#Northern Lights Centre

[rabbitcruiser]

Watson Lake, YT

The pioneer road completed in 1942 was about 1,680 miles (2,700 km) from Dawson Creek to Delta Junction. The Army then turned the road over to the Public Roads Administration (PRA), which then began putting out section contracts to private road contractors to upgrade selected sections of the road. These sections were upgraded, with removal of excess bends and steep grades; often, a traveler could identify upgraded sections by seeing the telephone line along the PRA-approved route alignment. When the Japanese invasion threat eased, the PRA stopped putting out new contracts. Upon hand-off to Canada in 1946, the route was 1,422 miles (2,288 km) from Dawson Creek to Delta Junction.Border crossing at Port Alcan station

The route follows a northwest then northward course from Dawson Creek to Fort Nelson. On October 16, 1957, a suspension bridge crossing the Peace River just south of Fort St. John collapsed. A new bridge was built a few years later. At Fort Nelson, the road turns west and crosses the Rocky Mountains, before resuming a westward course at Coal River. The highway crossed the Yukon-BC border nine times from Mile 590 to Mile 773, six of those crossings were from Mile 590 to Mile 596. After passing the south end of Kluane Lake, the highway follows a north-northwest course to the Alaska border, then northwest to the terminus at Delta Junction.

Postwar rebuilding has not shifted the highway more than 10 miles (16 km) from the original alignment, and in most cases, by less than 3 miles (4.8 km). It is not clear if it still crosses the Yukon-BC border six times from Mile 590 to Mile 596.

Source: Wikipedia

[quiltofstars]

The Northern Lights at Elginfield Observatory in Ontario, Canada // Katelyn Beecroft

[rcannon992]

Seabirds of Rathlin Island (NI)

[frimleyblogger]

The Northern Lights

Explaining what the #NorthernLights are, what causes them and where to see them #Aurora

Swirling rivers of greenish-blue light against a clear sky, dancing seemingly with a will of their own, sometimes almost static, the Northern Lights (Aurora borealis) are one of nature’s most spectacular displays. For all their beauty, though, they are the product of a violent event high above us, the clash of charged particles from the Sun with the Earth’s magnetic field.  Solar winds send…

[galedekarios]

thinking about how gale's love language is acts of service.

people have talked at length about how he cooks for everyone at camp.

"the hand that feeds is the hand that's loved. it'll never leave your side now."

but that's not all of it, and it's a red thread that weaves itself through almost all his interactions throughout the game.

"magic is... my life. i've been in touch with the weave for as long as I can remember. would you like to experience this?"

gale shows the protag his world, his life, trying to connect them to the weave as he had once been, when he was still a chosen, still an archmage. it's not quite the same, it doesn't come quite as easy. still.

"i'm so very glad you came. to share this with me. i know this is all unreal, but i created it for you. you must know that you're... that you're very special to me. if things were different, if we were home, i'd have taken time to do things properly. to say it all better. but time is short. i'm in love with you."

gale knew he was living on borrowed, he knew it would run out eventually, even well before elminster came to deliver mystra's instructions.

he can't give the protag something different and they aren't home and they're not going to go home at the end of this. he knows this. time that once seemed so infinite when he was young is now whittled down to a single last night.

a last night that he uses to turn a dark and cursed land into a beautiful forest, northern lights dancing across a starry sky. he can't go home, he can't take the protag home, but he can give them an illusion of the centre of his universe, with all the well-loved things in it. there's no pretention here. books strewn across the floor, across the desk. sculptures, paintings, music. a view of home. the smell of the sea breeze.

baring his heart as well his soul in the little time he still has left to use how he sees fit.

"let me show you more. when you wake, it will be back in our small, dirty, bloody patch of existence. but stay with me now. there are endless worlds out there. countless ways to declare love. infinite ways to express it. too much for one night... but we shall try."

let me show you waterdeep, let me show you my home, my universe. let me show you how it would have been, could have been, if i did have time. let me show you more. let me show you how much i love you in the one night we may have left together.

let me give my soul to you, in confidence.

"i'd actually been thinking of introducing the two of you anyway. over a sumptuous home-cooked meal, if that sounds at all to your taste? i make it to my mother's recipe."

he wants to give the protag a chance to get to know tara, the one constant in his life, the one who became his only friend, his safe haven in the storm, the one that bore witness to his greatest triumphs and most abject failures. he wants to cook for them. he wants to take them home so very badly—

and yet he knows he won't make the date.

"then have me, but have the best possible version of me. [...] think of what i offer: the vastness of eternity to explore, the weave at our fingertips... you would really prefer me as i am?"

he could be more for the protag, if they wish him to be. could be more, could be better.

without all the flaws, without all the things that make gale only who he is. the things that sometimes simply aren't enough. he could be everything that plain old gale dekarios, that even the wizarding prodigy gale of waterdeep, could never be.

[sayruq]

The Israeli army is likely to carry out a fresh massacre in the northern Gaza Strip town of Beit Lahia, initiating a new round of forced evacuation orders against its estimated 50,000 citizens who remained in the area. The UN and other international parties need to take immediate action to protect Palestinian civilians. After declaring the town of Beit Lahia to be a "dangerous combat zone" and threatening to "act with extreme force," the Israeli army started to launch heavy air and artillery attacks on the town, followed by fresh evacuation orders. The Israeli army set up shelters for the town of Beit Lahia's residents to evacuate towards known shelters in blocks number 1770, 1766, but these were originally destroyed areas that are unfit for any form of life and lack water supply as well as functioning sewage systems. The two designated evacuation points are unsafe areas and, like all areas of the town of Beit Lahia in particular, and the northern Gaza Strip in general, have previously been subjected to widespread destruction, including shelter centres and public facilities, as a result of the ongoing Israeli military attack since October 7. In light of the ongoing crimes of genocide and forced displacement policy in the Gaza Strip, every area designated by the Israeli army as a military operation area is completely destroyed, subjected to a strict and oppressive siege, and horrifically massacred, as the remaining residents have nowhere safe to flee. In the absence of strong international accountability mechanisms and any swift international action to put an end to these crimes, which have been going on for six months, the military operation that the Israeli army launched in the town of Beit Lahia will result in more serious crimes and violations of international humanitarian law and international human rights law. The town of Beit Lahia was the scene of multiple large-scale military operations by the Israeli army during the previous seven months of its military assault on the Gaza Strip. One such operation occurred at the end of December last year, which resulted in extensive damage to homes, infrastructure, and civil and service facilities, with the town's buildings and infrastructure being destroyed to the tune of approximately 90%. The Israeli army's Beit Lahia military operation is taking place on the 200th day of the massive military assault on the Gaza Strip, which has had horrific consequences due to its direct and deliberate targeting of Palestinian civilians amid the shameful international inaction to oblige Israel to abide by international humanitarian law and the orders of the International Court of Justice to stop its genocide crime.

[jalalandfamily]

Help jalal and my family 🚑🚨🇵🇸

To the warm hearted people remaining in this world who reads this my letter , and after suffering to be able to place this letter in your hands...

Hello my friend,

I am Jalal Ayyad, a Palestinian from Gaza, stuck in the Arab Republic of Egypt due to the war that followed the Gaza Strip.

There is my whole family in Gaza (My warm refuge that circumstances prevented us from) ..14 members , my mother, my brothers, my 4 sisters and their children , my 2 nephews and their mother . They are at risk at any time due to heavy bombing, and they also suffer from the difficulty of providing food and drink due to the scarcity of food resources resulting from the siege.

Even if these foodstuffs are available, they cannot buy them due to the extreme rise in prices. As you know, we have children as young as 4 years old, and it is natural for the child to have better care and protection from this terror, psychological pressure, and constant anxiety.

My family, who are now sheltering in a simple tent in the refugee camps in the centre of Gaza Strip , after they were displaced from our warm home, which was bombed and its traces and memories were erased from our neighborhood, Al-Shujaiya neighborhood in northern Gaza. After that, my family’s repeated displacements continued due to the horror and horrible events, from the north to the center, then to Khan Yunis, then to Rafah and now to the centre of Gaza Strip .. The areas of bombing and danger.. The forced displacement scenario is still ongoing, so where do people go ?!!! There is no safe place here that will protect my family and children from this horror.

Tim, my 5-year-old nephew, was so excited to go to school for the first time. He was eagerly waiting for this day, dreaming of playing with his friends and learning a lot of new things. But, as he was preparing for this important day, w:a,.r came and turned his life upside down.

Suddenly, everything changed. Tim can no longer go to school due to the difficult conditions left by the war. He found himself and his family living in an unsafe and turbulent environment...from a warm and safe home in the arms of his family and loved ones to a tent in the middle of this hot summer and the sounds of war that terrify him at night..

Despite this continues terror, Tim was exposed to the disease of jaundice, yellow eyes, laziness, sleeping a lot, loss of appetite and high body temperature..Because of the w.,a.r, there is difficulty in obtaining medicine, food, and drink for this disease. Despite all this, Tim remained determined to maintain his hope and courage despite the difficult circumstances he faces.

With your kind help, I hope that we will achieve Tim’s wish, which he dreams of so much.

I have been stuck in Egypt now for 9 months since the heinous war, amidst anxiety, fear, anticipation, and intense psychological pressure that no human being can bear. I lost my degree and my university was destroyed and turned into ashes. I have nothing I can do to save my family, relieve them, and pull them out of this horror. I do not even have a residence permit here nor a source of income that I can rely on.

I cannot get any news about my family to reassure my heart about them except only once a month and for a few minutes, interspersed with poor Internet connection, in light of the events whose scales change and increase in severity every minute.

I hope that every person who reads this message can influence my family's life and save them from this tragedy.

