#Mama Morrigan

[ask-mother-vampre]

Who’s let any of those ancients out recently? I have a few trespassers I found outside the ministry grounds and need them taken care of.

[asknamelessghoul-shiek]

this but Mama Morrigan and Davron (her sibling of sin)

these two btw cus I keep forgetting to post them here

[iamthatlamb]

((FORMERLY ASKNAMELESSGHOULSHIEK SHIEK, RP IS NOW @asknamelessghoul-shiek))

It’s a SCREAM, Baby!

Name: Lamb, Hyde <3

Gender: Genderfluid / Transmasculine

Pronouns: He/Him or He/They

Age: 19

DNI: Transphobes, Homophobes, Racists, Trump supporters, V1 supporters (Ex-maelstromblvck member), Proshippers, MAPS, and full NSFW or Nudity blogs.

Bmf if you like: Ghost, Sleep Token, Slipknot, ICP, Horror movies, Fleshgod Apocalypse, and more! :D

I draw sometimes! You can ask about me drawing something as long as it’s not too hard, i have a habit of like- literally dropping things for no reason.

My favorite moot is: @/whentheangelsweep

I write for these blogs! All are my ocs (except one)

I know i have a lot..

You can follow them if you want :3

Ghost ocs

Ghoul ocs

@ask-lance-ghoul @ask-vanity-ghuleh @asknamelessghoul-shiek @ask-flint-lock-ghoul

Ancient ocs (My ghoul species / Varient)

@ask-plasma-ghuleh @magma-ghuleh-asks @evergreene-ghuleh @impero-watcherinthesky @ask-the-g0re-ancients @ask-genesis-ghuleh @astrope-ghuleh @ask-marrionette-ancient

My Mama Oc (Also Ghost)

@ask-mother-vampre

My Sleep Token blog

@ask-c0rvix-vessel

(To keep this short, more photos are under)

[helenofsimblr]

COMING SOON! Tales From The District Season 2 FINALE!

[goddessofwisdom18]

Heard this audio and instantly thought of Feyre <3

[sigyn-foxyposts]

"Brigitte's family tree!" (My headcannon)

[buttsonthebeach]

WIP Sunday

Thanks for the tag @galadrieljones!

This is from the next chapter of Like You're Running Out of Time, my M!Cousland x Morrigan fic, the epilogue for which is like... 4 years overdue. I finally picked it back up this summer when Morrigan was revealed in the Veilguard trailer. I can't wait to not only write this original epilogue, which is the first part from Zakir's point of view, but also a 2nd epilogue covering the events of Veilguard itself.

****

Zakir was 14 when Oren was born. He'd had no interest in Fergus's marriage or in his sister-in-law's pregnancy. But when the excited whispers spread through the castle that Oriana was in labor, Zakir found a prickle of excitement spreading through his body.

“Excited to be an uncle, are you?” His father asked at dinner when he asked why it was taking so long.

“No,” he said, as dismissively as possible, even as he imagined it. Uncle Zakir.

“It will be a big responsibility, you know,” his mother said. Zakir clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Zakir…”

But he was imagining it. Being someone who others looked up to. Not just the little brother, the spare with too much time and energy on his hands. But babies were loud and smelly and annoying. It would be a few years before Oren was interesting. And by then Zakir would be old enough to go out on his own, maybe become a mercenary, maybe go all the way to his mother's native Rivain and join the Lords of Fortune.

Then his mother woke him in the middle of the night, warm brown eyes wet with tears, lips parted in a smile.

“Come meet your nephew.”

“Mother, it's darker than a demon's -”

“No blasphemy before sunrise. Come.”

Tagging: Anyone who wants to share something they are working on!

[dxrknessembr8ced]

" Man, we raised Jaaku and Sigma well did they? "

?!

" WAIT HOLD ON, THEY'RE HERE??! "

Morrigan and Lilith from a far sees both the twins wandering through metro city just to kill and decimate Hsien-Ko. This made her panic, genuinely worry from the succubus seeing her two adopted children out in the open.

" Oh sweet Belial...! "

" Yeah! Ahh they grow up so fast Morri. "

" LILITH, LET'S GO! WE'RE SAVING THE KIDS! "

" Oh c'mon Morri stop being a lil' bitch they're fine. "

She pulled the wing on her head.

" THEY'RE NOT SUPPOSE TO BE OUT IN ABOUT WHEN THERE'S A CIVIL WAR OUT THERE YOU IDIOT-! "

[pyramultimuse]

He watched the grungs fumble around and hurriedly get in front of them. Stopping with an arched brow as they were very cutely threatened. "Do they not realize that I could just kill by just kicking them? I've seen actual toads bigger than these scrawny things." The knight said and watched the tiefling reach out and try and make friends. He was going to stop Comfort but he had already warned him once so he crossed his arms and watched.

Tozen snickered when his boyfriend got bit by the frog person. "I don't think they want to be friends, Comfort." He said with a smirk, his boyfriend should've listened to him. "Well, I could kill them but I'm pretty sure there's more. I wouldn't want a swarm of these fellas finding the house and attack out of revenge... Hm, maybe they like bread." The knight went into his belt pouch and took out a roll he brought from dinner having planned to give it to the birds on the walk but maybe the frogs would like it.

He squatted down and showed them the roll. "Bread. Food." Tozen tears off a small piece to eat to show it was edible then offered them the dinner roll.

ᒥ💗ᒧ—        The tiefling pouts, he just wanted to scoop them up and snuggle the little frogfolk. "I can heal aliments..." He huffs gently, but follows along with Tozen. He waves to the Grung Wildlings, rather than trying to shoo them away like Tozen had.

