#Seafaring Instincts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

author-morgan · 1 day ago

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Title: Not Just Silver and Gold Pairing: Edward Kenway x fem!Reader Rating: T Word Count: ~7.9k Summary: Edward Kenway fishes you out of the Atlantic and finds treasure that's not just silver and gold.

an early b-day gift for @mrsragnarlodbrok

THE NORTH ATLANTIC is quiet and still. A midmorning fog clings to the inky water—a nigh impenetrable wall making it difficult for Edward Kenway and his crew to see much farther than the tip of the Jackdaw’s bowsprit. It’s been two weeks since they set off from Great Inagua’s cove on the word of Henry Jennings about a convoy of Spanish merchant ships heading back to Spain from the Yucatán, passing north of Cuba and then onto open water—laden with silver and jewels and ripe for plundering.

Only after a week of searching and patrolling shipping lanes, there is naught but schooners and brigs flying Saint George's Cross, not worth the notoriety that would come from attacking them. And then, as if punishment for their greed and pride from Neptune himself, a squall blew them too close to the Spanish shores of La Florida. Ereyesterday, Captain Kenway could tell his crew was growing discontent with their ill-fortunes, and now he’s determined to make berth with something to show for this blunder, even if it’s not the promised riches they set out to pirate.

The scent of burning pitch and tar cuts the air, but there’s a whiff of something acrid and sulfurous, too. It sets the crew at unease. And then the sea is no longer empty, and on either side of the Jackdaw is a scattered and burning wreckage. Flames rise from the shell of a broken hull—split in two but yet to sink. “Merchant ship, most likely,�� Edward tells his quartermaster. An English ship, by the looks of it, and given the uniforms of the drowned crew mixed with the flotsam. There are crates and barrels still bobbing on the water’s surface—not much, but it’s something. “Salvage what you can!” The captain orders, and slowly, the crew begins shuffling around on the main deck, scouting their pitiful bounty.

“Cap’n!” Thom shouts, straying from his post at the swivel gun to look over the gunwale. Edward gives the helm to Adéwalé and joins the four men gathered at the rails, staring down at the water and wreckage. “There.” The deckhand points at one of the pieces of floating debris, lying half on the carvel panel and half in the water is a woman, slowly drifting away from the ship.

Instinct kicks in just as if there’d been a man overboard. Edward tosses his pistols to Billy and drops his sword belt, diving into the wreckage below, and swimming out before she slips too far away. He thinks there’s a pulse—faint against the rise and fall of the sea, but enough to keep you from joining the other poor souls in Davy Jones’s Locker. Pulling you into the water, Edward starts back toward the Jackdaw, fighting the weight of the layers of your soaked frock to keep your head above the water. The crew tosses a rope down and Edward grips it, hooking his arm beneath yours, as they haul you both onto the Jackdaw.

Edward leans over you on the deck—he can feel your slow, uneven breaths on his damp cheek. “Still breathing,” he announces to the crew, easing his hand to cradle the back of your head. Some of the men back away, muttering a woman aboard will bring them bad luck—more than they’ve already had these last weeks—while others just stare.

Slowly, Edward starts to sit you up and air comes rushing back, displacing the water filling your mouth and lungs in a heave of salty bile. You twist in your savior’s arms, heaving up the contents of your belly onto the deck. “Easy there,” Edward soothes. The saltwater stings your eyes, and the chill bites through the soaked fabric clinging to your skin, but the solid oak deck is an anchor to a world threatening to slip away.

“S’alright, lass,” he tells you, his voice rough—barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the rushing blood in your ears. Eyes burning and sight hazy, you look around at the seafarers, and then at the man kneeling at your side. His face is a mask of concentration mixed with relief, framed by straw blond hair dripping with seawater.

He watches for any sign of awareness in your eyes, his hand still cradling your head, steadying you, but there’s only the empty, fearful look of a soul just stolen from Davy Jones. Edward’s arms—warm and strong—slip beneath the bends of your knees and around your shoulders, heaving you up from the deck with a grunt. “Eyes on the horizon, lads,” he commands, starting toward the great cabin.

And when you look up at the masts and sails above there’s an odd black spot lingering in your blurred vision—or maybe it’d been a black flag.

He sets you on a lumpy mattress in the captain’s quarters, then offers a tepid cup of water. You drink to wash away the taste of salt and bile, but feel your stomach begin to churn again.

“Were there any others?” You ask, your voice faint and unfamiliar, the words half-slurring as you stare at your reflection in the water. You can still hear the shouting, the screaming from the officers to douse the lanterns and sparks, but it’d been too late. The magazine caught, and the roar from the belly of the ship and cracking timbers were deafening, but then, once adrift amid the burning wreck, there was only silence—no wailing, no shouting, just a haunting stillness.

Edward can see the horrors reflected in your tired eyes—for one not accustomed to maritime battles and mishaps, such sights can cause a lifetime of haunts. “Afraid not,” he answers, wringing out the rag and turning your cheek toward the lantern light. He presses the rag against your hairline and temple where there’s a bloody cut and sees you flinch away at the brush of his calloused fingertips. “Sorry,” he breathes—he’s usually the one getting patched up, not playing caretaker.

You’re quiet for a long while as he tends your hurts, still shaken, but even so, you remember your manners. “May I have your name, good sir?” You ask, barely a whisper.

Edward hesitates—he’s infamous in these waters. Everyone in the West Indies knows of his piracy against empires and exploits with the likes of Thatch and Vane in Nassau. But you’re only a woman, crossing the Atlantic for the first time by the looks of it and still likely blissfully ignorant of the order of things in these parts. He’ll take the risk and be truthful. “Edward,” he tells you after a long pause, lifting the rag to see if there’s any more blood welling up along the cut. “Captain Edward Kenway.” You thank him for saving you from certain death and for his attentive care.

“What was your heading, lass?” He questions, knowing by the quality and style of your dress that someone of import would be waiting for your arrival—a husband maybe, or a father or brother—and where there’s status, there’s riches to be bartered.

“Kingston,” you answer. The captain said you were only ten days from the city and old Port Royal before the ship went up in flames.

“I see,” he says, his eyes studying your face for a moment as if searching for something more—a hint of recognition or deception—but there’s nothing else save for gratitude and exhaustion. “Get some rest, lass,” Edward continues, offering a roughspun woolen blanket, his voice softening as he lets you be.

Edward runs his hand over his face when he steps out of his cabin and back into the midmorning sun. It seems they will have to sail to Kingston. Adéwalé comes down the steps. “One of the men pulled these from the wreckage” —he passes the leather-wrapped letters to the captain— “Letters of Marque.” Edward unfurls the soaked parchment, the ink smudged but still legible. He thumbs through the first pages.

Whereas, by His Majesty’s Commission under the Great Seal of Great Britain bearing Date the 13th Day of March in the year of Our Lord 1716, and in the 2nd Year of His Majesty’s Reign, the Lords Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral are required and authorized to issue forth and grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal...the letters are signed by the king, his seal pressed in green wax, but the vessel and officers' names are left blank. A potential bargaining chip.

Edward skims the next letter in the batch—written on thinner parchment—the gall ink bleeds badly, and words run together, but he can make out enough to know they’ve either struck gold or will find themselves wearing hempen halters soon. He laughs, looking at Adéwalé and feeling as though the tides have shifted in their favor. “She’s the daughter of Kingston’s Chief Judiciary,” Edward tells his quartermaster. A rich bastard with coin and power to spare. A fine ransom. Adéwalé’s eyes widen with the revelation, and Edward claps his mate’s shoulder with a smile as he heads for the Jackdaw’s helm. “Just got interesting,” he notes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Adé?”

STEPPING FROM THE cabin, you squint in the bright sunlight—unsure if hours or days have passed—hand raised to shield your eyes from the midday sun. There are words of gratitude on your lips for Edward Kenway and his men, but the black smear still lingers on the edge of your gaze, and now you can see it’s a flag—the colours of the ship. A white skull on a tattered black field. The sight churns your stomach. Pirates. Any words of thanks fade, a newfound fear and odium taking gratitude’s place—dread, too. “You’re bloody pirates,” you breathe, voice trembling.

Edward Kenway glances over the ship’s wheel and offers a roguish smile. “Privateer, really,” he quips. A partial truth. “But the lines do blur.” He passes the helm to Adéwale and makes his way to where you stand, aghast at the revelation of who your rescuers truly are. “I’ll strike you a deal, lass,” the captain starts, knowing you’re in no position to refuse. You may as well be a prisoner—or a hostage to ransom. “I’ll get you safely to Kingston and back to the good ole judge in exchange for some coin and safe passage for me and mine,” he tells you.

It doesn’t seem like much to ask for. A fair trade—or at least your father might think so. But even if he makes good on his deal, it won’t matter. Those colours won’t get him anywhere but an iron pen and the gallows. And unless Edward Kenway is a particularly bad pirate, the King’s Men and your father’s cabinet will know who he is. “You’ll hang.” It’s not a threat so much as an observation—a hard truth.

The captain’s cavalier attitude shifts in a blink, his expression souring. “That how you intend to repay the man who saved your life?” Edward asks, almost amused as he looks down his nose—slightly crooked from being broken one too many times—at you. “By granting him a noose?”

One good deed is not enough to absolve a man of a lifetime of sins. It’s a phrase you’ve heard since childhood about those who turned to piracy and sought to become a scourge of the seas. You lift your chin, unwavering, as a lady of your standing should be. “I can request a quick drop and sudden stop for you, sir.”

Edward’s eyes narrow at your sharp turn of the tongue. “In that case” —he grips your arm, pulling you over to the side of the ship, bright eyes scanning the horizon— “we can find you another piece of flotsam to cling to, Your Highness.” You stare down into the dark water, heart racing, fearful he might really throw you overboard. But Adé gives Edward a look from the helm, and it’s not long after that the captain concedes with a heavy sigh. “Pirates we may be,” he starts, stepping away from the ship’s taffrail and you, “but you’ve my word. We’ll get you to Kingston, and no harm will come to you.”

You keep your distance for the rest of the day, wary of your rescuers now that you know their true nature—pirates. They pay you little mind, even the ones who’d cursed your presence after Edward dragged you onto the ship from the water. With nowhere else to go—and unwilling to make yourself familiar with pirates—you return to the captain’s cabin.

When Edward retires in the night hours, he finds you awake, sitting on his bed with an open book—Robinson Crusoe—near the hanging oil lantern. It seems you’ve made yourself at home in his quarters. “I…” you start, the words stuck in your throat as he closes the door behind him, “I apologize for my curtness early.” The apology sounds forced to Edward’s ear.

Edward takes to a chair and props his feet up on the table at the center of his quarters, uncorking a fresh bottle of rum. He takes a long drag of the sweet liquor and relishes the burn in his salt-scratched throat before the warmth settles in his belly. “You’ll get no apologies from me, lass,” he tells you, not ungently. Another swig of rum and he sighs inward, seeing your fear-laced expression staring back at him in the dim lantern lights. “Like to think I’m a man of my word, though.” But his words offer no comfort—it’s hard to trust the word of a sea scoundrel.

“Rum?” He offers up the bottle, but you do not move to take it. You’ve never been one to take to the drinks of men. “We’ve not got tea, Your Highness,” Edward mocks. He knows your type—the ones who always looked down on him and his lot, even back in Swansea. Nothing was ever good enough for the landed gentry.

“How many days are we from Kingston?” You dare ask, ignoring his jape. You don’t expect an answer, or an honest one, in truth.

“Jackdaw’s been at sea for over a fortnight,” he tells you. They’ve already been at sea longer than they planned, and the supplies are dwindling. “We’ll have to stop over to refresh our stores. Our cove is seven, maybe nine, days away if the weather holds.” Summer months in these parts were always finicky for sailing—never quite could know if a maelstrom would try to take you when the skies opened up. “I reckon then, four days. Long as the wind is on our side, and we don’t come across any of Philip or George's good men.”

When the bottle of rum is half gone, Edward rises from his chair and flops down on his bed, stretching out despite your appalled expression—a mix of outrage and disgust at his impudence. “What are you doing?” You demand.

He folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. “Having a kip,” Edward answers, settling into the lumpy rag-and-straw mattress, “if it pleases you.”

IT TAKES NINE days to reach the old cove after sundown—a haven for pirates, especially now with the seat of the Pirate Republic under the watchful eye of the King’s Men and their Templar associates. Great Inagua is where the Jackdaw makes berth. Under better circumstances, you might even dare describe the small settlement as quaint, with the little houses and shops dotting a main stretch of earthen paths before disappearing into a thick jungle. Instead, you find yourself shrinking away from the gazes of vagabonds and scarlet women.

