gone out entirely. But she only gazed up at the stars. To the Lord of the North, standing watch. "We fight," she breathed.

***

Aelin found Fenrys by a quiet fire, gazing into the crackling flames.

Fenrys lifted his head, his eyes as hollow as she knew hers had been.

"Whenever you need to talk about it," she said, her voice still hoarse, "I'm here."

Said that I was fine,

Aelin's finger scratched along the curved edge of the altar again. The wolf blinked at her--thrice. In the early days, months, years of this, they had crafted a silent code between them. Using the few moments she'd been able to dredge up speech, whispering through the near-invisible holes in the iron coffin.

One blink for yes. Two for no. Three for Are you all right? Four for I am here, I am with you. Five for This is real, you are awake.

Fenrys again blinked three times. Are you all right?

Aelin swallowed against the thickness in her throat, her tongue peeling off the roof of her mouth. She blinked once. Yes.

She counted his blinks.

Six.

He'd made that one up. Liar, or something like it. She refused to acknowledge that particular code. She blinked once again. Yes.

Said it from the coffin,

So she told herself the story. The darkness and the flame deep within her whispered it, too, and she sang it back to them. Locked in that coffin hidden on an island within the heart of a river, the princess recited the story, over and over, and let them unleash an eternity of pain upon her body.

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom...

They had entombed her in darkness and iron. She slept, for they had forced her to--had wafted curling, sweet smoke through the cleverly hidden airholes in the slab of iron above. Around. Beneath. A coffin built by an ancient queen to trap the sun inside.

Draped with iron, encased in it, she slept. Dreamed. Drifted through seas, through darkness, through fire. A princess of nothing. Nameless.

The princess sang to the darkness, to the flame. And they sang back.

There was no beginning or end or middle. Only the song, and the sea, and the iron sarcophagus that had become her bower.

Until they were gone. . .

. . . Everything. She had given everything for this, and had been glad to do it.

Aelin lay in darkness, the slab of iron like a starless night overhead.

She'd awoken in here. Had been in here for... a long time…

But she still told herself the story, still sometimes imagined that the river sang it to her. That the darkness living within the sealed coffin sang it to her as well.

Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom...

Remember how I died?

She found herself atop the landing, staring at the door. It had been unlocked and left slightly ajar. -- A strangled sort of noise broke out of her, and she ran the last few feet, barely noticing as she threw open the door and burst into the apartment. She was going to scream at him. And kiss him. And scream at him some more. A lot more. How dare he make her-- Arobynn Hamel was sitting on her couch. Celaena halted. The King of the Assassins slowly got to his feet. She saw the expression in his eyes and knew what he was going to say long before he opened his mouth and whispered, "I'm sorry." -- The silence struck.

"Where is Nehemia?" But Archer just shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. "They aren't going to question her, Celaena. And by the time my men get there, I think it will be too late." Too late. Celaena turned to Chaol. His face was stricken and pale. Archer shook his head again. "I'm sorry." -- Not again. Not again, she told herself with each step, each pound of her heart. Please. Celaena hit the top of the stairs. She could hear shouts from behind her, but she wouldn't stop, couldn't stop. Not again. Never again. The shouts behind her grew, people were calling her name. She would stop for no one. She turned down the familiar hallway, nearly sobbing with relief at the sight of the wooden door. It was shut; there were no signs of forced entry. -- Nehemia was dead.

"And tell Rowan,..." Aelin said, fighting her own sob, "that I'm sorry I lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we'd had more of it." She fought past her trembling mouth. "Tell him he has to fight. He must save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me. And tell him ... tell him thank you--for walking that dark path with me back to the light." …

… Rowan just stared at Aelin. At his mate, who had lied to him. To all of them. "It wasn't enough--the two of us together. It would have destroyed us both," Dorian wept. "Yet Damaris somehow summoned my father, and... he took my place. He offered to take my place so she..." Dorian lunged, reaching for Aelin's hand, but he'd left the ring of Wyrdmarks. They now kept him out. A wall that sealed in Aelin. The mating bond stretched thinner and thinner. "She and him--they're going to end it," Dorian said, shaking. Rowan barely heard the words. He should have known. Should have known that if their plan failed, Aelin would never willingly sacrifice a friend. Even for this. Even for her own future. She had known he'd try to keep her from forging the Lock if she'd mentioned that possibility, what she would do if it all went to hell. Had agreed to let Dorian help her only to get herself here. Would likely have dropped Dorian's hand without his father appearing. Over--she had said so many times that she wished if to be over. He should have listened. Chaol gripped Dorian, and the young lord said to Rowan, softly and sadly, "I'm sorry." She had lied. His Fireheart had lied. And he would now watch her die.

— He’d never forgive her. Her mate. She had needed him to let her go, needed him to accept it. She would never have been able to do it, to come here, had he been begging her not to, had he been weeping as she had wanted to weep when she had kissed him one last time. Come back to me, he had whispered. She knew he'd wait. Until he faded into the Afterworld, Rowan would wait for her to return. To come back to him. . .

When you started walking?

She wouldn't leave him like this, in this cold, dark room. . .

But just seeing the lividness written all over him had her riding that reckless, stupid edge again, and clinging to the anger was easier than embracing the quiet darkness that wanted to pull her down, down, down. "You know, it might be better if you just slapped me instead."

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of reminding me again and again how rutting worthless and awful and cowardly I am. Believe me, I can do the job well enough on my own. So just hit me, because I'm damned tired of trading insults. And you know what? You didn't even bother to tell me you'd be unavailable. If you'd said something, I never would have come. I'm sorry I did. But you just left me downstairs." Saying those last words made a sharp, quick panic rise up in her, an aching pain that had her throat closing. "You left me," she repeated. Maybe it was only out of blind terror at the abyss opening up again around her, but she whispered, "I have no one left. No one." She hadn't realized how much she meant it, how much she needed it not to be true, until now. -- She walked away without another word. With each step she took back to her room, that flickering light inside of her guttered. And went out. . .