The Grung look at eachother, speaking in their Grung language a moment before scrambling to get ahead of Tozen and Thyneria. They stumble around all goofily, finally making it in front of the pair and pointing their spears again.

Comfort chuckles, "Awh, I believe we are their prisoners~." They were too cute to be intimidating in anyway. Comfort reaches a hand out towards one, kneeling down to show he means no harm. However, the gesture is not appreciated and the green Grung looks at the pink hand a moment with disgust before biting Thyneria's hand. The tiefling lets out a yelp in Infernal, some very nasty words, and his tail swings around to swat the frog that bit him.

[kiivg]

Your Rook is ridiculously good looking. Like, I’m actually blushing and it’s all your fault

.The initial idea for him was Grave Robbing Pirate and honestly the beard options came through for me like nothing else. Guaranteed I was going to go for muttonchops/sideburns before I even knew what the CC looked like, but idk they looked a little patchy sometimes and that is NOT what Farid is about 👏 The whatever it is he has now is iconic for him, I tried making him as an elf but it was Cursed and Never-to-Be-Seen-Again. Also the balding ponytail? I saw it, and I was like yeah that’s it, that’s him, that’s exactly what I’m about.

.Also it is absolutely insane to me that he’s the first draft, I got him in one go with a little fine tuning once I figured out how the CC works. Especially considering how ugly Goddard turned out as the Inquisitor 😭😭 but now I HC he just sends somebody over in his place to act as a go between, ain’t no way he’s traipsing around with Morrigan lmao. I did make a crummy Blackwall Inq so I could get Dorian to call him Amatus 👹 Pavwall Canon UNLOCKED. (I wonder if you could make the Iron Bull tho?? Sans wide horns ofc.)

.Also, girlie, tysm!!!!!! I am ALSO very 👀😳🥴🤫🫡 about him, I’ve just started my third playthrough of him, I’m still tweaking little bits here and there as I go along. Which means ofc I’m going to be screenshotting him in every cutscene 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️.

.Edit tho I’ve changed his name to Farid now 😘.

.Some facts about my Rook, Farid Thorne, and his story below 💕🫡.

.His mother is Therasia Thorne, a Rivaini Dalish elf who left her clan for the calling of the sea, and he is an absolute mama’s boy. Will do absolutely anything she asks with very little, if any, questioning. He doesn’t know (and most likely never will) who his father is, as the man bought Therasia’s silence over their affair with two galleons and a frigate. On a side note, Therasia was known for seducing very rich men and getting pregnant in order to blackmail them. Most of the time the fathers would pay up, and there has only been one instance of the father agreeing to take the baby off her hands, her bluff was called and she regretfully left her son behind.

.He adores expensive textures, silk, dragon scales, gold, fine lace, alamarri sheep wool, phoenix feathers. If he wasn’t a career criminal turned conscript he would have been a tailor. He owns (or used to own) several dresses/robes that he would just lounge about in naked to feel the fabric against his skin. Doesn’t really think too much of leather though, it can be stiff and often chafes the skin, which is strange because he’s very much a rope man.

.He waxes most of his body hair off, and keeps everything nice and tidy. He also puts coloured powder in his open wounds to preserve the shape of them as they heal, true to his mother’s traditions.

.Has kept his face completely bare of tattoos (apart from the fish he got when he was fourteen) in an honour to his Dalish heritage; he knows he won’t ever get valaslin because he’s only a half-elf, but the prospect of it keeps his face bare.

.Is fascinated by machinery and spent a great deal of time perfecting his own tools. His own frigate was equipped with self made trident ballistas, each one would fire three harpoons (individually or all at once) secured with thick chains, crafted to hunt and bring down large game, dragons, and smaller fleeing ships.

.In tune with his love for crafting, he follows June, and not the Maker. Though he does keep this to himself and those he considers family. If asked he just says he doesn’t believe in the Maker, and refuses to elaborate.

.Absolutely fucks, big family kind of guy. He is one of nineteen children, and has nine of his own by five different women, though he assumes there’s more because he was very much a leave before the sunrise kind of guy. Now he’s matured with being in the Wardens and has been less of a dick about it all. Whether or not he’s got any chance of knowing those kids who knows 🤷‍♂️.

.Never told anyone about his past when he became a Warden, the only people who know are those who were privy to his conscription, and the higher up Wardens upon receiving his arrest and conscription reports. Most people know he’s a conscript however, he doesn’t shy away from that, and he’s had a dozen or more rumours spread about him within the order. Evka was the first person to say he was a good Warden and back him up, and I think that solidified him as a third wheel to her and Antoine.

.He was actually conscripted by order of my HoF Andrastopher Cousland, as a favour returned. Andrastopher wanted aboard his ship when the Inquisition was seeking out a new leader,(there was no way he was becoming a religious figurehead lmao) and he stayed there for a good six months or so before Zevran joined them, and another two months before returning back to Thedas. They… uh… yeah 🥴🤫.

.If he was a companion his questline would probably follow trying to kill his older brother Galo after receiving a plea for help from his sister in law Aadiyah. Turns out Galo is either a) helping the Antaam navigate the seas uncontested or b) capturing and selling slaves to the Venatori. The big question at the end would be whether to tell their daughter that he’s her dad or to let her believe Galo was her father considering he HAS just murdered him, and she has several siblings that Galo fathered too.