With your kind help, I will be able to provide them with food and drink expenses and meet their needs.

I am attaching for you some proof, represented by some pictures taken with a trembling heart of our neighborhood and our destroyed homes, which were taken at the beginning of the war, before the displacement and the entry of the occupation into it.

Thank you, dear reader, for reading my story and reaching this point. I hope you can help save my family from this tragedy. May God help all those affected, and I hope that no one will go through or experience this disastrous situation. Thank you all from depths of my heart .

Save my family from war, I have no hope but your help..

‏My family needs you, don't forget them

‏Donate and spread🙏🏻💔

[bird-inacage]

The Heart Killers: Character Interviews (Kant/Bison Focus)

So this proved to be super interesting. Let us see what can be gleaned from these brief little interview segments with Kant and Bison.

Immediately, I'm struck by how serious and stoic Kant comes across. He has a very mature aura, and is quite hard to read (which I guess is a plus considering what he gets up to). I didn't expect this, based on how flirty and forward he appeared to be in the trailer, and that makes me wonder if it's all part of a persona he's playing. Or whether the real Kant is in fact more measured and introspective, and Bison just brings out his playful side?

A notable trait that gets signposted repeatedly is Kant's care for his brother Babe. I believe Khao has made a similar comment about him being family-oriented. It makes a tonne of sense to me as to why Bison would be drawn to a 'family man'; someone who has strong family values, when Bison's essentially been rejected by his own.

"My goal in life is to make sure my brother grows up into a good man. I want to make sure he doesn't feel like he's lacking anything. We're all we've got right now." "I just live day by day, just keeping with my goal which is making sure my brother grows up well." This is so telling of Kant's mentality. Not only does it suggest that Kant is a stand-in parent of sorts, but that he doesn't live for himself. (Which could be something of a parallel to Bison - who is unable to live by his own rules). His goals centre entirely on his loved ones' needs being met and supporting them. This definitely gives provider with self-sacrificing tendencies.

"I feel like my goal is just to make sure my loved ones get to live their dreams. For now, I just want my brother to have a good life. But one day, if someone comes into my life and I love them, my goal would be to make sure they get to achieve their dreams." And yet another selfless, touching sentiment. The desire to aid your loved ones to actualise their dreams, possibly before or over your own. I expect Kant will be a very doting, nurturing soul. (Lucky Bison).

I wonder if Kant and Fadel will empathise with one another over their respective little brothers, and the sense of responsibility that comes with it. Bonding opportunity perhaps?

The most mysterious thing Kant says is "One more thing I'm not a big fan of is the beach." (The reason is personal). Curious. First has specifically talked about filming on the beach, where they were able to do a lot more improv. Any speculations on the above are wide open.

Now let's move onto our resident Murder Kitten. I've always said that Bison reads as a real sweetie-pie based on everything we've seen thus far. He's very animated and expressive. Khao very deliberately uses a softer, lighter vocal register as Bison, which just accentuates this cute, darling image. A real child at heart who wants to make up for a life he didn't get to lead. "I go out, I'm just trying to live outside the burger shop." His childhood dream about seeing the northern lights is just another example of a boy who has daydreamed of escape, and welcomes any excuse to be as far away from his actual life as possible. He also mentions being fond of a stray cat who resides near their burger bar, who he enjoys feeding and playing with. This precious boy, I cant. (Note: I need to have scenes of this in the show PURR-LEASE).

Everything about Bison as a person feels at odds with his violent lifestyle, which seems to be a central conflict in Bison's character arc. It does beg the question of what if Bison had never been adopted, what kind of life would he be living instead? And I think this drives Kant's desire to fight for Bison's chance at a new start. A boy with big dreams meets a man who wants to realise them. What a match.

Another comment we've heard before in the pilot is "I also don't like liars", no doubt foreshadowing the fallout when he finds out Kant did exactly that. I do think it's likely that whatever drives Kant to take the detective job has reasons to do with his own brother. He may wish to clear his record of anything untoward for his brother's sake. Based on this premise, when Bison does find out why Kant did what he did, I think that will help soothe any hard feelings.

On a side note - I've seen a comment mention that Kant apparently calls Bison 'kitten' in the novel. ERM HULLO?!! I will allow one spoiler, and that is whether this is true or not. And if so, I DEMAND that it is a featured pet name in the show, because why on earth would you miss an opportunity like that?!

You can keep tabs on bird-inacage’s BL meta directory for other long-form posts around The Heart Killers, which I'll be updating as the show airs.

[the-fiction-witch]

Yes My Lords

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon & Cregan Stark Couple - Jacaerys X Reader + Cregan X Reader Reader - Y/n (Winterfell Maid) Rating - 17+ (Playful flirting/ playful spanking/ lap sitting) Word Count - 1114

The summer snow swirled fiercely across the expansive hills of the north. The ancient castle of Winterfell loomed majestically over the pristine, snow-covered fields, its weathered stone walls reflecting centuries of history and resilience from the onslaught of winter. From every window of the castle, flickering flames casted a warm, golden glow.

The hearths crackled with life, their heat radiating through the thick walls, creating a comforting sanctuary from the bitter cold. Heavy wooden doors were bolted tight, ensuring that the howling winds and the biting chill could not invade the warm embrace of the castle.

Within the sturdy stone walls of the ancient castle, there lay an intimate chamber nestled high in the south tower. The room was steeped in a shadowy gloom, illuminated only by the flickering light of a handful of carefully placed candles. Above, an iron chandelier hung ominously, its numerous arms dark and cold, neglected in their duty to bring brightness to the room.

The faint crackle and pop of a fire danced in the fireplace, sending occasional bursts of sparks into the air as it consumed the dry wood. The warm flames flickered across the stark stone walls, creating shadows that leapt and swirled in a chaotic ballet. In the centre of the room, were two sturdy chairs, draped with soft, worn furs. Between them lay a thick, luxurious rug, shielding the floor from the chill that seeped through the castle’s ancient stones.

Despite the harsh winter storm raging outside, the air was filled with the joyful sounds of boisterous laughter and lively conversation, harmonizing in cheerful defiance against the howling wind and the crackling fire.

In one chair sat Lord Cregan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Stripped down of his cloak and armour to only his leathers.

On the other sat Prince Jacaerys of House Velaryon, Heir to Queen Rhaynera Targaryen. Having also removed his snow-covered cloak now only in his fine black and red clothes.

Both held in their hands goblets of winter mead, bringing them to their lips often.

Jacaerys had arrived just a week prior, to propose an alliance and suppose of House Stark for his mother’s claim to the Iron Throne. The two had found a fondness for one another, the two cut from the same cloth, a mutual like and desire to be taken seriously and seen as men when the world around them saw them only as boys, even in the brief time they had together the two had felt like brothers. They had travelled to the wall together, trained in Winterfell's courtyard together, dined and drank together.

Now they sat beside the hearth, deep in their drink. Joking back and forth, telling tales and drunken jokes.

The only other soul in the room, was a young maid girl. Who was working late into the night as the two’s cup bearer coming with her large jug of wine to refill their cups whenever they demanded her. Which was often.

“…So then he says, well how was I to know the frog would jump out!” Jacaerys finished,

The two then burst into a rush of laughter,

“You are too much my prince,” Cregan laughed,

“You must relax every so often my lord,” Jacaerys laughed in return tapping his goblet to summon the maid,

She nodded and headed over to refill his goblet,

“Some of us have not had such pleasure to relax,” Cregan reminded,

“I suppose you’re right,” Jacaerys nodded his eyes falling from the goblet to the maid who filled it, he looked her over a little glancing at her well-braided hair pinned up on her head, her simple northern clothes and the body that lay beneath them, his eyes trailed over her and he captured his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes took their time over her stopping at her arse, “You’re very pretty,”

The maid was taken back surprised he spoke to her, “Oh- M-Me My prince?”

“Yes, you.” He nodded, “I hardly meant Lord Stark now did I?” He laughed,

“I feel somewhat offended my prince,” Cregan laughed,

“You’re very pretty too, Cregan” Jacaerys told him,

“Thank you,” He agreed sipping his goblet,

“But, you are very beautiful.” Jacaerys smiled to her, “A very very, pretty girl.”

“T-Thank you, My prince,” She nodded sheepishly,

Jacaerys gave her a soft stroke down her back and pushed her over to Cregan, “Isn’t she lovely,”

Cregan happily held his goblet for her, so she began to fill it for him, his eyes trailed over her more aggressively than Jacaerys had, and far less covertly,

Her eyes remained on the floor very aware of how the two were looking at her,

“She is isn’t she,” Cregan smirked, “Hello little thing,” he cooed giving her a firm smack on her backside,

“Ohh! My lord-” She gasped standing up straight and tall in her panic,

“It’s alright little maid, we won’t hurt you.” Jacaerys cooed leaning forward in his chair, “What’s your name?

“Y/n, My - My prince,” She blushed,

“Y/n… a very pretty name for a very pretty girl,” Cregan smirked giving her arse another smack,

“Ooh!” she gasped almost falling forward from the strength of the slap, fighting the urge to rub her skin to soothe it from the slap,

“She’s a bit jumpy,” Jacaerys laughed,

“She is, isn’t she?” Cregan laughed, “Sweet little Y/n, our guest is not used to these northern snow storms. Go and keep him warm now.”