She wouldn't leave him. Footsteps heading toward the door--then the snick of it closing as Arobynn left. Celaena closed her eyes. She wouldn't leave him. She wouldn't leave him.

That’s my life,

That was the moment that had broken everything Aelin Galathynius was and had promised to be. Celaena was lying on the ground--on the bottom of the world, on the bottom of hell. That was the moment she could not face--had not faced.

For even then, she had known the enormity of that sacrifice.

There was more, after the moment she'd hit the water. But those memories were hazy, a mix of ice and black water and strange light, and then she knew nothing more until Arobynn was crouched over her on the reedy riverbank, somewhere far away. She awoke in a strange bed in a cold keep, the Amulet of Orynth lost to the river. Whatever magic it had, whatever protection, had been used up that night.

Then the process of taking her fear and guilt and despair and twisting them into something new. Then the hate--the hate that had rebuilt her, the rage that had fueled her, smothering the memories she buried in a grave within her heart and never let out.

She had taken Lady Marion's sacrifice and become a monster, almost as bad as the one who had murdered Lady Marion and her own family.

That was why she could not, did not, go home.

She had never looked for the death tolls in those initial weeks of slaughter, or the years afterward. But she knew Lord Lochan had been executed. Quinn and his men. And so many of those children ... such bright lights, all hers to protect. And she had failed.

Celaena clung to the ground.

It was what she had not been able to tell Chaol, or Dorian, or Elena: that when Nehemia arranged for her own death so it would spur her into action, that sacrifice ... that worthless sacrifice ... She could not let go of the ground. There was nothing beneath it, nowhere else to go, nowhere to outrun this truth.

There was a scrape and crunch of shoes, then a small, smooth hand slid toward her. But it was not Chaol or Sam or Nehemia who lay across from her, watching her with those sad turquoise eyes. Her cheek against the moss, the young princess she had been-- Aelin Galathynius--reached a hand for her. "Get up," she said softly. Celaena shook her head. Aelin strained for her, bridging that rift in the foundation of the world. "Get up." A promise--a promise for a better life, a better world. The Valg princes paused… She had wasted her life, wasted Marion's sacrifice. Those slaves had been butchered because she had failed--because she had not been there in time… "Get up," someone said beyond the young princess. Sam. Sam, standing just beyond where she could see, smiling faintly. "Get up," said another voice--a woman's. Nehemia. "Get up." Two voices together--her mother and father, faces grave but eyes bright. Her uncle was beside them, the crown of Terrasen on his silver hair. "Get up," he told her gently.

One by one, like shadows emerging from the mist, they appeared. The faces of the people she had loved with her heart of wildfire. And then there was Lady Marion, smiling beside her husband. "Get up," she whispered, her voice full of that hope for the world, and for the daughter she would never seen again.

A tremor in the darkness.

The earth on which her kingdom lay, green and mountainous and as unyielding as its people.

Her people. Her people, waiting for ten years, but no longer. She could see the snow-capped Staghorns, the wild tangle of Oakwald at their feet, and ... and Orynth, that city of light and learning, once a pillar of strength--and her home. It would be both again.

She would not let that light go out.

She would fill the world with it, with her light--her gift. She would light up the darkness, so brightly that all who were lost or wounded or broken would find their way to it, a beacon for those who still dwelled in that abyss. It would not take a monster to destroy a monster--but light, light to drive out darkness.

She was not afraid.

She would remake the world--remake it for them, those she had loved with this glorious, burning heart; a world so brilliant and prosperous that when she saw them again in the Afterworld, she would not be ashamed. She would build it for her people, who had survived this long, and whom she would not abandon. She would make for them a kingdom such as there had never been, even if it took until her last breath. She was their queen, and she could offer them nothing less.

Aelin Galathynius smiled at her, hand still outreached. "Get up," the princess said. Celaena reached across the earth between them and brushed her fingers against Aelin's. And arose.

That's my life.

Aelin blocked out his words. Did nothing but gaze into the dark. She was so tired. So, so tired. For Terrasen, she had gladly done this. All of it. For Terrasen, she deserved to pay this price. She had tried to make it right. Had tried, and failed. And she was so, so tired.

Fireheart.

The whispered word floated through the eternal night, a glimmer of sound, of light. Fireheart.

The woman's voice was soft, loving. Her mother's voice. Aelin turned her face away. Even that movement was more than she could bear. Fireheart, why do you cry? Aelin could not answer. Fireheart.

The words were a gentle brush down her cheek. Fireheart, why do you cry? And from far away, deep within her, Aelin whispered toward that ray of memory, Because I am lost. And I do not know the way.

Cairn was still talking. Still scraping his knife over the coffin's lid. But Aelin did not hear him as she found a woman lying beside her. A mirror--or a reflection of the face she'd bear in a few years' time. Should she live that long. Borrowed time. Every moment of it had been borrowed time. Evalin Ashryver ran gentle fingers down Aelin's cheek. Over the mask. Aelin could have sworn she felt them against her skin. You have been very brave, her mother said. You have been very brave, for so very long. Aelin couldn't stop the silent sob that worked its way up her throat. But you must be brave a little while longer, my Fireheart. She leaned into her mother's touch. You must be brave a little while longer, and remember...