The first place Edward Kenway and his crew head is the dockside tavern to wet their whiskers and fill their bellies with something other than watery ale, rum, and cold salt pork. Feeling out of place and unsure of the workings of a society based on piracy, you keep close to Edward—taking a spot on the bench opposite of him at one of the tables. He doesn’t seem to mind.

You only catch the last bit of what the group of bully boys sitting at the next table over say—I’d brave the Devil’s squalls to chart her shores—but Edward Kenway’s keen ears hear it all. His smile fades instantly, and he slams his tankard of ale on the table, head twisting around. “Watch your tongue,” he says, voice a low, dangerous growl.

The merriment on the dock dies down—the bard’s tune does, too. It’s as though everyone except you knows how this scenario plays out. One of them sneers at Edward. “What’s it to you, Kenway?” You don’t recognize any of them as men who sail on the Jackdaw, only that their foul mouths match their tempers.

“You’ll not insult my guest,” Edward answers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken threat as he rises from the bench and turns to face the group of ruffians.

“Gone turn on one of your own for a stuck-up trollop?” The fattest of the bunch asks, spitting on the plank floor. Edward’s answer is violence. His fist connects square with the man’s jaw, the sharp crack of knuckles against bone ringing out like a gunshot. The brute stumbles back, crashing into the table behind him—knocking over half-filled tankards.

Edward ducks under a wild swing, ramming his elbow into the ribs of the second man before twisting to avoid the grasp of the third. The first brute, stumbling back to his feet, charges. Kenway sidesteps at the last second, letting the man barrel straight over the dock railing and into the water, cursing as he falls. You flinch more than he does when a punch connects with his jaw, but Edward reaches for the nearest tankard—still half-full—and smashes it over the second man’s head, putting him on the ground with a pitiful moan.

The third manages to grab Edward by the collar, hauling him back before landing a strike to the face. He twists sharply, driving his knee into the bastard’s groin. It’s enough for the man to release him, and a sharp uppercut sends him sprawling backward to join his compatriot.

The three offending corsairs head off the dock tavern to sulk and lick their wounds and pride. Edward glances at the rest of the ruffians still sitting and standing around and gives them all a hard look of warning.

He returns to sit across from you—the singers striking up a jolly tune again—wiping his bloody mouth and nose on the back of his hand. When he glimpses you, he sees your horrified expression and wide-eyed gaze—a lady of nobility wasn’t used to watching tavern brawls.

One of the barmaids brings a stained napkin and a cup of water. You take both items and move around the table beside Edward, tending to his hurts. “You did not have to do that,” you tell him softly, wiping away the blood at the corner of his mouth with the damp serviette. Words were just that—words. And you’re certain you’ve heard sailors under the King’s flag and your father’s men speak—do—far worse.

“Gave you my word,” he tells you, a reminder—as though you could have so easily forgotten the promise made by the man who saved your life. Those kind blue eyes of his flit to yours, shining in the torchlight and hazy from the rum. If you stare too long, you’ll drown. And if you stare too long, you’ll see Edward Kenway for what he truly is. Snapping from your trance, you reach for Edward’s hand and start to clean his bloody and split knuckles. “Know you don’t think much of a pirate’s word,” he slurs—there’s a strange sadness in how he says it, “but we have our own type of honor.” He flexes his hand, and the bones creak and crack. “Our own creed.”

He rubs his bruising jaw and looks at the white house high on the hill. “I’ll take you to the manor,” Edward mutters. It’d be safer there anyway—fewer drunk reprobates at this hour. If he were a decent man, he’d have taken you already instead of letting degenerates entertain a woman of English nobility. Edward rises from the bench again and even offers the crook of his arm like a true gentleman to lead you down the short street and up the hill.

It’s a proper estate with a grand dining room, a great parlor, and even a library—though the shelves are noticeably empty save for a few odds and ends.

Edward opens the bedchamber door and steps aside, motioning for you to enter and make yourself comfortable. The room is simply furnished. There’s a bed, a wardrobe, and a parlor set. The dust and full decanters of wine and rum tell you it’s seldom occupied, too. It’s certainly better than your accommodations on the Dauntless and the Jackdaw these past weeks. He starts to let the door shut, letting you be for the night. “Where will you go?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

“Tavern or brothel floor, most likely,” he answers.

“Edward,” you call to him, and he stops, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t be absurd,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can think them over. Edward’s hand stills on the door, and he turns to face you, one eyebrow raised in amused surprise. “I would not keep you from sleeping under your own roof,” you tell him.

“Is that so?” he replies, a playful edge in his voice. You had no qualms about taking his bed and quarters aboard the Jackdaw. A faint smile twists his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—shadowed with fatigue. Edward hesitates still, and his expression shifts, the amusement fading. He studies you, weighing your offer against an invisible scale of propriety and caution. But after the events of the evening and the conversations you’ve shared, there’s an unspoken trust neither of you could have foreseen.

“Yes,” you answer, meeting his gaze, not shying away. “Stay.”

He doesn’t have to be told again and closes the door behind him. You awkwardly stand at the room’s center, fiddling with the sleeve hem of the borrowed wool jacket, eager to rid yourself of the salt-soaked clothes on your back but unsure how far you’re willing to go for comfort and risk propriety. Behind you, it sounds like Edward Kenway laughs as he goes to one of the trunks and shuffles around in the contents. “Here,” he notes, offering a linen shift. You take the chemise with a nod of gratitude. “I’ll have a bath drawn for you in the morning,” he adds.

“I...” It’s a kindness you had not expected, even if he had shed blood for you. “Thank you.” Edward nods, and you disappear behind the dressing screen, shedding the worn sailor’s clothing for something more comfortable and familiar.

He’s already removed his effects—weapons piled on the top of the trunk nearest the foot of the bed, his coat and tunic laying across the back of a parlor chair, and his boots kicked to the side. You flush at the sight of him half-clothed and make for the bed in haste to keep your gaze and mind from wandering.

The bed dips when Edward eases himself onto the opposite side, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet creak of the wooden frame and the faint rustle of fabric as he makes himself comfortable. You close your eyes, willing sleep to take you, and quickly, but the awareness of him—his presence, his warmth, the slow, even sound of his breathing—makes it difficult.

A long silence stretches between you both, and just when you think he’s already drifted off, his voice, low and gruff with exhaustion, breaks the stillness. “Get some sleep, lass,” he tells you.

It feels odd, lying on a bed, not rocking to and fro with the swells of the sea. It’s too still, and you find yourself unable to sleep much longer than an hour or two at a time. You roll over, looking at the pirate lying next to you.

Edward’s broad shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath. The furrow oft between his brows is softened in sleep—an odd look of peace for such a complicated and troubled man. The streams of moonlight passing through drawn curtains cast a soft, silver glow over him, shining on the dark outlines of his tattoos and highlighting the silvery scars on his arms and back. He’s handsome in a rugged and rogue way and far from what you believed a pirate would be like. You curse the thoughts creeping into your mind and the growing fondness you feel toward him.

“Stop moving, damn you,” Edward mumbles, half-asleep, feeling the mattress shift again. There’s a quiet apology on your lips, but it turns into a surprised little gasp when Edward’s arm curls around your middle, drawing you into his side.

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Jackdaw is fit to sail again—her crew and stores replenished and ready for an easy journey to Kingston and wherever they may need to roam afterward. You set off before midday with calm waters and a gentle breeze to fill the sails, and this time your temperament isn’t as sour.

By evenfall, there’s hardly anyone on the deck. Most of the crew are in the belly of the ship, taking their supper and playing dice and knucklebones. Edward stays at the helm, though, holding the wheel steady as the Jackdaw passes the eastern shores of Cuba. “C’mere, lass,” he calls down to you—sitting on the stairs up to the quarterdeck.

He holds out his hand when you step to his side, and you place your hand in his—rough fingers curling around yours—as he guides you to the Jackdaw’s wheel. “There,” Edward says, softly, bringing your other hand to rest on another wheel handle, letting you take control of his ship. “Steady,” he breathes, hands finding purchase on your waist. You don’t have to fight the wind or currents, only keep the bow of the ship true to the southerly course.

A long moment passes, and you glance back at Edward, only to find his clear blue eyes are already focused on you with the beginnings of a smile. “Eyes on the horizon, love,” he chides—a whisper of warmth against the curve of your neck.

“Edward.” You know what he's going to do as he leans closer, and you make no effort to stop him—taken with this new sense of freedom and control that you have of your own fate while aboard this ship. He moves first. You swallow hard, a small pulse in your neck beating frantically, and your eyes slip shut as his lips brush yours—a satisfied sigh escaping on your breath. The kiss is chaste; a gentle flutter of his lips against yours. Only testing the waters.

PORT ROYAL AND Kingston rise from the pale blue waters of the Caribbean in the afternoon sun. The Jackdaw drops anchor in the bay harbor, and the crew helps you and the captain down into a dinghy to row ashore. “Here we are, Your Highness,” Edward announces when he pulls to one of the low wharves and ties off the small boat—there’s an odd sense of mirth in his tone and shining in his blue eyes. He steps onto the short wharf and offers his hand, pulling you up.

Edward Kenway fashions himself to look like a simple West Indies merchant seaman, foregoing most of his usual armaments besides a pistol and saber. And you’ve donned the ruined dress from when he first found you adrift in the Atlantic.

The streets of Kingston aren’t what you expect, but you’d heard what happened to the city of Port Royal, the sea and sand reclaiming most of the city—divine punishment, no doubt. Though, you suppose it does take time to build a new city in place of the one destroyed. You keep close to Edward, as the denizens offer odd glances, clearly taken aback by your disheveled appearance and unscrupulous company.

The judge’s estate is near the governor’s mansion—smaller but no less grand by the looks of it, but still quite different compared to your countryside manor in Devonshire. Guards posted at the wrought iron gate usher the two of you into the yard and up the steps of the Georgian manse when Edward announces he found the judge’s daughter adrift at sea amidst the wreckage of the Dauntless. They’ve already heard of the misfortunes from the captain of another English ship—the Monmouth.

The doors of the solar open and cool air, tinged with pipe smoke, greets you. Edward enters after you, glimpsing the richly adorned interior. He sees you shift, awkwardly, none of this feels familiar, not in the way Devonshire did. No countryside breeze slips through the open windows, only the scent of West Indies sugar and Spanish silver.

Your father is older than you remember—it's been almost a decade since he first sailed from England—and his powdered wig is unable to hide the grey beneath. The lines around his eyes are deeper, sterner, too. He pauses mid-step, as if unsure whether to believe who's standing before him. “My God…” He steps closer, arms slightly lifted—but not embracing you. Not yet. His eyes flick from your face to your ruined gown, your tangled hair. It's really you. And then you're enfolded in his arms.

Your father looks to Edward Kenway as he releases you from an embrace. “I am indebted to you, mister...” he trails off, not knowing how to address the man who’d returned his daughter.

“Walpole,” Edward says, wisely giving a false name. “Duncan Walpole, sir.”

He nods and waves off one of the footmen to fetch a reward. The butler places three heavy purses, two of silver coin and one of gold, onto the desk—more than Edward Kenway would have demanded in ransom had it still been his priority. “Thank you,” the pirate starts, looking at the bounty, and then something twists in his stomach and chest—is this the price for a father’s daughter?—“but I cannot accept this.” The answer surprises all those in the solar, but none more than you. Edward looks at you. There’s guilt shining in his eyes and another look you cannot quite place, but you know it frightens you. “Knowing your daughter is safe is reward enough,” he says earnestly.

The judge’s brows lift in surprise. As a man of wealth and station, he cannot fathom such a reward being refused, least of all by a man who bore the rough edges of a privateer—perhaps worse. “Now there’s a fine lad,” your father muses, considering the dealings already done.

And with nothing else to say and no bargain to strike, Edward Kenway turns to make his way back to the Jackdaw. “I’ll see you out, Mister Walpole,” you announce, almost too hastily, given the terse look on your father’s face. “To give my final thanks,” you amend.

Edward hesitates, his clear and sharp gaze flicking to the guards and servants lingering in the periphery—they watch from a respectable distance, skeptical of his presence. Then, with a curt nod, he follows you, and once out of earshot, you let the formality slip. “A moon ago, I was just a coin purse to you,” you remind him. He exhales, a faint chuckle escaping him, though it holds no real humor. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing ahead at the wrought iron gates instead. “What changed?” You ask.

“Everything.” Edward finally looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression teeters between indifference and contentment. Then he shakes his head, a fleeting, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing.”

You slow as the estate’s gated entrance draws near, heart beating in your throat. When he goes, so will your first taste of true freedom. “Will I see you again, Edward?” You question, hopeful. Foolish, you curse yourself, he’s a pirate, you foolish girl.

