#Spectral Measurement

[erwinw]

What are Colorimeters? Function, How It Works, and Maintenance

In a world where colors can speak louder than words, the unsung hero of precise hue measurement is the humble colorimeter, a device that unveils the silent language of colors with remarkable accuracy and simplicity. What are Colorimeters? A colorimeter is an instrument that plays a crucial role in the field of colorimetry, which is the science of measuring and analyzing the color of light that…

[ask-sad-ghost-piett]

Today, a Scout Trooper used their stealth for insolent purposes and pilfered my favorite eyeliner. I cannot tell who is the thief due to the helmets. I do not understand the point of stealing eyeliner if one will be wearing a helmet anyway.

If any living soul would be kind enough to leave a replacement eyeliner (preferably black) at my symbolic grave, I would be very appreciative.

[eternaljourneytmbr]

IMO spectral bats sit either in the middle of weaver-z's Bat Appearance Graph, or have a significant rightward lean because of their dog-like face.

The moment they open their jaws and reveal those fangs, though, they zip into solid 'Those Feratu' territory. Or, that just solidifies their position of being in the middle of the graph.

Spectral bat collection pics. because they're fucking sublime.

[labexpo254]

Spectral Colorimeter - Labexpo USA

Spectral colorimeter with high precision is adopted with spectral measurement working theory which greatly improves the accuracy of colorimeter. Equipped with superior leather design, helps in increasing the friction in case of fingers sliding. The spectral colorimeter comes with mass storage capacity and A, C, D65, D50 as light sources for colorimetric measurement.

[thaoworra]

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association recently released the poems that made it to the finalist stage for consideration for the 2024 Rhysling Awards for Short and Long Speculative Poems of the year. Congratulations to all of the nominees! This will be the 46th year these awards have been conferred!

Short Poems (50 finalists)

Attn: Prime Real Estate Opportunity!, Emily Ruth Verona, Under Her Eye: A Women in Horror Poetry Collection Volume II

The Beauty of Monsters, Angela Liu, Small Wonders 1

The Blight of Kezia, Patricia Gomes, HWA Poetry Showcase X

The Day We All Died, A Little, Lisa Timpf, Radon 5

Deadweight, Jack Cooper, Propel 7

Dear Mars, Susan L. Lin, The Sprawl Mag 1.2

Dispatches from the Dragon's Den, Mary Soon Lee, Star*Line 46.2

Dr. Jekyll, West Ambrose, Thin Veil Press December

First Eclipse: Chang-O and the Jade Hare, Emily Jiang, Uncanny 53

Five of Cups Considers Forgiveness, Ali Trotta, The Deadlands 31

Gods of the Garden, Steven Withrow, Spectral Realms 19

The Goth Girls' Gun Gang, Marisca Pichette, The Dread Machine 3.2

Guiding Star, Tim Jones, Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa, ed. Lee Murray (Clan Destine Press)

Hallucinations Gifted to Me by Heatstroke, Morgan L. Ventura, Banshee 15

hemiplegic migraine as willing human sacrifice, Ennis Rook Bashe, Eternal Haunted Summer Winter Solstice

Hi! I am your Cortical Update!, Mahaila Smith, Star*Line 46.3

How to Make the Animal Perfect?, Linda D. Addison, Weird Tales 100

I Dreamt They Cast a Trans Girl to Give Birth to the Demon, Jennessa Hester, HAD October

Invasive, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Polar Starlight 9

kan-da-ka, Nadaa Hussein, Apparition Lit 23

Language as a Form of Breath, Angel Leal, Apparition Lit October

The Lantern of September, Scott Couturier, Spectral Realms 19

Let Us Dream, Myna Chang, Small Wonders 3

The Magician's Foundling, Angel Leal, Heartlines Spec 2

The Man with the Stone Flute, Joshua St. Claire, Abyss & Apex 87

Mass-Market Affair, Casey Aimer, Star*Line 46.4

Mom's Surprise, Francis W. Alexander, Tales from the Moonlit Path June

A Murder of Crows, Alicia Hilton, Ice Queen 11

No One Now Remembers, Geoffrey Landis, Fantasy and Science Fiction Nov./Dec.

orion conquers the sky, Maria Zoccula, On Spec 33.2

Pines in the Wind, Karen Greenbaum-Maya, The Beautiful Leaves (Bamboo Dart Press)

The Poet Responds to an Invitation from the AI on the Moon, T.D. Walker, Radon Journal 5