Her mother placed a phantom hand over Aelin's heart. It is the strength of this that matters. No matter where you are, no matter how far, this will lead you home. Aelin managed to slide a hand up to her chest, to cover her mother's fingers. Only thin fabric and iron met her skin. But Evalin Ashryver held Aelin's gaze, the softness turning hard and gleaming as fresh steel. It is the strength of this that matters, Aelin. Aelin's fingers dug into her chest as she mouthed, The strength of this. Evalin nodded. Cairn's hissed threats danced through the coffin, his knife scraping and scraping. Evalin's face didn't falter. You are my daughter. You were horn of two mighty bloodlines. That strength flows through you. Lives in you. Evalin's face blazed with the fierceness of the women who had come before them, all the way back to the Faerie Queen whose eyes they both bore.

You do not yield.

I'll put up a fight,

"My name is Celaena Sardothien," she whispered, "and I will not be afraid." The wagon cleared the wall and stopped. Celaena raised her head. I will not be afraid. Celaena Sardothien lifted her chin and walked into the Salt Mines of Endovier.

"Celaena," Chaol said gently. And then she heard the scraping noise as his hand came into view, sliding across the flagstones. His fingertips stopped just at the edge of the white line. "Celaena? he breathed, his voice laced with pain--and hope. This was all she had left--his outstretched hand, and the promise of hope, of something better waiting on the other side of that line. A quarter of an inch from Chaol, the thick white mark separating them. She lifted her eyes to his face, and found his gaze lined with silver. "Get up," was all he said. And in that moment, somehow his face was the only thing that mattered. She stirred, and couldn't stop her sob as her body erupted with pain that made her lie still again. But she kept her focus on his brown eyes, on his tightly pressed lips as they parted and whispered, "Get up."

What if we go on, only to more pain and despair? Then it is not the end. It was not the end. And she was not finished. But they were. "To a better world," Mala said, and walked through the doorway into her own. A better world. A world with no gods. No masters of fate. A world of freedom. She had been a slave and a pawn once before. She would never be so again. Not for them. Never for them. The debt has already been paid enough. A map home, a map inked in the words of universes, would lead the way. More and more and more. But not all. She would not give it up. Her innermost self. She would not surrender. They would not take this lingering kernel of her. She would not yield it. They would not destroy her. They would not be allowed to take this. Come back to me. She would live. She would live, and they could all go to hell. A better world. With no gods, no fates. A world of their own making. Aelin bellowed and bellowed, the sound ringing out across all worlds. They would not beat her. They would not get to take this, this most essential kernel of self. Of soul. Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom.... Her kingdom. Her home. She would see it again. It was not over. Aelin's hand drifted to her heart and rested there. It is the strength of this that matters, her mother had said, long ago. Wherever you go, Aelin, no matter how far, this will lead you home. No matter where she was. No matter how far. Even if it took her beyond all known worlds. Aelin's fingers curled, palm pressing into the pounding heart beneath. This will lead you home. The archway to Erilea inched closed. World-walker. Wayfarer. Others had done it before. She would find a way, too. A way home. No longer the Queen Who Was Promised. But the Queen Who Walked Between Worlds. She would not go quietly. She was not afraid.

Taking out my earrings.

The girl wore her scars the way some women wore their finest jewelry. — They had taken her scars. Maeve had taken them all away. -- There were no scars where there should have been. The almost-necklace of them from Baba Yellowlegs: gone. The shackle marks from Endovier: gone. The scar where she'd been forced by Arobynn Hamel to break her own arm: gone. And on her palms... It was upon her exposed palms that Aelin now gazed. As if realizing what was missing. The scars across her palms, one from the moment they had become carranam, the other from her oath to Nehemia, had disappeared entirely. Like they had never been.--New skin, because they'd needed to replace what had been destroyed. To heal her so they could begin again and again.

"There are no gods left to watch, I'm afraid. And there are no gods left to help you now, Aelin Galathynius." — Light and darkness. Life and death. Where do I fit in? The thought sent a jolt through her so strong that her hands fumbled for anything to use against him. Not like this. She'd find a way--she could find a way to survive. I will not be afraid. She'd whispered that every morning in Endovier; but what good were those words now? A demon came at her, and a scream--not of terror or of despair, but rather a plea--burst from her throat. A call for help. And from another world, Elena swept down, cloaked in golden light. "I cannot protect you," whispered the queen, her skin glowing. Her face was different, too--sharper, more beautiful. Her Fae heritage. "I cannot give you my strength." She traced her fingers across Celaena's brow. "But I can remove this poison from your body." --Elena put a hand on Celaena's forehead. "Take it," said the queen. Celaena strained to reach the remnant of the staff, her vision flashing between the sunny veranda and the endless dark. "Be gone," Elena barked, forming a symbol with her fingers. A bright blue light burst from her hands. "Stand," Elena said. She was becoming translucent. Her hands drifted from Celaena's cheeks, and a white light filled the sky. The poison left Celaena's body. Cain, once again a man of flesh and blood, walked over to the sprawled assassin. "Stand." Elena whispered again, and was gone. The world appeared. — Aelin smiled, and Goldryn burned brighter. "I am a god."

Her name was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius. And she would not be afraid. Maeve and Erawan halted. So did the army poised behind them, a final blow of the hammer, ready to land upon Orynth. The magic in her veins was little more than a sputtering ember. But they did not know that. Her shaking hands threatened to drop her weapons, but she held firm. Held fast. Not one more step. — Hold the line. — A crown of flame appeared atop her head, swirling and unbreakable. She could never win against both of them. But she wouldn't make it easy. Would take one of them down with her, if she could. Or at least slow them enough for the others to enact their plan, to find a way to either halt or defeat them. Even if either option seemed unlikely. Hopeless. But that was why she remained here. To give them that slim shred of hope. That will to keep fighting. At the end of this, if that was all she was able to do against Erawan and Maeve, she could go to the Afterworld with her chin held high. She would not be ashamed to see those she had loved with her heart of wildfire. — A Fire-Bringer no more. But Aelin all the same.