.His gift would be an ornamental smoking pipe or a hookah, his room would be an observatory, full of navigational maps and constellations, there would be a small tailors work bench on one side of the room complete with mannequin and a sewn outfit that would slowly complete over his personal questline. His bed would be a row boat full of pillows.

.His almost kiss scene would be him explaining that he’s no good, his past actions are very much coming to bite him in the ass, and that you should really stop flirting with him. Does he want you to stop? No. Is he going to lean in to try and kiss you? Yes. Is he going to remember that everything is playing out as it does before and pull away because he knows he’s not good enough for you? Yes.

.His romance lock in scene would be stargazing on the beach in Rivain, he’d point out a couple constellations, talk about his time seafaring (minus all the murdering and pillaging). You’d get the option to ask about a few different ones (leading to locking out of the romance) or a secret fourth one and he’d absolutely bullshit some made up romantic story that parallels him and you, and you’d call bullshit because YES it is bullshit, and he’d say something awfully sappy about making it “our constellation” and then 💋💋💋.

.The actual romance scene would be that he turns up completely naked in your room, he’ll ask if you want the Captain or the Warden, and you uh choose and uh ye a hh haha ahaaaaa 😳🥴.

[mrrwsoup]

a bit of an intro post for my ocs, been meaning to do one for awhile

Most of them are all interconnected in some way and involved either directly or indirectly with two different fronts for organized crime (circus which is run by my ocs, and importing company which is run by my bf's) but there's a few that are outliers and belong to different time/setting.

i also have more ocs lol but these are the ones that are most involved with my bf and I's headworld. There's more i could say about each of them but since theres so many i'll keep it short LOL.

Heres my toyhouse for more.

And the intro post i did for my bfs ocs.

Dirge

graverobber. non-employed misanthrope, prefers the company of the dead.

involved with Mamba

Micajah

chainsmoking magician and animal handler, with a lot on his hands.

involved with Jackson

Rueben

trickshooting necrosadist who's charming in front of an audience, and insufferable one-on-one.

involved with Elias

Kryl

circus ringmistress. takes discipline seriously. likes cards, roses, big fur coats, and weather that allows for them.

involved with Westley

Jules

acrodancer. flexible in multiple regards. always on the lookout for a good time, especially one he can sink his claws into.

involved with Ruckus

Nova

trad goth knife thrower's assistant, getting blades thrown at him in the ring while secretly inclined to wield them outside of it.

involved with Zero

Trinity

dirty crook, and mama's boy. bashing skulls in the alley but still escorting his mom to church on sunday.

involved with Morrigan

Midas

gunrunner. disfigured from a malfunction in an altered firearm. recreationally lovesick.

involved with Rowdy

Meyer

up and coming trick rider

involved with Blythe

Feliks

circus manager. working hard behind the scenes chugging coffee and pulling out feathers over paperwork. just wants peace and order (rarely obtained).

Jaime

former competitive martial artist, hired as "security" at the circus but acts more as general assistant. patron of dive bars.

Rama

circus promoter. incessant gambler, not above leaning the odds in his favour by any means.

involved with Saul

Saul

runs a sideshow oddity cart. once involved with black market sales but is completely law abiding now, for sure. absolutely…

involved with Rama

Wolf

back-alley doctor. dwelling within his family's dilapidated estate, tirelessly working to procure the bride of his dreams.

involved with Doll

Seth

swagless aspiring hacker. tfw no gf

involved with Ryker

Grimm

sullen black dog cemetery groundskeeper

involved with Cadence

Sinclair

identity document forger for hire, family shame. evading penalization thanks to his lawyer older brother

Silas

a higher demon, posted to the mortal world and hellbent on sowing seeds of corruption.

alternatively in modern au, struggling black metal artist and occultist, performing rituals to capture an angel and bring himself fortune

involved with Valentine

Cyril

victorian player, flexing his position as he moves up the ranks of society.

involved with Julian

Kaan

under the influence of an inherent instinct to put wolves in their place.

involved with Hutch

[ask-mother-vampre]

About to stab somebody tonight. Nobody lays hands on my ancients.

((Mori’s grucifix design btw))

She uses hers like a knife (the others are usually rounded like this, made with metal and detailed with stained glass)

[asknamelessghoul-shiek]

I don’t trust Morrigan if she were to be actually Mama for ghost as a placeholder for Papa V during (tour) lmao

she (and Davron) would make it WAY too darker metal etc and stray from Ghost’s general theme but like

her era is basically inspired off the album Opera by Fleshgod Apocalypse (they’re so good but not super duper heavy)

[hyperbali]

Lord help me, I'm starting from absolute scratch--

Anyway. Baby Howemell will be my "canon" Rook - mama Jeanne, papa Nathaniel, mother Morrigan

Mole placement and hairstyle don't necessarily matter here beyond mix and matching, it's more the facial structures I'm looking for thoughts on (though if you've got thoughts on switching eyes/nose/jawline as well, so feel free)

And, of course, her name! Thinking R or D, hence the ones written here

Next will be her body type...

[helenofsimblr]

Elita: My penchant for violence aside, let's circle back now to the island of Sulani, where today, this very morning in fact, was the big day for Stella Montgomery, future wife of King Triton. You see today, Stella was going to leave her human failings behind, she was going to attempt the change to become a Mer. Something that hadn’t been done for quite a few centuries. Tongues were a bit of a stir among both the islanders and the merfolk over it…

****

Elita: A woman from the mainland becoming their queen consort? Unbelievable! Stella approached the huge temple with Morrigan and Mama K with her, the redoubtable Mama K was currently on her 3rd cigar of the day. Stella marched closer. 

