#Resplendent Stag

[iron-sparrow]

i wouldn't know where to start sweet music playing in the dark be still, my foolish heart ♪

feat. @nolcro's two Sharlayans

[solxamber]

Supervillain's Guide to Romance || Rook Hunt

You, Supervillain, planned for a lifetime of rivalry, but instead, the Hero, Rook Hunt just keeps breaking into your lair with snacks.

Where did it all go wrong?

(Villain! Reader x Hero! Rook)

You have waited for this moment forever.

The world has been terribly dull as of late. Sure, your evil empire is thriving, the peasantry cowers at the mention of your name, and several major institutions have crumbled beneath your perfectly polished boots.

But without conflict, without an opponent, it’s just… paperwork and infrastructure maintenance. And while managing the economy after singlehandedly obliterating capitalism is hilarious, it does not provide the visceral thrill of a good old-fashioned deathmatch.

But now. Now.

The Goddess has finally chosen her Hero.

And you are so ready for this.

Your Ultimate Doomsday Device™ is primed. Your Evil Lair is bathed in appropriately dramatic red lighting. Your constructs—hulking, ominous, heavily armed—are lined up in terrifying symmetry, all enhanced with freshly sharpened weaponry and, crucially, eyeliner. Because aesthetic matters.

And you?

You are a vision of villainy. Cloak billowing, sword gleaming, boots heeled just enough to exude power but still practical enough for dramatic combat maneuvers. You spent three hours in front of a mirror perfecting your “I’ll kill you and laugh about it” smirk. You are prepared to be an absolute menace.

And then he arrives.

Standing atop the nearest cliff, silhouetted by an impossibly well-placed moon, is him.

The Goddess’s Chosen Hero.

Rook Hunt.

He is posing. His bow gleams. He looks like a romanticized painting of a hunter-king about to declare war on a stag. And then—

“Ah-ha!” he cries, pointing dramatically at you. “At last, we meet, O Dark Jewel of the Night’s Malevolence!”

…What.

Rook places a hand on his chest, eyes alight with unhinged enthusiasm. “What poetry! What drama! What an exquisite monologue that must have been as you awaited my arrival! Tell me, mon cher adversaire, how long have you rehearsed this glorious moment?”

…What.

You were expecting many things.

A clash of ideals. A heated battle. Perhaps a reluctant respect forged in the fires of combat.

You were not expecting your mortal enemy to sound like a theater major experiencing religious ecstasy at the sight of your properly villainous cape swish.

You squint at him. “You’re… excited?”

Rook nods so fervently his hat nearly flies off. “But of course! To stand against one so resplendently wicked! To trade blows—nay, souls—in this eternal dance of justice and villainy! C'est magnifique!”

He’s smiling.

Why is he smiling.

This is a deathmatch, not a wine tasting.

You clear your throat, lifting your chin in the most intimidating way possible. “Do you have any final words before I bring ruin upon you?”

Rook inhales deeply, eyes glimmering like a man utterly in love with the idea of his own demise.

“You are radiant in your menace! A blinding star of destruction! Smite me, O Harbinger of Dread! Let me bask in the beauty of your malice!”

He spreads his arms as if to embrace the impending carnage.

You slowly lower your sword.

“…What the hell is wrong with you?”

You shrug it off, maybe the Goddess likes them unhinged.

You had prepared for this moment your entire life.

The darkness swirled dramatically around you as you stood atop your obsidian throne, gazing down at the battlefield below. Your constructs—your beautiful, eyeliner-wearing minions—were poised, weapons gleaming, capes billowing, eyes smoldering with unholy (and stylish) rage.

The sky rumbled, lightning cracked, your "smite-a-city" device hummed ominously, and a general sense of doom and destruction filled the air.

This was it. The fated clash between good and evil. The battle that would shake the heavens, rend the earth, and—

"Ah, mon cher, your stance is exquisite! But tell me, would you rather have dinner instead of world domination?"

You freeze mid-swing, sword inches from his throat.

Your constructs freeze mid-battle, one still mid-air, about to deliver a flying kick. The thunder hesitates, the lightning awkwardly fizzles out, the wind that had been howling through the battlefield just kind of... stops, like it forgot what it was doing. Even your "smite-a-city" device lets out a confused beep.

Rook Hunt—the Goddess’s Chosen Hero, The People's Champion, The Bringer of Light and Justice, The Reason You Haven’t Been Able to Have a Peaceful Afternoon in Months—gazes at you with sparkling green eyes, utterly unbothered. He is smiling. He is batting his eyelashes. He is somehow more dazzling than the lightning.

You, in contrast, are short-circuiting. "HUH??? WHAT??? NO???"

"Magnifique." He lunges again, sword clashing against yours, his grin only widening. "Then I shall vanquish you with the elegance you deserve!"

The world unfreezes as if someone hit 'play' on reality again. Your constructs return to attacking, the wind resumes howling, thunder remembers how to be intimidating, and you—still reeling—dodge a particularly poetic strike from the overly enthusiastic Hero of the World.

You're not sure what just happened, but you do know one thing:

You absolutely refuse to die without getting some answers first.

And maybe, just maybe, you need to recalibrate your entire life plan.

You had been prepared for a worthy opponent. You had been prepared for grand battles, for expertly crafted schemes, for a rivalry that would echo through the annals of history.

What you had not been prepared for was Rook Hunt.

You take a sip of your tea, relishing a rare moment of villainous peace. The sun is setting, your latest evil scheme (a devastating tax loophole reform) is progressing smoothly, and—most importantly—Rook Hunt is not around.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you relax, you feel it. That unmistakable tingle of being observed.

Slowly, you lower your cup.

And there he is. Peeking through your window.

His stupid hat. His stupid cape. His stupidly enchanting green eyes shining like a cursed emerald in the dim light.

"Bonsoir, mon cher!" he greets cheerfully, dangling upside down from your roof like a particularly well-dressed bat.

You nearly drop your tea. "WHAT THE FU—"

You're exhausted. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. You decide to dedicate an entire day to self-care. Face masks, fluffy robes, a villainous bath bomb infused with the souls of the unjustly rich—you are determined to ignore the world.

As you stretch luxuriously in your grand lair, you hear a faint thunk.

You pause.

Slowly, you turn your gaze toward the door.

There, pinned straight through the wood by an arrow, is a neatly wrapped face mask.

You take a deep breath. You count to ten. You fail to count to ten because you are seething.

You yank the arrow out and unroll the note attached to it.

"Self-care is crucial, mon ami! Hydrate well and let your skin glow like the celestial heavens! À bientôt~!"

There is a little hand-drawn heart at the bottom.

You have never known rage like this.

At this point, you’re convinced the Goddess chose him purely to fuck with you.

There is no other explanation. None.

Because every time you turn around, he is there.

He is watching.

He is smiling.

He is way too into this.

You are a responsible supervillain. You do your own paperwork.

This is crucial.

Do you have minions? Yes. Constructs? Absolutely. Are they efficient? Of course. Do they understand the fine intricacies of tax-deductible lair maintenance expenses? No.

So here you are, suffering, hunched over your desk, reviewing budgets for your upcoming Doomsday Apparatus™ (pending patent).

Your shoulder aches. The price of evil, you suppose.

Then, hands.

You sigh, assuming it’s one of your constructs trying to be helpful, but the texture is all wrong. Not cold. Not metallic. Not vaguely threatening.

You freeze.

These are human hands.

You whirl around so fast you nearly fall out of your chair.

And there he is.

Rook Hunt. The Menace of Your Existence.

Wearing that same infuriatingly pleased expression he always has when he manages to unnerve you.

“Mon trésor, you are so tense! Do not fret, for I am here to ease your burdens—”

Your hand is already on your emergency drawer.

Because of course you keep a glock in there. You’re a responsible supervillain.

But before you can make him truly holy, he lifts a plate of your favorite cookies.

You squint.

You squint harder.

The cookies look perfect.

You hate him.

But you love those cookies.

“...Fine,” you grumble. “Dining room. Now.”

And that’s how you end up having the most awkward tea party of your life.

Your constructs—tall, looming, deadly—stand against the walls like confused statues.

You glare at Rook. He beams at you.

You eat a cookie. He sips his tea like he’s the most welcome guest in the world and not your mortal enemy.

Finally, you break the silence.

“I’m going to destroy an entire city district next time.”

Rook hums, interested. “Hm. But which one? Have you considered an aerial attack for maximum devastation?”

Your constructs shift uncomfortably.

You blink. “...What.”

“If you truly wish to inspire terror, mon cher, a coordinated offensive utilizing shadow and fire would be most spectacular. Oh, imagine the fear in their eyes! The poetry of destruction!”

Your constructs are now visibly uncomfortable.

You stare at him. “...You realize I am trying to defeat you, right?”

“Oui.” He takes another dainty sip of tea. “But what is a villain without a hero? What is a hero without a villain? We are locked in the most beautiful dance, and it would be a shame if your evil was anything less than... magnifique.”

You hate how good that sounds.

Your constructs, sensing the sheer unhinged energy at this table, collectively decide they are done.

You’ve had it.

Rook Hunt has been breaking into your lair every other day, treating your villainous empire like it’s some kind of all-you-can-antagonize buffet.

So tonight? You strike back.

Your plan is perfectly petty. You sneak into his house, bypass his defenses, and leave a nasty little surprise—a copy of his stupid hat, but without the feather. Symbolic. Brutal. Devastating.

It’s dark inside. Suspiciously dark. You move silently through the halls, your villain senses tingling, when—

A hand grabs your wrist.

You let out the most unvillainous, undignified little squeak known to man.

A candle flares to life.

And there he is.

Rook Hunt. Smiling. Smug. Suspiciously pleased.

And behind him?

A fully set candlelit dinner table.

What.

You yank your wrist free and glare at him. “How did you know I was coming?”

“I didn’t!” He laughs, delighted, as if this entire scenario isn’t absolutely deranged. “I’ve merely been setting this up every night for the past week, hoping one day you would.”

You stare.

Your brain buffers.

Your evil plan—your brilliant, petty, symbolically devastating evil plan—is completely ruined.

But also.

You are weirdly, deeply flattered.

Which is so annoying.

You grumble and stomp over to the table. “Well, I’m not wasting a perfectly good meal.”

Rook positively beams as you sit down, pouring you a glass of something fancy.

You stab at your food aggressively. “You suck, Hunt.”

“Ah, mon amour, flattery will get you everywhere.”

You contemplate murder.

You also contemplate dessert.

Your life is hard.

As a renowned and feared supervillain, you have many responsibilities—world domination, economic destabilization, overthrowing the bourgeoisie—but even the greatest of evildoers need time to unwind.

For you, that means art.

Tonight, you sit in your grand lair, sketchbook in hand, dreamily doodling while fantasizing about the day you will finally, unequivocally, beat Rook Hunt.

Perhaps you’ll trap him in an inescapable dungeon.

Perhaps you’ll trick him into an elaborate psychological game that will break his very spirit.