“Y- yes my lord,” she nodded setting the wine jug down and going over to Jacaery’s chair, she stood sheepishly unsure what she was to do but he smiled up at her,

“Do not worry sweet thing, This dragon does not bite.” he cooed, setting his hands on her hips and pulling her onto his lap,

Y/n softly squealed at the shock of being so suddenly pulled, her body slightly trembling as she felt herself over him, “My- My prince I-”

Jacaery’s smirk only grew, he guided her hands to his shoulders and smiled up at her, “There we go, that’s more secure isn’t it, don’t worry sweet thing, you won’t fall. I’ll make sure of it.” he growled leaning back as far as he could in the chair, his fingers digging into her hips,

“That better my prince? Warmer for you?” Cregan laughed leaning his elbow on his knee watching with a sly grin,

“Much better my lord, much better.” he nodded slowly guiding her hips on him forcing her to shift against him,

“You’ll stay a while longer, won’t you y/n?” Cregan asked but spoke like an order,

Y/n glanced back and forth between them, and gulped,

“Please sweet thing, it would be so much more fun if you stay.” Jacaerys pleaded,

“Y-Yes my Lords.” She nodded,

“Good girl.” Cregan Growled,

[blueiscoool]

Excavation in Egyptian Necropolis Uncovers 63 Ancient Tombs and a Trove of Gold Artifacts

Grave goods found in 63 burials from ancient Egypt include gold foil figures, pottery and bronze coins.

Archaeologists in Egypt have found the ancient burials of more than 60 people along with bronze coins and gold foil figurines, the Egyptian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities announced in a statement.

The team found the burials in the city of Damietta on the northern coast by the Mediterranean. Some of the graves date to the 26th dynasty (688 to 525 B.C.) while others appear to date to the Ptolemaic period (304 to 30 B.C.), the statement noted. The discoveries include pottery and shabti figurines, which were meant to work for the deceased in the afterlife.

Researchers zeroed in on the 38 bronze coins found within a pottery vessel at the site. The coins date to the Ptolemaic period, a time when the descendants of one of Alexander the Great's generals ruled Egypt.

Thomas Faucher, the director of the Center for Alexandrian Studies in Egypt who was not involved in this research, said that from the released images, it appears that many of the coins are engraved with the head of Zeus Ammon. This deity is a combination of the Greek god Zeus and the Egyptian god Ammon (also spelled Amun), who is associated with oracles and prophecies. At least one coin in the images seems to have an eagle engraved on it with a cornucopia (a horn) depicted to the left of the eagle. Based on these details, Faucher dated the coins to the late third century B.C.

Egypt was going through political turmoil when this coin was minted. Around 206 B.C. a large-scale revolt broke out against the Ptolemaic dynasty.

"A large number of hoards were buried at the time of the revolt in Southern Egypt in 206 B.C." Faucher said in an email, noting that there was a coin recall after this, with recalled coins being assigned new values and given new additional markings. It's unclear if the newly found coins were buried during the time of revolt, and more details from the excavations may shed light on them. In any event, the discovery of the burials and coins "is significant, especially given the region's limited known material from this period," Faucher said.

Aside from the coins, the gold foil figurines buried with the deceased are also notable. From the images released, it appears that a few of the figurines depict "ba-birds" — creatures from Egyptian mythology that have wings and a human head. The "ba" in ancient Egypt represented part of the human soul and was sometimes depicted as a bird that could gather food to feed the deceased, according to Swansea University's Egypt Centre.

In addition to the ba-birds, some of the gold foil figurines appear to depict the 'eye of Horus,' a falcon-headed god. Artifacts depicting his eyes were popular in ancient Egypt and were believed to have a protective power.

By Owen Jarus.

[myladysapphire]

His Sapphire Princess (VI)

After the night in the brothel Rhaenyra is married to Laenor Velayron to protect the birth of her child. who in the years to follow is the only one of Rhaenyra's children that is believed to be his, she is loved by all in the red keep, even queen Alicent adores the girl, so when Rhaenyra proposes a marriage between Aemond and Rhaenyra's daughter Visenya, Alicent happily agrees.

The children having been best friends in their youths are more than happy to be wed but when the incident at drift mark occurs things change, will it be for better or worse?

word count: 2,647

CW: mentions of SA and rape and parent negligence

Fem!oc x Aemond Targeryen (can be read as x reader)

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

disclaimer:  i do not own any of claim any of the A song of ice and  fire characters, all rights belong to GRR MARTIN, all characters are his except for my OC

Winterfell

Winterfell was beautiful, whilst cold and grey it gave a feeling of home. Though she was an outsider and always would be, to her winterfell felt welcoming, homely. Perhaps it was the snow swept roofs and hills, or the hot springs the heated the whole of winterfell, leaving no crook nor crevice cold. 

The gods woods were where she felt the most welcome, though she supposed she shouldn’t seeing as she did not worship the old gods of the north. But it was the only thing here that reminded her of the red keep. Though the red keeps gods woods was pitiful to that of winterfells. Here the woods were filled with never ending trees, caked in a sea of snow. Winter roses were scattered through the woods, mixed in with a few other northern native flowers, but the winter rose was the only flower that seemed to do the woods any justice, they evolved the trunks of the trees, made a natural path to the shining light of the gods woods, the ancient weirwood tree, a face carved into it, a face carved by the children of the forest, she guessed it was the face of one of the old gods, though as far as she knew the old gods, unlike the seven, did not present with faces or name. It was warm in the gods woods, despite what seemed to be the permanent layer of snow that coated the gods woods year round, with the hot springs out in the open and pooling into lakes she supposed it made sense, but she would never be used to feeling the need to shed her thick winter coat whenever she entered the gods woods.

With the godswoods at the centre of winterfell and spanning over 20 acres, winterfell easily or shadowed it, with greenhouses half the size of most castles in Westeros, allowing production of many crops all year round. Then there was the castle itself, though it was more grey that she was used to it was beautiful, and unlike the red keep, there was much less politics and tension, less debate over what the colour and exact shade of her dress and what it meant. She felt more free, less scrutinised. And she had more friends than enemies here, though the lack of her Aemond was ever present. 

The people of the north, originally hesitant and cold, soon warmed up to her (as much as notherns do to outsiders). They were a generous kingdom, despite them being one of the poorer kingdoms, with the lords and ladies lacking the selfish cunning of the south.

At first her being here only felt like a punishment and now it felt like a blessing, a much needed breather form her mother and the politics of her family, though one thing she did not need a breather from was Aemond, and he was the only thing keeping her from the feeling of home, here in the north. The people here in the north were very different, though they were known for their dislike of outsiders and yet the cold gazes felt kinder than the false niceties of the red keep.

There were many things she loved about the north, but Cregan stark has been her favourite part. 

Though she was sure her mother whisked away to the north in an attempt to become enamoured by him and for her to beg her betrothal to Aemond be broken in favour of Cregan. But instead she had found a dear friend. Whilst he was handsome, and a small crush had developed she could not deny her feelings for Aemond eclipsed any feelings for him.

Creagan himself was enamoured with the realms' beauty. And had it not been for his recent bethrothal to Lady Arra Norrey mere weeks prior to Rhaenyra request for her ward here, he was sure he would have loved the idea of potentially marrying her. 

To the north and to Cregan it was clear why this betrothal and fostering was sought after, the events at driftmark had spread quickly , of how her own brother had stabbed and maimed both her and her uncle.

The scar on her neck was hard to miss, though often strategically covered with high necks and necklaces, but that did not hide all the damage the scar had left, with Visenya often randomly flinching, her left hand unsteady and shaky from the nerve damage her own brother had left. The maester at winterfell had attetmpted physical therapy though it seemed that whilst she no longer shook it seemed that her grip and reflexes were permanently damaged. This led to her having to learn everything all over again, having previously been fully left handed, she had to relearn to right, to paint and even to ride her dragon. A enw saddle was built, designed to hold her left hand in place and allow her to street and be forced to dominate with her right hand instead. Though the vermothor seemed to hate the cold. She thought prephas it had something to do with his old rider, and Alysannes rumoured love for a certain northern lord. But his bond with his rider was strong and though he often flew to dragonstone, to his mate, he always came back.

Time flew fast and before she knew it, it was Aemonds 13th nameday.

Dear Aemond,

Happy name day!

I hope this reaches you in time. I miss you dearly, though it has only been a few moons. I had hoped to celebrate today with you, but the maester advised my arm may be too weak towithstand the whole journey, so instead I hope my writings may be of some comfort.

Aegon did write me recently, telling me of a surprise he had planned for your birthday, though he left no hints what it would be. But seeing as it's Aegon i dont have high hopes it will be a surprise aimed to please you. For that reason I hope this reaches you early, as to deter you from whatever Aegon has planned. 

I have commissioned you a gift, we both have always loved the gem and I myself have had a necklace and ring made from the stone,and now you have a matching eye, aswell as a ring. One I wish we may oneday use to commemorate our marriage. The sapphire itself was gifted to me by my father after he came back from one of his many trips. He had always said to me that this gem would always be a reminder of him for when he goes away, but now each of us shall have a piece of each other with us. And I have my fathers ring to rember him by instead. 

I mis you Aemond, so much. I wish i could just fly to kingslanding and see you, to spend the day with you. But I hope the lack of my presence does not affect your day.

As you know Jace has written to me, nearly as often as you, but the other week, after months on end with no acknowledgement from my mother, she wrote. Twisting some tale of how the thought of what happened to me was such a tragedy and she could not bare the sight of me in pain and needed to separate herself so as to not act on her anger at my condition. As if it were not the actions of her son and instead the actions of you that caused my pain. She seems to place the balme of that night entirely on you, and begs me to ask the king to break our engagement, as he refuses her requests. And then writes a paragraph of the rumors shes heard of Cregan, saying ‘i have heard he is quiet handsome, and a goods swordsman. He is only a few years your elder and the Starks are a good noble and loyal house, a marriage alliance would bring great benefits to our cause.’ OUR! What is this cause? The cause where a mother abandsons her child from birth? A mother who is so entitled that she does not see that the whole of the court does not worship the ground she walks on. Or prehas she has finally acknloegde the divide in court. The Blacks and the Greens, and how her own actions and negligence has caused and even bigger divide? Now of course i do not know the full ins and outs of the politics ive heard, on what makes it to the north and to be honest whilst i am here i do not find the need to care. Though, my dear Aemond, with the rumors I have heard perhaps I should care more. But that will be something I can only do when my mother sends for me from my fostering, a day which perhaps I should now dread.