Don't you know the vibe?

"Yield to me?" You do not yield. Aelin blinked. "It's easier, isn't it," Maeve mused, bracing her forearms against the lip of the coffin. "To remain here. So you needn't make such terrible choices. To let the others share the burden. Bear its cost." A hint of a smile. "Deep down, that's what haunts you. That wish to be free? Freedom--she'd known it. Hadn't she? "It's what you fear most--not me, or Erawan, or the keys. That your wish to be free of the weight of your crown, your power, will consume you. Embitter you until you do not recognize your own self." Her smile widened. "I wish to spare you from that. With me, you shall be free in a way you've never imagined, Aelin. I swear it." An oath. She had sworn an oath. To Terrasen. To Nehemia. To Rowan. Aelin closed her eyes, shutting out the queen above her, the mask, the chains, the iron box. Not real. This was not real. Wasn't it? "I know you're tired," Maeve went on, gently, coaxingly. "You gave and gave and gave, and it was still not enough. It will never be enough for them will it?" -- Would never stop feeling it, the whisper of the pain. -- Cairn ran a hand over the rim of the coffin. "I broke some part of you, didn't I?" I name you Elentiya, "Spirit That Could Not Be Broken?" Aelin traced her metal-encrusted fingers over her palm. Where a scar should be. Where it still remained. Would always remain, even if she could not see it. Nehemia--Nehemia, who had given everything for Eyllwe. And yet... And yet, Nehemia had still felt the weight of her choices. Still wished to be free of her burdens. It had not made her weak. Not in the slightest. Her hands curled into fists. Iron groaned. Spirit that could not be broken. Spirit that could not be broken. You do not yield. She would endure it again, if asked. She would do it. Every brutal hour and bit of agony. And it would hurt, and she would scream, but she'd face it. Survive against it. Arobynn had not broken her. Neither had Endovier. She would not allow this waste of existence to do so now. Her shaking eased, her body going still. Waiting. Maeve blinked at her. Just once. Aelin sucked in a breath--sharp and cool. She did not want it to be over. Any of it. Aelin sat up in the coffin. Maeve backed away all of a step. Aelin surveyed the illusion, so artfully wrought. The stone chamber, with its braziers and hook from the ceiling. The stone altar. The open door and roar of the river beyond. She made herself look. To face down that place of pain and despair. It would always leave a mark, a stain on her, but she would not let it define her. Hers was not a story of darkness. This would not be the story. She would fold it into herself, this place, this fear, but it would not be the whole story. It would not be her story. "How?" Maeve simply asked. Aelin knew a world and a battlefield raged beyond them. But she let herself linger in the stone chamber. Climbed from the iron coffin. Maeve only stared at her. "You should have known better," Aelin said, the lingering embers within her shining bright. "You, who feared captivity and did all this to avoid it. You should have known better than to trap me. Should have known l'd find a way." "How?" Maeve asked again. "How did you not break?" "Because I am not afraid," Aelin said.

Don't you know the feeling?

“You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive. Not exist. Live.” — “You make me want to live, too, Aelin Galathynius,” he said. “Not exist—but live.”

Live, Aelin. — Live.

You should spend the night,

"Do you want to know what your first mission will be?" She looked at his golden-brown eyes and all of the promises that lay within them, and linked her arm with his as she smiled. "Tell me tomorrow."

"Can I give you a suggestion for what we should rebuild first?" Aelin smiled, and eternity opened before them, shining and glorious and lovely. "Tell me tomorrow."

Catch me on your ceiling.

Celaena sat on the edge of her roof, looking out across the city. . . She didn't want to be a part of this tangled web. Not when Arobynn had made it perfectly clear that she could never win. . . "I thought you might be up here," Sam said, striding across the flat roof to where she sat atop the wall that lined the edge. He surveyed the city. "Some view; I can see why you decided to move." She smiled slightly, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

That's your prize,

He understood what she meant by this--this relationship between them, this bond that was forming, so unbreakable and unyielding that it made the entire axis of her world shift toward him. That terrified her more than anything. "I can wait," he said thickly, kissing her collarbone. "We have all the time in the world." Maybe he was right. And spending all the time in the world with Sam ... That was a treasure worth paying anything for. . . He brushed his lips against hers. "I love you," he breathed against her mouth. "And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that's where I want to be. Forever." Celaena put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, giving him her silent reply. Beyond them, the sun set over the capital, turning the world into crimson light and shadows…

That's your prize.

"Rowan," she whispered. From the rustle of sheets, she knew he was instantly awake. Stalking toward her, even as he shoved on his pants. But Aelin didn't turn as he rushed onto the balcony. And halted, too. In silence, they stared. Bells began pealing; people shouted. Not with fear. But in wonder. A hand rising to her mouth, Aelin scanned the broad sweep of the world. The mountain wind brushed away her tears, carrying with it a song, ancient and lovely. From the very heart of Oakwald. The very heart of the earth. Rowan twined his fingers in hers and whispered, awe in every word, "For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you." Aelin wept then. Wept in joy that lit her heart, brighter than any magic could ever be. All the time in the world. . . A better world.

[liminalmemories21]

I know I'm late but if you're still looking for prompts:

"So you stabbed me??"

It's not the first time TK has met his family. It's not even the first big celebration that TK has been to with both of his sisters and their husbands and assorted children in tow. It is, however, the first church picnic that TK has been to with them.

Luisa currently has five plates of pie in front of her and she's angling for the point of the nearest slice of Ana's selection. Ana's fork comes down on top of hers without even looking away from the conversation she's having with Mrs. Cairns. "That's my pie."