Perhaps you’ll put a single grain of sand in his boots and let nature take its course.

The possibilities are endless.

You’re so absorbed in your creative villainous process that you fail to notice the cryptid himself materializing behind you like some kind of woodland horror story.

“Ah, mon trésor, what are you drawing?”

You freeze.

Your villain instincts kick in, but it’s too late. Before you can shove your sketchbook under your cloak and play it off like a true mastermind, Rook Hunt has already peeked.

A beat of silence.

You watch as, for the first time in history, Rook Hunt blushes.

You look down at your sketchbook.

Oh.

It’s a doodle of him.

With a heart drawn near it.

Obvious context:

It’s a threat.

Clearly, you meant “I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

Obviously, this is not romantic.

Clearly, he should know this.

And yet—

Before you can explain this very normal and absolutely not embarrassing drawing, Rook makes a strangled noise—and then, without warning—

He launches himself out of the window.

Full-speed.

No hesitation.

You stare blankly at the gaping hole in your wall.

The night breeze drifts in.

A loose paper flutters off your desk.

Your jaw clenches.

You pull out your calculator.

“Alright. How much is this repair gonna cost me this time?”

It had been months. Months of what was supposed to be an intense, dramatic rivalry, full of mortal combat, fire, and the kind of operatic duels that would make even the gods weep. Months where the world should have trembled at the very mention of your name as you and the so-called Goddess’s Chosen Hero waged battle across the land.

Instead, what had actually happened was this:

Rook had become a persistent, feathered plague upon your life. Every time you so much as breathed, he was there. If you drank tea, he was peeking through the window like some kind of blonde cryptid.

If you took a relaxing villainous bubble bath, he left a scented candle by your doorstep with a little handwritten note.

If you tried to sleep? Oh, well clearly that was the perfect time for him to send a love arrow straight through your pillow, just narrowly missing your skull.

This was not how hero-villain dynamics were supposed to go.

And apparently, the Goddess had finally taken notice, because today, as you and Rook clashed swords atop your usual scenic cliffside battlefield—lightning flashing, your cape billowing just right—a new hero arrived, looking exactly like the bootleg discount protagonist you’d expect from a last-minute recast.

“Villain!” he bellowed, dramatically pointing his sword at you. “Your reign of terror ends—”

You vaporized him on the spot.

Your constructs, standing dutifully in formation, collectively gasped.

Rook, who had been mid-flourish with his sword, stopped and blinked at the rapidly dissipating ashes of what had, just seconds ago, been an eager new recruit in the grand war of good versus evil. Then, he turned back to you, smiling fondly.

“Ah, mon trésor, how dashing you are when you wield your power with such effortless grace!”

You scowled, pointing your sword at him this time. “Why are you acting like I just did something romantic? I murdered that guy.”

“Oui! And beautifully so!” Rook twirled his own blade, utterly unbothered. “Like a star snuffing out another in the vast cosmos! Poetry in motion! Ah, my heart beats faster just thinking of it.”

Your constructs, meanwhile, were losing their collective minds.

One of them, a hulking, six-armed behemoth of enchanted steel, hesitantly raised a hand. “Uh. So. Boss? Just so we’re clear—”

“Don’t,” you warned.

“No, no, just a quick question,” it continued, with the slow, careful tone of someone addressing a very temperamental god. “You just smote a hero instantly. Like, zero hesitation. Which means you can do that. So, um. What exactly is stopping you from smiting him?” It pointed at Rook.

Rook, the absolute menace that he was, waved cheerfully.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Considered your options.

Then, in a show of supreme villainous dignity, you turned on your heel and dramatically stomped away.

Your constructs stared after you.

Rook sheathed his sword and sighed wistfully. “Ah, such passion. Such fire. Such restraint! Truly, they are the one chosen for me.”

The constructs turned to him in absolute horror.

“What have you done to our boss?”

You were having a perfectly normal evening.

By "normal," of course, you meant that you were lounging in your grand, candlelit villainous dining hall, sipping a glass of expensive wine (stolen, obviously), while Rook Hunt, your mortal enemy and frequent dinner guest, debated you on the finer points of mid-air combat.

"Mon trésor, think of the artistry!" Rook exclaims, gesturing wildly with his fork. "A battle in freefall—two souls clashing against the endless sky, the wind whipping our capes, the suspense of who will deploy their parachute first!"

You scowl, jabbing a piece of steak. "No. That’s impractical. There’s no stable footing, gravity ruins your attack trajectory, and if one of us dies before hitting the ground, there’s no dramatic final duel."

Rook gasps. "But what of style, mon cher? What of the poetry of two destined foes plummeting through the heavens, locked in the embrace of battle?"

You roll your eyes. "What of the reality that I’m not breaking my legs just so you can fulfill some mid-air fencing fantasy?"

Before Rook can counter with another unnecessary metaphor, there's a knock at the door.

You pause. Rook tilts his head. Your constructs—the ones assigned to not be traumatized by your ridiculous rivalry—shift uneasily.

No one knocks on the door of the Evil Overlord.

You cautiously rise, striding toward the entrance, adjusting your cloak. If this is some dumb assassin, you’re going to vaporize them before they finish their opening monologue.

You throw open the door.

Standing there, shimmering with divine light and looking deeply, deeply exasperated, is the Goddess.

You blink.

Rook, behind you, immediately bows with theatrical reverence. "Ah, my divine patron! What honor do we have to—"

She shoves a hand in his face, shutting him up. "Not a word from you."

Rook makes a delighted noise behind her palm, as if being personally scolded by a deity is the highlight of his week.

Then, the Goddess turns her gaze to you.

"You," she says, voice layered with millennia of barely restrained frustration.

You raise a brow. "Me?"

She points accusingly. "You are not even a villain."

You stiffen. "Excuse me?"

"The people adore you!" she snaps, throwing up her hands. "Your so-called empire? Has better infrastructure and social services than any kingdom in the world! Your so-called evil policies? Fixed the economy! Your supposed tyranny? Universally beloved by the peasantry!”

You gape at her. "I run a dictatorship."

"A benevolent dictatorship!"

Your eye twitches. You glance back at Rook, who is absolutely vibrating with amusement.

The Goddess rounds on him next. "And you!"

Rook straightens, looking delighted to finally have her attention. "Oui?"

"You are the worst hero I have ever chosen."

His smile widens. "Merci!"

"That wasn't a compliment." She pinches the bridge of her nose, like she’s developing divine stress migraines. "You were supposed to defeat them. Not take them to dinner, deliver self-care gifts, and give them advice on better city destruction tactics."

"But, my Goddess, what is heroism if not—"

She holds up a finger. "Finish that sentence, and I swear on the cosmic balance, I will smite you myself."

Rook, wisely, shuts up.

Your arms cross, and you scowl at her. "So what do you want, exactly?"

The Goddess sighs. "Nothing. I am done. I am sick of this. I gave your world a clear narrative, and you two have turned it into—into—" she gestures wildly at the two of you, "whatever this is."

She looks exhausted. You take a slow sip of wine. Rook sips his tea. Your constructs, still lurking awkwardly in the background, look on in silent horror.

Finally, the Goddess rubs her temples and lets out a long, world-weary sigh.

"I give up," she declares. "I abandon this world."

You blink. "What."

Rook gasps. "Mon Dieu!"

She throws her hands up. "No. Not your "Dieu" anymore. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore. Conquer the world. Get married. Build a flying opera house of destruction. I do not care."

She turns on her heel, divine light flaring around her, ready to vanish back into the heavens. But before she fully ascends, she pauses, turns back, and levels one last glare at you.

"And fix your damn roof. I know he broke it." She jerks her head at Rook.

Then, with a flash of light, she is gone.

Silence.

Your constructs do not move. You do not move. The air is thick with the weight of divine abandonment.

Then—

"Mon trésor," Rook breathes, eyes sparkling. "Did you hear? We have divine permission to wed!"

You throw your wine glass at his head.

You were going to prove a point.

The Goddess’s words still echoed in your mind:

"The people adore you."

"Your so-called tyranny is beloved."

Absolutely not. You are terrifying. You are a villain. You are the Dread Overlord of Shadows and Eternal Night, not some beloved community figure.

So, naturally, you stormed into the city streets in full dramatic regalia, determined to strike fear into the hearts of the people.

And, of course, they were absolutely terrified.

(There are children braiding flowers into your hair.)

Their knees knocked together in terror.

(The baker personally handed you a warm loaf of bread, saying, "It’s your favorite, dear. Fresh out of the oven.")

They shrank away from you, trembling.

("Can we get a selfie, Overlord of Shadows? You look so cool today!")

They screamed in fear.

(M’overlord, would you consider attending our town’s Harvest Festival? It wouldn’t be the same without you.")

By the time you made it back to your lair, the weight of reality had crushed your entire soul into a fine powder.

Your constructs barely had time to move out of the way before you collapsed onto the cold stone floor, sprawled dramatically, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It was not normal.

Nothing about today was normal.

You were supposed to be evil. The darkness lurking at the edges of civilization. The terrifying ruler who demanded obedience, not… not fan interaction.

You reach up and pull a flower from your hair. A daisy. A cute little daisy.

You stare at it.

Then, slowly, you sit up and reach into your pocket.

You pull out the loaf of bread. It’s still warm. It smells amazing.

You take a slow, deliberate bite.

You chew. You swallow.

You scream into a pillow.

Your constructs watch in silence, wisely choosing to let you process your existential crisis.

Then—

A slow, steady clap echoes through the lair.

You groan, rolling onto your side, as Rook Hunt steps into view, absolutely beaming.

"Mon trésor," he breathes, looking so unbearably pleased. "Did you have a revelation?"

You almost hurl the loaf of bread at his head.

You wake up with a revelation so profound it shakes you to your very core.

You don’t have to fight Rook Hunt anymore.

Not because you won—oh no, if anything, it’s because you never actually fought him to begin with.

This so-called “battle” had always been one-sided. You, pouring your very soul into villainy, scheming, plotting, monologuing—only for Rook to respond with enthusiastic admiration instead of righteous fury.

You had never been fighting a hero. You had been performing for a very intense fan.

And you are so tired.

So you get up, summon your constructs, and announce with all the dignity of a fallen monarch:

"I’m retiring."

They blink.

Your war construct, a towering mass of steel and death, hesitantly raises a hand. "Uh. What?"

"I’m retiring." You rub your temples. "I was never really a villain, apparently. The people adore me. The Goddess abandoned this realm. And my greatest enemy is currently sitting on my chandelier, smiling at me like a particularly pleased house cat."

A collective glance is shared. The constructs all look up.

Indeed, Rook is perched there, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

A few seconds of silence.

Then, your constructs all just nod.

"Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

"Honestly, I think we all saw this coming."

"So what now?"

You sigh and gesture vaguely at the lair. "Do whatever you want. You’re free. Find a new purpose. Go live your lives."

And, to your eternal exhaustion, they do.

