#LOST ARMOR RECORDS

[darktripz]

LYCAN CASTLE - Spell of a Winter Moon

LYCAN CASTLE - Promo Twenty Twenty Three

LYCAN CASTLE / MISERY - Of Cursed Domains

[camphorfreya]

Dungeon Session - Chapter 2 features several tracks from Lost Armor Records I appreciate all the tape hiss and analogue drone in these recordings. Little Spells really captures the energy of a kid learning their first magic out in the woods, it's lovely.

[faeryworlds]

TAG DROP PART 2

[invinciblerodent]

he's so in love it quite frankly makes him look silly

[jesuistrestriste]

cw (18+): sub!art, afab + femme!character, age gap, crying/dacryphilia, art being a sad and lonely hot guy in his forties, tashi and art never really got together, creampie

˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢

dilf!art getting with a pretty young thing from down the block. . .

he always admired her effortless confidence and the way her body moved when she walked down the street to the corner store every weekend.

always watched her return from his brownstone apartment window; a pack of cinnamon gum and a case of peach seltzer in her hands.

she’s beautiful and bouncy and everything he didn’t get to have in his youth when he was too sucked into tennis to let himself live a little. he lost tashi to patrick. that was that. and he never tried dating again until about ten or so years ago.

they were all flings that crashed and burned their way through his thirties. meaningless moments where all he was left with was a wet dick and a heaviness in his chest. he hated it. he was done with it.

until her.

she was different.

she sparked a conversation with him one day when they ran into each other outside his doorstep. she was cracking jokes that only made her seem more intriguing because art didn’t understand the social context behind them— he was no longer hip and cool, he’d accepted it. but that, combined with the pop of her hip she did when she was making him laugh (not to mention the way she smacked her gum + batted her lashes when she smiled; all pearly whites) made him feel like even more of a creep.

but now she’s bouncing on his cock and gazing down at him while he gasps and squirms like a livewire underneath her.

they’ve only really known each other for a week and a half.

“say thank you, Artie,” she purrs, her hand tracing the spattered flush on his chest, “say it.”

he bucks his hips up as much as he can to meet her movements, and bites his lip hard enough to taste metal when his tip bumps her cervix.

“thank you, oh my god, thank you— thank you, thank you—! ha-aah-!”

he babbles; a broken record of whines and shaky moans. his throat hurts from all of the sounds being pulled from him when the most he’s talked all month has come from just a couple of boring, remote interviews about his athletic career.

and her, of course.

god, it’s all her..

he swallows and keens, and then his eyes are watering.

and then he’s sobbing. he’s choking on his tears and yet he’s still feeling the tight coil of warmth tense further and further and further-

“don’t cry,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss the wetness from his cheeks, her hips swiveling to ride him harder just as the first slimy blurt of his orgasm spills inside, “you’re a good boy, okay? you’re perfect… a total catch…”

she smells like candy. she’s wiping his tears now.

“oh fuck, thank you-uu—hnghh!”

art lifts his hips, his face crumpling with pleasure and sadness, before he yelps and his climax wipes him out. his whole body trembles as he feels his cock pulse and coat her pussy with gooey clots of his spend. he’s practically wheezing.

he grips onto her hips fiercely; like if he doesn’t squeeze hard enough she’ll just go *poof*, and then he’ll be alone again.

“.. ungh, ‘m sorry, im cumming inside you, im cumming, im so sorry,” he whimpers, the aftershocks leaving him feeling bare and weak. stripped of all of his armor. if he even had any left to begin with.

she kisses his shoulder gently, and then she’s dipping her glossy lips down to whisper right next to his ear. her dainty necklace chills his skin when it dangles from her body and meets his collarbone. she’s so close to him.

“don’t worry, Mr. Donaldson…

you’ll be a great daddy.”

[ruinofchimera]

Lily Evans was far from a white knight in shining armor in the confrontations between James & Co. and Severus. And if you want to talk about her toxic friendship with Snape, don’t try to erase her contribution to the equation.

Apparently, her close friend is lifted upside down by a spell that causes his robes to fall and expose his underwear. As he helplessly struggles, flailing to free himself, a crowd gathers to watch the spectacle. His wand is out of reach, and he is being mocked and threatened. Of course, as a true friend, she finds this picture amusing enough that she has to hold back her laughter. You know, absolutely reasonable behavior for someone who cares for you deeply. Moreover, imagine if Remus were in a similar situation—no doubt his friends' first reaction would be to laugh, or perhaps yell at his bullies to put him down. With his wand in hand, James Potter would stand by and wait for his friend to be released.

Definitely a turning point in Lily and Severus's friendship. Though Severus's behavior was heavily dictated by a strong sense of hurt after such a public humiliation and violation of his privacy, as you all say, these circumstances justify nothing when it comes to throwing those kinds of insults. Fine.