“If the winds and seas are kind, Your Highness,” he tells you.

Reaching up, you unclasp the silver chain and pendant molded into your family’s crest and adorned with a dark red stone from around your neck. “Take this” —you pass the necklace to him— “to remember me by.” His lips twist upward when he takes the necklace, thumb running over the imprinted crest and garnet before he tucks it into one of the pockets of his blue woolen coat.

You both hesitate, then Edward glances over his shoulder, checks no one is watching, and moves toward one of the trees and stone columns marking the estate’s entrance, pulling you with him—out of sight from any would-be wandering eyes. His rough, calloused hand cups your cheek, and then you’re drowning again in his eyes—like a stormy maelstrom. Edward, you aren’t sure if his name is a whisper on your lips or not when his lips find yours, tentative—as if asking permission, just the same as when he first kissed you on the Jackdaw. You lean into him, and he deepens the kiss, hand slipping from your cheek to the back of your neck. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven. “To remember me by,” he echoes with a roguish smile, slipping away back to his life on the sea.

THE LETTER TO a dear friend across the Atlantic is almost fully penned when one of the commanders from Fort Charles arrives in the manse’s solar. He greets you proper, then turns to where your father sits at his desk, reviewing letters and documents from the governor and those delivered on the last ship from England. “Brought in a haul of pirates, sir,” the soldier announces.

��Names?” Your father requests, appearing uninterested though you know he’s listening intently to see if there’s a sea rat with enough prestige amongst the lot to help raise his status here in the Caribbean colonies.

The soldier begins rambling off a list of names from a rolled-up piece of parchment. No one of prominence by the sounds of it “…and a hothead, Kenway,” he finishes.

You lay down your goose quill and shift in your chair, looking back at the soldier. Your father doesn’t seem to place the name, but you do. “Edward Kenway?” You inquire, not that there’s likely to be another Kenway sailing under a black flag in these parts.

“Aye,” the commander confirms.

It’s been months, maybe a year or more since you last received word from Edward Kenway—even longer since he’d last come to steal you away in the night. The memory of your shared times together and the thought of having to watch him hang makes your heart start to race and your mouth go dry. I must do something, you tell yourself, even though the new gold and sapphire weight on your left ring finger feels heavier now than it ever has before.

IT’S A FOOLISH thing to do, especially if you get caught, but it only feels right to return a favor. Your father said all those convicted of piracy would have fair trials by the week’s end. But fair trials for pirates always end with a long walk to the gallows and a hempen halter. A fate you’re determined to save Edward Kenway from—at least for a little while.

You dash from the bushes to one of the side entrances of the prison whilst the guards on duty are changing shifts. The halls are damp and dimly lit, and smell of mold and foul excrement. Some prisoners leer at you from within their iron pens—clearly a woman trying to pass as a man given how ill-fitting your breeks and woolen coat are, and clearly looking for someone who isn’t them.

“Edward,” you whisper into the darkness, having yet to pass where they’ve thrown him to await the noose. There’s no response. Frowning, you glance around the line of cells and then around the corner to check the hall is clear before starting forward again—quietly calling out his name every dozen paces. You spot his blond head leaning against the iron bars of the cell’s door and wall.

He shifts as you draw nearer. “Risking your neck for a pirate?” Edward asks softly, his voice low, laced with disbelief as he rises from the damp floor. You offer him a fleeting smile before trying the first key. “You’ve gone mad, lass,” he says, smile widening. You shake your head—half-refuting his claim—trying a second key on the heavy iron ring, but the lock doesn’t budge. The third key opens the rusty cell door with a creak and a squeak. He hesitates just beyond the threshold of freedom, his gaze flickering to the darkened corridor beyond, then back to you. “Why?” He finally asks.

You don’t answer, not directly, anyway. Stepping back, you motion for him to go before it’s too late. “Get out of here,” you nigh hiss. “Before someone notices.” New patrols will be starting soon, and both of you need to leave undetected. You don’t fancy having to explain to your father why you’d been caught freeing a notorious pirate from prison or why he bears such a similarity to Duncan Walpole from those years ago.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Edward closes the distance between you, his hand gently grasping your wrist. “Come with me,” he says. “For tonight.” Like old times.

You shake your head—trying to resist the devil’s temptation. “I should protest,” you tell him. Things are different now, but his smile grows wider still, and his grip on your wrist tightens just a little.

“Aye,” he agrees, teasing, “you probably should.” And against better judgment, you find yourself nodding, a small smile tugging at your lips as you let Edward guide you farther into the prison in search of his things.

He recovers his effects from one of the chests in the officer’s quarters, tucks them under his arm, and then takes your hand again, retracing the same path you’d taken through the halls. You both slip unseen from the prison’s entrance, and Edward pulls you away from old Fort Charles to one of the dinghies on the sandy beach. He tosses his things into the boat, then pushes it to the water, helping you in before rowing toward the far end of the bay.

Once the rowboat is ashore and you step from it onto the beach, Edward surges forward. His hands frame your face, roughened by his time at sea, and his lips find yours as though the years that've passed are only days. Even so, it’s reckless and desperate—a kiss stolen in the dead of night, a treasure neither of you is meant to have. He can tell there’s something different in how you respond—maybe time has been cruel, after all. Edward rests his forehead against yours, hands sliding down to your waist. “If you don’t want this,” he breathes, “tell me.” Because by God, he wants you.

You press your hand against his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer, but morality and duty win over. “I’m to be married, Edward,” you whisper, turning your cheek to deny him another kiss. His brows furrow. You’d risked life and limb to defy the law in freeing him from his cell, and yet, he shakes his head disbelieving. “We made no promises to one another,” you remind him. Rare stolen nights and sparse letters to fill the time, but no promise of something more. “And you’ve not returned to Kingston in years until now when you’re bound for the noose.”

He won’t deny it; you speak the truth. It’s not that he hadn’t wished to return, only that so much had happened with Nassau, the Templars, searching for a grand treasure called the Observatory. Edward hadn’t expected you to wait for him—not really, but he hadn’t expected this news either. He had hoped. A fool’s hope as it happened to be. He steps back and paces. Of course, you had to marry. It was expected for a woman of your caliber. He won’t ask who the engagement is to or what your new fiancé’s status and profession are. No, all Edward asks instead is: “Is he a good man?”

But the tears shining in your eyes and your silence is answer enough. Duty is the death of love.

Taking your hands, Edward looks you in the eye—his are as clear and blue as you’ve ever seen. “Sail with me.” It takes a moment for his request to sink in, and your brows furrow—gone for years and now this. “You’ll have freedom from those who would seek to cage you,” he tells you, “and should anyone try to come for you, hurt you, I’ll-” he doesn’t have to finish—you already know the lengths to which Edward Kenway is willing to go to keep you from harm.

“Become a pirate?” You ask, incredulously, glancing toward the dark horizon where the sea meets the sky. Saying it aloud makes it seem even more ridiculous. And then you hesitate to say anything else as you ponder the thought for only a moment. The life you’ve always known—duty, expectation, a future never truly your own—is a heavy weight upon your shoulders in the wake of his offer. But Edward knows he’ll get no answer from you tonight, though maybe, just maybe, the newly planted seed will take root.

“If your answer’s yes” —he reaches for you, his careworn hands cupping your cheeks— “come to this spot in a fortnight at sunset.” Then he points toward the opening of the bay. “You’ll see the Jackdaw’s sails on the horizon.”

“And if I don’t come?” You ask, voice hardly a whisper.

Edward’s jaw tightens, hands falling away from your face, and, for a moment, his confidence wavers. He looks out toward the sea, the horizon painted in a curtain of indigo and blue, shining silver in the moonlight. When he turns back to you, his expression is resolute. “Then I’ll know you’ve made your choice,” he says, his tone firm but not without sadness. “And I’ll not darken your doorstep again.”

But before he goes, Edward takes your hand, pressing something into your palm—a small token, rough and weathered by the sea—the pendant of the necklace you’d given him as something to remember you by in his travels and adventures. His fingers linger before he steps back, and his eyes never leave yours. “Remember,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with hope. “A fortnight. At sunset.”

Edward holds your gaze a moment longer, then releases your hand and turns, climbing back into the waiting rowboat. You watch him go, his silhouette growing smaller with each pull of the oars. The Jackdaw waits beyond the bay, her dark sails ghostlike in the fading moonlight. You curl your fingers around the pendant, heart beating in your throat, torn between the life you’ve always known and the allure of the unknown…of freedom.

FOR DAYS, YOU try to forget—try to return to the silk gowns, to polite tea parties with the other ladies of society in the city, to garden walks, to wax-sealed letters and obligations spoken in hushed, clipped tones behind parlor doors. But Edward's words linger in your mind like the stubborn fog that clings to the city when it rains, like it is now—his touch, his kiss, the way he said your name. And every night, you dream of sails and starlight, wind-tossed hair, and the taste of rum on his lips. And every morning, you rise, telling yourself you won't go. That you can’t go.

A fortnight. One final day. The hours are slow to creep by and yet the mantle-clock moves faster than you’ve ever seen. You run your thumb over the pendant as you’ve done for the last thirteen days, having taken to wearing it again on a silver chain since Edward returned it. Perhaps deep down in your heart, you already know the choice you will make. But the creeping doubt and more sensible piece of your being argues against the allure of the seas and the feelings you have for Edward Kenway.

But as the sun begins to dip low in the sky—turning the horizon a fiery red and gold that makes the world look half on fire, half in a dream—your resolve wavers. The window in the drawing room is open, and the evening breeze carries the scent of salt air and water. There is no escaping, not even when you squeeze your eyes shut and bid yourself to think of anything besides him.

Heart pounding in your throat, you take a sharp breath and move quickly. There’s no time to think about what you’re doing—the consequences of such an action—otherwise, you might stay. You slip out the servant’s entrance before anyone can see or stop you, and head for the manor’s entrance and down toward the beach.

The sky is bleeding into twilight as you reach the place where Edward told you to come, and there she is, anchored just beyond the breakers. The Jackdaw. Though, her colours are replaced with a flag of white and red—Saint George’s Cross. Your breath catches, watching as a lone boat rows toward the shore.

Edward doesn’t say anything as he climbs from the rowboat into knee-deep water, wading closer. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at you—searching your face for hesitation, but there is none. The fleeting moment passes when you step toward him in the surf, surging forward to close the remaining distance between you. And this time, you are the one who kisses him. He tastes of salt and rum, a tinge of tobacco and gunpowder, too. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the tremble in his chest as he exhales upon parting.

“You came,” Edward breathes against your lips, his voice rough like he doesn’t quite believe it but tinged with relief, too. You nod, unable to speak past the knot in your throat. He steps back after a moment and looks between you and the Jackdaw with a smile, rogue and handsome, his eyes shining in the golden hour. “I don’t know where the wind’ll take us, love, but if you’re willing…” he offers his hand—a new life—and you take it.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak / @thatrandomfeministgamer ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Edward Kenway #Edward Kenway x Reader #Edward Kenway Imagine #Edward Kenway Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed #Assassin's Creed Black Flag #Assassin's Creed: Black Flag #Assassin's Creed Imagine #Assassin's Creed Fanfiction #AC: Black Flag #my writing #this has been a WIP for like a whole year lmao #even during the PhD i have no chill when it comes to writing 'one shots'

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tavolgisvist · 3 months ago

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As if its insularity and self-obsession were not enough, Liverpool’s uniqueness is reinforced every time a local opens his mouth. There is no sound like it. A Liverpool voice is so obviously of Liverpool. It’s not English, nor even Northern. It’s Scouse, and the Scouser is doomed to stand out, come what may. As Paul McCartney puts it: ‘Liverpool has its own identity. It’s even got its own accent within about a ten-mile radius. Once you go outside that ten miles it’s “deep Lancashire, lad”. I think you do feel that apartness, growing up there.’ ‘People outside hated us,’ said Cilia Black, ‘because of the way we spoke, especially the fellas, who were very guttural. If you asked for a drink in a pub in Blackpool or North Wales they’d throw you out.’ If it’s true, as one theory goes, that human speech began in song, then some accents are always trying to get back there. Liverpudlian is one of them. You could hear that sing-song musicality in the suburban, south Liverpool speaking voices of the Beatles; even their deadpan statements carried a lilt, not to mention timing, of metronomic precision. The north Liverpool dockland voice is harsher, faster, more threatening. It can sound like a rusty sub-machine gun, but it carries the driving beat that powered rock’n’roll. Melody and rhythm were already lurking in the Liverpool accent. It only awaited a few guitars and a drum-kit to liberate them. <…> Liverpudlian speech indicates a playful approach to language and logic. Sailors were great importers of foreign words - banana, jamboree, tornado. The port of Liverpool would have heard new words brought ashore on every tide, refreshing the native fondness for verbal novelties. ‘Scouse’ itself is one example, probably from a Scandinavian seafarers’ term for Lapland stew. The wilful twisting of syllables (‘antwacky’ for antique, ‘Parthenion�� for Parthenon) is probably Irish, with a dose of instinctive Surrealism. When critics thought John Lennon must have studied James Joyce, they missed the linguistic roots the two men shared. Nor was John’s ingenious gibberish entirely drawn from Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear; Ringo’s way with word-play (‘a hard day’s night’, ‘eight days a week’) was nothing special. They merely grew up in a place where people talk like that, all the time. It was always dangerous to waste time decoding Beatle lyrics. (Why does Desmond change sex during ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’? Would semolina pilchards really climb the Eiffel Tower?) Precision is not a characteristic of this city, where the word ‘thingy’ is indispensable. (‘It’s a thingy! A fiendish thingy!’ cries George in Help!) In fact the Liver Bird itself, from the civic coat of arms, was only a medieval draughtsman’s vague attempt to draw a cormorant. It looks nothing like one. Thus the Liverpool skyline is commanded by twin monuments to artistic licence. <…> Will Scouse survive? There is a bleak outlook for all regional accents. The ‘Estuarial’ English of the South-East seeps across the land like spilt tea on a tablecloth. Mick Jagger’s faux-prole drawl - wiv all its, like, gloh-al stops and all at kinda hng, yeah? - is much preferred to anything else. It’s the ‘Mockney’ accent that proper English speakers are now trading down towards. It’s the one respect in which the Rolling Stones might eventually prove more influential than the Beatles.

(Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002)

Part (I), (II), (III), (IV), (V), (VI), (VII), (VIII), (IX), (X), (XI), (XII), (XIII), (XIV), (XV), (XVI), (XVII), (XVIII), (XIX), (XX), (XXI), (XXII)

+ about scouse and our lads

#'it’s the one respect in which the Rolling Stones might eventually prove more influential than the Beatles' hahaha #paul du noyer #liverpool #scouse

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serpentface · 9 months ago

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Do you have anything already set or thought out for sea-travel in the setting? Is it common, kept mostly in coastal regions or are longer voyages on larger vessels also a thing? Bonus question, and I know that it may be difficult inland especially during a drought, but can any of the characters of the white calf story swim (well or poorly)?

Yeah the majority of interconnected world powers rely on sea trade

The core continental mass in this world is about the combined size of Eurasia + Africa (though laid out very differently (sorry for still no map)) but much of its central-eastern interior is divided by a network of seaways formed by the movements of the continents (picture the Mediterranean - Red Sea but More) on which the majority of travel and trade relies. Other tradeways exist in the open ocean, though mostly close to the coasts and mostly routes to and from the entrances to the Inner Seaways.

Most long distance merchant ships will rely exclusively on sailing, without rowers. I don't really have exact sizes for common merchant ships pinned down, but it's not going to surpass the size of anything widely used in the 'ancient world' (certainly smaller than the biggest found in ancient Rome, as there is no single world power here big enough to necessitate that much imported grain to sustain itself).

Broadly speaking, there are VERY few voyages performed out into the open ocean, outside of fishing/'whaling' ventures and journeys to known inhabited islands connected via trade. As far as the vast majority of peoples know, there's nothing of much interest out there- a continent in the far north is known by most seafaring peoples but is rarely interacted with, and another exists on pretty much the opposite side of the globe from everything else and is virtually unknown (has caelin peoples as its sole sophont inhabitants, dispersed by flight).

Few people have reason to travel great distance outside of the context of trade. Long distance immigration is rare (with the exception of caelin peoples, again due to flight), the vast majority of mass movements of people are done on smaller distance scales or via gradual dispersal, the furthest common travel distances still being relatively close along sea routes.

Like as an example: Imperial Wardin's ethnic makeup (in terms of established populations) is: Wardi (themselves a collection of dozens of tribes largely assimilated into a national identity), Wogan, Cholemdinae, Jazait, the Hill Tribes (<<< all these are native to the region for at least a millenia), Burri, Titen, Kos (contemporary immigrants, or descendants of Imperial Burri occupiers, originating from across a narrow sea to the west), Yuroma, Ummo, Yanti (people from the coastal Lowlands just to the southeast along the White Sea), Ulelilwa (a people from the largest island chain in the White Sea, to the southwest) South Finns, Askosh, Ubiyans (some people from around the Viper seaway). There's a great variety of people here, but those that exist in significant established populations stem from around the three seas that directly border the region.

AS FOR SWIMMING:

Tigran isn't a strong swimmer per se but he's good at holding his breath and floating around, he grew up next to a river and would play in it as a kid. Doesn't have many opportunities to swim these days but likes being around water.

Brakul is a pretty strong swimmer, also grew up around rivers and learned to swim at a young age and enjoys it. He fails at a piss-drunk attempt to drown himself at one point because his treading water and floating instincts kick in (though moreso because the water is like 2 ft deep and mostly mud)

Etsushir is a VERY strong swimmer, most Jazait practicing traditional subsistence methods are taught to swim from a very young age, and he spent most of his life as a fisherman and several years specifically as a pearl diver.

Faiza made a conscious choice to learn to swim and sometimes would swim in the sea as a pastime back home. She loves the ocean and is a very strong swimmer, will go out much farther than would be considered safe or recommended.

Palo avoids open bodies of water (with sunlight sparkling on water one of the very few specific seizure triggers he can identify) and is also too skinny to float effectively, probably could not swim.

Hibrides finds bodies of water that you can't see the bottom of gross and creepy and avoids even touching them, much less swimming. Definitely can't.

Janeys hates being wet in anything harsher than a warm bath and would die on contact before he could even get around to death by drowning.

Couya is under the impression that if she ever had to swim she would simply Know How, but definitely wouldn't.

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jainaism · 5 months ago

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“Heartlands” Chapter 1: Summit at Boralus

Some of my favorite moments, beware of spoilers!

She’d counted ten sunrises since that terrible day. And every night since, Jaina had relived the horror of that moment in her dreams, as the city of light and wonder was plucked from the sky over Khaz Algar like a child’s toy. But that nightmare had been real. And Jaina knew that it was just the start. Another Sundering, another Cataclysm. An evil that had a name. Xal’atath.

Jaina and Thrall watched as Danath Trollbane emerged onto the roof. He paused for breath, chest heaving under his red tabard. “By Thoradin’s blood,” he said, “for such a seafaring people, the Kul Tirans do have a fondness for stairs.” Jaina stifled a laugh—she couldn’t help it, despite her foul mood. Danath was the first to respond to her call. He had been in the city for several days already, helping Jaina prepare for the summit. If he was disappointed by the responses from the other leaders as they trickled in, he had never shown it. Instead, he had been a steadfast companion, an excellent sounding board—and a very good friend.

Thrall rubbed his chin. “Interesting. Who commands this garrison?” “My niece, Marran,” said Danath. “As my diplomatic duties draw me to Stormwind, she stands as regent of Stromgarde. I have had word she has been reinforcing her position with the 7th Legion Auxiliary.” He spread his hands. “Her own decision, but I trust she is—” “Stoking tensions with the Mag’har.” Aggra stepped forward, shaking her head. “The Horde granted the base at Hammerfall to the refugee orcs amid the Armistice. After the Fourth War, Overlord Geya’rah and her people had nowhere to go.

“Marran will listen to you, Jaina. I have heard how well she regards you and your mother. I will write to her as well, to tell her of your coming and to prepare the 7th Legion to march. And while I don’t know Geya’rah, I know you, Thrall. The Horde may not have a warchief, but the Kor’kron are yours to command.”

Jaina reached for her staff. “Then so it will be. I will order the fleet to sail for Stromgarde. By the time they arrive, the strike force will be ready. Thrall, you will go to Hammerfall and negotiate with Geya’rah for the Kor’kron.” “I will come,” Aggra said. She stepped around the table to join Thrall. “Geya’rah is as a sister to me.” She laid a hand on her mate’s shoulder. “I promise, she will listen.” “Agreed,” said Jaina. “Danath and I will go to Stromgarde.” “I am sorry, Lord Admiral,” said Danath, bowing his head in apology. “I have been away from Stormwind too long already. Turalyon has sent word that I am urgently needed to rejoin his court. But on my honor, Marran will gladly receive you and your word on this matter.” He smiled.

Thrall nodded. “Luck, my love,” he said. The two clasped hands, then without another word, Aggra took off, sprinting for the northern hillside, which she deftly scaled before disappearing from view. Thrall watched her go, then turned to Jaina. “To Stromgarde, then.”

Jaina spun, instinctively putting herself between Thrall and the archer. She raised her staff high and cast a protective shield for cover. Another whistle, but this time the arrow glanced off the shield. That moment was all Jaina needed to spot her target. There, by the solitary tree at the top of the hill opposite, came a flash of movement. A cloaked figure broke cover, bow raised, quiver bouncing on their back as they fled.

Cursing, she knelt beside Thrall. “Leave it`, I will be fine,” said Thrall, waving her away. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow, still protruding from his flesh, and pulled it free in a single tug. He held up the arrow to examine it. “I hope, anyway.” Jaina peered at the arrowhead. It was smeared with blood, the liquid near black, but there was something else too—another substance, bright blue, oily. Her eyes widened in horror. “Poison? Thrall, you—” Thrall tossed the arrow to one side, then gave his injured shoulder an experimental roll. He winced; the wound was still seeping. “I’ll be fine,” he said, then paused. “But we do need to get to Stromgarde, and quickly.” He gestured to the hillside. “Lead the way.”

#OMG THANK YOU CHRIS #jaina proudmoore #world of warcraft #warcraft #jaina proudmoore daily #jaina #wow #alliance #thrall #tww #the war withing

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enarei · 3 months ago

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reading about shipworms. based on the very superficial understanding that they grow much more quickly than other types of bivalves while being supposedly similar tasting, I'm slightly surprised haven't been farmed as a replacement. they're foraged by several communities in southeast asia, but have never been actively raised with industrial focus for that purpose (to my knowledge). I guess someone might instinctively say they do not look as readily appetizing, especially to modern western palates. but that's not why other bivalves became a staple in so many diets, no one cares when they're hungry. that's arguably a reason for some staple foods becoming less popular post-urbanization, but not a reason for precluding them from appearing altogether

however a handful of research projects have cropped up trying to explore the idea, coupled with heavy-handed attempts to rebrand them as "naked clams" in english, which is a little patronizing in my opinion. this little pest that was an economic nightmare for seafaring empires the world over for millennia, now it stops being a 'worm' because we want people to eat it

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confusedeldritch · 2 months ago

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The Sea Primordials

-A group of Hypogeans that live in the sea

-They are named this due to how the of each of them are and their relation to the sea

-Close friends for as long as any of them could remember (could technically be siblings)

-Due to a special bond, it’s possible for them to revive each other from the dead

-They formed from the nightmares of a thalassophobic primal god. First he dreamed of something singing in the depths below. A year later, he dreamt of something watching him as he drowned. A century later, he dreamed of a beautiful creature swimming up to him poisoning him. 50 years after that, he dreamed of a ravenous being dragging him to the depths before attacking him and eating him alive. His head dropped onto the sea floor and a scavenger tore it apart. 10 years after that, he dreamed of a creature plotting his downfall and orchestrating it. The last and final nightmare comes a month after the one before, this time of something moving fast and picking parts out of him and darting away before he could react.

-All of the Sea Primordials are capable of entering dreams and interacting with them

Acroseph

Thalassic Songstress

-Large whale, leaning more towards sperm whale

-Weapon is dual blades made of her own teeth

-Often sings and her voice is melodic

-Oldest Sea Primordial

-She’s the least conflict prone of them all

-Mom friend of the group

-Biggest in terms of weight

Gykron

Abyssal Allseer

-Giant squid

-Has no weapon, uses his tentacles instead

-Eyes all over his body, all of which are functional

-Bioluminescent

-Biggest in terms of length

-Either stops the other Sea Primordials from doing stupid stuff or watches them do stupid stuff

-Second oldest Sea Primordial

-Has these small octopus scouts in waters all over Esperia

Sectros

Sanguine Scribe

-Lionfish

-Weapon is battle fans made of her spines

-Vain but isn’t afraid to get dirty

-Likes to write things down

-Her pen is made of one of her spines

-Enchants all her paper to be waterproof

-Able to open portals to a storage dimension where she keeps her records and other stuff

-Third oldest Sea Primordial

-Able to rapidly regrow her spines

Mercas

Impervious Scavenger

-Giant isopod

-Weapon is an axe made from the bones of animals she’s scavenged

-Telepathic, can read minds and make a network where everyone in it can talk telepathically to each other

-Stemming off of this, she can attack the psyche of her opponents

-Sometimes follows the other Sea Primordials around, especially Harak, to feast on their scraps

-Third youngest Sea Primordial alongside Harak

-She always prefers scraps or decaying matter over fresh meat

-Very calm, barely raises her voice

Harak

Deepsea Ravager

(You know him, but have some tidbits.)