Your once-feared War Construct? Now bakes delicate cream puffs.

Your impenetrable Shield Construct? Wears a frilly little apron and dusts the rooms.

Your Lurking Shadow Beast of Eternal Horror? Manages the garden.

You watch all of this unfold with a blank stare, feeling your villainous reputation crumble into nothing. And you?

You don’t even care anymore.

You sit at your grand villainous dining table, Rook across from you, smiling, victorious, insufferable.

He raises a teacup in toast. "To the end of an era, mon trésor."

You sip your tea.

Then, with all the resignation in the world, you simply mutter—

"...Yeah."

Rook just winks.

If you were going to commit one last act of villainy, it had to be grand. Poetic. Fitting for the infuriatingly ridiculous story that had become your life.

And so, you decide.

You were going to steal Rook Hunt’s heart.

… Metaphorically. Probably.

So you don your best dramatic cloak, grab the most intimidating bouquet of flowers you can find, and march to wherever Rook is lurking (which, statistically speaking, is either your lair or right behind you).

But before you can utter a single villainous declaration, you stop.

Because Rook is already kneeling.

Already holding out a ring.

Already smiling like he knew this would happen.

"When’s the wedding, mon trésor?" he asks, eyes gleaming.

You stare at him. Stare at the ring. Stare at the flowers in your own hands like an idiot.

And then—

You laugh.

You laugh so hard you nearly double over, because this is your life now.

The Goddess abandoned your world. Your constructs run a quaint domestic empire. The people adore you. And the so-called Hero?

The Hero beat you to the proposal.

You shake your head, still chuckling, before pulling him up by the front of his shirt and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"Maybe," you murmur, "we can have the wedding on the anniversary of the day we met."

Rook exhales something close to a sigh, grinning against your lips before kissing you again, soft and victorious.

"Magnifique," he whispers.

And, honestly?

Yeah.

Magnifique indeed.

Masterlist

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the hopeful)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (deaths scene)

- Previous part: duty

- Next part: to let go

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was adorned in a spectacle of wealth and grandeur that could only accompany a royal wedding. The banners bearing the crowned stag of Baratheon and the rose of Tyrell hung from the high ceilings, while the scent of roasted meats and sweet wine filled the air. Musicians played lively tunes from a raised platform, their music barely audible over the clamor of voices and the clinking of goblets.

At the high table, King Joffrey sat with his new queen, Margaery Tyrell, resplendent in golden robes and a crown that glittered under the glow of countless candles. His face bore a smirk that had grown more insufferable with every toast, and Margaery’s polite smile was the only counterbalance to his arrogance.

You were seated at a table near the center of the hall, flanked by Jaime on one side and Brienne on the other. Your expression was stormy, your lips pressed into a thin line as you picked at the food on your plate. Across the room, Sansa sat beside Tyrion, her face pale and drawn as Tyrion raised his goblet to Jaime in a silent toast.

Jaime returned the gesture with a faint nod, his gaze lingering on Sansa for a moment before shifting to you. You hadn’t touched your wine, and the stiffness in your posture was visible.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Jaime said, his tone low enough not to carry beyond your table.

You turned your head slightly, your eyes narrowing at him. “Does this look like enjoyment to you?”

Jaime smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re in a room full of food, wine, and music. Some might call that a celebration.”

“And some might call it a spectacle of arrogance,” you shot back, your voice biting. “But I suppose that’s what Lannisters do best.”

Jaime chuckled softly, though there was no malice in it. He raised his goblet, the light catching on the metal as he swirled the wine inside. “Careful, Y/N. If you keep glaring like that, you’ll frighten the musicians.”

“I’d consider that an accomplishment,” you muttered, glancing toward the high table where Joffrey was laughing loudly at something Margaery had said.

Jaime followed your gaze, his smirk fading as his expression grew thoughtful. Before he could say anything, you turned back to him. “How does it feel, watching your bastard brat get married?”

The question hung in the air like a blade, cutting and deliberate. Jaime stiffened slightly, though he recovered quickly, his smirk returning with a faint edge. “Ah, so you’ve decided to be cruel tonight. I suppose I deserve that once more.”

You raised an eyebrow, your gaze unflinching. “I’m just curious. You seem so proud of him, after all.”

Jaime’s expression darkened briefly, but he let out a soft sigh, his voice quieter now. “Proud isn’t the word I’d use. Joffrey… is complicated.”

“Complicated,” you repeated, your tone dripping with disdain. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jaime leaned closer, his gaze locking onto yours. “And what would you call it, Y/N? What would you call me?”

You met his gaze without flinching, your voice low but firm. “I’d call you a man who’s spent his life doing whatever he pleased, without a care for the consequences. And now, you’re finally seeing what those consequences look like.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t look away. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see the mistakes I’ve made?”

“You act like it doesn’t matter,” you retorted.

“Maybe it didn’t,” Jaime admitted, his voice softening. “But it does now.”

The tension between you was broken by the sound of laughter from the high table. Joffrey had risen, raising his goblet as he called for the attention of the hall. His voice boomed over the crowd, and Jaime glanced toward him briefly before returning his focus to you.

At the other end of the table, Cersei’s face was a mask of barely concealed fury. Her menacing gaze flicked between you and Jaime, her knuckles white as she gripped her goblet. It was clear she was barely tolerating the sight of the two of you seated together, the announcement of your betrothal looming over her like a storm cloud.

Sansa, meanwhile, looked miserable beside Tyrion, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as she avoided looking at the high table altogether. Tyrion, for his part, seemed determined to lighten the mood, though his attempts at conversation were met with little more than nods and faint smiles.

Jaime leaned closer to you again, his voice quieter this time. “I know you don’t want to be here,” he said. “And I know you don’t want to hear this, but… I’m trying, Y/N. I’m trying to make this right.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your gaze fixed on the goblet in your hands. When you finally looked up at him, your eyes were colder than he’d hoped. “Then try harder.”

The weight of your words settled heavily between you, and Jaime found himself at a loss for how to respond. For the first time in a long while, the man who always had a clever retort or cutting remark was silent.

The feast continued around you, the noise and laughter a stark contrast to the tension at your table. And though the hall was filled with hundreds of people, Jaime couldn’t shake the feeling that the only person who mattered was sitting right beside him, her words lingering in his mind like an unshakable truth.

The hall quieted as Tywin Lannister rose from his seat at the high table. His imposing presence alone was enough to command attention, but when Tywin stood, everyone knew it meant something significant. The clinking of goblets and murmured conversations faded into silence as all eyes turned to him. Even Joffrey, seated with Margaery beside him, paused in his incessant boasting to look at his grandsire.

You tensed instinctively again, your hands gripping the edge of the table as Tywin surveyed the room. Beside you, Jaime straightened in his chair, his expression unreadable, though his golden hand gleamed in the candlelight, catching the eye of more than a few nobles.

"My lords and ladies," Tywin began, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "Today we celebrate the union of two great houses. King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, and Queen Margaery Tyrell have joined in marriage, securing a bond that strengthens the realm."

There was a polite smattering of applause, though it was clear the room was waiting for something more. Tywin let the applause die before continuing.

"But this wedding is not the only union we celebrate," he said, his stern gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles. "As Hand of the King, it is my duty to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm. To that end, I am pleased to announce another betrothal—one that will further secure the future of our great house and the realm itself."

Your stomach twisted as his words sank in, and you felt Jaime shift beside you. His gaze flicked toward you briefly, but he said nothing.

Tywin raised a hand, gesturing toward your table. "Ser Jaime Lannister, soon to be named the heir to Casterly Rock, will be wed to Lady Y/N Stark of Winterfell."

The hall erupted into murmurs and gasps, the announcement sending a ripple of shock through the gathered nobles. Even the ever-composed Margaery raised her eyebrows slightly, though she quickly masked her surprise with a polite smile.

At the high table, Joffrey leaned forward, a gleeful smirk spreading across his face. "Another Stark and a Lannister match? How quaint," he said loudly, earning a few scattered chuckles from the courtiers closest to him.

Cersei’s reaction was far less subtle. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her goblet, her lips pressed into a thin line of fury. Her green eyes darted between Tywin, Jaime, and you, her barely contained rage simmering just below the surface.

You, however, sat frozen, your jaw tightening as both the reality of the moment and weight of the announcement settled over you like a crushing wave.

Tywin ignored the murmurs, his expression calm and composed as he continued. "This union symbolizes the strength of our alliances and the enduring power of House Lannister. Together, Ser Jaime and Lady Y/N will ensure further stability in both the Westerlands and the North, binding two great houses in common purpose."

Jaime leaned toward you slightly, his voice low and laced with tension. "Say something before the entire hall sees your fury."

You turned your head toward him, your eyes narrowing. "I have nothing to say that wouldn’t disgrace myself further."

"Better silence than that look," he muttered, his lips twitching faintly as if attempting to lighten the moment.

Across the hall, Sansa’s face was pale, her hands clenched in her lap. Her gaze darted to you, worry etched into her delicate features. Tyrion leaned toward her, murmuring something that earned only the faintest nod of acknowledgment.

Lady Olenna Tyrell, seated beside Margaery, tilted her head, her bright eyes glinting with interest. "Well, that was expected," she said, her voice carrying just enough for those nearby to hear. "I wonder how that poor girl feels about being bound to the Kingslayer."

Tywin remained standing, his presence unwavering as the murmurs in the hall gradually subsided. "The details of the betrothal will be announced in due course," he concluded. "For now, let us continue our celebration of the king’s wedding."

He sat down, his expression as composed as ever, and the hall hesitated for a moment before resuming its earlier clamor.

You didn’t move, your hands still gripping the edge of the table as your mind raced. Jaime, sensing your turmoil, leaned closer again. "You wanted to be out of your chambers," he said quietly. "Welcome to the spotlight."

You glared at him, your voice low and sharp. "If I had known this was what awaited, I would’ve stayed locked away."

Jaime’s smirk faltered, and he turned his attention back to his goblet, swirling the wine absently.

As the anxiety at your table grew, the clamor in the hall shifted. Servants entered carrying an enormous pie, its golden crust steaming and adorned with intricate designs of lions and stags. The murmurs of curiosity quickly turned to applause and cheers as the pie was presented before Joffrey and Margaery at the high table.

Joffrey clapped his hands, his grin widening. "Ah, the finest delicacy in all the Seven Kingdoms!" he proclaimed, his voice loud and theatrical. "Let us feast as a king and queen should!"

The pie was set before the king and queen, and a servant handed Joffrey a gilded blade to cut into the crust. As the crowd’s attention shifted to the spectacle, you found yourself grateful for the brief reprieve, though the weight of Tywin’s announcement still hung heavily in the air.

Jaime, sitting beside you, couldn’t help but glance at you out of the corner of his eye. Despite your anger, despite your defiance, he still found himself captivated. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if there was any way to make you see him as something other than the man you despised.