Oh, but what explains her response, then? Was she hurt too? Humiliated? If you’re saying that the mental state after such a traumatic experience as the one James inflicted upon Severus shouldn’t have affected his words, what justifies Lily’s behavior? What made such a saintly person as she join in the ridicule of her so-called friend in an instant? Not only did she join in by calling him the insulting nickname used by his abusers, but she also added another mockery of Severus to the rotten pile as if it weren’t enough already. And I want to remind you once again that Lily lost control of her emotions before she had even gone through half the humiliation that Snape had endured, for the record.

Thus, it appears that there is a precedent of hypocrisy here. Why do you make this situation appear as a one-sided insult (Severus is the big bad wolf and Lily is the victim) rather than a mutual emotional outburst? Why is Lily allowed to feel hurt but Snape isn’t, though Severus’s emotional damage is at least double? Fine. Let’s move on to the approach both of them took in their apologies.

So, apparently, Severus felt guilty after committing such an atrocity as calling Lily a Mudblood. He made a sincere attempt to apologize. Lily didn’t feel guilty for her contribution to his public humiliation; she was sure the only villain here was Severus.

Lily had every right imaginable to reject his attempts to make amends, but the thing is, Severus reconsidered his behavior—she never did. Moreover, she expressed absolute skepticism about his redemption. Should I even mention that she later started dating his bully? The one who never even tried to apologise for his assaults on Snape?

Somehow, she believed in James's redemption even without him admitting his wrongs. Let it be. That’s not the main point of discussion. What I really struggle to understand is how, given all these circumstances, Lily becomes a cheered, glorious friend, and Severus is commonly believed to be the villain in their dynamic.

Did I overlook something? Prove me wrong, if you please. Open my eyes to where exactly Lily is a saint or martyr. Where is she even a good friend in the first place? I’m all ears.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Five Famous Book Monsters Drawn: EXACTLY AS DESCRIBED BY AUTHORS!

Many movie adaptations of famous novels change the character and creature designs, some very drastically. Here are five famous monsters or villains that I've rendered with great care toward their original descriptions in their first books. Some aren't what you might expect from the movie versions! Enjoy!

#1- The Exorcist

The Exorcist by Ira Levin features a demon named Pazuzu. In the book, we see a few glimpses of a wicked face and a horribly injured Linda Blair, but in the original novel, Pazuzu is described as a skeletal ghost with a snakelike spinal column that ends in a devil tail. His hands float separately, and his many horns are topped by a hat with a pigeon feather, much like the biblical description of the demon.

#2- Jaws

Jaws by Peter Benchley was much more of a sci-fi novel than the movie based on it. In the original story, the shark had a human-like mind and arms and legs. It was well armed and killed not with its teeth, but its two AK-47s. It is only defeated when the sheriff ties its loose shoelaces together.

#3- The Lord of the Rings

Sauron is described by J.J.R. Tolkien not as the fiery eyeball or armored mammoth seen in Peter Jackson's movies, but rather as a beautiful long haired man in a white robe with chubby cheeks and enormous, pendulous bosoms. Over 30 pages are spent describing the Mounds of Doom, or in Elvish "Orodroobies" and in Sindarin, "Amon Amammaries."

#4- Frankenstein

Mary Shelly's masterpiece is considered the dawn of sci-fi and horror alike, but it's iconic monster looked nothing like Boris Karloff in the text. Rather it was a tentacled half-octopus, half-man, half-dragon that caused madness in anyone who saw it emerge from its home, the lost island of R'lyeh. Note that the name "Frankenstein" is not that of the monster itself, but is the closest a human can come to pronouncing its true name, as recorded by Igor Alhazrad.

#5- The Lorax

It's hard to guess what Roald Dahl pictured just from the descriptions in his novel, but the title monster from his 15-Volume Norwegian language epic "The Lorax" is nothing like you may have seen in the popular CGI erotic film. In the novel, it has orange hair and big eyebrows but is more like a spectral demon with crystal eyes and jagged fangs that bounds through the Norwegian desert on its two massive feet, each of which has one claw. A similar fate met Agent Smith from his novel "The Matrix" who was a big green robot in the book, but is clearly a Hugo Weaving in the movies.

[romanoffsbish]

Professional Mishaps

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

Warnings: Smutty but not truly | Injury

18+ | Minors DNI

Natasha was far too eager to anticipate anything other than pleasure to come from your OF session | WC: 1,272

Natasha watched you with hungry eyes through the screen of your high tech video camera as she set it up on the tripod and angled it properly for the scene.

After six months of streaming and recording only fans content you'd finally agreed to give her strap head. It'd always been a fantasy she begged for and you secretly craved as well—but you would never tell her that.

——

Making her wait for things always seemed to yield the greatest results; something about the chase just makes the redhead perform better. You know for certain that making her wait until six months in to have sex was the greatest thing you ever did for your relationship.

The way you fell apart for her that night was all she needed to know you were her final partner. Nobody else would ever compare to you and your innocence and you felt the same way about her subtle deviance.

A match made in heaven you two were, both a perfect compliment to the other's weaknesses. In moments like these Natasha usually always led and you followed.

You were just as excited when you told her yes late last night, it was worth it alone for the smile but then the way she hugged you even tighter made you want it almost as badly, as if the fantasy was yours before hers.