"So you stabbed me?"

Ana nods politely at Mrs. Cairns who looks amused, and turns back to Luisa. "You know the consequences for pie theft." She looks at Luisa's hand. "Don't be a baby, it didn't even break skin."

TK's staring at all of them over his one (singular) slice of black bottom cherry pie. Not a bad choice, but it's an amateur move not to start at the other end of the table so you can get to Anabeth Pritchard's buttermilk pie before it's gone. Luisa and Carlos both scored slices, but Ana got waylaid by Lucy Muller on her way to the table. Ana's eying Luisa's slice and Luisa ostentatiously moves it away from Ana.

Ana switches her attention to Carlos. "Trade you half of your buttermilk pie for half of my lemon meringue?" He shakes his head.

She narrows her eyes. "Half of your buttermilk pie for half of my slice of Mary Gearson's peach pie." He starts to shake his head and she holds up a finger. "And I don't tell TK about what happened at your 5th grade square dance recital."

TK looks up, interested, and Carlos narrows his eyes at her. "You really want to play dirty? I can tell Mom about what really happened to that pot of chili," he trails off.

Ana darts her eyes in their mother's direction and hisses, "You wouldn't dare."

TK looks around the room and asks nobody in particular. "What happened to good clean Christian fun?"

Luisa snorts and waves a fork. "It's all fun and games until someone loses a pie."

TK blinks at her, and opens his mouth like he has questions and then thinks better of it and takes a bite of his pie and chews thoughtfully. "It's good pie?"

Carlos sighs and reminds himself that he loves TK and mentally sacrifices his buttermilk pie and cuts a piece off for TK and hands it to him. TK eyes him dubiously, and Ana and Luisa stop talking to stare and him and wait for his reaction. TK's eyes close as he chews and he lets out a tiny broken sound that Carlos is intimately familiar with, and he licks the tines of the fork to chase the rest of the buttermilk filing clinging to them. Carlos's mouth feels dry.

TK swallows and his eyes slowly open. "That was . . ." He eyes the rest of Carlos's pie, and Carlos wordlessly pushes it in his direction.

Ana looks at both of them and smacks Carlos with the back of her hand. "I offer to trade you half my slice of Mary Gearson's peach pie and you give it up for free to a pretty boy who puts on a show?"

He cocks his head and watches TK take another bite, cheeks hollowing a little as he makes sure to suck the filling off the fork, red lips closed around it, long lashes dark against the pale skin of his cheeks. "Worth it."

Luisa leans her head against Ana. "That's how you know it's true love." He spares a glance away from where TK is making eating pie look like something that ought to be done behind closed doors, to find both his sisters looking at him with soft smiles.

Luisa catches him looking and straightens, and makes a play for his slice of Mary Ellen Fahey's banana cream pie, and that is an act of war.

Note - I don't know if Buttermilk Pie is orgasmic per se, but it is really damn good.

[goblincow]

The Perilous Pear & Plum Pies of Pudwick | coming soon | read about it at http://tppappop.carrd.co

| 🐛 | 52 page full-colour, fully illustrated creepy-crawly micro-setting for Melsonia written and illustrated by Josh Blincow (@goblincow). Shrink to insectoid size and adventure into the uncanny world that exists inside a sapient pear tree in this system agnostic weird fantasy pointcrawl.

| 🐜 | INSPIRED BY | HOLLOW KNIGHT | BUG FABLES | THE LEGEND OF ZELDA: THE MINISH CAP | HONEY I SHRUNK THE KIDS | A BUGS LIFE

| 🐞 | MINIATURE MISADVENTURE | A well-meaning outsider brings reckless magic into a small community on the eve of the local bake off. Hijinks ensue as chitinous consequence follows behind on a thousand scuttling limbs.

Explore the dawn of a new insectoid world ripe for adventure! Shrink down to size and take your first furtive steps into the alien world living inside a sapient pear tree filled to the brim with insect communities, conflicts and (relatively) ancient secrets. Your actions will decide the destiny of a dungeon that was never meant to be delved. Will you find the adventure you were seeking, or discover another path entirely? Unravel the mystery at the heart of the tree, and make your proportionately tiny mark.

| 🐝 | FEATURES | 39 mischievous & menacing tritone illustrastions | vivid writing that animates a rich interconnected world | evocative pointcrawl-&-table adventure design | approachable, colour-coded information design that comfortably facilitates both table reference and playful reading.

| 🦗 | MANAGEABLE MECHANICS | self-contained adventure bookended with a food fight inciting incident and 5 villager NPCs | a perilous ticking clock | carefully interweaved pointcrawl map with 17 locations, 6 d3 vignette tables, 5 d4 rumour tables and 2 d4 encounter tables with location specific encounters | d100 worldly possessions table | d100 random encounters table | d20 bug name generator | 3 unique treasures | 6 page insectuary & 23 minimalist enemy statblocks | faction reference matrix | system agnostic rules for generating bug player characters.

| 🦟 | SYSTEM AGNOSTIC | compatability with old school TTRPGs like CAIRN | LABYRINTH LORD | OSE | KNAVE | DCC | B/X and easily adaptable for other fantasy tabletop roleplaying games like MAUSRITTER | TROIKA! | TUNNEL GOONS | MÖRK BORG and more.

| 🦋 | follow @goblincow for updates | goblincow.carrd.co

[hallothere]

52 with Candaith?

52. Fake death/presumed dead

The Draig-lûth had started a rumor that Harndirion was haunted. It may as well be, after the outpouring of dead- all sorts, from shades to wights to things mortal eyes were never meant to gaze upon- and the upheaval at Ost Dunhoth. Even he had been aware of that change. The fortress- glowing, even under no moon- before going suddenly dark. Bird calls resumed shortly so all must be well in the wider world. But he could not go and check.