I tire of her, Aemond, and their politics. How the simple colour of your gown can dictate your side in an imaginary war. 

My lessons here  consist more and more of politics. It turns out that though my mother neglects me she does not neglect my maester and my stuides. ‘To be my heir you must have the proper training and discipline, my father taught me much later than I teach you’ I? Seriously? ‘You must master the arts of politics before the art masters you, and learn your history before you become a part of it. All good leaders have learnt from the mistakes of their predecessors. Take Jaeherys for example, not only did he take the mistakes of the past and make them into his successes. Your grandfather tries to be him, though I love my father, he is no Jahearys. But I hope you will be.’ 

Me? No, I would not become a man so obsessed with the image of the house of the dragon that he would abandon his own children, banish them and cause their deaths all for the sake of image. My mother does not know me, and her letter only made that clear, and i ahte to burden you with this on your name day, but how can i not, I miss you Aemond, and it is clear to me that you are the only person who truly gets me. 

Please visit me soon.

Your Senya’

Two days after Aemond's birthday she got her reply, not a written letter, but him.

She woke to the sound of her window being forced open, and Aemond tumbling into her room.

“Senya” he wispherd, slowly approaching her bed. She was still laying down, half asleep. “ Senya”, he spoke again, he sounded frustrated, not from her but he sond sad, different, traumatised. “ please, senay! It's me!”

“Aemond?” she questioned, sowly arousing herself awake, “you’re here?”

He had grown in the last 8 moons, taller and more grown into his features. He was handsome. Though he never was ugly, but now he was handsome.

“Of course, you asked” he spoke, voice soft, but nowhere near his normal calm. 

He had received her letter the day of his name day, mere hours before he found out exactly what Aegons so-called present was, and mere hours after he had mounted Vaghar and fled north, leaving nothing but a short note saying he had gone to see Visenya.

“what’s happened?” she asked, as he approached and she reached forward taking his hands in hers. This was the first time she had seen him in so long, and without his eye too. And yet she did not look at him differently, her gaze the same as it always had been, if not more kind.

He took a deep shalky breath, sitting down beside her. His head dropped to her hands, kissing them softly. “Aegon.” he stutterd, “he-he” he couldnt get the words out, and instead his breath quicking. 

“Hey, hey” Visneya started reaching her hand to stroke his face, “look at me Aemond, and tell me what happened.” she spoke, worry clear in her tone, “please”

He took a moment, his face focused solely on hers, he took a deep breath and began. “Aegon,” he swallowed thickly “he-he took me to a brothel”

Her breath hitched, unsure what to think but she knew it couldnt be good, wouldnt be good. Because if it was she knows Aemond would not be here or looking at her with such sorrow if it was. She took his hand more fimly in hers, squeezing it in reassurance. 

“He…he said he had a surprise, as you said, he dragged me through the streets not telling me a thing, and then we arrived at ‘Chatayas brothel’, an-an older woman answered the door. She must have been older than my mother, she-“ he hesitated, looking down, as if in shame. “lead us through the door, grabbing my hand and Aegon- he said “time to get it wet”, he… he left me there laughing as this woman and … pushed me to the bed. She wouldn’t take no for an answer… she ignored me as i begged…i begged and beggedbut sdhe wouldnt stop, until Aegon came back, drunk and on who knows what, he was laughing and then” Aemond was fully crying by this point, something she had never know him do.

“ and then?” she proptmed slowly, whipping his tears.

“ he stopped, he looked at me and relasied what had happened, realsied what he had done and cried.” 

“cried?”

He nodded “i- he… started to explain, but i couldnt move, i was i didnt want to be here, didnt want to be near that woman, and he just cried. Eventually he must of regained his composure, for next thing i knew i was in my bed and then i ran, ran too you” he finished, “i dont even know what his reasoning was just something about you and wanting you and that this was the only way he knew how.”

“What?!” first her mother pushing Cregan on her and now Aegon traumatising his own brother to break of hedrr bethroal just to have her? As if she was something that could be won. “ why? Why would he do that, force his brother through something so, oh Aemond im so sorry, i-i dont even, i'm so sorry”

They must have fallen asleep at some point, as she woke up laying next to Aemond, to the sound of a maid knocking.

“Aemond!” she coaxed him awake,”Aemond! Get up before the maids see you!”

“Huh?” he mumbled, his head in a pillow.

“Hide” she shoved him gently, moving out of bed, and readying to open the door. That managed to get his attention, as he moved to reach for her as she got up, only to groan as he missed. 

“What?” he asked again groggy.

“Hide!” she whispered harsh;y, growing a blanket on the bed, “just hide!” she opened the door slowly, seeing her maid, Ana, holding her breakfast.

“My princess” Ana curtised, moting forward to push the door more open. 

Aemond finally took the hint, burning himself under the moutainfull of pillows and blankets Visneya had on her bed. 

“Just over there please Ana” she spoke pointing to her side table. “ oh and Ana, i am not feeling to well, can you please make Creagan aware and cancel my plans for the day?”

She curtsied nodding “of course, should i call the maester?” she asked, concern in her tone. 

“No, no, just need a day to relax and i should be just fine” she spoke, prompting Ana to leave “ thank you!” she spoke, closing the door.

Collapsing on the bed next to Aemond, she spoke, “you cant stay” she mumbled.

“I know” 

That was the last time she would see him for two years, the last time he would really speak to her and the letter she had received last moon, would be his last.  

next chapter

Taglist (bold means could not tag)

His sapphire princess: @cathy1514 @iiamthehybrid @melllinaa @aleemendoza2425-blog @cassandra1995-blog1 @deltamoon666 @aelora-a @ryiana @isa-beenme @unique7676 @adriennepoison

HOTD: @taragryenmoony

Aemond: @blossomedflowerofluv @violet-potter

General: @flrboyd @theanxietyqueen17 @zillahvathek @dark-night-sky-99 @apollonshootafar

[johnlyngfr]

The Andromeda Galaxy

In late summer and early autumn, the Andromeda Galaxy is high in the eastern sky after sunset in the northern hemisphere. This is the best time to capture a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy, the most iconic of astrophotography images.

Catalogued as Messier-31 or M31, it is the nearest galaxy at 2.5 million light years. It appears to have a similar size and structure to our galaxy, but there are significant differences. With this proximity, it appears too large in most backyard telescopes.

It is quite bright at the centre, and easily visible with binoculars. The challenge for astrophotographers is to render the faint edges without over-saturating the intense core. However, I keep the core lightly saturated to remind us that the Andromeda Galaxy has a super-massive black hole at the centre.

There is a tenuous halo of stars with darker dust around the galaxy, and the outer edges seem disrupted. Current thinking is that one or both of the smaller satellite galaxies in the photo (M32 and M110) passed through the Andromeda Galaxy long ago.

This is an ensemble of 180 photos where each was a 3 minute exposure (9 hours of astrophotography). I photographed M31 from my garden in Strasbourg France on 2 nights in September 2024.

More information about the Andromeda Galaxy:

[pinturas-sgm-aviacion]

1942 10 24 Daylight over Milan - Graham Turner

After attacks on Genoa on 22/23 and 23/24 October, which were designed to coincide with Montgomery's El Alamein offensive, Harris at the morning conference at HQ Bomber Command on 24 October decided to switch targets to Milan. Unlike Genoa, with its ports and shipyards, or Turin, with its war industries, the attack on Milan - the political and commercial centre of northern Italy - was for morale purposes and the effect on the civilian population. As a result, this attack was unusual in not being one single night raid. Instead, Harris chose to split the attack: 5 Group's Lancasters by day - perhaps to highlight British air superiority over a major Italian city - and the other Groups' 'heavies' at night. This battle scene features the daylight attack, which saw 88 Lancasters take off to bomb the aiming point of 'Milan "A"' - the city centre - though this caused controversy afterwards when it became public that the Duomo had been the aiming point . Seventy-four aircraft dropped 51.8 tons of HE bombs and 81.5 tons of incendiaries on Milan. As cloud over Milan was down to 3,000 ft, and since the bombs dropped included a good number of 4,000-pounders, release from below this height was in some cases avoided so a number of Lancasters stayed above the cloud, bombing at between 8,000 ft and 12,000 ft. A number went below the cloud and down to 2,000ft to identify the aiming point, however, and this is depicted in this battle scene. One Lancaster even got down to 50ft, where, the Italian authorities claimed, it strafed buildings and machine-gunned people in the streets; indeed, the Lancaster of Wg Cdr J. M. Southwell, 9 Squadron's CO, admitted later to having 'used 7,000 rounds machine-gunning two trains on the Milan-Novara railway and strafing what he said was Novara'. Nonetheless, photographic evidence - taken both during the bombing and later on by a reconnaissance aircraft - revealed that a large amount of damage was inflicted - mainly by fire - on industrial premises all over Milan, and the railway lines to Bologna,Genoa and Venice and along the St Gothard route had been severed. The main railway station had been particularly damaged, as were areas around the Porto Novara Station and the Parco Solari and many industrial premises, such asthe GEC Engineering Works, Municipal Tramways and the Caproni aircraft factory. Mussolini publically admitted damage to nearly 2,500 houses, with 450 completely demolished. For the British, the losses were three Lancasters(3.4 per cent), one having crashed over Milan and two others shot down by Luftwaffe night-fighters around Caen in France. These were light considering this had been a risky long-distance run in daylight across Axis-dominated Europe.Damage to aircraft was another matter, however. Several bombers had been damaged either by flak over Milan or enroute, by colliding with a seagull over the target, by a Macchi C.202 Folgore, by hitting high-tension electric cables,or by crash-landing at an emergency airfield in Sussex. A total of ten aircraft (11.45 per cent) were damaged, half ofthem seriously. While the day raiders were landing at their bases in England, another force of 71 aircraft, comprising the Stirlings,Halifaxes and Wellingtons from the PFF, 1, 3 and 4 Groups, was already over Milan. Although thick cloud covered the target, they could see the glow of the fires started by the Lancasters five hours earlier, and proceeded to bomb those. Further destruction to Milan, although not extensive, was caused