A Prayer for the Surviving, Marisca Pichette, Haven Speculative 9

Pre-Nuptial, F. J. Bergmann, The Vampiricon (Mind's Eye Publications)

The Problem of Pain, Anna Cates, Eye on the Telescope 49

The Return of the Sauceress, F. J. Bergmann, The Flying Saucer Poetry Review February

Sea Change, David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Ann K. Schwader, Scifaikuest May

Seed of Power, Linda D. Addison, The Book of Witches ed. Jonathan Strahan (Harper Collins)

Sleeping Beauties, Carina Bissett, HWA Poetry Showcase X

Solar Punks, J. D. Harlock, The Dread Machine 3.1

Song of the Last Hour, Samuel A. Betiku, The Deadlands 22

Sphinx, Mary Soon Lee, Asimov's September/October

Storm Watchers (a drabbun), Terrie Leigh Relf, Space & Time

Sunflower Astronaut, Charlie Espinosa, Strange Horizons July

Three Hearts as One, G. O. Clark, Asimov's May/June

Troy, Carolyn Clink, Polar Starlight 12

Twenty-Fifth Wedding Anniversary, John Grey, Medusa's Kitchen September

Under World, Jacqueline West, Carmina Magazine September

Walking in the Starry World, John Philip Johnson, Orion's Belt May

Whispers in Ink, Angela Yuriko Smith, Whispers from Beyond (Crystal Lake Publishing)

Long Poems (25 finalists)

Archivist of a Lost World, Gerri Leen, Eccentric Orbits 4

As the witch burns, Marisca Pichette, Fantasy 87

Brigid the Poet, Adele Gardner, Eternal Haunted Summer Summer Solstice

Coding a Demi-griot (An Olivian Measure), Armoni “Monihymn” Boone, Fiyah 26

Cradling Fish, Laura Ma, Strange Horizons May

Dream Visions, Melissa Ridley Elmes, Eccentric Orbits 4

Eight Dwarfs on Planet X, Avra Margariti, Radon Journal 3

The Giants of Kandahar, Anna Cates, Abyss & Apex 88

How to Haunt a Northern Lake, Lora Gray, Uncanny 55

Impostor Syndrome, Robert Borski, Dreams and Nightmares 124

The Incessant Rain, Rhiannon Owens, Evermore 3

Interrogation About A Monster During Sleep Paralysis, Angela Liu, Strange Horizons November

Little Brown Changeling, Lauren Scharhag, Aphelion 283

A Mere Million Miles from Earth, John C. Mannone, Altered Reality April

Pilot, Akua Lezli Hope, Black Joy Unbound eds. Stephanie Andrea Allen & Lauren Cherelle (BLF Press)

Protocol, Jamie Simpher, Small Wonders 5

Sleep Dragon, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

Slow Dreaming, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

St. Sebastian Goes To Confession, West Ambrose, Mouthfeel 1

Value Measure, Joseph Halden and Rhonda Parrish, Dreams and Nightmares 125

A Weather of My Own Making, Nnadi Samuel, Silver Blade 56

Welcoming the New Girl, Beth Cato, Penumbric October

What You Find at the Center, Elizabeth R McClellan, Haven Spec Magazine 12

The Witch Makes Her To-Do List, Theodora Goss, Uncanny 50

The Year It Changed, David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Star*Line 46.4

Voting for the Rhysling Award begins July 1; a link to the ballot will be sent with the Rhysling Anthology, as well as with the July issue of Star*Line. More information on the Rhysling Award can be found here.

[maggie-11]

When a light source or celestial body moves closer to or farther from the observer, its spectral lines will shift, resulting in changes in frequency and wavelength. This change can be used to measure the object's velocity and distance relative to the observer.

[libbybee]

CRAVING THE VAMPIRE'S TOUCH — SA.

summary: anticipation of the day the fantasy might become a reality. warnings: MDNI, female!reader, smut, dirty talk, porn without plot, mage hand spell, body worship, voyeurism fantasy, solo masturbation [F], oral fixation. word count: 960 masterlist . playlist . AO3 . IMG

a/n: english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

‎

Astarion. Astarion. Astarion…

His eyes, those gleaming rubies that promised danger and pleasure in equal measure. His attractive smile, the kind that made your thighs clench. That silvery hair, always so perfectly tousled, as if he’d just stepped out of some decadent dream. His face, conformed combination of sharp angles and soft allure, a testament to the cruel beauty of his perfection.