There was also the case to be made that you were just as nervous as you were excited. Eating her out was never a hard feat for you, somedays, when she was dripping and open you'd get lost down in her oasis. Never though had you taken a strap in this lewd of a manner, and your lover picked up on that in an instant.

"Detka, come here," she called as she entered the frame with an elegance to her stride that reminded you of your disparity when it came to experience. Strong arms wrapped around your torso, and firmly pulled you into Natasha's warm embrace and your lips soon mirrored the sentiment as you both naturally leaned forward.

A sigh left your lips and she deepened the intimacy, her tongue swirled devilishly around yours, causing an unconscious reaction as your thighs rubbed together.

The kiss naturally picked up in intensity, both of you knowing you much preferred direct action over talking. If she called out your nerves you'd likely spiral and the bills would go unpaid since it'd been months since you posted for your loyal fans due to day jobs and trips.

As the speed of your breathing picked up the redhead softly and privately reassured you with a firm squeeze to your hips without breaking character. Arousal held you captive, primarily, but the anxiety always lingered.

Natasha was always inherently good at keeping you feeling calm and safe... Or at least she usually was.

The moment had grown more intense as her hands and lips roamed, you moaned as she groped your breasts. “Desperate slut," she growled against the tender skin of your marked up jaw before she abruptly shoved you down onto your knees for your more kinky subscribers.

"Open up," she demanded, the tip of her flesh toned strap slapped against your cheek and under normal circumstances you'd find this aggression hot but your girlfriend severely underestimated her strength here.

Natasha's eyes widened as she watched fate work against her, it was almost comical how the woman's face contorted into one of horror and remorse. Your body lurched forward against your protests and in a painful occurrence the silicone scratched your cornea.

"Oh for the love of fuck," you screeched as you fell the rest of the way forward, eyes watering as you squinted the injured one and leaned against your lovers thigh.

Natasha's usual night in shining armor reaction,

however, was delayed by her unwavering shock, "Oh my, we need to go to the urgent care, come on—up!" Her usually confident hands shakily reached down to pull you up off the floor and straight into her arms, bridal style. Without any thought the woman began to run downstairs, but just as she flung the door open the breeze reminded her of your mostly unclothed states.

The woman thanked the powers that be for you being distracted because you would likely have yelled at the remote idea that your neighbors saw you both in your lingerie, with a strap dangling between muscular legs.

You whimpered at the chill and she was back inside.

The redhead truly felt terrible as she set your crying form onto the couch, her lips gently pressed to your forehead as she whispered, "I'll be right back detka, don't go anywhere." If you could do so without pain you would've rolled your eyes at your lovable idiot.

In a whiplash of limbs you were dressed and swiftly on the way to the urgent care. The drive was silent, guilt and remorse, by the way of her hand on your thigh, were heavily intermixed in the air. Natasha was overly gentle now, pulling you from the car like you were as fragile as a porcelain doll. You, as to be expected, let Natasha explain to the front desk what happened...

—

Three hours later you found yourself in an exam bed, an ugly gown on for no reason whatsoever seeing as how you only injured your eye but the nurse was adamant that you wear it. Natasha might as well have left you in your lingerie over your comfy sweatsuit.

The doctor had already seen you, but she allowed you to rest in the bed while they waited for your anti fungal eye drops to be sent to your local pharmacy. It was a slow night and would be a waste for you to drive home just to leave to get the eye drops in an hour anyways.

So, in the forced downtime you decided best not to strain your good eye. Natasha consequently thought you'd fallen asleep since you were also breathing much softer, and your other eye was covered by gauze.

With nothing better to do Natasha slyly opened her phone and slid her AirPod Max’s over her head and, for research purposes only of course, she watched the encounter from earlier unfold on her tiny screen.

In the unusual silence you didn't find comfort, as Nat is usually a chatterbox in moments like these so you tiredly opened your eye to catch sight of her smirking. You didn't need the IQ of a rocket scientist to know what was likely illuminating her face in the dark room.

"Oi!" Natasha shrieked as a pillow knocked her phone out of her hand with precise aim. "Delete it Natalia."

"Don't be such a killjoy Y/N/N," she teased while making her way over to your side, her hand slid into yours with a familiarity that comforted you to the point of weakness as your angry facade faded into a pout. "Now come on, my detka isn't usually a poor sport."

"Your detka doesn't usually have a corneal abrasion," you huffed, the anger easily returned, "I mean come on Natty, how in the hell do you plan to explain this?!"

"I plan on keeping you indoors,” she shrugged and you chuckled tauntingly, “Your family flies in tomorrow.”

The look of terror on her face made you smile, it was almost the perfect revenge, but you also felt bad. So, you scooted over and patted the spot next to you. The redhead wasted no time crawling into the bed and cuddling into your warm embrace. “I’m sorry detka.”