Candaith had been both prepared to die, and determined to live. Britou had not cut him so deeply as his Company believed. No, he was loath to remember that his planned fate was worse than that. The others had fled before he regained consciousness. It was equal parts the shock of the wound and the severity of it that drove him to the dirt, unmoving for so long. He could feel the shades gather 'round as he dragged himself hand over hand to the exit.

'Let him go' one had said 'the fun is just getting started'.

But what torments the shades of Oathbreakers devised for amusement Candaith shuddered to remember. He found Himeldir first, and thought he might well die there too.

Long, long after he had exhausted his tears and the sounds of the Dead had faded to whispers had Candaith picked up his head once more. He had not the strength to rescue Himeldir now, but he would return. There was nothing the Dead would do or think to do with one so like their own. It was the living they chose to torment.

Linnor had been hardest to bear. Candaith faltered again so soon in his worm's sojourn across the floor of the cavern and wailed where tears would not fall. He cursed the Dead once more over for this grievous harm, took up Linnor's star to bolster himself, and began the crawl again.

Calithil. Hodhon. He knew three more names were ready to greet him in the dark, the murky, bule-tinted gloom. At one point he was able to stop, to sob again as the picture came unbidden of a line sixty-long stretching from the mouth of the cave to their camp in the hills.

Candaith made it into grass and sunlight at mid-day of whichever day this was. He cared not for secrecy or safety. The Dead did not care if he perished under the sun, for they knew he would. Soon. He rolled himself behind the cover of one of the exterior stones and slept.

He awoke, at first, to the darkness of the cave and bunched between the bodies of his fallen kin. Then he saw the stars and the stone. Candaith needed more water if he wished to cry again. This time, out of the oppressive atmosphere cultivated by the Dead, he found he could stand. He nearly lost consciousness getting to his feet once more, but upright he found it was not as hard, and cursed the Dead again.

The grass on the hillside was tall, and he could drop into it easily enough if he needed to hide. Green-enough was his cloak even if it was stained with blood and dirt. Perhaps the irregularity of it would help shield him from prying eyes. It heartened him little that he did not see much of the crebain that had dogged their movements. Perhaps they had gone ahead. Perhaps there remained no movement for them to spy on.

He had haunted Harndirion ever since he found it empty. Empty, save one cache, and one note in Helchon's hand: For the journey home, may it serve you well and may your steps be lightened. He had his waterskin, and he had his cry. Precious little had been left, save for this, but enough for him to tell the numbers leaving were great. Great, and perhaps lighter only five than they had been in coming.

Candaith. Himeldir, Linnor, Calithil, Hodhon. Fallen in service of Aragorn on the Forsaken Road. Candaith set up a cairn with his feeble strength. He had found a hollow to hide in when cun annun came sniffing around. They knew his scent, surely, but he was up to high to be caught by them. He dressed his wound as best as he was able and slept heavily.

Without better treatment, his recovery was slow. But, Candaith had few options. He had seen the forces of the White Hand milling about the base of the hill, investigating the force that had gone through. He had been trapped up in his hollow for two days straight avoiding sight and capture. Then the half-orcs moved on. Then he was alone again.

He haunted Harndirion, and gazed ever at Lhanuch. A safety so near and yet so far. The open ground was too much to attempt alone and in such a condition. If he was not cut down by orcs or Draig-lûth, there were wargs to scent his injury and oxen to gore him. He stayed. He haunted Harndirion.

Until the day the dead poured out from the Forsaken Road. He had watched, helpless, petrified, as they surrounded a wagon. His shock increased when the wagon not only passed unharmed, but then stopped outside the very hole these shades had appeared from. He had a decent view from up here. There were figures going in. There were horses, and a wagon unattended.

This was his only chance.

Candaith had made the trip from that place of death in much poorer health than he was now, though he was still unsteady on his feet and his back pulled terribly. Sometimes it opened again and bled, and it was only the athelas in the cache that kept infection at bay. He felt the wound tear again, but this was his chance. He would either find help or death at the hands of these travelers.

He was close enough now. The riders were inside but oh- he knew that horse. He knew Erebrandir, and Glorengur. Candaith ran. He scurried up the path, tripped, and fell before the horses in an undignified heap. He'd startled them. Erebrandir reared back and gave his fiercest whinny.

And that was enough to pull Radanir from the cave.

He limped. He was covered in dirt, grime, and shed tears. He was alive. But his leg was weak, surely, for he fell into the road onto Candaith and hugged him soundly.

"Saeradan!" He cried, voice hoarse, "Saeradan I need you!"

Nothing ever brought Saeradan so quick as a kinsman in need and Radanir pulled the right string. Soon he was surrounded. The tears were joyful and grieving but fell without fear of interruption by the dead. Radanir apologized to his shoulder, over and over, lamenting ever leaving him in the hands of the Dead. Saeradan fetched the things his back truly needed.

"Never, brother, never." Candaith said, in response to the apology. "For had you stayed, and had I found a fifth body on that road, neither of us would be here in the daylight."

And they were not mended, but they were all much healed. And all the ghosts of Harndirion drove north.

[zulixity]

"Elf" can mean quite a few things in the different realms; Aolen elves are considered the strangest physically.

[whitherwanderer]

21 // grave

[ A little bit of an expansion on a WONDERFUL wolqotd that @ahollowgrave posted a while back (whom the prompt "grave" was tailor made for). Ty for the inspiration, my friend. 💛 ]

It needn’t be anything overwrought. Nothing terribly sad and weighty and cumbersome as a headstone, if anything at all. She doubted even a burial would be necessary. A couple of cairns, maybe, or a mark on a tree for the observant passerby to note, oi, you’re steppin’ on someone’s hereafter. Make sure you say hello. If anything, it was the place that mattered more than the marker, and Sif had put more thought into that than anything else.