And those hands... oh, those hands. Long, elegant fingers that could wield a blade with deadly precision or trail down your stomach, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His lean and sculpted body, carved with the kind of meticulous care that seemed almost unfair. You’d caught glimpses of him when his shirt fell open or when he moved with that effortless grace, and every time, it left you aching to see more.

You imagined how his lips would feel against your skin, how his voice���smooth as silk, with that ever-present undertone of mischief—would sound whispering your name in the dark. The way he carried himself, with that confidence, only made you want him more. He was temptation personified, a walking sin you were powerless to resist.

“Mmm, Astarion...” You moaned softly, the sound barely escaping your lips as your mouth wrapped around spectral fingers. You sucked on them deeper with desperate fervour, swirling your tongue around them as though they were the sweetest treat you'd ever tasted. Savouring the imagined taste of him as if you could draw out his very essence.

You could almost hear him against your ear as he murmured, “Such a naughty little thing… Is this how you think of me when you’re all alone?”

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together in anticipation as shame flickered in the back of your mind, but it only fuelled your desire. You couldn’t explain this, not if your life depended on it. The thought of Astarion finding you like this—legs spread, touching yourself in his name—made your skin crawl.

Would he be disgusted? Would he sneer, cutting you down for your depravity? Or, the more tantalising option: would he find himself enthralled and aroused by the pure need you displayed? You could almost see it—the hunger darkening his ruby eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he watched you fall apart only for him.

Two spectral hands floated around you, their translucent blue glow illuminating your tent. One hand near your lips, with its fingers inside your mouth. You imagined they were his—or better yet, his cock—filling your cavity, dominating you. Though you'd never had the chance to see him fully unclothed, the fantasy was more than enough to stoke the fire of your pussy.

The second hand worked between your thighs, plunging its fingers into your needy entrance with a steady rhythm. Your slick coated the ethereal digits as they plunged deeper, curling just right to stroke your G-spot and make your back arch. The pressure was a perfect counterpoint to the way your own hand stimulated your swollen clit.

But this wasn’t enough. You wanted more—needed more. You wanted him. His hands, his lips, his cock buried deep inside you, stretching your cunt open just to sink fully until nothing left but the exquisite pleasure of his presence within you.

With every thrust, every swirl of your fingers over your aching clit, you imagined him there with you, his body pressed against yours, his voice guiding you to the edge. And as the pleasure built, you knew you’d give anything to make that fantasy a reality.

Your breath hitched, and you shifted your hips, seeking more friction, more depth. The mage hand’s middle and ring fingers pumped into you with a rapid pace, stretching and filling you as your pleasure built. Slowing your strokes each time you felt yourself teetering on the edge, prolonging the delicious torment.

Another desperate, needy moan escaped your lips. You closed your eyes, surrendering fully to the dream. You imagined him leaning over you, his cool hands pinning you down, his low, velvety voice in your ear as he praised you for being such a perfect, wanton mess for him.

“Astarion…” you whimpered again, your voice already thick with longing and your eyes shut. The image of him—his pale, toned physique hovering above you, his cock finally revealed and throbbing for you—pushed you closer to ecstasy. You pictured your fingers wrapped around him, stroking him as he groaned your name, his fangs grazing your neck as he kissed a path down your skin.

The spectral hand between your legs quickened its pace, now with a third finger inside, thrusting deep as your own fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles. You were so close now, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted, every nerve lit up with the thought of him.

He was right there, watching you, smirking, “Come for me, darling. Let me see how beautiful you look when you fall apart.”

That was all it took. Your climax tore through you, your body writhing as ecstasy crashed over you. Your cries filled the tent and the silence of the night as both hands continued their commands, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure from your throbbing pussy.

Finally, you collapsed onto your bedroll, chest heaving, your bare skin slick with sweat. The magical hands faded, leaving you in a haze of pleasure, every muscle deliciously spent. For a moment, silence filled the tent, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing.

You licked your lips, the taste of your own desire lingering as you whispered into the quiet, “One day, Astarion... one day, I’ll have you for real.”

And gods, what a day that would be.

‎

[gnocchibabie]

The Realm's Tragedy

Chapter 1 - The Porcelain Princess

aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!oc

next chapter --- masterlist --- ao3

Summary: Maevys Targaryen is born into a kingdom overshadowed by calamity. With her mother Aemma Arryn gone, King Viserys consumed by grief, and Princess Rhaenyra adrift in sorrow, young Maevys finds herself at the heart of a fractured family. As she emerges from the shadows of tragedy, she must navigate the delicate balance between the remnants of a broken lineage and the impending storm of a new era.