“It’s okay love,” you whispered, “It’s a funny story…”

[darktripz]

NOCTURNAL EFFIGY - Ov Wampyric Blood

CONIFEROUS MYST - X

SERPENT’S ISLE - The Sunken

KLYVR - Battles & Frost

KLYVR / PINE KNIGHT - Songs of Andor

GOBLIN FORT - Lost Arcane Tunnels

Lost Armor Records

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

The Reunion of Lion and Guilliman

It’s a big deal, of course. The primarchs, resplendent in their armor, formally greet each other and shake hands on a dais. Lights flash around them as pict after pict is taken, servo skulls hovering close as they furiously record the occasion. Thousands of their sons stand to attention, organized by chapter in perfect parade formation, a rainbow of colors and heraldry buffed to an exquisite sheen. The great and good of the Imperium fill the audience, each weighed down with garments and jewelry worth whole planets. Speeches are given, glorious words about brotherhood and friendship and strength in the darkest hours. Outside, pilgrims swoon in ecstatic frenzy at the glory of the moment.

The real reunion takes place after the festivities die down. The primarchs remove their armor and retreat to a room that has been hastily cleaned after millennia of disuse for just this purpose. It is a humble room, no more than a lounge, made for casual conversation and socialization. Its unique quality are the dimensions of the furniture, for this room was made for a very specific group of brothers—brothers who, bar two, are now gone.

Lion sniffs at an arrangement of bottles on one of the tables. “Mjod,” he growls.

“The Space Wolves were generous,” Guilliman says.

“Is this really necessary?” Lion frowns.

Guilliman says nothing, only raises an eyebrow at him. Him, and the rest of the galaxy, and the state of humanity, and the crumbling Imperium. Lion considers his life and the future awaiting him. Then he seizes a bottle and downs it in one go.

Hours pass. There is laughter, and there are tears. Stories old and new are shared. There is considerable commentary on the current Imperium—commentary that, should it have come from lesser men, may have been described as complaining. A full ten minutes are devoted to cherubs alone. (“I spent a week shooting them down until someone told me what they were.” “I swear by Terra herself, I thought they were Chaos abominations.”)

There is no fighting. That will come, eventually; tomorrow, or in a week, or a month. They are very different people, with different ideas and plans, and both are proud men disinclined to compromise. Conflict is inevitable. But not tonight. Each has lost too much to sacrifice this rare moment with his only surviving peer.

The night winds on. Bottle after bottle is consumed. Lion’s tabard lies discarded on an armchair. Guilliman’s laurels hang from a lamp. Both are flushed with mjod, hair flying free of carefully coiffed hairdos. Lion is lying on the floor, hands folded neatly across his chest, staring into the middle distance at the ceiling. Guilliman is facedown on a couch, muffled muttering emanating occasionally from his body.

A thought dawns on the Lion. It is a joke he heard once from M’kia. Lion is ambivalent on the topic of jokes, but this one fits the current situation too well to be ignored.

“Brother,” he says, “I have realized something.”

A grunt issues from Guilliman, signaling him to continue. Lion begins the joke.

“It occurs to me that if I had a throne for every time the galaxy was split by a warpstorm, and you asked me for help running the Imperium, I would have two thrones. Which isn’t much, but it is strange that it happened twice.”

Silence. Guilliman’s shoulders shake as muffled sobbing emits from the couch.

[abdeladrian]

when it comes to balduran/the emperor and ansur i think its a really interesting sort of tragedy no matter how you interpret their relationship and the nature of what happened.

because there's something to once being a hero so renowned that a home to thousands is in your name. and having a companion so dear that they'd kill you to preserve You, but also having changed so much against your will from that hero and that friend they knew and having to come to terms with it (maybe also against your will).

and being a survivor in the long run and being saved time and time again and being used and using back. of coming back home and infiltrating and taking power and being captured and used to hurt when you used to help. of running and manipulating and attempting to do the same trust-build-seduction method you once used with someone new, and trying to convince this person to become like you. because at this point you've lost the ability to feel your feelings

we obviously by nature of its character cant tell when the emperor is lying, telling the truth, or being sincere but i also like really don't like the idea of intrinsic evilness so sometimes i want to take him at face value. we have examples of a mind flayer having genuine companionship (omeluum) alongside having a purpose that lets them live a life separate from the grand design, and i fear having ansur was perhaps the only reason the emperor ever got to be free. not just physically but mentally.

because balduran went sailing one day because he missed it and never came home. ansur fought to find him and was too late. y'know. and like. how heartbreaking is that? that ansur who loved and protected and promised to keep balduran's city safe… made a promise that became a prison. to love so wholly that he wanted to preserve his partner even when his partner gave up and told him to leave and keep his memory as the thing that mattered. how heartbreaking for balduran to have killed him in self defense and then built him a tomb where he could rest? that no one would disturb him? how famous the love was that his promise to protect became legend? the last wish he ever had? that the only way to wake him was to pass a gauntlet to prove your worth? while recording praises for their partnership?

like forgive me but i don't think creating an elaborate tomb to protect ansur's final resting place is a lack of feeling. ansur made a promise that became a prison that became a legend. his legacy was love. and he recognized balduran from feeling alone and got to see him again, for what its worth. the emperor will always be ansur's balduran.