[my-religion-greek-myth]

The Eastern Winds

Just a drabble I imagined while working lol, although no romance, I guess... I made Agatha and Rio sisters along with three OCs 🫠

Agatha Harkness X Fem Reader

The Kingdom of Aether was divided into five distinct territories, each shaped by the ruling duke, giving every region its own unique rhythm. At its heart stood the palace, the core of the kingdom and Rio’s domain. To the west, the Household of Harkness thrived under Duke Agatha’s steadfast hand. In the south, Duke Sae of the Light Household shone with diplomacy and grace. To the north, Duke Xin of the Bloodstone Household held his ground, a place steeped in power and ferocity. Finally, the east flourished under Duke Phobei of the Dragon Household, whose lands were rich in nature and life.

The people, however, knew little of their rulers' true nature. They suspected their leaders were no mere mortals, as the royal family had remained unbroken for as long as anyone could remember. What they did not know was that these siblings were each a powerful entity capable of wielding unimaginable power. Rio, the eldest and most powerful, was Death. Sae, the gentlest figure of the royal family, embodied Life. Phobei, the Nature, often disappeared from the kingdom, drawn to the forests and creatures beyond. Agatha, the embodiment of Power, was especially close to Rio. Then there was Xin, the reckless general of the kingdom, who was, in truth, the force of War itself.

The narrow streets of the market buzzed with noise—vendors shouting over one another, the metallic clink of coins changing hands, and the occasional scream of livestock. The under streets, nestled between the western and northern districts, reeked of dirt and decay. Rain fell in fine sheets, turning the cobblestones slick with mud and grime. For most nobles, the prospect of braving such a place was unthinkable. Yet, Agatha Harkness, the Duke of the Harkness Household, strode through the throng with purpose, her features obscured beneath the deep hood of a heavy, dark cloak.

No one would expect a duke here. And that was precisely why she came.

She moved like a shadow through the chaos. The scent of stale ale, sweat, and desperation permeated the air as she passed traders hawking everything from spices to weapons. But it was not these mundane wares that drew her attention.

Agatha had heard whispers of a slave auction being held today. It was illegal—Rio, the sovereign of the realm, had outlawed slavery years ago—but in the cracks of society, things festered. For Agatha, it was not the buying of bodies that intrigued her but the why. Who dared to defy Rio’s decree? Who was so bold as to traffic flesh under her watch? Under Agatha's watch in her territory?

Her gloved fingers curled around her sword on her waistbelt as she entered the clearing where the auction was underway. A raised platform stood in the centre, surrounded by merchants and a crowd that buzzed with greed and disinterest alike. The slaves on display—men, women, children—were chained at the ankle, their gazes hollow. Agatha felt a faint prickle of rage but kept her expression carefully neutral.

Then she was brought forward.

The girl was small— Agatha but wasn't sure if that was because of her half-starved state or if the girl was actually shy of adulthood. Rain clung to her gaunt face and hair, plastering it to her cheeks. Her clothes were thin and torn, hanging like rags over a body that had clearly known hunger for too long. Yet, unlike the others, this girl glared—defiant even as the auctioneer roughly pulled her forward by the chain on her wrist.

“Lot 47! A rare one,” the man sneered. “Foreign stock, straight from the East—exotic and strong-willed.” He shoved her forward to show her off. The girl stumbled but didn’t fall. Her eyes scanned the crowd, sharp and angry, and for a moment, Agatha saw the faint flicker of something—survival, fury, life.

“Good for labour or otherwise,” the auctioneer continued, his words slick with implication.

The crowd murmured, bids beginning to rise. Agatha’s lip curled beneath her hood. These people were vultures, and the thought of this girl being sold to a life of abuse or toil sat bitter in her mouth.

“Five silver!” someone called.

“Ten!”

The auctioneer smirked. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Agatha raised her voice firmly. “Twenty gold.”

The crowd fell silent. The auctioneer’s face froze. “I—Twenty gold? For this one?” He laughed nervously, as if unsure whether she was serious.

“Do you need me to repeat myself?” Agatha’s voice cut through the rain, low and commanding.

The man swallowed hard. “Sold. Twenty gold it is.” He moved quickly to finalise the transaction, unwilling to provoke further attention. The girl turned to look at Agatha, suspicion flickering across her features, but she said nothing as the chain was handed over.

Agatha pulled her sword from beneath her cloak. Before the girl could flinch, she sliced through the chain with a decisive movement. The links hit the ground with a dull clatter. “You are not a dog to be led,” Agatha said curtly.

The girl blinked up at her, still glaring, though there was confusion behind her eyes. “What do you want from me?” she demanded, her voice hoarse.

Agatha tilted her head, appraising her carefully. “What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer. Whether out of pride or mistrust, Agatha couldn’t tell.

“Fine,” the Duke murmured. “Then I’ll give you one. Doll. It suits you better than the number they’ve given you.”

The girl—Doll—stared at her as though trying to read her intentions. “Why?”

“Because you’re mine now,” Agatha said simply. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

There was no cruelty in her tone, only certainty. With a motion of her hand, she turned sharply on her heel, the folds of her cloak trailing behind her like dark wings. After a beat, Doll followed, her bare feet splashing against the rain-soaked earth. She didn’t trust this woman—how could she?—but something about her presence felt different. Powerful.

And power, Doll had learned long time ago, could change one’s fate.

The House of Harkness loomed like a dark citadel against the stormy sky. Spires of black stone clawed toward the heavens, their edges softened by the veil of mist that surrounded the estate. It was a house of power—ancient and unyielding, much like the woman who ruled it.

The massive front doors creaked open as Agatha strode in, her cloak dripping onto the marble floor. Doll followed close behind, her small figure shrinking slightly under the weight of the house’s grandeur. Servants bustled into the entrance hall, stopping mid-step as they caught sight of the girl trailing their Duke like a stray cat.

Gasps were stifled, whispers exchanged behind hands. The girl was filthy—her bare feet left muddy smudges on the pristine marble, her ragged clothing a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding her.

“Your Grace…” The head housekeeper, a stern woman named Mirren, stepped forward, her expression polite but strained. “We did not expect you to return with—” Her gaze flicked to Doll , then back to Agatha. “Company.”

Agatha shrugged off her cloak and handed it to a footman without looking up. “This is Doll ,” she said, her tone brooking no room for question or commentary. “She will be staying here, under my care.”

The staff exchanged uncertain glances. Mirren cleared her throat. “My lady, if I may—”

“You may not.” Agatha’s voice, though calm, cut through the air like a blade. “Draw her a bath, and make it hot. Burn whatever she’s wearing and find her proper clothing. Not scraps—something warm and decent.”

Mirren blinked, quickly lowering her head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“Feed her,” Agatha continued, her gaze lingering briefly on Doll . “She looks half-starved.” Then, without another word, she turned and swept toward the staircase that led to her study, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

The staff hesitated, uncertain of what to do with the girl. Doll glared at them all, her posture bristling with defiance. She didn’t need to understand the whispers or the looks to know what they thought of her: filthy. Useless. Out of place.

“Come along, girl,” Mirren finally said, her voice softer now but still clipped. “Let’s get you cleaned up before Her Grace changes her mind.”

Doll said nothing. She was used to orders, used to being moved like a piece of unwanted cargo. But something about this felt different. The woman in the cloak—Agatha Harkness—hadn’t looked at her like she was nothing. And even though Doll didn’t trust that feeling, she couldn’t ignore it either.

The servants ushered her down the halls of the mansion, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating dark wooden panels and arts with various styles—from various countries, she guessed. The house smelled something faintly floral, though she couldn’t name the flower.

By the time they brought her to a bathing chamber, Doll’s fingers had started to tremble from the lingering cold.

Mirren gave instructions to the maids, who filled a large copper tub with steaming water. “You’ll scrub yourself clean,” she said, eyeing Doll critically. “And if you can’t manage that, we’ll do it for you.”

Doll scowled but said nothing, waiting until the maids stepped back before she approached the bath. She dipped her hand into the water first, half expecting it to burn her—things this nice weren’t meant for people like her. But the heat was soothing, and as she sank into the tub, the grime of years began to melt away.

The maids left her clothes folded neatly outside the door: a simple but well-made dress of dark wool and clean undergarments. Doll scrubbed herself until her skin was raw, her hair—now free of mud—revealing its natural colour. When she finally emerged, dressed and clean, she hardly recognised herself in the polished silver mirror hanging on the wall.

A maid appeared at the door, carrying a tray of food: fresh bread, a steaming bowl of stew, and a cup of milk. Doll’s stomach twisted painfully at the smell, but she hesitated, eyeing the maid warily.