Stella: Tibi gratias ago tibi utrumque, gia na mou kanei parea. Ego iustus volo vos et scire quantum aestimo te na eísai mazi mou kathos ypovallo aftín tin allagi.  ((Thank you both for keeping me company. I just want you both to know how much I value you being with me as I undergo this change)). 

Elita: In a comparatively and, surprisingly short time, in case you forgot, Stella had become practically fluent in the Sulani tongue! Something that helped her case a lot with the locals! 

Morrigan: Your Sulanese is remarkable. I am here to assist as best as I can. 

Mama Kevari: She be fine, Princess. Dat be a truth!

****

Elita: Ok so from here on out, I’m just going to say what they said in Unilish because honestly my Sulanese is not the best but through this whole situation they were speaking their own native sulani lingo, got it? So… Triton nodded to her, communicating his full love and support with his eyes; all the sea lords had surfaced as well for this event. 

Elita: Oh yeah, the Sea Lords, you’ve not met these guys before, ok, so, behind Triton as the lords from the other Mer houses. So going from left to right, that is how you’re looking at it, first up the tall baldy looking one, that’s Lord Abyssal, the shifty looking motherfucker next to him is Lord Narquad, then we have Lord Lunar, and finally, Lord Marianna. As you can see from Lord Abyssal’s similar pallor to King Triton’s, he doesn’t surface very often at all. 

Triton: Stella, you are ready. Some of the people have gathered in the main area to watch this - successful -transformation.

Ozen: I’m sure you will be fine. If anyone can do this, it’s you. 

[jon-snows-man-bun]

By Turns

Chapter Thirteen

The closer Eris gets to his goals the harder he has to work to keep all plates spinning. Tensions simmer underneath his new alliances, pulling him into the Hewn City where the impact of Rhysand’s rule shapes the future.

Masterlist

Find this fic on AO3

A/N: Eris slanders everybody, including (but not limited to) Rhysand, Cassian, Tarquin, Morrigan, Nesta, and Elain. Misogyny, racism, implied off-screen cannibalism, victim blaming, discussions of domestic abuse (Autumn Court, you know the drill), fucked up family dynamics - Mama Vanserra isn't all sweetness and light. Eris is pretty hard on her here.

This chapter's political machination-heavy to get to where we need to go.

The letter was sitting on his desk innocuously. Thick, pale parchment with a wax seal, stacked on top of a pile of other letters in hands he recognised.

He placed the wax seal immediately – an eye balanced between the tines of a tipped crescent moon, stamped in deep navy wax. Aisling’s family crest. The whole letter was enchanted, glamoured and sealed and warded against prying so heavily it hadn’t collected even a smudge of dirt from its journey to him in Autumn. Turning it over in his hands, Eris decided he could bear it no longer.

He pried off the seal with the edge of his dagger, the letter immediately unfolding neatly, but it wasn’t Aisling’s elegant, looping hand – rather a hasty scrawl penned by her handmaiden, who apologised for contacting him.

I would not write to you unless I felt this were an urgent matter. I understand you had some business with the lady and wished to inform you as quickly as possible. I fear I have upsetting news, so will address it quickly: she has not returned home within a fortnight. There was a collapse within the mine while she was there, and she has not been seen since. The lords of the City are attempting to disperse her estate. I will write to you again if her body is found, but I fear it is unlikely.

Eris knew she wasn’t dead. He knew that in his heart where it beat in time with hers, but he still reached instinctively for that golden thread. He was reassured despite himself when he found it whole, the magic of whatever united them snug against his ribs where it had woven in with his own. Aisling was alive, somewhere on the end of it; if not happy, then at least whole. The pain from a dead mate was said to be more than could be borne. He had always thought it was romantic fantasy, just tripe and folk tales, but if she died –

The letter burst into flames in his hands. She was not dead, and the bond was intact. She was as much an extension of him now as a limb. Eris had decided, somewhere along the way, that she was his; death couldn’t have her.

And neither could Rhysand. It was the only place she could be – she couldn’t leave the Hewn City without its Lord’s permission, and if she wasn’t dead then she been removed.

It was the highhanded, manipulative sort of move Rhysand would make, a lazy bid for control. Either that or a test to see if Eris would come running – to see which of his limbs would move when Rhysand pulled this string.

Eris loathed being manipulated. His strength had always been his unpredictability and his foresight; anticipating what others wanted and their motivations, keeping his own obscured. He could hazard a guess at what Rhysand would try to extract from him for Aisling: a shoring up of their tenuous alliance by ensuring his obedience, an end to the bargain Rhysand had struck to protect Feyre that left him so vulnerable.

He had other levers Eris could pull.

Eris sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The sun was shining, dappled by the branches of the ancient oaks outside. Ticru had located the strongest patch of sunlight and was currently stretched out in it, long legs akimbo and pale belly to the sky as he slept.

Would Aisling like the Forest House? It wasn’t the Hewn City, but would she be happy here? He refused to consider the possibility that she liked Velaris, grimacing at the thought of her living so far from him and in the rather careless hands of the Night Court. He didn’t trust Rhysand and Feyre not to hurt her, even inadvertently. These were the fae who had released three death gods and then lost one.

Eris couldn’t help but compare the shape of the dance in Autumn with Night, the better to assess how Aisling would fit. How she would keep up, how she would fare. Autumn was much more restrained than Night, in many ways. Just as bloody, but in the correct spaces – wives struck behind closed doors, sons caned in the classroom, lesser fae whipped in private basements and courtyards. In public, all buttons were fastened. Night was extravagant and ostentatious in all things: its beauty, its ugliness, its cruelty. They flaunted all their flesh and diamonds and viciousness out in the open.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the servant’s knock, reminded that he was currently late for lunch with his mother. He’d spent too long stewing over this, furious and fearful in equal measures.