also we see ansur in his dragonborn form. not controversial i hope but they were more than friends! ansur i'm sorry king. your husband became calamari and unrecognizable. and when he accuses balduran of thralling the player, which we can refute, and ansur just stops to Look only for balduran to break the silence by RECITING THE LETTER? DEAR ANSUR? AND THAT'S WHAT DRIVES ANSUR TO ATTACK?

nevermind the fact that you can't make the dream guardian a dragonborn. and the armor it wears is awfully similar to ansur's in his humanoid form. balduran never forgot ansur. i think balduran-as-the-emperor in dream guardian form not taking a form like ansurs but still keeping that armor, still speaking ansur's words and acting out his intents when promising the player protection and care, is evidence that ansur lived in him still. even through the layers of the loss of identity that was him becoming a mind flayer.

ansur was the heart of the gate. and it's baldur's gate. he's balduran's heart. his heart. ansur lived in him. it was a promise that became a prison that became a legend. his legacy was love

[aromantic-ace]

Humans Are Weirds: Clothing.

I'm pretty sure it already has been done by someone but i didn't see their post if there is one so allow me to post the way i'm picturing this.

So on Earth humans are pretty much the only species to use clothing because we cannot survive some temperature without them, but what if it wasn't the case of others species ? What if they naturally developed with time chitinuous shell were there is a need to have one, there would be different kind of alien capable of rapidly growing an exoskeleton to survive the space void or very low temperature and it would shed after a few moments, how would they react to humans ? What if they couldn't comprehend why we would spend so much time and effort to make clothes just to be more confortable or to be able to whistand low temperature ? What if they pictured it as the same thing as the old skin of lizards and other reptiles ?

Alien: So let me get this straight.. you guys.. don't grow those skins ?

Human: Well no, these are manufactured in mass so we can protect ourselves from the cold, the heat or space void, it's also mainly used for fashion.

Alien: Fashion ? What is that ?

Human: It's... kinda complicated to explain but you could see it as a way to express ourselves or put ourselves in value ? I'm not an expert in that you gotta ask Mark.

Alien: Alright alright let's just go back to what you said. Humans can't survive the cold ?

Human: Well we can, there is record of some of us living in some absolutely horrendous climate with almost no clothing but we don't like it. It's mostly just for confort and protection against all sort of things.

Alien: But why ? Why wouldn't you all let your specie evolve to get those protection naturally ? I've read some texts about humans and there was a time where you guys had fur ! Why ?

Human: I dunno, we kinda just.. lost it ? The human skins can't block bullets or lasers so that's why we do that.

Alien: You guys can't block bullet and lasers ? But there is thousands of records of you people tanking explosion and bullets, laser beam sometime even rockets without a problem ! Is your specie separated in different class ? Like is that a difference from normal humans and warrior humans ?

Human: Nope, it's all just clothing, and armor.

Alien confused: I still can't believe how you guys managed to survive that long, humans really are weirds..

From this day no remark were said about how human would lose their skin almost every days or why they would re use it just after some cleaning. It was also specified in the Intergalactic Manual About Humans that a human without "clothes" was ostracised by it's kind and that there should always be some emergency skins in case of such an event happening.

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]

[ashtarels-archives]

Myths of the High Priestesses

- Headcanon Speculations -

The lore and legend of High Priestesses past have largely been lost to the ages; although scattered findings and enduring myths sweep away some of the dust from the buried tales of Elune’s chosen.

Haidene - Bearer of the Basin

Haidene was the first known chosen of Elune in all of the Kaldorei’s recorded history. It is said that she heard the Goddess’s true voice, and as a child no less.

An unsubstantiated legend tells that Haidene heard the will of the Goddess to make pilgrimage across Kalimdor and create the very first independent moonwell for the burgeoning Kaldorei to thrive across the continent, and that Haidene used the iconic basin as a vessel of safekeeping for the blessed waters of the Well of Eternity. Haidene supposedly experienced dire straits on this pilgrimage; she and her kin on the brink of fatal thirst. Haidene gathered what little of their water remained, enough to sustain her for far longer if she chose to drink from it alone. The others pleaded with Haidene to drink deep and preserve herself, for she was the very incarnation of the Goddess. In a selfless act of faith, she cast the basin skyward and beseeched Elune, that she would give herself in body and soul if only it were filled, so her people could live to see another moon, and press on to the bountiful lands ahead. It is said that for her benevolence, Haidene was granted the title of High Priestess by goddess and kin alike. It was on this night that Elune taught Haidene the sacred artisanry of the ever-flowing moonwell, the very same that still persists in her statues today. It is only rumored, but this moonwell could have been the one nestled in the heart of ancient Moonglade, having since flourished into Lake Elune’ara.

Tales that have only endured by way of oral tradition say that Haidene's blessed waters were shared in the first feast of Lahassa during the earliest epoch of the Kaldorei. There are even theories that the sacred Chalice of Elune may have belonged to Haidene, the relic permanently blessed from this momentous celebration made possible by Elune and the land’s combined bounty.