The air in the Great Hall shifted the moment Joffrey brought a piece of the pie to his mouth. The crust crumbled as he bit into it, and for a brief moment, the only sound was the clinking of goblets and scattered laughter among the courtiers.

Joffrey chewed with exaggerated enthusiasm, his smirk firmly in place as he leaned back in his chair. “A fine pie,” he declared loudly, though his tone carried a note of disdain. “But dry. Tyrion, fetch me some wine.”

At the far end of the high table, Tyrion stiffened, his goblet poised mid-air. His mismatched eyes flicked to Sansa beside him before he rose slowly, his expression unreadable. A servant had already begun to pour the wine, but Joffrey waved him away impatiently.

“No,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “I want my uncle to serve me. It seems only fitting.”

Tyrion approached the king cautiously, his every movement measured. The dread in the room was palpable, the laughter and conversation fading as eyes turned to the scene unfolding at the high table.

Jaime leaned slightly toward you, his voice low. “He never misses an opportunity to make a fool of himself, does he?”

You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed on the king as Tyrion reached for the goblet.

Joffrey snatched the cup from his uncle’s hands with exaggerated flair, lifting it high for all to see before taking a long, dramatic sip. He set the goblet down and reached for another piece of pie, but as he took the first bite, his expression shifted.

At first, it was subtle—a slight narrowing of his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But then his face contorted, his hand flying to his throat as he began to cough violently.

The hall fell silent, the only sound Joffrey’s gasping breaths and the scrape of his chair as he stumbled to his feet.

“Joffrey?” Margaery’s voice was soft, uncertain, as she reached out toward him.

The king’s face turned red, his coughing growing more frantic as he clawed at his throat. His goblet fell to the floor with a clang, the wine pooling darkly on the stone.

“Joffrey!” Cersei’s scream cut through the chaos, her face twisting in panic as she rose from her seat.

Jaime stood abruptly, his hand clenching at his side as he watched his son—no, the king—struggle for breath. For a brief moment, he was frozen, unsure whether to move toward Joffrey or remain where he was.

You instinctively reached for Jaime’s arm, your own confusion and unease mirrored in his expression. “What’s happening?” you whispered, though there was no answer.

Joffrey collapsed onto the floor, his body convulsing as his mother rushed to his side. Margaery backed away, her hand covering her mouth in horror.

“Help him!” Cersei screamed, her voice shrill as she cradled Joffrey’s head. “Someone, help him!”

The courtiers erupted into chaos, their murmurs and gasps filling the hall as guards pushed forward to surround the royal family.

Tyrion, still standing near the high table, looked down at the fallen king with a mix of shock and dread.

“You!” Cersei screeched, her eyes blazing as she pointed a trembling finger at Tyrion. “Guards! Seize him!”

The Lannister guards moved quickly, surrounding Tyrion as he raised his hands in protest. “I had nothing to do with this!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Take him away!” Cersei screamed, her voice cracking with hysteria.

The guards grabbed Tyrion roughly, dragging him back through the hall as the chaos continued to unfold.

Jaime turned to you, his face pale, his voice low and urgent. “Stay close to me.”

You nodded, your hand tightening on his arm as Tywin appeared at Jaime’s side, his expression grim. “We’re leaving,” Tywin said curtly, his tone brooking no argument.

Jaime nodded, pulling you closer as Tywin’s men surrounded you both. Brienne appeared beside you, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she scanned the chaotic scene.

“Come,” Tywin barked, his men ushering you toward the exit.

As you were led out of the hall, you cast one last glance over your shoulder, your gaze falling on the fallen king. His face was purple now, his mouth twisted in a grotesque grimace as Cersei sobbed over his body.

The last thing you heard before the doors closed behind you was Cersei’s anguished scream, her voice echoing through the stone walls.

Jaime’s grip on your arm tightened slightly as he guided you through the corridors. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes.

The Red Keep had always been a place of intrigue and danger, but tonight, it felt like a powder keg ready to explode.

The stone corridors of the Red Keep stretched endlessly as Tywin’s guards led Jaime and you toward safety. The clamor from the Great Hall faded behind you, replaced by the steady rhythm of boots on stone. Jaime’s face was pale, his jaw clenched so tightly you could almost hear his teeth grinding. He hadn’t said a word since they left the chaos of the feast, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

You glanced at him, noting the way his hand was clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. For all his usual composure, Jaime looked shaken, unmoored.

The guards finally stopped at a small chamber off a side hall, gesturing for you both to step inside. Jaime entered first, his movements stiff and mechanical, as though he were barely aware of what he was doing. You followed, casting a wary glance at the guards before the door closed behind you.

The room was sparse, with only a few chairs and a small table, but it was quiet—a sanctuary compared to the chaos you’d just left. Jaime leaned against the wall, his head falling back against the cold stone as he exhaled a shaky breath.

You hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. “Jaime?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

“Jaime,” you said again, your voice softer this time.

He finally looked at you, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you care,” he said, his voice edged with bitterness. “You hate me. Remember?”

You frowned, crossing your arms as you studied him. “I don’t hate you,” you said, surprising yourself with the honesty in your tone.

Jaime let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I hate what you’ve done. There’s a difference.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, the bitterness in his eyes gave way to something raw. “That makes one of us,” he muttered.

You furrowed your brow, stepping closer. “Jaime, what happened back there—”

“Was my fault,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “All of it. Joffrey… Cersei… the way the whole damn realm looks at me. It’s all my fault.”

“You don’t know that,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “What happened to Joffrey—”

“He was a monster,” Jaime said bitterly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And I made him that way. I didn’t stop him when I should have. I didn’t—” He stopped, his voice breaking slightly.

You hesitated, then stepped closer, your hand hovering near his arm before you finally placed it there gently. “You can’t carry all of this,” you said softly. “What happened to Joffrey wasn’t your doing.”

Jaime laughed again, though it was a broken, humorless sound. “You think I don’t know what people say? The whispers? The rumors? The Kingslayer and the queen. The bastard king born of sin.”

“People will always whisper,” you said quietly. “No matter what you did.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes searching yours as if trying to find some hidden meaning in your words. For a moment, the weight in his gaze lifted, replaced by something almost vulnerable.

“Why are you saying this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you need to hear it right now,” you replied simply. “You can’t change the past, Jaime. But you’re not the man you were. I’ve seen that.”

He blinked, as if startled by your words, and his expression softened. For a moment, he looked like he might say something, but then he shook his head, his smirk returning faintly. “I must be losing my mind,” he said. “A Stark, of all people, trying to comfort me.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in the gesture. “Don’t get used to it,” you muttered.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He pushed off the wall, standing straighter as he adjusted the golden hand at his side. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his tone so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

You nodded, stepping back to give him space. “Get some rest,” you said. “We’ll need it for whatever comes next.”

Jaime didn’t respond, but as you turned to leave the room, you couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze lingered on you, as if trying to memorize something he didn’t want to forget.

The room grew quiet again after you left, the echo of the door shutting behind you lingering longer than it should have. Jaime stood motionless in the stillness, his golden hand resting heavily at his side. For the first time in what felt like ages, his thoughts weren’t dominated by his usual blend of regret and bitterness but by the soft cadence of your voice.

"You’re not the man you were. I’ve seen that."

Your words replayed in his mind, over and over, like an unfamiliar melody that refused to fade. He didn’t know why they mattered so much—why you mattered so much. He told himself it was nothing more than circumstance. You were tied together by a situation neither of you wanted, bound by duty and the scheming of his father. But it was more than that, wasn’t it?

Jaime paced the small chamber, his hand brushing against the edge of the table as his thoughts spiraled. You had every reason to despise him. The weight of what he’d done to your family, to your brother Bran, should have made you hate him with every fiber of your being. And yet, in that fleeting moment, you’d offered him something he hadn’t realized he needed: warmth.

Not forgiveness—not yet, perhaps not ever—but a glimmer of something softer.

It unsettled him. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the golden lion, didn’t need warmth. He didn’t deserve it. And yet, when you placed your hand on his arm, when you spoke to him without venom for the first time, it was as if the walls he’d built around himself began to crack.

He sank into a chair, resting his forehead in his good hand. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to your father.

Eddard Stark.

It was almost laughable, the parallels he found himself drawing between you and the man who had loomed over his guilt for so long. You carried yourself with the same unyielding strength, the same unwavering commitment to doing what was right. Even your sharp tongue reminded him of the late Lord of Winterfell, though Eddard’s disapproval had been quieter, colder. Yours burned hotter, cutting like the edge of a blade.

But there was something else, something Eddard had lacked: your ability to see past the surface, to find cracks in the armor. Eddard had judged Jaime the moment they met, and that judgment had never wavered. Yet you, even after all you’d endured, had looked at him tonight with something that felt almost like understanding. Just like you did at Harrenhal.

Jaime leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts churned. He had told himself countless times that he didn’t care what others thought of him. The world saw him as a monster, a liar, a Kingslayer, and he had worn those titles like armor. But with you, he found himself wanting to be more, to prove he could be more.

It was a dangerous thought, one he couldn’t afford to indulge. And yet, it lingered.

He thought of your father again, of the quiet strength Eddard had carried, even when it had cost him his life. Jaime had envied that strength once, resented it even. But now he wondered if you had inherited it, if you were somehow cut from the same cloth, carrying the same impossible weight with the same unyielding resolve.

And then there was the warmth. Eddard Stark had been many things, but warmth was not one of them. You, despite your fire and your defiance, had offered Jaime something he hadn’t felt in years—a moment of reprieve, of connection.

He hated how much it mattered.

Jaime stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he paced the room once more. He had spent years burying himself under layers of cynicism and self-loathing, but you were peeling them away without even realizing it. It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair.

"Don’t pretend you care," he had said, but now he wondered if you did, even just a little.

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. It was a weakness, this newfound longing for your approval, your forgiveness. He couldn’t afford weaknesses, not now, not ever.

But as Jaime stared out the narrow window, the city lights flickering in the distance, he couldn’t help but think of your words again.

"You’re not the man you were."

He didn’t know if it was true. But for the first time in years, he found himself wanting to believe it could be.

[trashybugs]

[Fanservant] Pan-Human-History Fairy King Oberon

PHH Fairy King Oberon

Class: Ruler

PROFILE

Default:

The great fairy king and the ruler of the Seelie court. Different from his Lostbelt counterpart who was born as a doomsday terminal, this fairy king lives just to enjoy life and be happy.

Although he was born as the elven king Alberich from the Germanic folklore Nibelungenlied, as time progresses, he has incarnated into a more famous portrayal from Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night Dream". He loves fame and attention, he doesn't mind shedding his old shell to become a more resplendent butterfly.

He is very capable in combat and holds a great strength, capable of controlling the nature and weather even from a change of mood. Because of his overwhelming strength, he's used to toying with his enemies and underestimating them. He prefers to summon his fae servants to fight for him while he watches from a fair distance with a benevolent (cruel) smile.