There was home, Ala Ghiri, to be interred in the catacombs by local customs. (Did they even practice them, still? So much had changed since the occupation.) But it felt ill-fitting. She hadn’t lived there for over twenty summers and she had to admit that referring to it as “home” rang a bit hollow. Dugald would complain about the scenery, too, as he often did. “Dirt, dirt, and more dirt.”

What about a place they agreed more on then, in La Noscea? They both liked the windswept beaches and stormy cliffs of the western coast—even talked about settling down there one day. One day, but never that day. Even if they often found themselves breathing in sea breeze and digging their heels into the chalky La Noscean roads, it never felt final. It never felt like rest.

There was a contender in Mor Dhona, on that little hilltop where the brush and crystal spires gave way to a sad lean-to that they never completed. If anything, that felt too final. Choosing that place to rest eternal was akin to giving up even before their time. The thought of the pyreflies (or “plasmoids”, or whatever clinical name the naturalists gave) buzzing around their heads as if sensing their ends' approach made her hesitant to go back at all.

In truth, she most often thought of the Fringes. Of the many small, painted mountains though which snaked the Velodyna. The foothills of the Spine as it ran through the verdant forest of the East End. Pleasant views in any direction at any time of day, mild seasons, well-tended roads, but…

Wherever it was, she’d be setting up the first marker herself. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew this, and the thought was heavy enough for her to cast off and kick further down the road each time it crept up on her. Then, eventually, someone would have to take the time to make sure a second one was put up with it. She was sure she had a friend crazy or sentimental enough to do it, but that still meant deciding on the place.

There would be time to think about that, though, right?

Right?

[meatmarionette]

cairn's hollow makes me so crazy like there is noo future. generations do not march onward. the teens want out. casper is the only party member from the hollow and each generation of the cor carolis had one fewer child than the last. a slow dwindling of body mass and capital-- the existential threat is coming from inside the house!-- and casper is going to end the line. mwah. c'est fini. the hollow is incompatible with human life and new forms of being are trying to find their niche :) so to me there is this delicious irony that victrans are soo obsessed with the empire's little origin myth.... its imperial-cosmogony-by-martyrdom.... when really they should be talking eschatology 😝 because that shit is doomed. victra delenda est!

[fireandslate]

2.5.8 - Druid Cairn 

LATE AGAIN FUCK

 I had never known Asher Stewardson. Until we had met after Caer Lunan, he had been a stranger to me—a stranger to many other of the townsfolk, born elsewhere and brought to our village by his position in the Church’s army. What had brought him so far north, I did not know. Perhaps would never know.   By this ignorance, the ordinary platitudes felt rendered hollow–more so by the complicity I…

[offwilds]

      Close to the Belleteyn, the sun barely rises, skims the heads of skeletal trees, and drops— its faint light a summon to the old blood of the sacred night; a summon to Maiden, Mother and Crone.

Mother gathers the terrors of the night in the curve of her palm, stretches her arms toward the sky, over rivers of blood and the dark woods, singing with all her skin and bone and sacred body, ancient chants and invokations, her body brimming with arcane powers; when the moon is blood and she, no more than a white shadow, bloodless as a moon on lakewater, she brings her to the woods, to the altar they have made— the both of them— to worship and do Frigg and Freya homage— her, Maiden, daughter of Chaos, her, borne of a bloodless womb, brought to the Goddess wreathed in starlight, in whistling winds; fear her, always — Morgante, whispers, lays her down amid the grass, wet with dew and ice-cold, the dark, rushing river that spills like threads of silver moonlight under the grove in which they pray, in which they spill their blood and make themselves an offering to the Goddess — Mother, bright-coiffed and tall and terrible, whispers in ancient, forgotten tongues, brings out her silver knife— the ceremonial blade they have too oft in the past used to make their offerings; Nereinne offers her hand in quiet devotion, bows her head over the shrine; a tomb-shrine she will later call it, that dark, cold place ablaze with a cold, white fire that burned in the middle of the glade,  a cairn of bleached bones, and as Mother chants and whispers ancient spells, as she spills her blood into a phylactery and binds life and death together, she stares blindly ahead, at the stars rising cold above the hills. The world seems narrowed to the tug of the knife in her hand, the faint scraping noise it makes as it slices through the flesh of her palm; she gasps, and pulls her hand away- only, she cannot move now, she realises, some thing cold and dark holding her down, its touch hollow, and she, a nothing, a gatherer of death, only, laying there, unfeeling, numb and cold as Morgante looms tall and  dreadful over her, spills her wisps of magic over her body,  something fragrant with rot coming to rest near her - and Goddess, she thinks, a frantic, wild thing - Goddess, I come to you wreathed in tears, shield me, your daughter, from The Mother, shield me, your daughter from The Crone -  and as Morgante moves and spills more of her blood into that sacred phylactery, Nereinne begins to feel her senses blur and fade; she screams, but neither voice nor sound comes out, her throat a tight, heavy thing, and, my pulse is hers, my water is hers, Morgante chants into her ear, and she feels her blood go rushing deep beneath her, a river of darkness, her heart beat pounding in the ground and it feels as though she is no longer flesh and bone, only a white shadow, brimming with death, that rot, that growth, the decay - death, her death or another’s, she does not know, she only knows, she is dripping in that blue-white fire now, she is howling but her mouth is shut, her bones are dust and light, she is leaving, she is going away, and then- then all is bright and then smolder-green black, a crow’s cries filling her ears- a woman, she thinks - a hag. Her voice is like nothing she has ever heard before. It seems to be coming from miles away, lacquered and greasy, and she feels it coursing through her like her own blood, feels her eyes burn with the sudden burst and blaze of lightning, rising in her again and again, burning her face. And then - she is gone, and Mother with her.