“It’s not poisoned,” the maid said softly, as though she could read Doll’s thoughts. “Her Grace ordered it for you herself.”

Doll stiffened. Her Grace. Agatha Harkness.

She ate quickly, her hands unsteady as she tore through the bread and spooned the stew into her mouth. It tasted like nothing she’d ever had before—rich and warm, settling in her empty stomach like an anchor.

When the food was gone, the servants escorted her to a small chamber near the kitchens—a far cry from the grandeur of the upper floors but still leagues above anything she’d ever known. The bed was soft, layered with furs and blankets. Doll sat at its edge, hands curling into the fabric as though afraid it might vanish.

Meanwhile, above her, Agatha sat in her study, a single candle illuminating the parchment on her desk. She sipped at a glass of wine, her thoughts lingering on the girl she had brought home.

Doll.

There was something about her—something sharp and unbroken, despite the life that had tried to crush her. Agatha had seen plenty of people in her years, but this girl was different.

And Agatha had a feeling she hadn’t yet seen the full extent of what Doll could become under her care.

Days passed in a strange quiet, an absence that settled like a shadow in the Harkness Household. The staff bustled about, performing their duties with their usual efficiency, but whispers swirled wherever the girl—Doll—appeared. She spoke to no one, answering the occasional question only with glares or narrowed eyes. It wasn’t fear that silenced her; no, Agatha could see it clearly. It was rebellion.

And Agatha found it amusing.

Sitting in her study one morning, she swirled the wine in her glass, her lips curling into the faintest of smirks as Mirren recounted the day’s news.

“She still refuses to speak, Your Grace,” Mirren reported, sounding exasperated but polite. “Won’t answer questions, won’t even acknowledge anyone. She just looks at us, like—like she’s daring us to say something.”

Agatha chuckled softly under her breath. “Oh, she is daring you, Mirren.” She tilted her head, her gaze glinting with interest. “And that’s what makes it so delightful. A silent rebellion, subtle and sharp as a blade. She doesn’t see herself as conquered, does she?”

Mirren looked uncertain. “No, Your Grace. If anything, she looks angrier by the day.”

“Good,” Agatha murmured, setting her wine aside and rising gracefully from her chair. “Let her have her little rebellion. Let her scowl and pout and glare all she likes. I think it suits her.” She reached for her cloak, which had been laid across a chair. “I’ll be out for the day.”

“Out, Your Grace?” Mirren blinked, frowning slightly. “Might I ask where you’re headed?”

Agatha flicked a glance at the housekeeper as she fastened the cloak at her neck. “To the palace. Rio summoned me earlier this week, and I find myself in a mood to humour our sovereign today.”

Mirren dipped her head respectfully. “Of course, Your Grace. Shall I prepare anything for your return?”

Agatha waved her off, already striding toward the door. “No need. I won’t be long.”

As she passed through the halls of the mansion, her sharp gaze caught sight of Doll, sitting by the window in the far corner of the parlour. The girl was perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair, dressed in the clean woolen gown the staff had given her. She had refused to stay still for fittings, so the garment hung a little loosely on her slender frame. Her hair, now clean and tied back, framed her face as she stared out at the courtyard with a frown carved deep into her brow.

Pausing for the briefest moment, Agatha turned her head just enough to look at her. “I’m going to the palace,” she said, the words conversational but pointed. “Try not to burn the house down while I’m away.”

Doll’s eyes snapped toward her at that, her frown deepening. Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line, as if she wanted to argue but refused to give Agatha the satisfaction.

Agatha allowed herself the faintest smirk. Oh, she’s furious.

Amused, she turned sharply on her heel and continued toward the door. She didn’t linger or look back, but she could feel the weight of Doll’s glare like a tangible thing on her back.

Outside, the Harkness carriage waited, the horses restless as the driver prepared to depart. Agatha stepped into the carriage without hesitation, her cloak flaring behind her like raven wings.

Inside the mansion, Doll watched her leave, her fists curling into the fabric of her dress.

She didn’t know why it annoyed her so much to see the woman—Agatha—come and go so freely, so confidently, like she owned the world and everyone in it. Doll didn’t understand this place or the strange woman who had brought her here, but one thing was clear: Agatha Harkness enjoyed her silence far too much. And Doll wasn’t sure whether she hated her for it… or something else entirely.

The chamber within the palace was warm, quiet, and cloaked in the soft golden glow of late afternoon. Two figures sat opposite one another at an ornate marble table, the surface adorned with an intricately carved chessboard. Rio, the sovereign of the Kingdom of Aether, lounged lazily in her chair, elbow perched on the armrest, chin resting on her fist. Her presence—serene yet strong—seemed to bend the air itself. Across from her, Agatha sat equally composed, one brow arched, lips curled into a faint smile.

Between them, the chess pieces glided silently across the board, controlled by deft flicks of their wrists, the barest sparks of magic dancing between their fingers. No hands touched the pieces; no words accompanied their moves—only the occasional scrape of marble on marble as one piece claimed another.

Rio’s black king shifted forward a single square. She glanced at Agatha from under her lashes, dark eyes unreadable. “You’re playing recklessly today.”

Agatha smirked, leaning back in her chair and conjuring a glass of wine into her hand. “Perhaps I enjoy keeping you on your toes.” She raised the glass to her lips, pausing to savour the deep red of the liquid before taking a sip.

“Or perhaps,” Rio countered with the faintest hint of amusement, “you’re distracted.”

A moment of silence passed, and Agatha tilted her head, flicking her wrist lazily. Her white queen floated across the board, kicking out the black bishop with effortless grace.

“I went to the market earlier this week,” Agatha said finally, her voice soft but pointed as though she were commenting on the weather. “There are still slave black markets.”

Rio stilled. The pieces on the board paused mid-movement, her black knight hovering above its square. The sovereign’s gaze sharpened, dark and knowing. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” Agatha swirled her wine, the glass catching the soft light. “Brazen, really. I doubt they even try to hide it.”

Rio’s lips thinned into a straight line. “I outlawed slavery years ago.”

“And yet, there it was,” Agatha murmured. She set the wine glass down with a soft clink. “A crowd of vultures bidding on flesh in the open air. It’s not a question of whether they defy you, Rio. They do. Boldly.”

Rio leaned back in her chair, her fingers drumming once against the armrest. “Did you intervene?”

“I purchased one,” Agatha replied simply. “A girl—young, stubborn, angry. The rest weren’t so lucky.”

Rio arched a brow, watching her carefully. “That’s unlike you, Agatha. Since when did you take an interest in lost souls?”

“Don’t mistake me for sentimental.” Agatha’s smirk deepened, though her voice held an edge that betrayed something deeper beneath the surface. “It wasn’t kindness. I found her amusing.”

Rio’s gaze lingered, searching her. “And what will you do with this… amusement?”

Agatha leaned back, the tip of her finger flicking forward to push her white queen one square further. The piece glided effortlessly.

“Cultivate her,” she said, her tone as smooth as silk. “Or send her back if she's boring.”

The sovereign tilted her head, her expression giving nothing away. “Careful, Agatha. Amusements have a way of becoming… attachments.”

Agatha scoffed, though it was a quiet sound, betraying nothing. “You should know me better than that.”

“I do,” Rio replied, and though her voice remained light, there was a weight behind her words. “That’s why I’m saying it.”

The chessboard settled into silence once more, and Agatha’s lips curled upward as Rio’s black king moved again, her magic sharp. The two women leaned into the comfortable quiet of their game, yet the

The conversation lingered like a spectre.

The dining hall of the Harkness mansion was grand and sombre, the kind of room built to intimidate as much as to host. Its vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows where candlelight couldn’t reach, and the long, polished table stretched far enough that one might consider shouting to be heard from end to end. But the servants had grown used to the strangeness of their duke and the house.

What they had not grown used to, however, was the girl.

Doll sat quietly at the table, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on her plate as if determined to ignore the absurdity of her position. Dressed in a plain yet fine gown chosen from the shop the duke personally shopped, she didn’t look as out of place as she had days ago. But the servants still couldn’t reconcile it—the filthy girl from the market dining with Duke Agatha of the Harkness Household as though she were a guest. A noble. An equal.

Agatha, for her part, was utterly unbothered. She cut her roasted beef delicately, chewing with languid grace as her wineglass beside her. She carried on as though Doll had always been there, ignoring the nervous glances exchanged between Mirren and the other staff bustling around the edges of the hall.

It was Mirren who finally dared to break the uneasy quiet. “Your Grace, the city has been… lively today.”

Agatha arched a brow without looking up from her plate. “Is that so?”

Mirren nodded stiffly, her hands clasped tightly before her apron. “Word has spread that Her Majesty visited the market between the western and northern district border two days ago. The slave black market has been… eliminated.”

The sound of silverware pausing against porcelain broke the stillness.

Agatha hummed softly, her lips curving into the faintest smile. She leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine glass between gloved fingers, her gaze dancing with quiet amusement. “Did she, now? Well, isn’t that delightful news.”

The servants glanced nervously at one another. Doll, seated to Agatha’s right, lifted her head just slightly, her brow furrowing as if to focus on the words being spoken.

“It’s said she destroyed it completely,” Mirren continued, her voice carrying an odd mix of pride and apprehension. “The slavers were arrested—or worse—and every captive freed. The city’s been buzzing with it since.”

Agatha took a sip of her wine and then, casually, as though discussing the weather, remarked, “I suppose she was in a mood.” She glanced toward Doll, who now stared at her plate with a clenched jaw, silent as ever. “Wouldn’t you agree, Doll?”

The girl’s gaze flicked up to meet Agatha’s, sharp and unyielding, though she didn’t say a word.