Elunarian archaeologists claim that Haidene may have established the temple in Desolace, known today as the Palace or Sanctuary of Elune. A place so ancient that its real name has been lost and blotted out by demonic desecration. Many of the relics recovered here are thematically linked to Haidene: The Cup of Elune as a relic of physical and spiritual cleansing, and Elune's Handmaiden as a relic of celebrating victory and sacrificial offering. The embers recovered here from Elune’s Brazier may have indeed been borne from an actual flame, or they could be remnants of Elune’s liquid fire; an apt medium for High Priestess Haidene.

Kalo'thera - Ascended of the Stars

Kalo’thera was the next known chosen of Elune, following Haidene. Her name evokes meanings along the lines of “stellar warrior.” Unfortunately, there are no known depictions of Kalo’thera's true likeness; although some choose to stylize her in darkling garbs and armor reminiscent of the new moon, due to purported ties to Elune’s Night Warrior aspect.

It is said that Kalo'thera “ascended to the stars” at the temple of old Hajiri, though these ancient words have not been elucidated further. None now live who remember seeing Kalo’thera’s ascension ritual with their own eyes, but there are a myriad proposed theories as to what this could have meant.

She may have fulfilled all of her earthly duties as wished by Elune, or proved herself an exemplar through astounding feats; and was rewarded with the status of demigoddess for her service as high priestess. Some believe that Kalo’thera now exists as a constellation in the realm of midnight from this divine act, perhaps other demigods and demigoddesses represented in this form as well.

She may have been slain in battle, “ascending to the stars” perhaps referring to her joining the Night Warrior’s embrace along with the other souls of the valiant dead riding across the night sky. The story of this ascension ritual might then be a widespread coverup by those who witnessed Kalo’thera’s true end.

She may have invoked the ritual of the Night Warrior, subsequently being torn apart in body by the wrath of the new moon. Ancient legends speak of the Night Warrior’s power being used as the driving force for carving out the Kaldorei Empire, Kalo’thera perhaps spearheading the expansion with this dark boon to wrest lands from the myriad world powers of the Pre-Sundering age.

Old myths describe a rare and lost regalia, called nightcloth, almost as if an opposing material to mooncloth. This was supposedly worn during the expansion era to better blend into the shadows of nightfall for battle, some claiming by Kalo’thera and the other Night Warrior witnesses. The exact origins and techniques of crafting nightcloth seem to have faded along with history; however, there are speculations that this fell out of favor within the Sisterhood due to the dangerous associated ritual that ended up slaying the invoking avatars, and even onlookers. Kalo’thera may have been the one to engrave the tablets of Bashal'aran describing the Night Warrior and the other aspects of Elune. There is a deep blue, nearly black, flame in the heart of the Ameth’aran ruins as well. Some Elunarian scholars theorize that perhaps its color owes to the Night Warrior’s midnight powers. This flame was later twisted by Athrikus Narassin using a moonstone seal to bind souls in a spiritual prison; curiously still, souls thought to be under the purview of the Night Warrior. Some say that Kalo’thera was the first to be granted knowledge of the Starshards spell by the Goddess, its namesake partially deriving from Kalo’thera. A superstition of the Sisterhood claims that it is Kalo’thera herself who now grants moonpriests this power, crystallizing pieces of starlight and raining them down from the midnight heavens to her earthbound descendants who call upon the aid of the stars.

Dejahna - Zenith of Conviction

Dejahna was the third known chosen of Elune, following Kalo’thera. She was the mentor and predecessor to Tyrande Whisperwind.

Those who braved the Tomb of Sargeras, once Dejahna’s primary temple in life, claim to have seen her incorporeal form. If her spirit is at all reflective of her appearance in life, then Dejahna preferred dark robes, with silver accents and blue gemstones. It may have been customary for a High Priestess to don specific garbs, as Tyrande replies to the news of her appointment to this position with, “I’ll become high priestess—at least until this war is over—but I will keep my present garments—” (Demon Soul, Ch. 17) Dejahna’s darkling robes could also be due to her presiding over the burial site in the depths of the temple, perhaps a ceremonial garb for rites involving the dead.

Some say that Dejahna’s harshness and austerity arose from Kalo’thera as her assumed mentor; others say that an influx of unfaithful Highborne attempting to join the Sisterhood as a last resort was seen as a mockery of the order. Dejahna supposedly then raised the standards of entry to rigorous heights, some dubbing her the Zenith of Conviction for her high expectations from novices.

Given Azshara’s growing distance from the faith, and attempts to eclipse Elune with devotion from her subjects, old rumors claim that Dejahna held a particular bitterness for the queen by the outbreak of the War of the Ancients. This may have been in part due to Azshara’s appointment of her own High Priestess: Siralen of Vashj’ir.

Dejahna’s temple hosted a handful of templars, perhaps this ancient version of a lunar paladin having once been a prestigious rank within the faith.