-He’s teased for being the dumbest among the Sea Primordials

-If he asks, the others will give some of their food to him

-Instigates the most fights

-Third youngest Sea Primordial alongside Mercas

Croshyl

Ambitious Strategist Traitor

-He made his form is too human to identify what animal he is

-Weapon is a harpoon

-Not really considered a Sea Primordial, the bond he had with them severed

-Believes the instincts that the Sea Primordials fall back on are stupid and that they should instead push them away in favor of more intelligence and development

-Sees the Sea Primordials as feral animals to be hunted

-Second youngest Sea Primordial

Istiorae

Razorflash Seafarer

-Sailfish

-Weapon is a dagger he stole from a Celestial, he decorated it to fit his aesthetic

-He moves around often, usually staying in one place for about a day or two

-The fastest out of all the Sea Primordials, being able to move fast enough to make the air or water around him heat up to the point of boiling (and whatever the boiling equivalent for air is)

-Is the most animated and will make his feelings and thoughts known

-The youngest Sea Primordial

#afk journey #afk harak #afk oc

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training4theapocalypse · 2 years ago

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Finders Keepers Ch 13. (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: A little bit of dry humping hehe

Summary: McLaggen takes you to the D.A. Headquarters

A/N: I won't admit how much time I spent on AirBNB looking up lighthouses. This chapter is lots of build-up but I promise the payoff will be worth it.

Masterlist

Tag list: @countlambula, @ratsys, @aweidlich, @navs-bhat, @stainedpomegranatelips, @chiaraanatra, @xxvelvetxxxx, @ohnoitsrosie, @dracosisteer, @daisydark, @intense-sneezing, @lipstickandloveletters, @ichorai (let me know if you want removed at any point btw!)

Chapter 13: Dunkirk

Salty sea air breaches your lungs once more and with a sickening stab, you’re reminded of Azkaban.

But the air here is warmer. You feel sun on your skin.

There’s no sun in Azkaban.

You blink, trying to get your bearings.

“Just a little further,” says McLaggen gently, squeezing your hand. It’s always felt small in his. Now it feels almost frail.

You’re atop a barren cliff. The sea glitters calmly on the horizon as the bright sun threatens to lower itself into the waves. Seagulls call to each other as the wind whips your face - their yewling sounds like laughing. You almost want to laugh too. But you’re not sure if they’re laughing with you or at you. You feel filthy compared to your fresh, open surroundings.

You feel the patchy grass under your bare feet as you walk towards the cliff’s edge.

“Cormac, where…?”

“Nearly there.” He stops. “I’m Secret Keeper for our headquarters. The Seafarer’s Beacon.”

As soon as he says the name of the place, the ground vibrates. A large, white object cracks the surface of the ground a few hundred feet away and keeps growing and growing upwards. Debris tumbles as an old lighthouse emerges, sprouting from the cliff like a giant beanstalk. With a shuddering halt, it stops and you gaze up at it, the towering building gleaming in the sunlight.

You gape, open-mouthed. “How did you find this place?”

“It’s my Uncle Tiberius’s. He gave it to us to use while he’s off in Brunei hunting Re’em. But with everything going on, he’s decided to make himself scarce and stay there.”

“And it’s safe? I mean, the Ministry isn’t going to come looking for us here?”

“Oh, they’ll be looking alright. But it’s protected by the Fidelius Charm. Unless the Secret Keeper - me - tells you about it, it’s invisible, unplottable. Impenetrable.”

“Yeah, I remember from the…“ Your N.E.W.T.s seem like they were a decade ago. “The Charms exam…” You trail off.

“They’re expecting us. They’ll be… God, they’ll be so happy to see you. So happy it worked,” says McLaggen as you approach the arched driftwood door of the lighthouse. He pushes down on the iron handle and the door opens into a vast, circular kitchen.

There’s shrieking and screeches of wood on tile that makes you jump out of your skin. Instinctively you shrink behind McLaggen, hiding away from the noise, gripping onto the soft fabric of his knitted jumper until your knuckles turn white.

“Be cool, yeah?” scolds McLaggen softly and silence falls.

You peer tentatively around his large frame to see Cho Chang, Katie Bell and Leanne Coombes all on their feet around a large wooden table - staring at you, chairs discarded behind them.

“Hi,” says Cho quietly, smiling warmly.

Cho.

You feel your throat constrict when you meet her eyes. Don’t be stupid. You know you should be thrilled to see them. To see them alive. And to see Cho here especially. But all you feel is frightened - your body’s flight or fight response is making every muscle in your body seize up.

You look down at your fists full of McLaggen’s jumper. They’re covered in dirt and grime. You quickly let go, feeling embarrassed to even be clutching on his clean clothes.

“I’ll show you where our room is,” says McLaggen, taking your hand again and making a stern ‘quieten down’ gesture with his other to the group that reminds you viscerally of his dad.

A circular staircase spirals around the wall of the lighthouse, leading upward. As you ascend the stairs, you see rooms leading off to the sides - something that would look impossible from the outside. But you’ve been in the magical world long enough not to dwell too long on the weird quirks of wizarding architecture.

McLaggen leads you to the master bedroom near the top of the tower. It’s beautiful. Coral pink with little circular windows like on a ship. There’s another open door off to the side of the room and you can see the gleaming white tile of a bathroom.

“Your things are here,” McLaggen tells you. Your backpack is on the bed next to a folded white towel.

“The Ministry didn’t take them?”

He shakes his head. You feel the fluffy texture of the towel under your dirty fingernails. McLaggen picks up your bag and unnecessarily opens the bathroom door wider for you. He touches your shoulder as you pass. But before you can stop yourself, you cringe away without really meaning to.

He pulls back apologetically.

“Sorry. I’m… I just feel disgusting.”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You bring yourself to gaze up at him standing in the doorframe with his tousled hair and broad shoulders. Handsome as ever in the pink ambient light. Even if he looks more tired than you’ve ever seen him before, it’s ridiculous for him to call anyone else beautiful - not least you in your current state.

“Shut up, McLaggen.”

Unexpectedly, his face breaks into a wide, contagious smile that makes those gorgeous dimples appear - you can’t resist your mouth twisting into one too. You’re you. You’re still you. And he’s still him.

He gives you your backpack and you go to shut the door but pause, meeting his eyes again.

“Can you stay here?”

“Of course. Anything.”

Your throat tightens again so you just press the bathroom door shut. With a deep breath, you bring yourself to look in the mirror.

It’s worse than you’d pictured. Your eyes are deep hollows with dark circles underneath them. If McLaggen looked tired, you look positively haggard. Your hair is filthy, and unkempt. You try to run your hand through it to find your fingers halted by the tangles.

Unable to bear to look anymore, you turn on the shower, throw off your wretched Azkaban robes bitterly into the wastebin and step in. The water is warm. It might be the best sensation you’ve ever felt. You look down at your feet and with grim satisfaction, see the water turn murky. You turn up the heat until your skin feels raw. It’s like it’s heating you to your very bones. You’re not sure how long you stay there. Soapy suds of every colour make their way down the drain as one by one, you use every one of McLaggen’s Uncle’s fancy soaps and shampoos. Using a small nail brush, you scrub your fingernails, your toenails and, still feeling unsatisfied with how the memories of Azkaban linger on your skin, you scrub the rest of your skin inch by inch.

When you’re finally satisfied with your cleanliness, you find your clothes and toothbrush in your backpack and finish getting ready. Seeing yourself looking so tired and worn as you brush your teeth makes you want to cry. And when you think about crying you can’t stop the tears coming. You cry thinking about your parents. About the Holyhead Harpies. About Cho, Katie, Leanne and McLaggen hiding here. But most of all, you cry thinking about Eddie Carmichael.

You wonder if he’s still waiting for you to return, guessing what’s happened to you or if he’ll get news of your escape and wonder why nobody came for him too. You think about him looking out his cell window at the cold North Sea. You hope the German Shepherd visits him.

The German Shepherd.

You clutch the sides of the sink feeling dizzy. How could you have forgotten?

“McLaggen!” You shout urgently and he bursts through the bathroom door in a panic. You grab the front of his jumper, pleading. “McLaggen, the Patronus!”

“Yeah? What?”

“You need to send it!” You say frantically. “You need to send it right now to Eddie, please. Please, he’s alone. He needs it.”

His eyes widen in shock at your hysteria.

“Cormac - now. Please.”

“Yeah, I will. I’ll do it right now.”

He returns to the bedroom and waves his wand. The German Shepherd Patronus bursts from the tip and sits obediently.

“Go to Carmichael,” he tells it and waves his wand again. The Pantronus turns and with a leap disappears through the wall.

You breathe a sigh of relief and sit down on the bed, arms trembling as the sudden surge of panicked adrenaline leaves your body. “That’s… it?” you ask, feeling your heart rate coming back down to normal.

“I mean, it’s harder than it looks. But yeah... that’s it.”

With no idea where to begin, you lie back and stare at the round ceiling. The mattress feels soft under your aching back.

“Did you say this was ‘our’ room?” you ask.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says quickly. “There’s lots of space. I can sleep somewhere else.”

“I don’t want to sleep alone ever again.”

McLaggen takes this as an invitation to join you on the bed. He finds your fingers resting on your stomach and laces his through them.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Not about Azkaban.” You turn your head to look at him. “Can you talk instead? Just… tell me what happened. From the start.”

“Well, I woke up and you were gone, obviously. I thought maybe you’d gone down for breakfast.”

You can picture it, McLaggen waking up and checking the guest room to find it hadn’t been slept in.

“My dad - “

“Was it planned?” The question on your lips that you’ve been holding right to your chest.

“No. I promise. We left the gate open so he never had time to get you out of there. He guessed that it was Thicknesse. So he just went along with it. To protect us.”

“To protect you,” you correct. “So he sacrificed me.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t deny it. “And whatever you want to say about him, say it. I’ve said it to him all already. You have no idea - no idea - how furious I was.”

Several rude names dance on the tip of your tongue but don’t say anything, you just look up at the ceiling.

“He never imagined you’d be sent to Azkaban. The legislation said they were supposed to just confiscate your wand. But with everything that happened with Cerys, she convinced her dad to push for the maximum sentence. So really, it’s my fault.”

“Cormac - “

“No, listen. It is. If I’d just kept my ego in check, left the pub and took you home we would never have been in this mess.”

“Cerys knew I was Muggleborn by that point,”

“But she had no reason to do anything about it until I attacked Flint.”

Cerys and Flint. You wonder if they had a good laugh when they saw your face all over the Daily Prophet.

“Anyway, after you were arrested, I had a big bust-up with my Dad and came here to cool off. Stay with my Uncle. It was pretty bad. We’re still not speaking.”

“But we just saw him?”

“Only because the plan made it necessary.” He continues, “So when I arrived my Uncle was packing up for Brunei. Tried to get me to come with. But I knew I had to stay - think of a way to get you out.”

You feel your chest swell a little. Deep down you always knew he was thinking about you. Even in your worst moments - a tiny part of you always knew.

“Uncle Tiberius gave me the keys and left, leaving me to do a lot of thinking. Until one day I was lying right here.” He lies back and stares at the ceiling with you, absently tracing circles with his fingers over the back of your hand. “And a Patronus came. A big white swan.”

“Whose?”

“It was Cho. I recognised it from the D.A. but I didn’t realise Patronuses could travel like that. I checked the window because I thought she must be outside. But then it spoke.”

“The Patronus spoke to you?”

“Yeah. And I recognised Cho’s voice. Said she, Katie and Leanne were safe and together and she asked if I knew about what happened to you. The problem was I had no idea how to reply. So I spent the next two weeks trying to figure out how the spell worked. But I was in pretty bad shape - not compared to your conditions, obviously!” He adds hastily, as if worried he’ll offend you.

“It’s okay. It’s not a competition. Though if it was I’d win,” you smile weakly.

“You would.” He squeezes your hand. “I was so sick with worry that I wasn’t able to cast a Patronus anymore. That is until one morning when I read in the Daily Prophet that three people had broken into the Ministry disguised as Ministry employees. And it got me thinking - what if I could use a Ministry employee to get into Azkaban?

“So finally, after so long, I had a happy thought. Happy enough to let me spend the rest of the day trying to send a Patronus long-distance with a message.”