Eris would have rather been at his private estate to the west, the seat of the territory he governed, but he had been absent from the Forest House for too long. Beron liked everyone where he could see them and keep them under his watchful eye – as if they couldn’t scheme behind his back and hadn’t been doing so since they were boys.

Lunch with his mother – a strained affair for them both, but she kept insisting on it, at least monthly. Perhaps for appearances, perhaps to reassure herself that he hadn’t fallen before his final hurdle. The Mother help her in that case, she’d need to rely on Damien or Cato to free her from the shackles of her misery here, and she’d spent far too much time shaping Eris into what she needed to change horse mid race.

She never enjoyed these lunches, or the company of any of his brothers. Their mother’s affection had thorns that cut both them and her; they had too much of their sire to be anything but painful for her.

Eris didn’t want to blame his mother, but he did regardless. Perhaps her love would not have been enough to save them from their father but it could have been a guy line to hold them down, something to cling to. They had certainly contorted themselves trying to earn it, Elias and Cato even more than him – but when his mother erred, Eris had always been willing to step between her and the consequences, to cause whatever diversion or mistake he needed to in order to take the brunt of Beron’s need to punish and control. Anara never thanked him for it.

Sometimes he woke to her tending his poisoned, festering wounds with a mother’s care; sometimes he was helped, heavy and staggering, to his chambers by Damien and Cato. Sometimes he woke alone in the dungeons and crawled up the steps by himself.

When he was younger it tore at him, even worse than whatever Beron could inflict; he felt the waning and waxing of his mother’s care more deeply than the hounds he’d killed at Beron’s command, than the boyhood friends he’d been forced to whip, than the times he’d had to beat his brothers into unconsciousness. Eventually he learned to expect nothing from her, and so he was never disappointed when that was what he received.

Ever his shadows, his brothers followed suit; what else could they do? Their father’s machinations had taught them to rely on nothing but the surety of misery. Their brotherhood was shored up by the understanding that they would be compelled to cut each other again and again; they’d each had their time as the favoured son, only to learn how fickle Beron’s favour was when it was violently wrested from them by another brother. They had learned that they could bleed for their mother and Anara would let them do it, too withdrawn into her own head to give much care.

The Mother damned him with a heart, though, because Eris would take Beron’s fury for her again. Eris would set her free, one day; he doubted she would look back even once at the Court and the sons she’d been shackled to. Four snakes with hungry black pits for hearts, weaned on violence.

He was in a rotten mood now, dragging himself into a bad temper as he strode through the halls.

The sentry immediately opened the door to his mother’s courtyard for him as he approached. The space was warm with sunlight – true spring meant warmer weather in Autumn, more golden sun and ripe wheatfields than the frosty mornings and dark evenings that would be on them in six months’ time. Autumn oscillated between the two. Anara sat at her customary table, a faerie queen from a storybook even now after centuries beside Beron: her red hair was unbound, spilling down over her emerald brocade dress; her skin luminous with the dappled woodland light. The enchanter’s nightshade and rosehips that lined the pathway seemed to bend towards her, as did the branches overhead.

Lady, they all seemed to whisper. Lady lady lady. We love you so.

His mother’s russet eyes studied him as he approached. They burned him, those eyes. They were the first thing he ever saw. Eris kissed her hand and took his seat beside her, plates of venison cooked with ramsons appearing before them.

“You were late today, Eris,” Anara said mildly, a gentle rebuke that his act was slipping.

“Apologies, mother,” Eris said immediately. He had been distracted, the bond an aching pull on his ribs, pressing him to go cut his way through the Night Court until he found her. It was a liar, whispering the sweet fantasy into his blood that everything would be better if only Aisling were beside him.

That was pure delusion. His life would never be better until he made it so.

He asked after Anara’s day, how she was faring; all mild questions when what he wanted was to ask how she had borne it all these centuries. How she had walked around whole on the surface, but with her heart split in two, and whether the sacrifice had been worth it; if the ache of knowing but not ever having had lessened. If he would ever feel like part of his soul wasn’t now living outside of his body. That was the secret they never addressed though, not in three hundred years – once they put words to it, it would once more become real enough to kill them all.

“There is a change in you,” his mother observed.

“I am as I have ever been,” Eris replied, looking at his plate to escape her watchful, sad gaze.

“You have only ever been changeable,” she insisted with a small smile. Her voice was sweet and warm, deceptive as all things were in Autumn. “You are of me, Eris. I know you.”

Their plates vanished, a tea service re-appearing. His mother always preferred being served by magic rather than servants, though Beron preferred it the other way round – most everyone had a drop of magic, but fewer had High Fae servants.

“Damien said you’ve been courting a female,” Anara said finally. Eris groaned, scrubbing his face in his hands. His mother took it for an admission of guilt. Fucking Damien – of course he’d sussed that his suggestion about Summer had been a lie, and Eris taking advantage of it meant he had something to hide. It was foul play to tell their mother, knowing she’d want details.

“Mother,” he said finally, fiercely. “You know-”

“The Mother blesses us for a reason, Eris,” she cut him off. “Only She knows the currents of the Cauldron, but all things are to Her design.”

Eris gave her a bored look, the strongest rebuke he dared.