Bond 1:

Height/Weight: 183cm, 60kg (not counting antlers)

Origin: Germanic folklore, medieval European literature

Region: Britain (formerly), Avalon

Alignment: Chaotic-Neutral

Gender: Male

"My my, dearest, pray tell, why are you staring at me with that innocent, doe-eyed eyes look of yours... are you that astonished at how different I am to that pathetic, washed-out mimicry?

As expected, not a single being in any realm could come close to my greatness after all. Of course, there's a limit to what playing pretend could do... Now, come sit beside me. I would love to hear what you think of me."

A flirty, unrestrained, and outgoing monarch. Oberon has gathered a lot of lovers from varying races in his lifetime, and he's still open into adding more to his harem.

Bond 2:

While he loves gathering beautiful people for himself, he also takes great enjoyment in playing matchmaker and seeing other people's relationship develop, for the best or the worst.

A complete opposite from his other self who appreciates and finds value in everything, this Oberon does not bother attaching meaning in anything he chases. He doesn't view relationships and connections as something that should be cherished, for in the infamous Shakespearian play, his wife has proven to still love him no matter what he does.

He has a great many desires but his motives seem to be empty and short-sighted. As seen in the play, he gave his queen, Titania, a love potion to prank her without thinking much of what will happen after its effects wore off. He received no consequences for his actions and the story eventually brushed aside the quarrel that they had, further enabling his behavior. To him, there never seemed to be a problem that came his way or a moment in the story that criticized his faulty mindset.

His appetite for the world is unquenchable, as he views everything in it as worthy of enjoyment. He seeks to collect everything that shines before his eyes, yet as his collection grows, so does his dissatisfaction. What motives he has to obtain them are but a momentary fancy, but due to his own frivolous nature, he's fundamentally incapable of realizing and fulfilling his desire for a genuine attachment

Oberon lives as any pan-human history fairies will do, living life as he pleases.

Bond 3:

Being one of the great-father of the fae realm, Oberon, who came from the inner sea of the planet and has no connection with human civilization, is very connected to nature.

This can be seen with his appearance, a large beautiful antlers that attracts birds and insects to land on it, and legs resembling a stag. his outfit and a flowery cloak that is magically created by his fae servants. He’s adorned with jewelries from humans who gave him offering as a way to pass his territory safely. In some legend his pearls are made out of maiden’s tears.

with a face that is blessed to be forever beautiful, he is a king that is fitting to rule the fae realm.

Without his beloved queen Titania to accompany him, he took in her role and personality. He developed more gentle, nurturing, almost motherly role to the fairies around him.

As long there’s nature around him, he could give birth to new fairies on a whim using little bit of mana from his Fairy Patterns. He sires many children from that method of reproduction alone but he also took enjoyment in creating them with others. Such as his consorts and random human maidens.

In some legends he have another famous fairy queen besides Titania, named queen Mab

Bond 4:

Oberon was horrified and amused upon finding out about his other self. A pretend prince in rags and naught a kingdom to speak of. A solitary, spineless insect who is content to forever stare at the star above him instead of dragging it down for himself.

Oberon can't wrap his mind on the way his other self sees the world, and while he agrees that stories should not be forgotten, he thinks they should rightfully be enjoyed forever, else they don't qualify as something interesting. In that case, they might as well be obsolete in his eyes.

In the end he took great enjoyment in observing his other self, and wouldn't even mind extending his affections toward him.

After all, he is still his beloved's master compatriot.

Bond 5:

Though his favor is true in a sense, his seeming infatuation with the Chaldean master urges him to act as though he's madly in love with them. In truth, he initially sees them as a form of entertainment, something to satisfy his curiosity and burgeoning envy as to why his other self-took so much liking towards them.

His yearning for the fictitious Titania might perhaps be even stronger than that of Oberon Vortigern's, for he sees Titania as his rightful wife in the myth, unlike Oberon Vortigern who is simply a pretender. As time goes on, his desperation to have a genuine affection for his master grows, leading him to question why their relationship with his other self seems to flourish more than it does with him. He's failed to understand that his connection with his master is fundamentally different, as the relationship between his other self and the Chaldean master have been forged through a long journey together in Lostbelt Britain.

Despite his strong longing for a true love, he doesn't put much effort in trying to find it nor is his attachment to that desire strong enough to make him hate Pan Human History.

"After all, the world is a beautiful place filled with enjoyment, what would be the point in destroying such things?"

The world is but a playground to him, in the end.

big thanks to my friend @lamunana who helps me brainstorm his lore, write her own ideas and even fix my grammar!

[phightingheadcanons]

CREATURE BLAST HC!!! aka what I draw inspiration from when drawing the phighters!

SWORD: avian + dragon. Red-shouldered hawk specifically!

SKATEBOARD: ladybugs. Straight up ladybugs

BIOGRAFT: not really anything.. if I were to creature them more I'd go with a stag beetle

KATANA: owl... great horned specifically. Or I could mess around with a great eared nightjar for him, hm...

BAN HAMMER: full dragon. I like giving him two tails I think it looks cool

ROCKET: the stargazer fish! Yes it's a direct reference to Stargazer Rocket! That's the point <3

SLINGSHOT: a serval. It's a type of cat I love it forever and always

HYPERLASER: polar bear + zebra shark. I used to go with just polar bear but then the shark tail hcs got to me

SHURIKEN: ngl.. nothing in particular. I wanted to give him leopard vibes but he just became his own thing entirely

SCYTHE: we all saw it coming: rattlesnake. And that's it tbh

MEDKIT: deer + whale shark. I saw a hc of him being a whale shark and latched on but I also liked the deer concept so... both!

BOOMBOX: resplendant quetzal! It's a species of bird!!

SUBSPACE: centipede + stoat. I don't know why I just think he'd make a good stoat

VINESTAFF: clouded leopard. Their patterning just has her vibe idk

COIL: wolf. Everyone saw this coming

~ redshift anon

"So so cool and most are so creative! I love it. Though we ought to give Medkit more variations of deer species. Musk deer is my favorite for now. But I'm being biased lol"

[armaans]

who: @ryonwyl context: flashback to the front lines, armaan visits nightsong post conquering.

armaan yronwood rode into nightsong’s keep with the same fiery pride that had carried him through the war, his crimson and gold cloak billowing in the wind like a triumphant banner. the air was thick with the scent of ash and blood, and the sound of hammering echoed across the courtyard as gallows rose in stark defiance of the castle’s crumbled stormlander pride. the dornish sun, unforgiving even in victory, cast sharp shadows over the defeated banners still clinging to the battlements.

ryon wyl, resplendent in his new lordship, stood waiting for him at the gates, his armor polished to a mirror sheen. behind him, stormlanders shuffled in chains, their faces pale and sunken. armaan barely spared them a glance. let them despair, he thought, his lips curling into a smirk. they should have known better than to resist dorne.

“wyl,” armaan called as he dismounted, his voice ringing through the air like a trumpet of victory. he strode toward his old companion with the swagger of a man who knew he was on the winning side of history. “lord of nightsong,” he said with a sweeping bow, his tone as mocking as it was celebratory. “it suits you. though i must say, the place is still a bit too... stormlander.”

ryon laughed, clapping him on the back, but armaan’s eyes were already wandering, taking in thebeginning stages of a stark transformation of the keep. dornish banners now hung where the stormlander stag once stood proud, their golden sunburst claiming dominion over every corner of the castle. but not all traces of the past had been erased. a single tattered banner of house caron still clung stubbornly to a flagpole near the gate, swaying weakly in the breeze.

armaan made a beeline for it, his movements sharp and deliberate. reaching up, he seized the frayed fabric and yanked it down with a flourish, tearing it free from its moorings. “there,” he said, holding the banner aloft for all to see before tossing it into the dirt. “one less reminder of their so-called honour. this is a dornish keep now. and it will stay a dornish keep.” he turned to ryon, his grin widening. “you’ve done well, my friend. a fine prize for your efforts. though i hope you don’t intend to keep those gallows empty for long. nightsong will need an example—or ten.”

he gestured toward the stormlanders in chains, his tone as casual as if they were cattle awaiting slaughter. “the stormlands were built on the backs of men like these, thinking they could keep dorne in check. now look at them. pathetic.” armaan let his words hang in the air, savoring the weight of them. this was what victory tasted like—bitter for their enemies, sweet for him. he turned back toward the keep, his boots crunching over the broken remnants of nightsong’s former glory. "show me the rest," he said to ryon, a flicker of impatience in his voice. “i want to see what true dornish splendor looks like.”

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Song of Huma

Out of the village, out of the thatched and clutching shires,

Out of the grave and furrow, furrow and grave,

Where his sword first tried

The last cruel dances of childhood, and awoke to the shires

Forever retreating, his greatness a marshfire,

The banked flight of the Kingfisher always above him,

Now Huma walked upon the Roses,

In the level Light of the Rose.

And troubled by Dragons, he turned to the end of the land,

To the fringe of all sense and senses,

To the Wilderness, where Paladine bade him to turn,

And there in the loud tunnel of knives

He grew in unblemished violence, in yearning,

Stunned into himself by a deafening gauntlet of voices.

It was there and then that the White Stag found him,

At the end of a journey planned from the shores of Creation,

And all time staggered at the forest edge

Where Huma, haunted and starving,

Drew his bow, thanking the gods for their bounty and keeping,

Then saw, in the ranged wood,

In the first silence, the dazed heart's symbol,

The rack of antlers resplendent.

He lowered the bow and the world resumed.

Then Huma followed the Stag, its tangle of antlers receding

As a memory of young light, as the talons of birds ascending.

The Mountains crouched before them. Nothing would change now,

The three moons stopped in the sky,

And the long night tumbled in shadows.

It was morning when they reached the grove,

The lap of the mountain, where the Stag departed,

Nor did Huma follow, knowing the end of this journey

Was nothing but green and the promise of green that endured

In the eyes of the woman before him.

And holy the days he drew near her, holy the air

That carried his words of endearment, his forgotten songs,

And the rapt moons knelt on the Great Mountain.

Still, she eluded him, bright and retreating as marshfire,

Nameless and lovely, more lovely because she was nameless,

As they learned that the world, the dazzling shelves of the air,

The Wilderness itself

Were plain and diminished things to the heart's thicket.

At the end of the days, she told him her secret.

For she was not of woman, nor was she mortal,

But the daughter and heiress from a line of Dragons.

For Huma the sky turned indifferent, cluttered by moons,

The brief life of the grass mocked him, mocked his fathers,

And the thorned light bristled on the gliding Mountain.

But nameless she tendered a hope not in her keeping,

That Paladine only might answer, that through his enduring wisdom

She might step from forever, and there in the silver arms

The promise of the grove might rise and flourish.

For that wisdom Huma prayed, and the Stag returned,

And east, through the desolate fields, through ash,

Through cinders and blood, the harvest of dragons,

Traveled Huma, cradled by dreams of the Silver Dragon,

The Stag perpetual, a signal before him.

At last the eventual harbor, a temple so far to the east

That it lay where the east was ending.