An ornate vial was recovered from the Cathedral of Eternal Night, whose glass was said to “bear the mark of Dejahna.” It is unclear what this mark truly is, but it could be that each High Priestess, or even priestesses as a whole, have personal sigils rooted in the Elunarian language similar to a common signature. This vial could have been her personal vessel of moonwater, or one of many that she bestowed blessings upon by way of this mark. Considering its name of "Eternal Moon,” this may refer to the blessing or enchantment on the vial lasting eternally or having a resilient quality to its magick; as it did survive the temple sinking to the bottom of the ocean, being raised again by Gul'dan, and being pillaged by demonic forces and adventurers alike.

The upper levels of Dejahna's temple contained the "Hanging Gardens," which were actually tended to by an ancient named Agronox before he fell to corruption. It could be that because this temple was the heart of night elven worship in the empire, an ancient's service in a temple was a rare sight; or, Agronox's existence here could mean that others of his kind served alongside Kaldorei priestesses in other parts of the Pre-Sundering world as well.

Dejahna fell in battle during the War of the Ancients, and named Tyrande as her successor to take the mantle. This is an interesting development, as it would seem like such a position is granted directly by Elune, as seen with Haidene. However, in Demon Soul, Marinda is sent to deliver the message of Tyrande’s succession: “‘Before her death, she named a successor…’ Tyrande nodded. This was to be expected. The new high priestess had, of course, immediately sent out messengers like Marinda to spread the word of her ascension.” This being “expected” implies that naming a successor was a traditional practice in passing on the mantle. Supposedly as Dejahna was dying, she “insisted that only her attendants would know.” (Ch. 17) This could just be referring to healers seeing to her wounds, or it could be that within the Sisterhood at this time, there may have been a specific rank for tending to the High Priestess; an interesting parallel to the handmaidens of Queen Azshara. Marinda also reveals “…that, normally, there would be a ceremony, a long entailed one that as many worshippers as possible would be invited to see.” Elunarian faithful from all over Kalimdor likely traveled great distances to see such a monumental event. This role in general also seemed heavily involved at the time, “leading this chant and that. The temple also held a blessing each evening for the rising of the moon and the good will of the gods. In addition, the leading nobles always had to have some sort of recognition ceremony for various anniversaries and other events…” (Ch. 17)

A final piece of High Priestess lore we learn from Marinda comes from the reasoning behind Dejahna’s choice: “She was of clear mind, sister. And you should understand, she had made mention of you before this. The senior sisters all understood that you were the one…and no one among them argued the decision.” (Ch. 17) This uncovers an interesting dynamic in the old Sisterhood then, that there was at least a dialogue among the senior sisters, if not a democratic process settled through debate around the next chosen High Priestess.

Siralen - The Contended

“Let this statue stand as an everlasting testament to High Priestess Siralen in the name of all she has done to nurture Quel'Dormir Temple into a glowing beacon of faith. May her newfound service under Queen Azshara herself shine as a testament to the potential of the noble birth nurtured in our beloved, Vashj'ir.”

The case of Siralen is a strange one, as she was not passed this mantle from a High Priestess within the Sisterhood – as was tradition. She was instead granted this title by Queen Azshara, supposedly for strengthening the faith of Quel’dormir Temple in the royal city of Vashj’ir. It is interesting to speculate how priestesses across Kalimdor reacted to this decision: whether they saw it to be just as divine an act as being appointed by Elune herself or a current High Priestess, or if they disagreed with a bestowal that strayed so far from the role’s sacred history. Many of Azshara’s epithets insinuate that she was viewed favorably in tandem with the goddess, such as Daughter of the Moon, Flower of the Moon, and Radiance of the Moon. Although, others lean towards eclipsing Elune’s worship, like Light of a Thousand Moons, for example. In any case, the appointment of Siralen then introduces the question of authority, and whether the High Priestess of the Sisterhood was considered of higher, lower, or equal status.

Noteworthy still that her service is “under Queen Azshara herself,” and it could be that this nurtured faith was actually to the Queen, as Elune is conspicuously not mentioned anywhere in this engraving. It also reads, “a testament to the potential of the noble birth nurtured in our beloved, Vashj’ir,” perhaps alluding to a growing and more obvious class divide between the highborne and common Kaldorei; or at least the boundless arrogance of the highborne caste.

[sonyaheaneyauthor]

And yet everyone keeps telling Ukrainians they have to surrender, instead of telling russia to get out of Ukraine to stop the deaths...

Russia Loses Entire Regiment in One Day

This Was the Deadliest Day Yet for Putin’s Forces.

Ukrainian Armed Forces reported on November 12, that they killed or injured 1,950 Russian soldiers in just one day — a number nearly equal to an entire Russian regiment.

Lost An Entire Regiment

A Russian regiment typically consists of about 1,000 to 2,000 soldiers, depending on its type and role within the military structure, according to Ziare.

Motorized rifle or infantry regiments usually have around 1,500 to 2,000 troops, while armored or tank regiments tend to be on the smaller end, closer to 1,000 to 1,200 troops.

These numbers are rough estimates, as the size and organization of regiments can fluctuate, especially during wartime when units may operate below full capacity due to casualties and logistical challenges.

Highest Recorded Since Invasion

This daily toll is the highest recorded since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine began, underscoring the heavy losses Russia faces as it maintains its offensive in Ukraine.