“It’s foolish to squander a blessing,” she insisted pointedly, sipping her tea. She was mincing around what she wanted to say, wary of speaking too plainly. Everyone thought he and his brothers learned their ways from Beron, but those in Autumn knew it was his mother who gave them their silver tongues and skill at lying. What other sort of female could survive Beron for centuries?

“I’m not squandering anything, mother,” Eris said through gritted teeth.

She gave him a look as if she regretted having borne him. You plodding idiot, her disappointed eyes seemed to say.

“Your glamour needs work,” she finally sniffed.

-------

Eris had weighed up whether or not to approach Rhysand for days. Dreams of Aisling haunted him at night – ones his own mind conjured, spurred on by the restless, unsatisfied bond, though he’d crawl on his hands and knees for one sent by her. Anything to let him know she was faring well, even if she was still angry at him for leaving her behind. He’d wake in the middle of the night with an aching cock, chest tight and gasping for breath. The moon would mock him from the window.

He hoped she could see it, wherever Rhysand was keeping her. If it was somewhere she couldn’t, then Eris would do everything he could to taint every bit of their fucking City of Starlight. He’d poison the well until they couldn’t look out the window of their mansion without cursing his name.

It took him a few days, but he landed on a course of action.

Eris had nearly all the pieces he needed: Keir’s loyalty, given that Autumn was greatly enriching him by means of that trade agreement; a boon from Rhysand, bought and paid for when he delayed Keir’s arrival to Velaris as a display of goodwill – an eyerolling measure if there ever was one, given that Rhysand had fucked over his cherished cousin in the first place and was futilely trying to backtrack. Still, he had done it, leveraging the wealth of Autumn against Keir.

Or perhaps he’d won it when he’d kept their secrets from Beron even after Cassian’s idiocy fucked him over, or in their repossession of the Made knife they gifted him. There were quite a few instances, really; and still, they were likely telling themselves they were doing the just, right thing by keeping Aisling from him.

All Aisling wanted was to leave that place, to have power over herself. He’d earn her forgiveness and her loyalty with this. She’d belong to him, not just by the bond but in spirit as well, in her heart. That thought spurred him on as he winnowed to the Hewn City, a deep and hungry instinct that was slowly devouring him the more he tried to ignore it.

The last loose piece was Thanatos, pushing back against Keir and Rhysand too quickly. If Eris could just find something to leverage him, to bring him to heel –

The energy in the Hewn City was manic, something crackling round like lightening as he arrived.

A group of fae were dancing together in a circle around a goblin playing the fiddle. The music was reedy and high. As he drew past them he heard that they were singing as well.

His boot’s on the mountain but his head’s in the West, they were singing, moving in a complicated chain. He’ll smash up the city into a rat’s nest! Born in the dark, kills on a lark, father knows best!

An enterprising poet had been at work though his ambition outpaced his skill, in Eris’ estimation. He sneered as he went, weaving around another group of nobles laughing around a brazier with a turning spit, where they were roasting –

He didn’t look closely. The scent of charred flesh was pungent.

Half the court dead, hid in the Queen’s bed, father knows best!

The refrain followed him behind the throne room, slipping through that familiar carved doorway. Stone gargoyles leered down at him from the top of the columns as they always did.

Eris hated this ugly room. The impractical table, the gouges Rhysand left as a show of force – all of it was gauche.

The Hewn City had some beautiful places – the lovely moon garden; his intimate, moody chambers with the carved and gilded walls; Aisling’s elegant, towering home – but they insisted on conducting business here.

“The Darkbringers are eager for battle,” Thanatos told him as he took his seat. “They grow angry and restless. Hungry for blood.”

“Are they not always?” Eris asked. He didn’t trust Thanatos, wasn’t entirely convinced of his motivations. Anyone who came to him for duplicity would work against him just as easily. Eris, of course, was duplicitous himself, so felt this created a natural thread of understanding.

“More so now. The City is collapsing,” Thanatos informed him, almost boredly. “Structurally, not politically, although that will ideally follow.”

Eris smoothed his face instinctively, affecting his usual air of aloof amusement. He quirked a brow and waited Thanatos out.

“A tragedy,” he finally intoned. “At the mine. Several missing and dead, though the true tragedy is that Keir was not among them. He is furious, given that much of his personal wealth derives from it. The gentry are clamouring for Rhysand to act, though he has surprised no one by failing to grace us with his noble presence.”

A sword without a hilt, Thanatos had called the Hewn City. No way to safely grasp it. A boiling pot with a lid so hot it couldn’t be lifted. Eris hadn’t realised how he had intended to go about that, and it was only centuries of control that kept him centred as he stared Thanatos down.

“I suppose that will affect your agreement with Keir as well,” Thanatos continued, depthless black eyes alight. The greyish faelights cast an unflattering tint to his pale skin, leeching him of colour. “It seems we’ll all be worse off. But it’s for the best. The hottest fires make the best blades, and no fire burns hotter than anger.”

He had collapsed the mine himself? A sickening feeling lurched through his stomach, but Eris had endured plenty of these meetings with Beron. He knew the manoeuvre well: something miserable being dumped on his head just to study any reaction, any weakness, anything that could be exploited.

Thanatos was right, in a way; all he felt was angry. A clean, pure burn, right through his chest. Was there anything more humiliating than being reduced to another’s pawn, being made to dance for their amusement? It was debasing, and he’d grown sick of the sour taste. Yet this was all the Night Court understood: power and control and force. There were far more refined ways to manoeuvre.

They only spoke one language here. It was Under the Mountain all over again. Eris had to speak the same way, or else any influence he’d accrued would shatter like glass.