There Paladine appeared

In a pool of stars and glory, announcing

That of all choices, one most terrible had fallen to Huma.

For Paladine know that the heart is a nest of yearnings,

That we can travel forever toward light, becoming

What we can never be.

For the bride of Huma could step into the devouring sun,

Together they would return to the thatched shires

And leave behind the secret of the Lance, the world

Unpeopled in darkness, wed to the dragons.

Or Huma could take on the Dragonlance, cleansing all Krynn

Of death and invasion, of the green paths of his love.

The hardest of choices, Huma remembered

How the Wilderness cloistered and baptized his first thoughts

Beneath the sheltering sun, and now

As the black moon wheeled and pivoted, drawing the air

And the substance from Krynn, from the things of Krynn,

From the grove, from the Mountain, from the abandoned shires,

He would sleep, he would send it all away,

For the choosing was all of the pain, and the choices

Were heat on the hand when the arm has been severed.

But she came to him, weeping and luminous,

In the landscape of dreams, where he saw

The world collapse and renew on the glint of the Lance.

In her farewell lay collapse and renewal.

Through his doomed veins the horizon burst.

He took up the Dragonlance, he took up the story,

The pale heat rushed through his rising arm

And the sun and the three moons, waiting for wonders,

Hung in the sky together.

To the West Huma rode, to the High Clerist's Tower

On the back of the Silver Dragon,

And the park of their flight crossed over a desolate country

Where the dead walked only, mouthing the names of dragons.

And the men in the Tower, surrounded and riddled by dragons,

By the cries of the dying, the roar in the ravenous air,

Awaited the unspeakable silence,

Awaited far worse, in fear that the crash of the senses

Would end in a moment of nothing

Where the mind lies down with its losses and darkness.

But the winding of Huma's horn in the distance

Danced in the battlements. All of Solamnia lifted

Its face to the eastern sky, and the dragons

Wheeled to the highest air, believing

Some terrible change had come.

From out of their tumult of wings, out of the chaos of dragons,

Out of the heart of morning, the Mother of Night,

Aswirl in a blankness of colors,

Swooped to the East, into the stare of the sun

And the sky collapsed into silver and blankness.

On the ground Huma lay, at his side a woman,

Her silver skin broken, the promise of green

Released from the gifts of her eyes. She whispered her name

As the Queen of Darkness banked in the sky above Huma.

She descended, the Mother of Night,

And from the loft of the battlements, men saw shadows

Boil on the colorless dive of her wings:

A hovel of thatch and rushes, the heart of a Wilderness,

A lost silver light spattered in terrible crimson,

And then from the center of shadows

Came a depth in which darkness itself was aglimmer,

Denying all air, all light, all shadows.

And thrusting his lance into emptiness,

Huma fell to the sweetness of death, into abiding sunlight.

Through the Lance, through the dear might and brotherhood

Of those who must walk to the end of the breath and the senses,

He banished the dragons back to the core of nothing,

And the long lands blossomed in balance and music.

Stunned in new freedom, stunned by the brightness and colors,

By the harped blessing of the holy winds,

The Knights carried Huma, they carried the Dragonlance

To the grove in the lap of the Mountain.

When they returned to the grove in pilgrimage, in homage,

The Lance, the armor, the Dragonbane himself

Had vanished to the day's eye.

But the night of the full moons red and silver

Shines down on the hills, on the forms of a man and a woman

Shimmering steel and silver, silver and steel,

Above the village, over the thatched and nurturing shires.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Autumn Twilight" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[kettlequills]

The woods are never quiet, except for when Laat speaks. The night sky is awash with serene colour and the stars are resplendent in their velvety beds, blotted by the circling wings of owls or distant dragons. The chattering of foxes chasing hares through the rustling undergrowth keeps the contented burbling of the stream company. At the banks, Laat is just another still grey stone, watching the deer drink in the dark.

The paranoid eyes of the herd's stag glitter watchfully as he raises his mighty head. His wives cluster close around him, too close for Laat to surge and leap across the stream to land with spineshattering force on his dusky back without injuring one of them, too.

They have sated their own thirst, cupping cool water in their gauntlets and lapping from their hands, uncaring of the icy water sluicing down the runnels of their armour into the gloves beneath. Any true human would fear frostbite, sitting out by the cold muddy bank on a night like this, but Laat's breath does not even fog the air and disturb the deer. They are an unreal thing, a glitch in the living night with a deathless soul eternally restless in their aching chest. Ignoring the growl in their belly and the loneliness in their chilled heart, they pillow their cheek against sharp hard armour and gaze out at the world that moves by them, yet never quite around them. It is calming, watching the rabbits come down to drink, hopping over their still legs like they are just another stone. The animals barely know Laat is there.

Laat does not speak, and the night stays loud.

[graphaizesmm]

10 Most Endangered Species in India: Infographics

India is home to 7-8% of all recorded species, but its rich biodiversity is under threat. According to the IUCN Red List, over 1,200 species in India are categorized as endangered. This alarming statistic underscores the urgent need for conservation efforts. In this visual breakdown, we highlight the 10 most endangered species in India, offering a data-driven glimpse into their precarious situations. From the majestic Bengal tiger to the elusive Great Indian bustard, these visuals aim to raise awareness and inspire action to protect India’s natural heritage.

Population Decline Over the Decades

The population decline of endangered species in India has become critical, raising alarms among conservationists and wildlife enthusiasts. The Indian subcontinent, home to a rich diversity of wildlife, has witnessed a significant drop in several species due to habitat loss, poaching, and climate change. The Bengal tiger, Asian elephant, and Indian rhinoceros, once thriving in their natural habitats, now face the threat of extinction. Infographics and data visuals highlight these alarming trends, providing a clear, impactful representation of the stark realities. According to recent studies, the population of Bengal tigers has decreased by over 60% in the last five decades, while the number of Asian elephants has dwindled by nearly 50% due to human encroachment and illegal trade. Conservation efforts are in place, but the challenge remains immense. Using infographics, we can better understand the data and emphasize the urgency for immediate action to protect and preserve these endangered species in India.

Predators in Danger: Endangered Species in India

India is home to a diverse array of wildlife, including some of the most majestic predators that play a crucial role in maintaining the ecological balance. However, these predators are facing significant threats, leading to drastic declines in their populations. The elusive snow leopard, found in the high-altitude regions of the Himalayas, symbolizes fragile mountain ecosystems with only around 500 individuals left in the wild. Habitat loss due to climate change, poaching for fur, and retaliatory killings by local communities are primary factors contributing to its decline. Conservation efforts, including community-based initiatives and habitat protection, are crucial for its survival. Similarly, the Asiatic lion, now confined to the Gir Forest National Park in Gujarat with approximately 650 individuals left, faces extinction risks due to a limited gene pool, human-wildlife conflict, and diseases. Efforts to translocate lions to new habitats have been met with resistance, complicating conservation strategies. Infographics highlight the lion’s shrinking habitat and the need for expanded conservation efforts and public awareness. The Bengal tiger, India’s national animal, faces habitat fragmentation, poaching, and human encroachment with about 2000 individuals left. Despite improvements from Project Tiger, challenges remain immense.

North and East India’s Declining Herbivores

The decline of herbivores in North and East India underscores the broader crisis facing the country’s biodiversity. Among the most critically endangered is the Kashmiri red stag, with only 130 individuals left, primarily due to habitat loss and poaching. The one-horned rhinoceros, with around 200 individuals, also faces severe threats from habitat encroachment and illegal hunting. Another species in peril is the resplendent tree frog, with a population of 300, facing habitat destruction and pollution. In the southern regions, the Nilgiri tahr’s population stands at about 3000, endangered by habitat fragmentation and hunting. Similarly, the lion-tailed macaque, with 4000 individuals, suffers from habitat destruction and fragmentation. The blackbuck, numbering approximately 25000, faces threats from agricultural expansion and poaching. Lastly, the Indian bison, or gaur, with an estimated population of 30000, is endangered by habitat loss and human-wildlife conflict.

Infographics and data visuals play a vital role in illustrating the precarious status of these species. By leveraging visual data, we can effectively communicate the urgency of conservation measures needed to protect these endangered species in India. Raising awareness through compelling visuals can drive action and support for their preservation.

[kiiingsnake]

i know this isn’t particularly interesting or unique buut i DID have a good time doing it so its time to talk about DRAGON DESIGNING

so here are images+inspirations and i’ll give some explanations too- although most of this is about personal preference- more so a look into my arrogant hubris brain more than anything else :>

here’s the thing about this guy. for some reason there was like some sort of. massive issue with conceptualizing him which was that they had to make a fury that didn’t milk toothless’ design for once and to make it look unique they made some. very odd choices.

i just decided to have some fun with this one and based him off some seabirds (florida kite, tern, kingfishers which i KNOW are freshwater birds but still) while trying to keep the catlike elements, especially with the double-layered wings meant to mimic rows of feathers. he also has a more airplane-like tail- one big fin with smaller ones at the sides. most of this was just looking at him and going “how do i make this different but with the same appeal”. as for the actual genetic trail of this guy, hes evidently a night fury+light fury, but with some stormcutter influence too- the extra wing layering and three-way tail give better steering.

i still can’t seem to find the post about effectively combining animals to make a new one but- the original for this gal just felt so slapped together. it was a good concept (i love beetles) but it had some poor execution.

this is honestly just an example of me combining a lot of what i love about beetles to make a more put-together design- including that they have little hairs that sometimes get thick enough to resemble fur. These specific beetles are rainbow dung beetles/scarabs and rainbow stags- although i wanted her less green bc for some reason they just dont make magenta dragons like they used to. i am a huge sucker for blue but it just… didn’t feel right to me? idk man. i also love making those stacked wings. this is a rumblehorn/deathgripper hybrid, with a bit of gronkle too, as it possesses their ability to do the hummingbird hover :>

this one wasnt bad to start out with!! most of the problems i had ran pretty personal, such as the attempt at bright coloration and the just. plainness of the overall design. to me it just didnt embody the tropical bird inspiration enough.

honestly i just went off on my own thing with this, but i did have the resplendent quetzal in mind- one of my favorite birds and what i would guess to be the original inspiration for her. her original colors were somehow just too dull to me- and she felt too bulky and not like a stealthy camouflaging dragon- i thought that those sorta “stalker legs” would fit much better on her design than large paws would. as for her lineage, i like to think shes a nadder/changewing hybrid but with a good chunk of thunderdrum- the frills on her chest cover vents that she uses to rapidly intake air in order to do her sonic scream thing.

there are. many issues with the original of this one that other people have very good in depth explanations of so ill keep this short and technical. from my perspective, it felt… forced? almost like they were trying to cram too much into it. it did have good colors, though, i guess ill give credit for that?

for this one i just sort of started scribbling, but wanted to incorporate some more fishlike elements, given that this is a tidal class dragon, so this one references longear (and other species of) sunfish, both with the split red/blue coloration on a yellow base, and their tall and spiny fins. I also wanted to give the heads each a more definitive aspect to them instead of just “parts are different sizes”- but that was a personal thing, more than anything i was trying to have fun with these. This one is a zippleback and shockjaw hybrid, and also has scauldron in there too, especially with the boiling/freezing water shots

[maid-with-sunset-in-her-hair]

It's interesting that Lannisters have wore Targ colors at one time. Cersei, Joffery and Tyrion also have shown to wear rubies.