The servants froze, caught between wanting to watch and pretending they were invisible. Mirren’s hands tightened, her discomfort clear, but she said nothing. This was what unsettled them most of all—Agatha’s interest in the girl. It was unconventional, borderline improper, and beyond their understanding.

Doll looked like she wanted to glare, to snap, to say something, but instead, she dropped her gaze back to her food, stubbornly refusing to engage.

Agatha chuckled softly, breaking the tension with that low, amused sound. “Still silent. You are quite the rebel, aren’t you?” she murmured, almost to herself. “I wonder, Doll, how long you plan to keep up this charming act.”

Doll’s fork scraped against her plate, her movements tight, but she didn’t respond.

Mirren, desperate to shift the conversation, cleared her throat. “Will you be visiting the palace soon, Your Grace, to commend Her Majesty for such decisive action?”

Agatha waved a hand dismissively. “Rio doesn’t need my praise. She knows what she’s done and will likely spend the next week pretending it was all perfectly casual.” Her lips twitched. “I’ll see her soon enough. For now, I think I’ll enjoy the quiet.”

Her words were simple, but as Agatha’s gaze flicked back to Doll, it was clear she wasn’t speaking only of the palace.

Dinner passed in strained silence after that, broken only by the soft clink of silverware and the sound of the servants moving around the room.

Doll said nothing the entire time, but when Agatha rose from the table, pausing briefly to look at her as she left, there was something unreadable in her expression. Amusement, curiosity, maybe even satisfaction.

As the doors closed behind her, the servants exhaled their collective breath.

Doll remained in her seat for a long moment, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as the soft echoes of Agatha’s footsteps faded away. She didn’t know what the duke wanted from her, or why she insisted on dragging her to this table every night like some honoured guest.

But she did know one thing: Agatha Harkness was watching her closely. And for reasons Doll couldn’t yet explain, that knowledge filled her with unease… and something else she couldn’t name.

The next day, from the second floor balcony of the mansion, Agatha watched in silence, her hands resting lightly on the ornate banister. Below, the grand hall was a bustle of quiet activity. Servants moved back and forth, polishing the carved bannisters, dusting furniture, and sweeping the floors with practised efficiency.

And in the middle of it all sat Doll.

She was perched awkwardly on the edge of one of the velvet chairs, her legs drawn up just enough that her heels barely touched the floor. Her feet fidgeted—barely noticeable, but Agatha caught the movement. A small, nervous rhythm, like she was struggling to decide whether to sit still or stand up and leave. It didn’t help that the servants paid her no mind, their gazes deliberately sliding past her as if she didn’t exist at all.

Agatha’s gaze narrowed, her lips curling faintly as she observed.

Ignoring her completely, she mused to herself. How predictable.

It wasn’t cruelty, not exactly; it was the result of uncertainty. Doll didn’t belong here—she wasn’t staff, nor was she nobility—and none of them knew how to address her. Better to pretend she was invisible than risk offence.

But Doll wasn’t invisible, not to Agatha.

After a moment, Agatha straightened, her cloak flaring softly as she descended the grand staircase. Her boots clicked faintly against the polished stone, drawing the faintest ripple of attention from the staff as they moved to clear her path.

Doll’s gaze snapped up as the sound approached. She stiffened instinctively, hands tightening on the arms of the chair as Agatha stopped directly in front of her. The servants, ever attentive to their mistress’s movements, slowed and stilled nearby, trying not to seem as though they were watching.

Agatha regarded her for a long moment, as if taking in every detail—her guarded posture, her eyes that flashed defiance despite her clear discomfort, and the way her feet fidgeted even now, betraying her restlessness.

Finally, Agatha tilted her head slightly, voice smooth as silk but edged with curiosity. “Can you read?”

Doll blinked, caught off guard by the question. She opened her mouth as if to answer, then seemed to think better of it, clamping her lips shut.

Agatha arched a brow, undeterred. “Perhaps you don’t understand me,” she continued, her tone turning faintly lilting, mocking. “It wouldn’t surprise me. The slave market referred to you as ‘foreign exotic.’” She paused meaningfully. “I assume that means you’re from far, perhaps the east.”

Doll’s jaw tightened, her fingers digging into the fabric of the chair’s armrest. She said nothing, but Agatha noted the subtle shift in her expression—the faint flare of anger in her eyes, the way her shoulders squared defensively.

“Interesting.” Agatha hummed, her smile sharpening ever so slightly. “You do understand me well, don’t you?”

Doll glared at her silently, her chin lifting just a fraction. It was all the answer Agatha needed.

“Well, that settles it.” Agatha clasped her hands together, turning slightly to glance at the nearest servants. “Bring a selection of books to the parlour. Something simple, nothing too precious. I have a lesson to teach.”

The servants blinked, hesitating for just a moment before scattering to obey.

Doll’s eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, she broke her silence, though it wasn’t with words. A soft, frustrated sound escaped her lips—a cross between a sigh and a huff—as she turned her glare fully on Agatha, as if demanding to know what game the duke was playing.

Agatha, ever composed, merely smiled down at her. “You’ve been left to sit idle long enough,” she said smoothly. “I don’t believe in wasting potential, Doll. If you can understand me, then you can learn. And if you can learn…” She trailed off, eyes glittering.

Doll stared up at her, a flicker of confusion and suspicion crossing her face. Her fidgeting had stopped, though, Agatha noted with quiet satisfaction.

“Come along,” Agatha said lightly, turning on her heel and beginning to walk toward the parlour without looking back. “Unless you’d prefer to sit there all day, being ignored like furniture.”

Agatha paused mid-step, turning slightly to glance back at Doll. The girl hadn’t moved. She remained seated in the velvet chair, her eyes fixed on the floor, her body stiff. The servants froze, their hands stilling on their tasks as tension thickened in the air.

Agatha arched a brow, her lips curving faintly with something that wasn’t quite irritation—more like expectation. “Did you not hear me, my Doll?” she asked, her tone calm but with an edge of authority.

Still, Doll didn’t move.

Agatha’s gloved fingers tapped once against her arm before she tried again, her voice dropping into something softer but no less commanding. “Stand up. We’ve wasted enough time.”

Silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Then, Doll’s hands finally clenched at the chair’s arms, her knuckles whitening. She pushed herself to her feet in one swift, sharp motion, startling the servants nearest her.

Her voice rang out, raw and sharp like a blade cutting through the stillness. “My name is F/N! Not Doll.”

The words echoed through the vast hall, leaving a stunned hush in their wake.

Agatha blinked once, her expression perfectly still, but her gaze sharpened like flint. Doll—F/N—stood rigid, glaring at her with all the fury she’d clearly bottled up since arriving at the mansion. Her eyes burned with defiance, her chest heaving faintly as though the words had cost her more strength than she could admit.

“I’m not your Doll,” F/N continued, her voice trembling slightly though her glare remained steady. “Don’t call me that.”

For a long moment, Agatha simply stared at her, unblinking. Her expression was unreadable, and the servants looked between them with barely concealed dread. It wasn’t often that anyone—let alone someone like F/N—dared to challenge Agatha Harkness so openly.

Then, Agatha’s lips curled ever so slightly, her voice a low hum of amusement. “F/N, is it?”

F/N flinched as though hearing her name from Agatha’s mouth unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Her glare faltered just briefly, but she recovered quickly, squaring her shoulders as if to brace for whatever Agatha might say next.

Agatha tilted her head, her smile faint but sharp. “You have spirit,” she murmured, almost as though speaking to herself. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she closed the distance between them. F/N didn’t back down, though her breath hitched audibly as Agatha stopped just before her.

Agatha studied her face in silence, taking in every detail of the defiance in F/N’s gaze, the tension in her posture, the stubborn line of her jaw. Finally, she spoke again, her tone quiet but no less commanding. “Very well, F/N. I’ll call you what you wish—for now.”

[monstersandmaw]

Here's August's offering for you! Hope you enjoy it - I had fun with writing it! We return to Starfall Springs!

Content: seemingly-grumpy, slightly older, scarred, Shire centaur meets peppy human female in a DIY store after his niece spills a lot of pink paint on the floor, and each is instantly attracted to the other. When the reader's truck breaks down a week later, it must be fate when the same centaur comes across her on the side of the road and offers to tow her truck to his mate's garage in Starfall Springs. One thing leads to another, and the two get better acquainted. Mention of alcohol, but no inebriation.

Nsfw: non-penetrative sex, messy intercrural sex, outdoor but not public sex, reader receives oral, cis female terminology used. Both parties also say 'fuck' a lot.

Wordcount: 9453

Preview:

Despite having moved to the foothills of the Glasspeak Mountains almost six months ago, you’d only been into the quaint little town of Starfall Springs a handful of times.

Now that you’d fixed most of the structural issues in your off-grid cabin — at least the estate agent had been very open with you about the modernisation needed on the property — you were turning your hand to making it prettier.

The urgency of the advancing year and the upcoming winter had driven you into a DIY frenzy over the summer months to get the place functional, and now that it was done, you never wanted to feel PTFE tape between your fingers, or see a wrench or a screwdriver again. You’d had drywall dust in places you never wanted drywall dust too. But, while the place was no longer letting water in from places it shouldn’t, or letting water out from places it shouldn’t, it did look very stark and very bare, with raw wooden surfaces and no colours or comforts.

Right on the edge of Starfall Springs was a small industrial park which somehow still managed to look leafy and quaint. The lot was made up of three large warehouses, one a rambling garden centre overflowing with verdant life, another a dealership for all sorts of motor-vehicles, from centaur-accessible vans to naga-accessible motorcycles, and the last was a DIY and home improvement centre, selling everything from plumbing supplies to lumber, and even offering bespoke kitchen and bathroom refurbishments. You’d saved yourself the cost of the latter by doing them yourself, but the staff there knew you like family for how many times you’d been back to ask where to find all the things you needed for the cabin.