“If you want to destroy yourselves to spite Rhysand then it’s your choice,” Eris sneered, leaning back in his chair, away from the sharp edge of the jagged table. “The trade agreement has already set rates, you’ve cost me nothing. But losing my consort as part of your efforts is an inexcusable fuckup.”

“The female?” Thanatos was visibly surprised by the change of direction, then waved a hand dismissively, covering it. “Pick another. I didn’t think you so sentimental.”

“That one was mine,” Eris snapped, adjusting his cuffs boredly. Thanatos tracked the movement with disdain, no doubt thinking him a spoiled, fussy princeling. “Don’t mistake it for sentimentality – if I wanted her dead I would have killed her myself, because she is my property.”

“Was your property,” Thanatos corrected snidely, but he had the good sense to start looking worried.

Eris had had enough. He should have taken Aisling from this place as soon as he finished fucking her, twisted Rhysand’s arm into letting her go. He could have hidden her in some bolthole in Autumn or Spring – Tarquin was shaping up to be a weak-willed bitch, he could have pressured him into allowing her in Summer –

“Find her body or I will ensure Rhysand never lets you leave that fucking mine until you do,” Eris demanded, knowing full well Aisling’s body wasn’t there because she was neither dead nor in the Hewn City.

That didn’t matter. Let Thanatos sweat and panic; it would be good for him. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, winnowing directly from the chamber and back to Autumn. Time and space passed by in a rush, and then the forest overhead rustled its welcome, trees greeting their lord and master.

He had one more house call to make, tonight or tomorrow. The timing was lucky.

-------

In the end he waited an extra day, counting on Cassian’s laziness and lack of curiosity.

Eris almost felt bad, as he winnowed to that bleak human manor. The landscape, owned by humans and reluctant to accept magical interference from Lucien, was still bleak and blighted from the war, only starting to fill in several years along.

“Baby brother,” he crooned to Lucien, strolling in after popping his way through the wards and physically locked door. He had enough shared blood with his brother that he could generally work his way through, though lately Lucien hadn’t been trying as hard to keep him out. For a Vanserra, it was practically an invitation.

Lucien was in their sitting room, on a plush, comfortable-looking sofa. He didn’t seem surprised to see him, likely alerted by his wards as soon as Eris winnowed. He had likely been expecting him anyways – Eris never did like the way the Night Court had poached him, and even less the way they used him to liaise with Tamlin.

The manor was quaint, all worn stone and overstuffed bookshelves. Still, it had a distinctly human quality about it that made Eris uncomfortable; even more so to see Lucien among it like he belonged there.

“Eris,” Lucien greeted him, already sounding resigned.

“Shithead,” Jurian greeted him in the same tone. Eris didn’t stoop to respond to that, merely taking a seat on the ugly pink chaise.

“Where’s the lovely Vassa? A shame she wasn’t the one made fae,” Eris sighed. “We could have replaced you with her, Lucien. She’d make an excellent Vanserra.”

Jurian glowered murderously at him for that, somehow louder than the volume of Lucien’s sigh. “She’s visiting Rask, her former kingdom. Are you here for a purpose, Eris?”

“You don’t care to spend time with me?” Eris asked, but Lucien had grown up in Autumn and was too savvy to be drawn in by easy baiting. “Fraternal loyalty aside, I’m here to speak about Calanmai. As I’m sure you know, Tamlin could not find it in himself to complete the Rite.”

“Blonde cunt always was a bit of a wet rag,” Jurian added grimly.

He wasn’t here to speak about Calanmai, but Cassian would be. Rhysand never sent Azriel to deal with Lucien and wouldn’t deign to go himself. He wouldn’t send Morrigan – she avoided anything with red hair and a cock now – and Amren couldn’t winnow.

“You’d walk that back if you ever saw him in his peak,” Lucien said idly, looking towards the ceiling. “The blonde hair did most of the work for him.”

Eris smirked at that as Lucien stood before Cassian could even knock. As the brute himself shouldered into the room behind his brother, Eris glanced boredly in his direction. He tromped dried mud into the room, leaving clumps of it on the rug.

“Isn’t this familiar,” Eris drawled, propping one ankle on his knee. Cassian’s eyes narrowed, brow furrowing in an expression that made him look even dumber than usual. “It feels like we’re all getting to be dear friends.”

Jurian snorted, but Lucien heaved another sigh.

“Thought you might be here,” Cassian said, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. Lucien suddenly bristled at that, turning to stare at Eris accusingly.

Eris shrugged. “And you flew all this way to inflict your presence upon me? Delightful.”

“No, I’m here to see Lucien. Rhys wants your report on Spring, about Calanmai,” Cassian said, turning away and dismissing Eris.

Lucien balked. He was loyal, his brother, perhaps to a fault – to causes, to people. Whatever bound him and Tamlin still existed. Flaying himself and his old friend open to the brute of all people, stripping it down for secrets and gossip to further Rhys’ influence – it had to hurt him.

“You couldn’t get in to Spring? And yet your High Lord was so keen to constantly barge in on Tamlin. Does he need a new hobby, now that he needs to mind his own affairs?” Eris asked, eyes narrowing. “He must have so few, what with only ruling one city.”

Cassian glared at that, at any perceived slight against his master, right on cue. Eris wondered idly if Nesta minded being the third in their relationship or if Cassian had succeeded in convincing her it was all she deserved.