Hello Dot!! Thanks for asking this question! I wrote a couple of metas about how the Lannisters dress like Targaryens before: Cersei wearing Rhaegar's armor. This gives me a chance to finish writing the meta about Joffrey's fashion and how it changes over time.

After I noticed that every time Sansa wears a blue dress, something horrible happens to her, I tried to check if something similar happens with another character, and found something interesting. At the beginning of AGOT Joffrey always appears wearing blue and gold in Sansa's POV:

"Leave her alone," Joffrey said. He stood over her, beautiful in blue wool and black leather, his golden curls shining in the sun like a crown. (AGOT Sansa I)

His sword is also blue and gold:

He drew his sword and showed it to her; a longsword adroitly shrunken to suit a boy of twelve, gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a lion's-head pommel in gold. (AGOT Sansa I)

Next time is when he’s love bombing Sansa during the Tourney:

He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion's heads, and around his brow a slim coronet made of gold and sapphires. His hair was as bright as the metal. (AGOT Sansa II)

This not only foreshadows that he’s bad news for Sansa, it’s also a fairy tale pun, Joffrey the blue prince isn’t actually a prince. After this, Joffrey is never mentioned wearing blue again. I was pretty surprised, because it’s the color most linked to death, and he literally started a war out of pride. But after he becomes king, he accidentally starts dressing up like a Targaryen:

Joff wore plush black velvets slashed with crimson, a shimmering cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar, and on his head a golden crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds. (AGOT Sansa V)

So black and gold are the Baratheon colors, red and gold are Lannister colors, it makes sense he wears them, in theory. In practice, the red and black are always paired together, and the gold is separated. Black and crimson, rubies and black diamonds.

King Joffrey sat above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown. (ACOK Sansa VIII)

If the author didn't want it to foreshadow the Targaryens, he could've easily paired the colors diffrently. Black velvets slashed with yellow, a golden crown only crusted with black diamonds, a black mantle studded embroidered in gold. He didn't, this is deliberate.

It could be foreshadowing how Sansa will be enemies with the Targaryens in the future, neither Daenerys nor Aegon VI will want to give up the North, the Riverlands and (probably) the Vale. But it could also foreshadow how the Lannisters will be overthrown for being tyrants, just like the Targaryens.

As far as I know, he stops wearing black once the War of The Five Kings starts, which makes sense, because both his Baratheon uncles are trying to kill him. He only wears the Lannister colors when he gives Sansa away to Tyrion at her wedding:

Joffrey himself was waiting for her on the steps of the castle sept. The king was resplendent in crimson and gold, his crown on his head. "I'm your father today," he announced. (ASOS Sansa III)

He doesn’t wear black during his wedding, and cloaks Margarey with red and gold:

The king looked near as splendid as his bride, in his doublet of dusky rose, beneath a cloak of deep crimson velvet blazoned with his stag and lion. The crown rested easily on his curls, gold on gold. (...)

He draped Margaery in the crimson-and-gold and leaned close to fasten it at her throat. (ASOS Tyrion VIII)

Ironically, Joffrey wears black for the last time right before he’s killed during his wedding feast:

The king and queen had changed for the feast as well. Joffrey wore striped black-and-crimson breeches and a cloth-of-gold doublet with black satin sleeves and onyx studs. (ASOS Tyrion VIII)

The symbolism of him dying while wearing black and crimson for the Targaryens and gold and black for the Baratheons is pretty obvious.

Now onto the rubies! They’re mainly linked to Rhaegar and the Targaryens, and so they’re also linked to being killed and your family being overthrown:

Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. "Rhaegar's rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown." (AGOT Sansa I)

Joffrey is already dead and Cersei is prophetized to die, so chances are Tyrion will die too 🤩

[atvir]

Duality

In front of the Kaldorei stood a resplendently crafted statue made in the image of the Waywatcher, Malorne. In front of such majesty stood a shallow basin, crafted with as much consideration as the magnificent stag himself. The cool hums of the glowing waters echoed softly beneath the emerald boughs of Val’Sharah.

As Atvir stood beneath the wonder, he traced his hands upon the basin and immersed them within the star-blessed puddle. Content with the handfuls he carried with him, he crooked his head up towards the star-kissed skies and outstretched his arms as if mimicking the Stag’s great horns.

He closed his eyes as his hands acted like a sieve as the glimmering waters made their descent towards the worn stone foundations.

“O husband of Elune, father of Cenarius, I come to praise in thanks. I seek not your blessing but hope I can do more with the gifts given to me in the future. Know that I will watch over the land with careful eye and take upon your blessing when swiftness is needed to protect that which I hold dear."

The water began to run dry from his palms. He took a deep breath, and lowered himself in a bow of reverence towards the shrine.

"Ande'thoras-ethil, Malorne. May your burden of duty be lessened by those who would watch in your stead."

Atvir took a deep breath and sat in contemplation for a brief moment as his onlookers dispersed from the shrine.

As if awakening something locked within, a memory reemerged from the back of his mind. Atvir was back in Darkshore.

The man carried the weight of fatigue, sorrow, and coldness as he made his way towards the ancient, cracked basin.

The last to arrive, the awaited procession were wrapped in dark cloaks, enshrouded within the shadow of the Great Eclipse. All traces of identity were obfuscated within the darkness, only the soft glow of each Kaldorei’s eyes being the sole distinguishing feature. Rested upon their raised hoods were antlers of various ornamentations and sizes.

Donned in a black armor and the only individual to reveal his face, Atvir carried a small cloth bag, contents dripping through the frayed fabrics.

As Leafshadow approached the precariously balanced font of leaking water, one of the figures lowered themselves and offered a curved, silver blade. His sullen gaze focused upon the calloused, spindly fingers that presented the item, and he extended an arm towards it with a trembling hand.

The voice is somber, yet even-toned. “This is your first, so you must enact the ritual. Know that we stand with you, brother.”

Atvir swiftly stole the blade from the offerer. As soon as he established a firm grip upon it, the dagger glowed with a blackened twilight, speckled with flecks of white. The trembling that was once there ceased as he felt an unnatural calm take over him. He took a deep breath and unfurled the first item in the bag.

Within his left hand now rested the great heart of a stag, blood still flowing from the recently-departed beast. What should have been a healthy, meaty red was shriveled with a sickly yellow. Atvir paid no mind to the blood dripping from his hand. As if mimicking the horns of a stag, he raised both hands up to the near-impenetrable darkness.

“O father of Cenarius, groom of Lady Moonshadow, great Horned Host, we beseech your blessing as we call upon the ritual of the Ancient Hunt. As you have been the first to walk this world when we were but nothing, we seek you as witness and judge to consider our hunt worthy of your boon.”

Atvir lowered his arms and raised the bleeding heart over the basin.

“Great Horned Host, provide us with the Watcher’s Sight to seek our prey. We first offer the Mourning, as the hunt is meaningless if it is for sport. With this, we share our sorrow of the senseless destruction of our world. Let the blood weep upon the waters so you may bear witness to it.”

The Kaldorei raised the shadowed dagger over the heart and surgically carved an incision in the shape of a crescent moon. At first, the heart bled with tears of crimson, pooling the water with red ink. In a short moment, however, the heart withered and shriveled as a sickly, thick, yellow pus exited the moon-incision, which coated the top of the basin in a foul sludge.

Even with the miasma that exited the heart and entered the waters, Atvir retained his composure and immersed the rest of the heart within the afflicted pool. His blood-covered palm unfurled the second item in the bag - the dessicated hand from a Forsaken. He looked down at it for a moment and glared in disgust. As the rage swelled within him for a moment, he gently rested the decayed palm atop the floating heart.

“Horned Host, behold the Quarry, the very hand of those who would defile the Law of the Land in order to destroy our way of life. We seek your sight and swiftness to end those who would destroy ceaselessly. Lady Moonshadow, we have asked for far too much of you already, but we humbly seek your blessing to cloak us within your twilight so we may be unseen.”

As words were uttered, the water in the basin was consumed with the same blackened midnight that enveloped the dagger. Both hand and heart evaporated from the very waters, as if they were never there to corrupt anything at all. The dark currents swirled within the pool, followed by a subtle, white glow that began to radiate upon the very rim of the water.

Leafshadow raised his hood to join the procession. Antlers protruded from the sides of the hood in both reverence and to remind their quarry that the Horned Host was on their side. The attendees’ heads were all forcibly crooked upward as their eyes all glowed in unison. Nothing could distinguish pupil and iris as the eyes flashed with inky blacks and milky whites. The Great Eclipse’s shroud draped itself as a great cloak of shadow covered their figures.

The Ritual of the Ancient Hunt was completed. It was time to seek out the prey.

The memory receded, and Atvir was once again in Val’Sharah.

[gentlemancrow]

Even though In Scientia, Magicae is on hiatus right now, and likely will be for another week after this >> I thought I would honor my usual update date with a little SNEAK PEEK of what I have brewing for chapter 10!  (Hint it’s a dream sequence hehe) Symbolic dream sequences are one of my favorite tropes and favorite things to write so I thought I’d post this one up as a treat!  Also to promo the fic a little since in lieu of an actual update :T. SO!  Already read the fic?  AWESOME!  I LOVE YOU <3  I am dragon hoarding all of my readers in a comfy little basket like kittens I will dote on you forever.

New to it or curious?  Now’s a great time to catch up!  If you like fantasy AUs (And also Beauty and the Beast inspired ones!), vaguely steampunky worldbuilding (Which will factor in a LOT more in the coming chapters!), Monster!Jon, slow burn romance, and a weird treatise on the nature of magic vs. science in a fairy tale inspired setting!  Perhaps In Scientia, Magicae is for you!

Clicky here to head on over to AO3!

SMOL Sneak preview of Chapter 10 incoming!

That night, Martin dreamed again.

He fell.  He fell, freewheeling, once more through the boundless space that had not let him go just yet.  He fell in absentia of fear, as before, serene in the intoxicating cocoon of ozone and stardust.  He fell until the atmosphere reached up and gripped him in warm fingers of wind that tugged and pulled to anchor him back to the solid earth waiting below.  The lapis lazuli sky streamed around his awareness filled with hollow notes of longing that sounded long enough to hear the chorus once and only once, before it died a soft, muffled death atop the leafy crowns of a canopy of cobalt trees as he passed through them as naught but mist.  An echo of a voice without the voice.  Alighting on the flooded forest ground, barefoot, the mirror surface of the water rung like percussed crystal and rippled in pulsing silver circles outward where his toes touched down featherlight and afloat on the surface.  Martin watched the swells, transfixed, as they scurried away in thinly bright radials and promptly shattered into a kaleidoscope of fractured, resplendent carnage as they collided with another set.