She lays there, from dawn to night fall, she, cold ancestor. Bloodless daughter of Chaos.  

When she wakes again, she is laying on the banks of a river, half naked and ice cold, her body wreathed in wisps of the pale blue mists moving across the waters. When she awakes, her blood is on her mouth, red and terrible, and she is flying through the trees, energy and magic both rolling off of her slight form in frantic and kinetic waves that have the skies rumbling with the promise of a storm and rain ready to pour down from the heavens. 

And she, no longer Maiden; she, only daughter of Chaos, touched by bright, endless Death, a frazzled, tragic mess of a creature - eyes shining and cheeks uncharacteristically flush as she runs and runs and runs, and never stops, 

Has never stopped, shall never stop, until Mother is given that which she desires, that which she is bearing for her: until that bloodless womb is filled once more with that which she shall summon for her— dry rot and everflowing death, the pulse of the Maiden inter-weaved with  that of the Crone's.

[caelumcreative]

Vakarethis, The Enduring Vigil

"We Guard the Silence, the sacred oath, We keep the Vigil." The sacred words of the Zoreskai, the traditionalist, those who keep the ways of Zoreska, the Duskborn. Unlike their cousins The Draka,who wander the south lands, the Zoreskai built their homes in the clifftops and hollowed walls of the southern land in the Torrid Highlands. The place of bones, the Duskborn who hail from these lands keep all the most sacred traditions of old Zoreska before the time of the Collision. They hold that the ways of their ancestors are the only way to continue forward in the lands of Caelum. They hold a reverence for the dead that borders on the insane and in many cases, ubseen, mummifying their ancestors corpses within Houses of Silence or Cairns and are treated as if they are still living members of society. In the lands of the Zoreskai the dead have more rights than many of the living and undeath is common place. The Zoreskai are often avoided by the wider world, viewed as corpse worshipers, and that's just the way they like it. The city states of the Zoreskai are not aligned to one another and can often have conflict but are often allied in their shared ancestry and traditions, they often swap revered ancestors' vessels to maintain peace, often called Corpse Hostages by outsiders. In their homeworld of Zoreska, the Duskborn souls could be ever present in their undead bodies so long as they were kept in the shadowed lands but upon reaching Caelum after the Collision, the Zoreska were cut off from their most revered elders. Leading to the creation of the Nadrevhazi, the order of necromancers and death priests that lead the many city-states of the Zoreskai, who allow the sacred spirits and ancestors to inhabit vessels that without souls after death. The Nadrevhazi are unable to exactly locate the specific ancestor without significant magical force so it is reserved for sacred elders and important figures in their history. Most bodies end up the vessels for lesser spirits and they maintain and guard the Cairns and crypts of the Zoreskai, this is a great honor for those of lower caste but those outside of the major cities are instead simply buried within the House of Silence in the village, usually guarded by a simple undead. Zoreskai life is dedicated to the most revered figures of ancient Zoreska, The Seven Sages, each being the embodiment of a Zoreskain virtue. The most important of which is Silence, the reverence for the end of life, and keeping what is known as the vigil. The Vigil is they code by which all of the Faithful Zoreskai follow, One must always honor the Ancestors and treat the sacred undead with all due respect of a living. One must always known that life is fleeting and should be grasped always. One must always honor the Cairns, for the loss of a House means the breaking of Silence and the end of the Ancestors. One must always be mindful of Spirits and to not fear them, for those who are mailined are simply lost and should be shown the way. and One must always be vigilant for those who would misuse the gift of Silence and disturb the Rest of the Ancestors unduly. The Vigil guides all life among the Zoreskai to break it is the invite the wrath of the Dead.

[tidesfate]

❝ i fight so that all the fighting i’ve already done hasn’t been for nothing. i fight because i must. ❞ — durnehviir

❛[ SKYRIM SENTENCE STARTERS ≻ accepting

WRETCHED HUSK, THE SEPULCHERED A MOUTH PIECE FOR THE UNINVITED. The Prince was not an intended visitor to this plane // AND IT WORKED AGAINST THE LOCKS IN PLACE. A question had rattled through old bones and withered flesh without the enacting of tongue-- - 'why do you fight aimlessly?'. The desecrated dragon responds to the corpse // FOREIGN EYES GAZE FROM THE SOCKETS UPWARDS. ('NEATH RIBCAGE, WHERE SPACE ALREADY LAY HOLLOW, BLACK TENDRILS WRITHE LIKE WORMS LONG ABSENT). “&– - You fought, for you had not option. It is....understandable. A change is in motion.”

GOLDEN EYE SEEMS TO SURVEY THE SOUL CAIRN, BUT THE ACT OF OBSERVATION IS AS FORMULATED AS PRESENCE, AS WORDS. Hermaeus Mora did not act upon compassion // DID NOT REQUEST FOR INTEREST OF A EXPOSED HEART // but acted upon own interests (AS ALL DO // THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING TO TAKE WITH SOMETHING TO GAIN.) The Old Antecedent did not come to observe the remains of a once grander being, and eyes returned to purchase upon Durnehviir's frame. The cadaver it vessels exhibits NO EMOTION // BUT THE ENTITY WITHIN GIVES A CROON. “&– - They seek your rot endlessly, but you are not isolated to this form of fate. What is temporary can be oh so.... malleable within the right hand.” // @merakses