You’d supported Dhurak’s small hardware store nearer the centre of Starfall Springs when you’d first moved there, thinking it would be better to support an independent business, but as it turned out, these stores weren’t franchises of larger chains, and were in fact also independent businesses. The parking in the centre of Starfall Springs also wasn’t great, especially since you drove a huge pickup truck, and this place had literally everything you could ever need. It even had a crafts section on the off-chance you decided to take up knitting for the winter months.

So it was that, halfway down the lighting aisle, you heard a high-pitched, whinnying whine coming from the next aisle over, followed by the stamp of small hooves and then a loud clatter. Someone inhaled sharply as if about to curse, and then a deep, resigned voice said in a rather clipped, northern burr, “I told you to let me get it down, Clara. Now we’ll have to pay for that as well.”

“I- I’m…” came a quavering response, and then the sound of a child crying in quick, ugly gulps.

You pushed your laden trolley around the corner and saw a huge, black-coated centaur’s muscular backside as the figure bent one foreleg and ‘bowed’ down at the front. To your surprise, he scooped up a much smaller centaur under her belly, like a fashionable lady grabbing a wayward handbag-dog, and lurched back up onto all four hooves. He stepped easily away from a slowly-spreading mess of spilled pink paint all over the tiled warehouse floor, still with the young centaur tucked under one arm.

Backing up a few paces on hooves that had to be as big as dinner plates, the figure set down the young child and said in a strained voice that was clearly trying very hard to be patient, “I’ll have to go and tell someone we made a mess. You need to stay here while I do that. Do not move, Clara, and do not touch anything else. You understand me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Uncle Jack,” she sniffled as she got a hold of herself again, cuffing at her face with her sleeve.

Unlike him, she was tiny, but like him, her equine coat was jet black, and the skin of her upper, human torso was dark. To keep her equine body warm from the nippy, autumn wind outside, she wore a cosy-looking pink coat like a horse rug, and her human upper body was swathed in a voluminous, pink puffer jacket. Her hair was tied up in two high buns that looked like mouse ears and secured with pink scrunchies. With her dark eyes all watery and her mouth crumpled up into a pout, she looked adorable, and thoroughly miserable.

‘Uncle Jack’ did not look adorable. He looked… intimidating.

If Clara perhaps resembled a shaggy little Shetland pony, her uncle looked like a Shire centaur, with massive muscles in his bare equine body, and a shaggy, dark coat. To your surprise, he had a short and traditionally-docked tail, and his lovely, fluffy, white fetlocks were now spattered with pink paint. The pink didn’t lessen the impact of his presence at all. Your eyes travelled up his torso, swathed in a brown, waxed jacket, up to his weathered face, and you tried not to let your shock show when you found a set of four, huge, scars slashing across his rugged features. He looked like he’d been mauled by a bear at some point in his youth. His textured black hair was long and tied back in soft, fuzzy dreads at the nape of his neck, with flecks of grey streaking through it at the temples. His eyes though, were a startling, sapphire blue.

He turned carefully in the limited space that the aisle afforded him, and caught sight of you. You’d stopped in the dead centre of the aisle, and there was no way he could squeeze past you unless you tucked yourself right up against the side, so you hitched him a shy little smile and nudged your heavy, ungainly shopping cart over to one side so he could pass.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, ducking his head in a tight nod. “I’ll get this mess sorted out.”

“Don’t worry,” you smiled. “You want me to stay with her while you go find someone?”

He eyed you up and down with a frightening scowl on his scarred face, and then he scrubbed one rough-looking hand over his mouth, his short, dark beard rasping against what you could only assume were calluses on his hand to make that kind of noise. “Would you?”

You smiled. “Of course. I’ve had my fair share of paint related disasters in DIY stores, trust me.”

The centaur gave you an odd look at that, but he didn’t pry, and just nodded again and turned to look over his colossal shoulder, where the poor kid was standing and sniffling beside the widening tide of pale pink paint. “Clara, this kind human’s going to stay with you, ok? Don’t give her any trouble.”

Clara shook her head, giving you a wide-eyed look that told you she wasn’t entirely comfortable with being left with a stranger, and then mumbled, “Ok.”

“I’ll be two minutes,” he growled at you, and then stalked off to find a store attendant.

Read the whole 9.8k word story on my Patreon right now, plus gain access to my entire Patreon back catalogue. You'll also get access to any free stories a week early, and you can come hang out in our chilled Discord server too.

[dontcxckitup]

NI - Pt1

Drabble that got too long so it will have multiple parts/FF Gareth Mallory's recollection of his capture in Northern Ireland Setting: late 1980s/1990s, before his job at the MoD

Upon entering, the room was neither radiating comfort, nor friendliness – which should have been the case, technically. On the contrary, though: it was lacking all kinds of warmth, was cold and sterile, with a feeble attempt of a book collection on a bookshelf that had already seen better days. So not really helpful with intrusive thoughts and the already growing feeling of uneasiness. It actually woke memories from another place – a place he had learned to know by heart…

The walls naked and grey; the plaster chipped at some places, revealing the red bricks underneath. There are supposed to be windows showing the bright, lush world outside, but they are locked up with wooden boards. The only source of light in the entire room is a naked lightbulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling, dangling from its wire like a poor hanged man.

“Lieutenant Colonel?” He jolted out of the memory, forcing his gaze away from the light above them. The man had said something, but clearly he hadn’t heard him – his thoughts having been far away. Like so often now. His focus kept wavering lately, his mind drifting. Only one of the little gifts he had been given. The man before him, with his greying hair and the glasses on his nose, was looking at him expectantly. Clearly he had said something, but he wasn't sure what. Had he asked about his well-being? How he had found the way here? Was it smalltalk, or had that bloody session begun already?

He had been forced to come here, didn't actually want to be here and bare his soul and innermost thoughts - or memories, for that matter. "If you want back into active duty, you have to go to therapy first." Those had been the words thrown at him. He didn't need this, though. He didn't need to sit down twice a week and tell a complete stranger about what had happened to him. He was perfectly fine without this. The man was still staring, and now he could even see an eyebrow rising, waiting for an answer. "I'm...I apologise." His voice was quiet, barely able to rise. "I was--" "Your thoughts drifted away?" Oh, he hated this. People cutting in. As if he couldn't answer himself! Their eyes locked, and he was pretty sure the man - doctor - could read his thoughts in this moment. Stupid, of course, no one could read thoughts.

"I know what you're thinking." A cough interrupts the other, as his body is desperately trying to get the water out of his lungs. They are bursting, burning, at the same time pushing out water as they are trying to get air back in. His head suddenly snaps back as the man grabs him by his hair and pulls it back, forcing him to look up and into his ragged face. Still he probably looks better than him; at least he can shave and wash himself. "You're thinking...why are they doing this?" He grins down at him, and Gareth, gathering saliva in his mouth, stares back. Grimacing, he sucks in a breath, then spits into the other's face. It gives him a short-lasting feeling of gratification to see the disgusted face - before he feels the push. Next thing he knows, his head is underwater once more, one hand in his neck, the other in his hair, holding him where he is, not giving him an inch to move. And this time...this time it lasts longer than any time before; this time his lungs finally give in and he passes out from the lack of oxygen.

"They do that sometimes, don't they?" The man before him asked, tilting his head to the side curiously. "Where are they going, Mister Mallory? Where...have you gone just now?" "I'm...a bit tired, that's all." "Of course you are." Of course you are? A frown furrowed his brow for a moment. What the hell did he know? What did this man know? Nothing. He knew nothing, because Gareth hadn't said anything, because what had happened to him wasn't in any file. Only the physical wounds, the state he had been found in, while this doctor, oh-so-smart, had been sitting in his little armchair with his little notepad and pen and had jotted something down while others had told them about their day. It had probably been nothing but his grocery list, or notes on how boring these sessions were. So no, that man knew absolutely nothing. He probably didn't even know what 'tired' really meant. Lying naked on an ice-cold conrete floor, curled up, with every bone and nerve and inch of the skin hurting...

...unsure when they will come again, when the next wave of pain washes over him. Unable to sleep because the light above him is so bright he can still see it through his closed eyes. Because the pain won't stop; it won't numb, it only grows stronger. It is an illusion to think he will be able to sleep when they untie him from the chair and he can lie down. A beautiful illusion, but an illusion nonetheless. He can't stretch his legs because it hurts too much. His hands are tied together by the wrists, the rope so tight he can barely feel his stiff and cold fingers. Speaking of the cold...it is freezing. He has lost track of the date, but it must be some time in late December. Is it Christmas? Or has it passed already? There is no light coming in through the window, so he doesn't even know if it is day, or night. No watch to show what time it is - they have taken his, along with his clothes, as punishment for his attempted escape. All he can do now, when he has the luxury to lie on the ground, is to curl up and pull his knees against his chest to try and keep his body warm - at least a bit. Sleep, however, doesn't happen. Every time his eyes do close, they jolt open again. His senses are on high alert. They hear things that aren't there, the smallest noises, always afraid someone will enter the room and he has to prepare himself for the next blow. He can't remember the last time he has slept, but every time they come to him, he wishes he will finally pass out, get the sleep he hasn't had in so long, if only for a little while.

( @diaryofalanguagesstudent @honey-lets-fucking-run @jo-m-portman-rp @kingofthewebxxx @lonelydragon62

@corinnebaileyrp @theresastargirl @tealeavesandthorns @brokenthimbles )