“You never sent me a message,” you say, trying unsuccessfully to keep a note of accusation out of your voice.

“I had no idea what it was like in Azkaban. I didn’t know if you were being watched. Or who would hear it if I gave you information. I sent the first Patronus and then I checked the paper the next day. I thought if they suspected you of communicating with anyone outside they’d punish you. It was risky but…”

“It was worth it,” you reassure him, squeezing his hand. “Cormac, it saved my sanity, I’m sure of it. And Carmichael’s too.”

He nods. “So the same night I sent my Patronus to you, I sent one to Cho too. And we arranged for them to come here. We came up with a plan to get you out. A reason to get you back into the courtroom. And it had to be big enough for my dad himself to be involved.”

“You being held hostage by Dumbledore’s Army?”

“Yeah. I went back to mine and told my dad the plan. Nobody knew at the Ministry that my dad and I had fallen out. So the day I was meant to start work I just never turned up. And my dad played the distraught father extremely well. First, his son almost had his magic stolen, now he’d been kidnapped by Dumbledore's Army.”

“Why Dumbledore’s Army?”

“We knew Umbridge would be so incensed that we were back that she’d understand my dad wanting to drag you from Azkaban himself.”

What an awful, awful woman. Desperate to believe someone would take pleasure in another's misery as much as she would.

“Marietta told us about the D.A. sign-up sheet.”

“You’re in touch with Marietta?” Your heart leaps.

“Oh yeah. We’re desperate for her to come here but she knows she’s more useful on the inside.”

The inside. Marietta was playing her part so well that she had to watch her boyfriend being thrown into Azkaban with a straight face.

“Umbridge kept the D.A. sign-up sheet after all that time. You can imagine it was a bit of a shock for Marietta when she saw it.”

You imagine Marietta clearly in a lurid, pink office. In your head it’s identical to Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts, with fluffy kittens on decorative plates, their big, blue eyes watching as she rifled through drawers and found the cursed piece of parchment that scarred her for life.

“So we framed you… again. Marietta wrote your name on the paper.”

You nod. You had guessed that already.

“And then, well, I think you know the rest. My dad agreed to the plan - it was his idea to have me wipe his memory so that when they interrogate him he won’t know anything. And since your wand is gone, he said you could have his.”

“He did?” Your opinion of his dad softens slightly. It was extremely risky to have your memory modified. And his wand…

McLaggen nods. “Well, he can order a new one from overseas - Ollivander went missing too over the summer. Did you see him in Azkaban?”

You shake your head.

“Well, in that case, nobody knows where he is. And that brings us to here.”

You both lie quietly for a while staring at the ceiling as the sea laps gently against the cliffside - it’s peaceful, nothing like the waves crashing mercilessly against the rocks of Azkaban.

“What coast is that? Where even is ‘here’?”

“Do you want to see? There’s a good view from the top.”

The two of you get up and you follow McLaggen back out to the hallway. He points his wand and a step ladder drops down, leading to the top of the lighthouse.

“You first,” he says.

You raise your eyebrow.

“Not like that - it’s just steep.”

“Yeah, yeah…” You say and you take hold of the rungs.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” he says, watching your skirt disappear up and over onto the top floor.

When you get to your feet and see the view your breath hitches in your throat. You can’t remember the last time you saw this many colours. The sun has almost set completely by now. It gleams on the deep blue water, crimson light bouncing off the white cliffs.

“Is this… are we in Dover?”

McLaggen nods. “Yep, and that’s the English Channel.”

You look to the west and wonder if Carmichael is watching the sunset too.

“Why didn’t you pull Eddie out? I mean, I’m grateful you helped me. And I’m not blaming you. But his name was on the D.A. sheet too.”

“I know,” sighs McLaggen. “But I’ll say the same thing to you that I said to Marietta - if my dad had requested Umbridge to call both of you out for questioning, she would have sent more Ministry people to escort him. It would’ve been too difficult to pull off with both of you wandless.”

“Well, at least we’ve got a nice place to hide out while we think of a plan.”

McLaggen stays quiet.

“I mean, we’re getting Carmichael out too, right?”

He sighs heavily. “It was really the kind of plan that only works once.”

“Cormac, we need to do something.”

“I want to. But I’m all out of ideas. One breakout was nearly impossible but two? I don’t think it can be done.”

You chew your lip. If there was an obvious way to break someone out of Azkaban, you probably would have thought of it already.

McLaggen stands behind you as you look out to the horizon and slips his arms around your waist from behind. The way his warm body feels enveloped around you soothes you, making you feel safer than any protective enchantment.

He rests his chin on top of your head. “If you look over there -“ he points “- you can sometimes see France when it’s bright and clear.”

“It makes you forget how close it is, really. I’ve only ever seen it in old World War Two photos, y’know? All the little ships of Dunkirk going over.”

“The what?”

“You’ve never heard of Dunkirk?” You tilt your head up to look at him. “Oh, I’m not doing the story justice but basically, during the war, there were hundreds of thousands of British soldiers trapped on the beach at Dunkirk just… there.”

You point out to the East.

“The German Army was approaching from land, keeping them on the beach. And the water was too shallow for British destroyers to get near enough to rescue them. Big warships - do you know what they are?”

“A warship? Yeah, it’s pretty self-explanatory,” he grins.

“Right, sorry, anyway, all those soldiers were just stuck. So the Muggle Ministry put out a call for help to anyone who had a boat that could be used in shallow water. Loads of civilians turned up in canal boats, fishing boats, sailing boats - anyone and everyone who had a boat. Hundreds and hundreds of them went from England to France to start ferrying the soldiers back. Getting them all to safety.”

As you stand looking across the channel, you can picture all the little boats going out. The relief the soldiers must have felt when they saw help at last. The same overwhelming relief you felt when you saw you were standing in McLaggen’s parent’s house.

“That was brave of them.”

“Yeah.” You wipe your eye with the sleeve of your jumper. “Sorry, I keep welling up. I think I’m tired.”

“It’s a nice story. And you don’t need to keep apologising.”

McLaggen holds you tight against him while you watch the sun finally disappear into the sea. He kisses the top of your head. Your stomach grumbles.

“I’ve just realised I’m starving.”

“Do you want me to bring you some toast?”

Toast. It’s been so long since you thought about real food that you almost forgot about your favourite thing to eat. But he didn’t.

“I made sure we had plenty of bread for you coming back-”

The tiny gesture is the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard.

You turn and stop his train of thought with a kiss. You can’t help yourself. You link your arms around his neck and stand on your tiptoes to suck his bottom lip. He pulls you close by your hips, pressing his warm body into yours like a giant comfort blanket. When Cormac’s tongue enters your mouth, he does so tentatively, gently, as if worried he might be overstepping.

He isn’t.

His hands wander down the curve of your back and with more urgency than either of you had expected, you push him backwards to the cushioned window seat so you can straddle him.

Everything below your waist throbs. Burning, searing friction lights up your nerve endings as you sit on his lap. It’s the best feeling you’ve felt on your skin in two months.

You pause, pressing your forehead against his, lips barely touching and just breathing each others’ air. A sigh escapes your lips when feel his cock twitch under his jeans, pressing against your soaking-wet underwear.

He breathes deeply. “I’m really happy you’re here.”

“I thought that was just your wand in your pocket.”

He lets out an amused exhale and looks down between your bodies. “Sorry. You’ve barely been here two minutes. I shouldn’t -”

“You should.”

“Do you feel okay?” His eyes find yours again, full of concern.

“No,” you say truthfully. “But it doesn’t mean that I don’t want you to fuck me.” Your hands find his belt buckle and he takes a deep, steadying breath. “Didn’t you miss me?” You tease softly.

He cups your face and your working hands pause when you look at him. “I missed you, alright. But you were just crying thinking about boats.”

“I’m just - I’m scared something will happen and we won’t get to do this again.”

“We will. You’re safe here.” He brushes a strand of wet hair from your face. “We’re safe here.”

And you do feel safe here. With him. You kiss his neck, inhaling his heady scent that reminds you so vividly of that first Potions lesson with him. When you realised that you didn’t hate Cormac McLaggen. Not even a little bit.

Your hips push against his, chasing the friction of his cock against your clit. His hands grip the sides of your thighs, digging into your flesh and pulling you tight against him.

It feels like half of you has been missing. You never thought you’d feel his touch like this again.

There wasn’t a moment in Azkaban where you ever thought about sex. It was like the whole concept of sexuality disappeared into the void. In the dark, damp cell there were no sneaky thoughts of touching yourself or pleasant dreams of a romantic reunion with Cormac. Just emptiness. All-consuming, never-ending emptiness. At your lowest moments part of you thought you’d never deserve to feel like this again.

His grip loosens on you and you realise you’ve stopped moving your hips. It’s only when his lips meet the wet corner of your eye that you even register you’re crying.

“Hey… I think you need sleep. And food,” he murmurs in your ear.

You nod, pulling back to wipe your eyes again. His eyebrows raise a bit as he studies your tired face.

“Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll bring you something?”

It’s tempting. You’re, frankly, exhausted. But by McLaggen’s account, they’ve all spent the past few weeks holed up here cooking up a plan to get you out of Azkaban. The least you can do is show your face.

“It’s okay. I’ll come down with you. See the rest of them.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Katie, Leanne and Cho lift their heads up when they hear two sets of footsteps coming downstairs.

“Hi,” you say, slightly awkwardly after your last entrance but the way Cho looks at you makes you feel less nervous. She pats the chair beside her. Your best friend doesn’t need to ask how you’re doing. She just knows.

“Feeling better?” asks Katie with a sympathetic smile and you nod, not sure how to verbalise the mix up of emotions inside your head.

You sit beside Cho at the kitchen table and lean your head on her shoulder while McLaggen busies himself, making you toast.

“Is it just the four of you? Have you heard news from anywhere else?”

“Just us. We’ve had bits of news here and there. Oliver Wood and a couple of others are hiding out in Puddlemere,” says Katie. “The whole league’s been called off.”

“It has?” You brighten up a bit at this. For weeks you had been imagining Cerys leading the Holyhead Harpies to a gloating victory.

“Yeah - there were riots in the crowds when players started disappearing. Gone into hiding or worse.”

“What about any Ravenclaws?” You lift your head and ask Cho. “Any sign of them?”

“Last I heard Rodger Davies was still living in France, playing Quidditch for Lyon. Probably best he keeps it that way.”

“And Hufflepuff? What about Smith?” you ask Leanne.

You don’t fail to notice how McLaggen pauses buttering your toast briefly at the mention of Zacharias Smith so he can listen in.

“Nope, we’ve heard nothing,” says Leanne and he resumes. “Not even on Potterwatch.”

“Potterwatch?”

“Lee Jordan does this show on the Wizarding Wireless Network. It’s all underground, top secret so it’s pretty unpredictable trying to find out when it’s on but we still check the radio every night.”

“What about Potter, Weasley and Granger?”

“Well,” says McLaggen, pulling up a chair on your other side and placing the plate of toast in front of you. “We think they were responsible for the Ministry break-in but the Ministry don’t want to admit it.”

Your stomach growls again and you pick up the buttery toast gratefully. It smells like heaven. And it’s hot - the first hot food you’ve had in a long time.

“So what else have you been up to?” you ask and take a bite out of the corner.

“Aside from getting you out of Azkaban?” asks McLaggen with a wry smile. You squeeze his leg with your free hand apologetically. “Well, we stay inside the perimeter of the Fidelius Charm as much as we can. Leanne’s popped out once to the local muggle shop to get food but we’re careful not to use magic or draw attention to ourselves.”

“Cormac volunteered to go but was so blown away by paper money we thought it best that I went instead,” explains Leanne.

“It doesn’t make any sense. What’s the difference between that and a piece of parchment? And the shape of the coins? Muggle money is just plain weird.”

Muggles.

“Oh my god, my parents…” You almost drop your toast.

“It’s alright, they know you’re safe,” says Cho. “We sent them an owl.”

“An owl? Whose?”

“Yours. They sent you a letter when I was still at mine and we’ve been writing back and forth. They know the basics - that you were wrongfully arrested and we were trying to get you out. I didn’t want to frighten them with the details,” says McLaggen.

You nod. “Thank you.”

There’ll be plenty of time to tell them later. When all of this is over.

If it’s ever over.

You look around the vast, circular kitchen, wondering how long you’ll have to stay here. If there will ever be an end to this regime. And then your eyes find something you thought you’d never see again, in a pile by the back door.

“Is that my broom?” Your heart sings. More than losing your wand, you worried if you’d ever see your Cleansweep Eleven again.

“Yeah, I brought them with our stuff. We can’t fly too high or outside the boundary but I thought you might want it here.”