Martin gasped, followed them to the four cloven-hoofed black legs from which they had originated, and looked up, stunned, into a pair of eyes fashioned from bleeding droplets of the aurora borealis.  Deep set into the featureless shadow of a stag woven through the pockmarked white birch, they left a dizzying afterburnt trail as it tossed its great antlered head, pawed the reflecting pool, and regarded him in noble silence.  Steaming, starlit mist coiled from the nostrils as its heavy breath reverberated the atmosphere from quivering flanks, invisible muscles tensing, waiting.  Martin’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth opened to call its name, but it fled from his mind and his tongue the moment they tried to form the sound and shape of it.  He frowned and put cold fingers to his lips.  He knew it.  It was just there, somewhere in the dark periphery of the twilit space between asleep and awake, but he could not dredge up even a filament of its creation to speak it into existence.

The stag shied back with a snort like the ringing of a bell, and bowed its head as if in silent apology.  Martin reached out his hand, skin glowing lunar white, and his voice a breathless whisper in his own ears.

“Wait…”

The moment he pierced the sacred grove with the jagged edges of his human tongue, the stag startled and reared as if struck through the throat by a hunter’s shot.  The aurora eyes closed, leaving one last streak of pernicious jade green across Martin’s retinas and scoring out the shadow as it turned and bounded, fleet-footed and silent, into the woods.

“Wait-!” Martin called again, tears springing to his dream eyes, “Don’t go!”

Sudden panic rose in his gut, and the forest peeled open around him.  He was running.  There was no sign of the stag other than the painfully faint ripples in the liquid mercury floor that grew dimmer and further away no matter how hard he forced his legs to move.  He wove effortlessly around the wiry trunks of the trees, a brightly shining will-o’-the-wisp leading himself to ruin as he chased the trail of the stag to its extinction.  The forest ended when the fragments of light did, and Martin found himself suddenly on the precipice of a towering cliff overlooking a stormy sea.  The saline spray crashed into his face as lightning struck soundlessly on the horizon of the churning waters that roiled and tossed the light of a thousand stars and a thousand galaxies stretching in an infinity of purple, green, and blue fires.

Unknowable, unfathomable in their boundlessness and their multitudes, Martin could do nothing but watch them in their cosmic ballet while his body forgot to breathe.  Mote by mote, atom by atom, the gravity of the sea picked him apart and sucked the dusty pieces to its unseen singularity somewhere in the trenches beneath.  He lifted his trembling hands up, and watched as his fingertips faded and turned to a glittering mist of stardust before his very eyes.  They wafted out like smoke over the sea, unspooling him, dragging him with deliberate purpose into whatever it was that lurked beneath.  The same voice whispered directly into his ear.

“It is always watching…”

[azaisya]

anon asked for songxiao in the daemon au so here you are!

----

Technically, A-Xun saw them first, but that was only because hawk eyes were better than human eyes and Song Lan was walking beneath the trees. A-Xun dove through the branches to meet him, and Song Lan instinctively threw his arm up for his daemon to land on. 

“There’s somebody up ahead,” she said before she even settled, bright golden eyes peering excitedly up at him, “He has the prettiest daemon.”

“A-Xun,” Song Lan began, about to scold her, but he was silenced by the sound of metal punching through flesh. He shot her a look, because that was the sound of a sword and A-Xun absolutely had not mentioned danger. 

Song Lan broke into a run, Fuxue flying from his sheath and into his hand as A-Xun leaped back into the air with a powerful stroke of her wings. They burst into a clearing, and Song Lan’s breath caught in his throat. 

The clearing was scattered with fierce corpses, most lying crumpled and unmoving on the ground, but in their midst was a young man dressed entirely in white. He was ethereal, leaping from enemy to enemy with an almost otherworldly grace, pale robes and dark hair swirling around him and bright sword reflecting silver across the grass.

He fought like moonlight given human form.

His daemon was a white stag. Song Lan had never seen anything so resplendent before; the daemon circled the clearing, head high and dark eyes bright as it corralled the corpses, which—even in death—instinctively shied away from the strange daemon. 

It was lucky that the stranger clearly didn’t need help, because Song Lan was so shocked that he just stared.

A-Xun landed on a branch over his head, her laughter ringing in his mind. After the last corpse fell unmoving to the ground, the strange man sheathed his sword with a single, elegant gesture. His daemon turned his dark gaze on Song Lan, and the strange man startled and turned around. 

“Oh! My apologies. I did not see you.” He smiled and fidgeted with his sleeve, mouth opening and then closing again. The small hint of anxiety was so startlingly human that it shattered the image of ethereal grace his fighting had conjured. He looked, all of a sudden, terribly young. 

But he was young in the same way Song Lan was: too young to be wandering alone, old enough to do it anyways. 

The white-clothed man continued, “My name is Xiao Xingchen. This—” He nodded to his daemon, who walked slowly over to stand beside him, “is Xiao Jia.” The daemon—Xiao Jia—dipped his head, great antlers brushing lightly across the grass. 

Song Lan quickly bowed back. “I’m Song Lan.” He paused, looking up, and A-Xun quickly dropped from the trees to land on his  shoulder, wings spread slightly and head raised. “This is Song Xun.”

This time, there was no anxiety or hesitation in Xiao Xingchen’s smile. Song Lan’s breath caught in his chest; he wanted, desperately, absurdly, to never see that smile go away.

Xiao Xingchen looked sideways at the still corpses in the grass and then back to Song Lan. His dark eyes shone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you like to help me find the resentment raising these corpses?”

“Of course,” Song Lan replied, without thinking, without hesitating. It was worth it just to see that smile brighten.

------

daemons:

xiao xingchen --> xiao jia (white stag)

song lan --> song xun (chinese sparrowhawk)

[haru-desune]

Grimmtober Day 24: The Gold-Children

“Listen,” said the fish, “I see very well that I am fated to fall into your hands, take me home and cut me into six pieces; give your wife two of them to eat, two to your horse and bury two of them in the ground, then they will bring you a blessing.” The fisherman took the fish home with him, and did as it had bidden him. It came to pass, however, that from the two pieces that were buried in the ground two golden lilies sprang up, that the horse had two golden foals, and the fisherman’s wife bore two children who were made entirely of gold.

--

This story is an ATU type 555, and it goes as follows:

A fisherman once caught a magnificent golden fish. The fish asked to be let go, and promised the man great riches, so long as he told no one how he came by it. The man agreed and when he returned home, he found his house became a castle his larder full. He and his wife were happy for a while, but the wife, curious as to how they came across this luck, badgered the story out of him and the magnificent home became a poor man's hut once more.

The man went out to the ocean and caught the fish again, and the fish made him the same offer. The man agreed and lived lavishly once more, but again his wife badgered the tale out of him and they lost it all. The fisherman went out a third time, and the fish knew he was fated to be caught by this man. So he instructed the fisherman to cut him into six pieces and feed 2 to his wife, 2 to his horse, and bury the last 2 in the ground in front of his house.

The man did as instructed, and presently his wife gave birth to twin sons of gold, the horse to twin foals of gold, and two golden lilies grew from the pieces buried in the ground. Years passed, and boys, horses, and flowers all grew up strong and healthy.

The young men decided then to seek their fortunes in the wide world. They each mounted a golden horse and told their father that the lilies would inform him of their health - they would wither if the boys were ill and die if they died. And so they set out into the world. But they made such an unusual sight that they were mocked mercilessly by all who saw them.

One son was so ashamed that he turned around and went home to his father, but the other rode on until he came upon a forest full of robbers. The boy was still undeterred and covered himself and the horse with bearskins to hide their golden skins. With this disguise, he was able to pass through the forest unmolested.

He reached a town, still covered in skins, and met a beautiful maiden. The two were immediately taken with each other, and the man soon proposed. They were married and the maiden took her to her father's home, where the man mistook his son-in-law for a beggar. He was furious, but the daughter was able to calm him, and when he saw the young man in the morning with his resplendent golden skin, he was relieved.

That night the golden man dreamed of hunting a great stag. When he awoke, he was determined to go find it. His wife begged him not to go for she feared a great misfortune would befall him, but his mind was made up. As he tracked the stag, he came upon the home of a which. He asked her if she knew anything of the stag, and she did. However, as they conversed, her dog would not stop barking at the man, and he threatened to shoot it. Enraged, the which turned him to stone.

The home-bound son saw his brother's lily wither and knew he was in danger. He resolved to rescue him, though his father was reluctant to let him go. He tracked his brother to the witch's house, and she called out to him, hoping to entrap him as well. But the second young man kept his distance and told her to bring his brother back to life else he would shoot her.

The witch reluctantly reversed the spell, and the two brothers reunited happily. They then rode home - one to his bride the other to his father, who knew all had gone well when the lily sprang back to life. They all lived happily ever after.

The common analysis of stories like this is that is a depiction of the miraculous instance of twins. In ancient times, twins could represent great luck or great misfortune, depending on the culture. In most myths and stories, twins represent a duality or opposites of some kind (Apollo and Artemis representing the sun and the moon respectively for example). In some tarot decks, the Lovers card is replaced with the Twins card - both are tied to the Gemini star sign and can represent a decision to be made.

The twins in the story also represent duality and diverging path. One brother is thickskinned, adventurous, and reckless, while the other is sensitive, a homebody, and cautious. And they take wildly different paths in life, one to fulfill filial duty, and the other to fulfill matrimonial duty. Both of these (caring for the aged family, and furthering the family line) were important roles for the sons at the time.

It highlights another duality as well: one brother tends to the past, the other looks to the future. And once this decision is made, there's no turning back, though the brothers reunite and are happy to see each other, they still part ways at the end. However, one choice is never posited as better than the other - both husband and son have equal weight within the confines of the story.

On a completely unrelated note: brother one absolutely deserved it, hell he got off lightly. He's lucky the witch didn't go full John Wick on him!

[penelxpebradley]

13th June 2020 → at the Summer Benefit Prom, New Hanover High School, Downtown Wilmington, NC. With: @zachary-covington​

If you would have told Penelope six months ago that she would have been attending prom, in her thirties, going stag, she would have laughed. Loudly. And yet, somehow there she was, feeling only slightly ridiculous compared to some of the ball gowns that were on display. She’d gotten out of practise with these functions -- once upon a time they had been her bread and butter, with had her finance on her arm and together they’d been the darlings of the social scene. But now? She’d already made herself familiar with the free bar, occasionally shooting glares in the direction of Owen, standing at his volunteer station as she’d neatly worked her way through two free glasses of champagne. And that was when she spotted him -- her colleague, standing resplendent in a white tux and so unlike his usual garb he wore at work that she had to double check it was actually him. “Huh” she murmured in surprise, abandoning her glass of champagne as she cut across the floor to him. “So you can dress yourself. Wonders will never cease”