Once he had her, Eris would never humiliate Aisling like that. Like Beron did to his mother – the world was already so eager to make females feel small, and Aisling had already spent her life stooping to fit in her cage. If she was to stand beside him it would be with her spine straight, looking down on them all.

“You’re pissy,” Cassian observed, a grin suddenly spreading across his features. “Not getting enough company?”

Here it fucking was. Eris kept silent, staring Cassian down, daring him to say more. He would – the brute couldn’t help but run his mouth, gloat about any perceived advantage like an arrogant child.

“We’ve left her alone with Az,” Cassian continued, smirking as he held Eris’ gaze. “I’ve heard they’re keeping all their rooms pitch black. They must be getting on, we barely see him, but then – females always play nicely with him.”

Cassian was trying to bait him. The attempt was so obvious, so lacking in any finesse, and still Eris bristled. Cassian laughed at whatever he thought he saw on his face.

He let himself picture a miserable, frightened Aisling being dragged around like Rhysand’s captive –

A log popped in the hearth in a shower of sparks, the flame blazing so hot it was near blue.

“Eris,” Lucien cautioned quietly as the room heated. Cassian’s smarmy grin broadened. Jurian was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the tension unfold like a sporting match. This was light work, compared to everything he’d witnessed as an enchanted eyeball.

“Should I go say hello to her? Give her a little kiss from you, make sure Az is keeping her at his heel? Don’t worry, he treats his females so well.” Cassian crooned,

“It may have worked on Nesta to lock her in with you until she agreed to fuck you, but Aisling’s a different breed,” Eris said smoothly, feeling vicious, feral satisfaction as he saw the blow land. Cassian wore his insecurities on his sleeve; there was almost no sport in it. His eyes grew dark, any mocking look dropping straight off his face. “She’s well used to your High Lord’s preferred treatment. You lot do salivate over imprisoning females. But what else can we expect from Illyrians?”

Jurian chuckled at that, mad brown eyes delighted as Cassian snarled at the room.

“Who even told you that I locked Nes up, that’s fucking ridiculous-” Cassian seethed while Lucien studied the ceiling innocuously. Eris only smiled in response, the sort of arrogant, aloof smirk that drove a lash against Cassian’s anger.

“It verges on a fetish, really,” Eris told Jurian casually, watching the doorframe creak under Cassian’s grip. “Rather embarrassing when Rhysand made such a production of telling all of Prythian he was so enlightened.”

Lucien didn’t react but the corners of his mouth did kick up ever so slightly. He must be bored by Rhysand and his bats; the work he had Lucien doing was certainly tedious enough. Overseeing humans and Tamlin? It was only to keep him away from his insipid little mate.

Unfortunately for Rhysand, that trick wouldn’t work twice. Eris had far fewer scruples than Lucien, and much more ambition.

“If you’re thinking about smashing the place up then get the fuck out,” Jurian ordered, looking dangerous despite the casual posture. He was watching Cassian’s shoulders bunch, his wings flaring in that Illyrian base instinct.

“That’s enough,” Lucien said sternly. It was sufficient warning that Cassian suddenly seemed to remember he wasn’t among friends here.

“I’ll travel back to Velaris and give my report to Rhys in person,” Lucien said firmly, ever courtly. His baby brother was a treasure, well trained to the last. “Do let him know I’ll be there within the week.”

“Of course,” Cassian seemed to recover, casting another surly glower at Eris.

Eris watched him go, striding out the door angrily. Lucien was looking sidelong at him as they heard the thunderclap of wings departing in a strop. Good – let Cassian lick his wounds at Rhysand’s feet and tell him what a venomous, miserable snake he was. Let Rhysand wonder when Eris would come calling, especially if Thanatos and Keir came calling for Aisling as well. He owed him a bargain, and Eris fully intended to shatter Rhysand’s illusion that he was untouchable.

He was losing his grip on his anger. All the old slights and offenses were bubbling up, every arrogant, nasty little comeuppance they’d every dishes out. He remembered them all – Nesta’s unflattering snigger as Cassian smugly informed him of his exposure to Beron, the delight in their eyes as they mocked the threat to his life. Cassian dubbing him a coward after he kept their petty secrets under Beron’s knife, faebane still heavy on his tongue. The slaughter of his soldiers, the repossession of the Made dagger. And before, Feyre’s fire scorching his mother and the absurd violence at the meeting they had called and assured would be peaceful. Breaking into his brothers’ minds to erase the memory of Feyre’s stolen magic. He remembered all the insults, all the disdain, every trampling of boundaries. He could picture the preening, gloating victory in their eyes as they held Aisling in their little city. But he knew how tricky Aisling was to hold. Smoke, ready to slip straight through his hands.

“What,” Eris finally said as he heard Lucien’s eye clicking, making him shake his head. “Is whatever you’re up to going to cost me a job?” Lucien finally asked, russet eye narrowed as he sized Eris up. Lucien had made that face when he was a child, too, squinting exactly like that when they played games and Eris cheated his way to victory, and Lucien tried to work out how.

“You have three,” Eris said peevishly, suddenly a mere fifty years old again and arguing with his brother. “Rhysand should know better than to take from the Autumn Court. You’ve let him insult you for too long, he’s grown comfortable with it.”

The moment grew long, and the flame in Lucien’s eye �� he was Autumn through and through, that was their mother’s blood – suddenly softened.

“I’ll see to her,” Lucien said gently. Damn him, Eris had only come here to prod Cassian into being his messenger. Lucien always was so much more intuitive, so much more giving, than Eris could ever expect.

Eris swallowed and said, “Living among humans has made you soft,” because he never did learn how to say the words thank you.