You recognise the singed tail of McLaggen’s Nimbus 2001 and notice Cho’s too. The other two must be Katie and Leanne’s. Suddenly you feel excitement bubbling in your stomach as an idea, a very stupid, reckless idea forms in your mind.

“Do you remember the mass breakout from Azkaban last year?” You clear your throat, trying to steady your voice. “How did You-Know-Who get all those Death Eaters out?”

“No idea,” says McLaggen. “And trust me, we’ve thought about it a lot. Azkaban is impossible to find. It’s unplottable.”

“Like here?”

“Not exactly. There are protective charms of some kind but there can’t be a Secret Keeper - too many people know about it. Too many employees going in and out.”

“Would it still be unplottable if you’d been inside it?”

They look at each other uncertainly.

“I’m not sure…” says Cho, thoughtfully. “I mean, Leanne, you were able to find your way back here after you left the boundary, right?”

“Yeah, it sprung right up,” says Leanne.

You feel your hands trembling so you put down your toast. “You three all went to Muggle primary schools, right?”

Leanne, Katie and Cho look at each other confused. They nod.

“What do you know about Dunkirk?”

Chapter 14: Preparations

#cormac mclaggen x female reader #cormac mclaggen #cormac mclaggen x reader #ravenclaw #ravenclaw fanfiction #smut #fanfic #harry potter and the half blood prince #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter and the deathly hallows #freddie stroma

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the-overanalyzer · 4 months ago

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kicking your door down! hello! was excited that it is finally the weekend and i had time to read through your menu of WIP options and choose my fighter only to get as far as the third one and know DEEP IN MY HEART that it was meant for ME to ask about. tell me about The Best Laid Plans of Squids and Men, fiend!

He’d never been down here before, but it was a pretty standard, utility-oriented basement. Like he figured, the door to the power room was off to one side. The other, which he was pretty sure was an underwater access for Aqualad or any other seafaring heroes, had a big sign taped across the door with “KEEP OUT” in big block letters, with doodles of a skull, a biohazard symbol, and an...eggplant?. Jason weighed his options. On the one hand, examining and subverting the tower’s electrical system would be a big help to him later. On the other hand, someone potentially had something dangerous haphazardly stored down here. Eventually, his detective’s instincts won out. “Potentially dangerous and haphazard” it was. Forcing the lock, he drew a gun and nudged the door open with his foot. The room beyond was dark, but the light from the hall reflected off the pool ahead—he’d been right about the underwater bit after all. The place smelled like salt and mildew and…rosemary? Weird.

This is the first iteration of "Jason gets tentacled", as you probably could have guessed. Jason does recon for his little escapade in Teen Titans #29, only to find out he's not the tower's only guest.

I stopped working on this one for a long time because I somehow managed to make tentacle porn boring, which I guess counts as some kind of minor achievement. I never stopped thinking about it, though, and it might actually see the light of day sometime soon. (maybe after the second idea, which I like a lot more and also recently got more inspiration for).

#so i married an ask murderer #ask game #adam is a writer sometimes #jason todd

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taamlok · 4 months ago

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The High Priestess: Which does Rook obey more: their head or their heart?

The Hierophant: Is Rook religious? How do they feel about the religious organizations that impact their life the most?

The Hermit: When Rook is alone with their thoughts, what do they think about? Is solitude a blessing or a curse for them?

thank you for the ask! questions from here

The High Priestess: Which does Rook obey more: their head or their heart?

Muireann definitely leans toward following her heart. It's not that she doesn't think things through (she has a contingency plan for every possible situation). She tends to act based on gut instinct in the moment, but her gut instinct is informed by a lot of forethought. For example, during the final fight she has a backup plan for every backup plan, but ultimately tells everyone that if it comes down to a choice between finishing their job and saving themselves they should get the hell out of there and they'll figure something else out.

The Hierophant: Is Rook religious? How do they feel about the religious organizations that impact their life the most?

Muireann is not religious at all and barely knows anything about any of the major faiths in Thedas. She was a slave in her early childhood so no one was really taking the time to teach her about the Maker, and when she was adopted her dad didn't care about any of that stuff either so it just never really came up. She was raised largely on his merchant ship and in Dairsmuid (which is super multi-cultural), so religion was never a big part of her communities. That being said she and her dad both live and breathe seafarer superstition, and if you step on her ship left foot first she'll yell at you.

The Hermit: When Rook is alone with their thoughts, what do they think about? Is solitude a blessing or a curse for them?

Muireann is an overthinker, so when she's alone with her thoughts she's just running scenarios in her head and trying to think her way out of them. She needs a lot of quiet alone time, especially after a long day of being overstimulated, but needs to be doing something with her hands or else she starts spiraling. She reads a lot, and likes to paint Davrin's figurines for him (he doesn't need them painted but he lets her do it anyway). One thing she loves about Taash is that it's very easy to just sit quietly with them, or be doing their own things in the same space without feeling the need to fill the silence or engage with each other. Autistic love etc.

#muireann laidir #dragon age spoilers

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 year ago

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Rituals/Tradition

With art for this from @the-red-butterfly 💖💖💖 (Please show her some love!!!)

In the tradition of Cursed Cards, have some more photograph shenanigans...

Characters: Maedhros x Fingon (yes, still half-cousins!)

Words: 2 240

Warnings: pure fluff, no warnings

“Finno, are you coming?”

Fingon was about to let his phone drop to the low coffee table in his parents’ living room when the soft chime of a text message caught his attention.

Have fun skiing with your family! <3

Rereading the message while sweating profusely in the heavily padded costume, Fingon gripped the device a little harder when a second chime announced an addition to Russo’s parting communication.

The yearly family trip to the mountains was a well-established and cherished tradition, but Fingon would have gladly skipped it if his beloved had been amenable to staying home with him instead.

Alas, his lover—just as fond and faithful where family traditions were concerned—spent the winter holidays first on a boating trip, even though none of his six brothers was a particularly good seafarer, and then holed up in a remote cabin in a picturesque forest.

“You are very welcome to come to the cabin later in the week, if Tyelko’s shanties are not to your liking,” Russo had joked, and—afraid of intruding—Fingon had smiled warmly and declined.

A part of him regretted not having jumped at the opportunity from that very moment on, and—breaking with tradition little by little—he had purposefully dawdled when leaving for his own family holiday so he could take his own car to the ski resort.

He wondered whether his siblings had missed him on their rowdy, noisy, exasperating drive; Fingon truly felt sorry for not spending more time with them and for letting his mind drift away whenever he actually was by their side.

“Are you coming or not? No phone!” Turgon repeated, his stern, noble brow creased with impatience and annoyance.

“I don’t know how Elenwë—or anyone else, for that matter—bears your endless nagging,” Fingon grumbled, sensing that his whole plans were about to be derailed as his thumb slid across the screen towards the little envelope, decorated by that alluring red dot. “I won’t be a minute.”

He should go, he knew it, but he could not bear to leave a message from his lover unopened. What if he needed help? What if it was an emergency?

Clicking on it, he sealed his fate. A quiet gasp escaped him, and his cheeks darkened with delight.

“You’re not coming, are you?” Turgon snapped bitingly. Following his oldest brother’s darting eyes—the door to the bedrooms, the sprawling front window, back to the door—he instinctively divined his erratic thoughts. “I’ll pack your gear; get the necessities and go. I’ll tell the others when we meet at the foot of the mountain.”

Shooting a quick glance full of gratitude at his stolid, taciturn younger brother, Fingon all but jumped out of his elaborate suit and stumbled towards the door in a flimsy sweatshirt and his rattiest, thinnest sweatpants.

“Keys,” Turgon groaned, snatched them from the tangled mess in the beautiful ceramic bowl by the door, and tossed them over effortlessly. “Greet Maedhros from me.”

Stalking away with enviable dignity, he refused to add any other parting words.

“But look at the picture!” Fingon whispered and held his phone aloft, waving it slightly at Turgon’s retreating back. “Eh, your loss.”

The caption said something about Tyelko having spiked the punch, but that was of little importance to Fingon—he was too entranced by the photograph itself, showing his sweet redhead in an uncharacteristically deep blue sweater.

As he hurried towards his car, almost slipping thrice because he couldn’t pry his gaze off the wavering screen in his numb hand, Fingon grinned like a lunatic to mirror the wide, happy smile his sweetheart was sporting.

He loved all of his boyfriend’s smiles—the tiny quirks making the corners of his mouth dance as much as the polite, subdued curve his fine lips assumed at times—but the open-mouthed grin knocked the very breath out of his lungs with amazement so rare and marvellous did it seem to him.

Russo, he thought fondly, didn’t stomach liquor well, especially not if it was in a hot beverage, and the tell-tale flush as well as the brightness of his eyes told him all he needed to know.

Suddenly, the ever-gnawing yearning in the pit of his stomach became positively unbearable as he thought of the strong, seemingly endless arms of his partner, wrapped a little too tightly around his waist.

He wanted this; he longed to be there to run his fingers along the intricate pattern of exquisite knitwear in his own colours and watch Russo flush under the onslaught of messy, cinnamon-flavoured kisses and the soothing effect of mulled wine.

“Moryo made the sweater for me; isn’t it lovely?”

Fingon started the car, weighing the pros and cons of texting while driving and stopping almost instantly again.

“It’s beautiful. You’re gorgeous,” he typed quickly.

“I might be a little tipsy. I miss you. The twins said that I am to be the tree this year—father didn’t find one he liked. Everyone agrees that I am tall enough. Hence the decorations. Do you like them?”

Swiping his thumb blindly across the screen, Fingon pulled up the picture again.

He wasn’t sure whether it was acceptable to call while Maedhros was with his family, but he felt as if he would die in the white hell of swirling snow if he didn’t hear that warm, serious voice telling him that everything was all right.

His father, of course, had raised him better than this, but Fingon nevertheless fiddled with his phone until he heard the clangourous ringing sound cut through the unnerving static of the engine purring in the background.

“Hey,” Maedhros said. “Are you not on your way down a slope right now? Are you being safe? Is everything okay? Are you hurt?”

“Slow down, Red,” Fingon laughed, the weight on his chest dissolving into a puff of warm air, and turned the heating on. “I am indeed not skiing. Does your invitation still stand?”

A pensive hum resounded, mellow and satisfied, and then a sharp inhalation.

“Where are you, Fin?”

“I am in my car. Does your invitation stand, Russo?”

“Yes,” the other laughed. “I would warn you not to come—my brothers are in high spirits which is always a dangerous thing—but the idea of having you here is too alluring…”

“Tell me about your gifts,” Fingon pleaded softly as he raced out of the resort at twice the recommended speed. “I love the sweater. Is that a new prosthesis I’ve glimpsed?”

Gurgling with laughter, his swain confirmed. “Yeah, Curvo made it. It’s very good, very comfortable.”

“Can’t wait to feel it on my—wait, I am not on speakerphone, right?”

“No, of course not,” Maedhros exclaimed indignantly—his voice was so powerful and loud that he had single-handedly eliminated any need for such an accommodation anyway, but just hearing him sound so light-hearted was worth any and every indignity to Fingon.

“Maglor gave me a mug saying ‘Tall Ass Bitch’, which is funny because I got him a tiny blanket that said ‘Short King’. Isn’t that hilarious? He also made it himself—Mother was ecstatic.”

It was, as a matter of fact, hysterical, and Fingon had to focus hard not to drive off the road because he was shaking with laughter. “It sounds as if you’re having a marvellous time,” he wheezed. “I am glad. Turno is mad at me—I got your pic and just took off. Haven’t even said goodbye to the rest of the family.”

“You are disgusting,” Caranthir hollered from somewhere in the background. “I am moving my stuff into the movie room—no way I’ll sleep in the same room as you two.”

“Awww Moryo, don’t be like that,” Maedhros harrumphed. “Have another glass of glogg!”

“When I see what it’s done to you, no thank you,” came the reprobative answer, and then, there was silence once more.

“Please stay as you are,” Fingon beseeched his lover. “I want to be the one to pluck those pretty glass ornaments from your silken hair. Also, my fingers are itching to peel you out of this very nice sweater—not your usual colour palette, though, is it?”

“Moryo can say what he wants,” Maedhros replied smugly, “but he did choose your colours for my sweater, so he can’t object all that much, can he? He gets better every year, you must feel that thing—you couldn’t buy that kind of quality in just any regular shop.” The warm pride ringing in every word warmed Fingon’s heart as he pushed relentlessly through the rocky, snow-covered panorama of his holiday destination to reach the milder climates of the region surrounding the cute cabin his love’s family rented every year.

“Will he rat us out?” he then asked, slightly nervous. He liked Nerdanel, and he had taken his fair share of silly pictures of himself and his siblings to satisfy her addiction to cute but embarrassing photographs, but he did not want to crash her cosy getaway with her beloved children.