Ukraine’s General Staff also reported the destruction of 81 Russian armored vehicles in the same period.

These losses occurred as Russia continued to apply pressure on multiple fronts, leading to a series of intense battles.

The Ukrainian forces’ success in resisting these assaults has resulted in significant damage to Russian personnel and military equipment, according to Ukrainian sources.

Since the war started, Ukraine has been releasing updates on Russian losses. The recent totals, with daily changes in parentheses, are as follows:

Personnel: approximately 712,610 (+1,950 from the previous day)

Tanks: 9,276 (+23)

Armored combat vehicles: 18,847 (+81)

Artillery systems: 20,352 (+38)

Multiple rocket launchers: 1,249 (+4)

Anti-aircraft systems: 996 (no change)

Aircraft: 369 (no change)

Helicopters: 329 (no change)

Drones: 18,737 (+61)

Cruise missiles: 2,636 (no change)

Naval vessels: 28 (no change)

Submarines: 1 (no change)

Vehicles and fuel tanks: 28,870 (+68)

Special military equipment: 3,626 (+6)

[arminreindl]

Benggwigwishingasuchus: The Fisher Crocodile

I once again come bearing news from the realm of Pseudosuchia. Yes, we got a new taxon. Benggwigwishingasuchus eremicarminis ("Fisherman Croc's desert song") is a new basal member of the poposauroidea, a clade you might have heard about before.

But first some more key notes. Benggwigwishingasuchus has been recovered from the Anisian Fossil Hill Member of the Favret Formation, located in the US State of Nevada. It is known from a decently complete skeleton that preserves much of the neck and torso, a decent chunk of the limbs but only small pieces of the skull.

Left: Press release artwork of Benggwigwishingasuchus looking across the Panthalassan Ocean (Jorge A. Gonzalez) Right: Fossil material

As said already, Benggwigwishingasuchus is considered a member of the poposauroidea, one of the most enigmatic groups of early pseudosuchians. The reason for that is that we primarily know them from their most derived members, the bipedal Poposaurus, the sail-backed ctenosauriscids, Lotosaurus, the ornithomimosaur-mimics of the Shuvosauridae and Qianosuchus. As you can see many appear kind of like proto-dinosaurs and most have lost their osteoderm armor, requiring a whole different skeletal structure to support their erect posture. But until recent years we knew little and less about where they came from. This is thankfully starting to change now, since we now not only have Benggwigwishingasuchus, but also Schultzsuchus (formerly "Prestosuchus" loricatus) described earlier this year, Mambawakale from two years ago and recently assigned to the group as well as Mandasuchus (similar to Mambawakale originally described as something else and recently considered as a basal poposauroid). Thanks to these we are slowly starting to see a transition. Schultzsuchus still has pretty standard armour for example, but Qianosuchus shows clear signs of reduction, with Benggwigwishingasuchus kinda falling into the middle between them.

Assorted Poposauroids: clockwise from top right: Poposaurus (Skye McDavid), Arizonasaurus (Gabriel Ugueto), Lotosaurus (Gabriel Ugueto), Shuvosaurus (Joschua Knüppe)

What's also interesting about Benggwigwishingasuchus is its ecology, or what little we can infer based on the circumstances of its preseration. You see, the Favret Formation preserves marine sediments and was previously best known for its ichthyosaurs (including the giant Cymbospondylus). So its kind of weird seeing a rather lanky pseudosuchian there. What's weirder still is the fact that the preservation seems to suggest that it wasn't swept out. No, its still reasonably complete, partially articulated and in the classic death pose with its back bent backwards, this thing was moved little before being burried. BUT. It wasn't marine. The skeleton fits of a terrestrial animal and both limb proportions and histology show no evidence of it being a swimmer or diver. Instead its hypothesized that it might have been an animal that inhabited the coast, possibly drawing sustenance from the sea but not actively adapted to forage in it. In this sense Benggwigwishingasuchus could parallel Ticinosuchus from Switzerland and Qianosuchus from China, both of which were coastal animals yet not explicitly aquatic (in the case of Qianosuchus it was originally proposed given its specialised tail, but recent work seems to suggest it was never very fast nor enduring).

Top image: Benggwigwishingasuchus standing on the skull of Cymbospondylus (Joschua Knüppe) Bottom left: Ticinosuchus among a group of Tanystropheus (Zach Robinson) Bottom right: Qianosuchus holding a fish (Gabriel Ugueto)

All in all, Benggwigwishingasuchus is an interesting animal that does fill in some gaps in the fossil record, both phylogentically and ecologically and though the description is sparce on actually describing the skeleton, here's hoping that more research will come out eventually. Hell, they dropped a histology on it like a day after it was named.

Wikipedia:

Benggwigwishingasuchus - Wikipedia Papers: A new pseudosuchian from the Favret Formation of Nevada reveals that archosauriforms occupied coastal regions globally during the Middle Triassic | Biology Letters (royalsocietypublishing.org)

Diverse growth rates in Triassic archosaurs—insights from a small terrestrial Middle Triassic pseudosuchian | The Science of Nature (springer.com)