“OH,” Maedhros giggled. “They all know already—I might have pumped my fist and danced across the living room, almost trampling one of the twins who was looking for something under the couch, no matter…so yeah, my parents know that you’re coming. It’s all good. Better than good. You know what? I am going to put aside a bit of the punch for us—for later.”

The quality of his timbre had taken on a sultry, seductive note now, and Fingon shivered despite the hot air blasting through his car. Why were they so far apart?

“You do that, my love,” he said when he realised that he had not given any answer to that suggestion, so enthralled was he by the idea of his Russo—warm, pliable, and utterly contented—sprawling on a narrow bed for which he was much too tall. “I’d follow you anywhere, you know that, right? Over the endless ice and across the raging ocean—I’ll always come for you!”

“I hope so,” came the soft, mumbled reply. “And I’ll always be waiting, ever scanning the horizon feverishly for the deliverance of your friendship and love. Are you still very far?”

“Yes,” Fingon muttered, frustrated with how long and tedious his road would be, but just as determined to make it into those desperately wished-for arms as fast as possible. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Bad weather conditions and adverse events delayed Fingon unduly but—just as the night grew pitch dark in the small, picturesque valley—he saw the majestic hill ahead. Nestled against its elegant slope stood a cottage—looking tiny from that distance—from which the brightly lit windows twinkled like golden stars.

“Soon, my darling,” Fingon hummed; he had not gotten an answer in at least twenty minutes, but the sound of his lover’s deep, regular breathing was nevertheless soothing and encouraging.

“Good evening, you must be tired. He…fell asleep. Do you want to go wake him, and I’ll make you a spot of dinner?” Nerdanel whispered as she opened the door, tutted at the glaring lack of sensible winterwear, and then pulled Fingon into a forceful, welcoming hug.

Nodding, Fingon kicked off his snow boots, and padded over to the couch on thick, woollen socks; he didn’t even mind the fact that several of Maedhros’s brothers were standing around, sniggering softly, as he bent over that curled-up form and breathed a tender kiss onto the chiselled jaw of his personal miracle.

“Good evening, sleepyhead,” he whispered, rubbing slow circles into the long, lean back of the peaceful sleeper. “Happy holidays, my love.”

When Maedhros blinked, dazed and confused, Fingon broke into a smile so deep and earnest, it made his eyes crinkle and his lips stretch taut over his flashing, slightly irregular teeth. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Finno, I am so sorry. You—You are already here? I dreamed of you; it was such a good dream,” Maedhros mumbled, rubbing his eyes and extending his hand to his mug automatically to chase the stale, sticky taste in his mouth.

“Your mother is making dinner,” Fingon explained as he shuffled onto the couch beside the jumble of shapely limbs and slid his hand into Maedhros’s warm palm.

“I am so happy that you’re here,” the still rather dopey ginger sighed, leaning his head—Christmas tree decoration and knots—against Fingon’s strong, muscular shoulder. “Now, it is perfect.”

“I am afraid,” Fingon confessed in a conspiratorial whisper, “that I have forgotten your gift in my suitcase. You’ll get it after the holidays! I swear!”

“Hmmm, you’re all I need.” Humming happily, Maedhros slung his arms around Fingon’s waist and so they sat, lulled by the whispered conversations of the ever-present gaggle of brothers and seduced into hunger by the aromatic fumes of a late-night dinner about to be served.

“Sweetling?” Fingon prompted suddenly as his phone vibrated in his pocket. “Could you please send my mother the picture of you? I am sure she’ll understand why I fled so haphazardly once she sees it.”

“I highly doubt that,” Maedhros chortled, “but I will, of course, try. We should spend a day or two with them before we go back home, how about that? I shall suffer the mockery of your siblings with equanimity.” “My brave, slightly drunk, very beautiful, utterly bewitching hero,” Fingon laughed, wrapped his arm around Maedhros’s slender shoulder, and promptly dozed off himself.

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #November #Nanowrimo2023 #Russingon #Maedhros #Fingon #Maedhros x Fingon #Modern!AU #Card AU #with art #the-red-butterfly #Rituals #Traditions #fluff

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unsoundedcomic · 1 year ago

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How frequent is Pymaric use among Sharteshanian individuals, especially rogues? Compared to the other two players in the world it seems they much prefer steel of spellery, but a good pymaric is something even a layman can use right?

Yeah, anyone can use a pymaric if they know the trigger. Good call that pymary in general isn't as much a thing in Sharteshane. Historically they were among the latest adopters of it. They're a seafaring people, and since pymary gets tricky or impossible over deep water, there was a lot of mistrust and dismissal of it for a long time - even a lingering superstition that it's plain evil and the Twin gods disapprove of it. That view's seen as old-fashioned but even Sette has an instinctive dislike of spellery and spellers she got from her da and gran. Still, if she finds an Aspect grenade, she's gonna throw it, and if her attack zombie can wiggle his fingers and set something on fire, she's gonna suggest he go ahead :3

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vacantgodling · 2 years ago

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The Chronicles of Lathsbury -> CRASH COURSE

Part 2: The Mythology and Lore of Terrae

As of writing version 2.0 of the TCOL crash course there are 7 major deities in Terrae and an ever growing list of minor deities. Instead of being speculation, deities are a proven concept in Terrae and most people are religious. Superstitions aren’t terribly common, though it varies from region to region. Those who reside in Diisai have a lot of superstitions, for instance, especially when you venture further into the countryside.

The concept of “heaven” exists… somewhat. Terraneans believe that when they die (and are properly buried) all souls, regardless of their deeds in life, go to be one with their host of deities in Cerullius. However, if you are not given a proper burial, your spirit will continue to wander Terrae until either your body or remains are buried, or unless The Lady of the Mists comes to guide you home.

Proper etiquette for referring to any deity by their name in writing is to write it in ALL CAPITALS, which is why you see me do it whenever I talk about any of the deities in passing. However, when speaking about deities in casual conversation it’s considered more polite to refer to them by an epithet (which I am still workshopping their many, many epithets so stay tuned for that eventually). When deities speak to each other (ie: when I write lore scenes about deities) I will not capitalize their names as they are not above or below each other (even minor deities to major deities). Guardians also get a pass in this regard though they are different than deities proper.

Major deities and their general jurisdictions are as follows:

IIARAN — goddess of the universe & creation ; the sky, stars, constellations and celestial bodies ; wonder & awe ; song, melody, and dance ; birth, children, life

IISIDIA — goddess of the universe & destruction ; rhythm, harmony & musical instruments ; The Labyrinth and magic ; death & aging ; black holes, supernovas, comets, asteroids ; forces beyond understanding ; loyalty

MIZDARR — god of nature, plants, forests ; docile animals and monsters ; fun, play and laughter ; hunting, survival, brutality ; duality & chaos

MUINENS — goddess of justice, law and order ; protection from strife/hardship ; peace, victory, integrity, truth ; fate, destiny, prophecies, heroes ; land exploration and travel & cities

MIRANKA — god of fertility, mating & sexual intercourse ; family, friends, comradery & relationships ; desire & romance ; marriage ; unconditional love ; beauty ; ambition

YUTARA — deity of healing, hygiene & medicine ; immunity & poison ; studiousness, language & communication ; androgyny & gender expression ; perseverance

YLENE — goddess of battle, courage & bravery ; natural instincts, recklessness, desperation ; Guilds ; teamwork & collaboration ; strife & loss ; natural disasters ; strength & fortitude

Minor deities are usually venerated mortals by the cast of deities as they are instrumental in creating certain aspects of Terrae that did not exist before them. They are as follows:

MARTH is the founder of alchemy; a trans masc (as we know it) who cast aside his veil and family’s wishes for a daughter to provide heirs to pursue science. He is the the god the city of Marthveil is named after, the creator of alchemy and it’s corresponding magic: muram, the brachum calces alchemists use, as well as blacksmithing, fire, metals and minerals.

KOST is the god of boats, seafaring, bodies of water, fish, and travel. The city of Kost is named for him, and was the site of the creation of the first rudimentary sailboat.

KIBARUM is the god of alcohol, the harvest, and relaxation. He is worshiped particularly heavily in Diisai, where he is rumored to have origins from.

EFFE is the goddess of winds, gales, gusts, and has jurisdiction over the weather and was venerated from the former prisoner of Eros Twilightsorrow Idanly, whose name and role in the discovery and application of the magic tenom have all been but scrubbed from history books. Very few know this goddess’s origins.

The Lady of the Mists (who is only referred to by her singular epithet) was originally a Aegean princess named Princess Pinella Dia and was one of the elder siblings of the first king of The Kingdom of Lathsbury, Mitică the Nomad or King Mitică Dia. She died in a land bridge collapse on their flight to what would become The City of Sorrows (or Ubwyn) and was venerated by the deity YUTARA to help guide souls who weren’t properly buried to Cerullius.

The Demon King is the only “deity” on this list with an asterisk, as it is a changing position among the beasts of The Labyrinth. For simplicity’s sake; The Demon King is the ruler of monsters, and is the most powerful beast (as beasts and monsters are different—again, to simplify the difference is that beasts can use magic while monsters cannot) in The Labyrinth. The reigning Demon King can be killed or overpowered by Terraneans or other beasts, who will then consume their flesh to gain even more power. The current reigning Demon King and main antagonist of the main storyline (part 1 anyway) is Lord Evondra—who has been asleep but growing more powerful over the past 300 years.

Palanthia is more of a concept than a full fledged deity; but the word palanthia in old Aegean means “hope” and it is the spirit of hope and miracles. It is not a deity with a humanoid form, but takes the form of the goddess MUINENS’s giant shield, which all protector’s shields are modeled after.

QHOZION is the alter of IISIDA, meaning that he is a separated part of the goddess but they are still virtually the same being. he is the overseer of the long forgotten fallen world of Lapsundi. no deity but IISIDA and MIZDARR know he exists but his and Lapsundi’s existence are the subject of the second book in the series. he is a god of ruin and ruins, reincarnation, and negative emotions, sacrifice, and amnesia.

BRULENE is the trans fem (as we know it) sister of YLENE, cut from the goddess’s own breast to create her. she is the goddess of sculpting and statues, monuments, pottery and kilns, tactical strategy, weaving and looms, and gift giving.

Guardians are venerated Terraneans who die in an cause observed and deemed necessary by the cast of deities, and they are given immortality, wings, a weapon forged of the spirit of one they hold dear (who usually dies with or around the same time as them) and the ability to more directly interact with Terraneans than the gods — who cannot and can only communicate with Terraneans under very certain circumstances or through oracles. There is only ONE Guardian allowed per era, and their veneration usually marks the end of an era in Terranean history as it transitions into the next one.

Currently, there are 3 Guardians, as there are 3 major eras:

Lath, Guardian of Valor his weapon is forged from the spirit of his best friend, Ensio

Immordia, Guardian of Exploration her weapon is forged from the spirit of her youngest son Gawain

Arian Bloom, Guardian of Love has not received his weapon yet

Currently Terrae is in its 4th era, which is currently nameless as there has been no Guardian venerated yet.

Finally, oracles are how the deities communicate with mortals and are more commonly found among the people of Terrae. Oracles can be chosen in three ways:

Divine Visions that are verified by others who serve the same deity

Through an Oracle’s Blessing which is something most* Terraneans receive when they are born. It’s not always a prophecy (though they can be) but it usually is some sort of vision for how their life will go generally speaking—think of it as astrology.

Through an Oracle’s Feat, which is the process that one can choose to go through if you wish to be recognized by a deity to become a direct mouthpiece for them.

The deity with the most oracles on Terrae is MUINENS and they are known by the moniker OOM (which stands for Oracle of MUINENS). They most commonly deliver oracles blessings and there are many throughout all of Terrae. They can only be chosen through divine visions or through an oracle’s blessing.

The second most common oracles are those who serve the MIRANKA and act as both wedding officiants, bond forgers, and relationship counselors. They are known as OOMI (standing for Oracle of MIRANKA). They are only chosen through Oracle’s Feats, which is essentially like if you were to go for your doctorate in psychology… but more magical and with more perks!

The third most common oracles are only found in Eros, and those are of the war and strife goddess YLENE. They are called Champions of Honor (or COHs) because they are chosen through Oracle’s Feats but specifically through a battle to the death. There is only one COH at a time and they last until their death or until a challenger kills them.

Finally, the only other deity in Terrae that has oracles is IISIDIA, though they are few and far between. They do not tend to have highly respected or visible places of practice, and how to become one is a mystery. Not many are usually seen; they are rumored to roam the wilds studying Deeper Magic, creation and chaos.

#s: tcol #worldbuilding #tcol crash course #last edit: 9/27/2023

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