As the dragons dance, the princess must learn to accept an unforgiving truth: All Must Choose.

Warnings: gore and blood, graphic descriptions of violence/traumatic childbirth

Wordcount: 1.2k

112 AC – King’s Landing

The piercing screams of Queen Aemma Arryn echo through the halls of the Red Keep, filling King Viserys I Targaryen with a sickening dread as he hastily rushes to her chamber. The cries are not those of labor but are more akin of an animal in its final moments. The merriment of the tourney presumes outside the castle walls, unknowing of the chaos that swarms within. 

When Viserys finally pushes open the door, the sight of his wife – disheveled and dripping with anguish – has him rushing to her side. 

Aemma had always had great difficulty bearing children – it was a wonder Rhaenyra had even been brought into this world – but this, this was different. All color had been drained from the Queen, leaving only a layer of cool sweat covering her pale form. Hair sticking to her face, breathing labored, and grip weak on her husband’s hand, the King felt his wife drift further and further away from him.

She looked more spectral than alive.

Aemma.

Viserys looks around to the handmaidens attending to his wife, though they skillfully avoid his gaze.

“Mellos.” The king breathes out, leaving his wife to speak with the maester. 

A grim look paints the face of his most skilled healer, “My King…during a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make an impossible choice.”

Viserys blinks incredulously at the man before him as his wife continues with her agony, “Well speak it!” His heart pounds.

“To sacrifice one…or to lose them both.” Mellos replies, voice measured despite the chaos surrounding them. Viserys listens to the man describe the technique taught at The Citadel – the barbaric ritual of cutting the babe from its mother, in hopes it may be saved. The King hears his words, but finds it hard to truly listen to them.

Mello’s stern face wavers for a moment, “But the resulting blood loss-”

“Seven Hells, Mellos.” The King took a deep breath to keep his panic from setting in, from blurring his better judgment. 

The Gods punish me…They set an impossible decision before me. 

Viserys looks back at Aemma once more, seeing his wife has calmed, her pain momentarily subsiding. A handmaid dabs a damp rag to the queen’s pale forehead, and she almost looks serene. He thinks of his son, stirring within her, waiting to come out into this world. To be set forth into the realm he will one day rule. 

Expelling a shaky breath, Viserys turns his back to her, “You can save the child?”

“We must either act now, or leave it with the Gods.” Mellos replies.

It feels as though a piece of Viserys, some portion of his soul deep within, withers away at the choice before him.

All he can muster is a grim nod to his maester as he returns to his wife, one final time. 

Aemma, even despite her current torment, finds a faint smile at seeing her husband once more. Her mind is less clouded, her body less addled with pain as she properly greets her king.

“Viserys…” Her voice is faint and wispy, as though merely speaking was a herculean task. 

Tears cloud the vision of the king, though he hides them with a smile to his wife. His Aemma.

“They’re going to bring the babe out now.”

And so they did. 

Amidst the screams of his wife, a sharp steel scalpel pressed against her soft, swollen belly – blood soon pouring out from within the queen like a deep red sea, staining her linen underdress and the pristine sheets below her. Amidst her thrashing turned feeble attempts of escape. Amidst her moaning turned to fleeting breaths. 

The last thing Aemma Arryn experienced in this world was great pain, and great fear. 

A babe, quiet and still is pulled out from her at last.

“A boy, Your Grace.” Mellos replies, though any celebration from the revelation is soured. 

The infant is silent, and the room grows cold. The King holds the bloody, small thing in his arms and weeps for his wife and son.

“Maester Mellos!” a handmaiden voices, “There is another!”

The room blurs around Viserys as another babe is pulled from Aemma Arryn. With a few strong pats to the infant’s back, it’s bawling fills the room. A flicker of life is breathed into the somber scene.

“A girl, my King.” The maester announces. 

A daughter.

Viserys looks at the small, crying baby now being swaddled in soft linens. Muck and blood wiped from her as her crying continues. Tears blur his vision once more, barely able to see the small patch of white hair crested atop her head. 

For a moment, he is filled with the overwhelming desire to name his newest daughter, Aemma. After the mother she will never know in this life. Though, looking at the ghastly scene before him, he thinks better than to condemn the girl to such a fate. 

A name was a powerful thing, and Viserys was a man of many cryptic beliefs.

Aemma would not do.

“Maevys,” he breathes. A new name, a fresh start, a blank page. “Maevys…my daughter. My princess.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To suddenly be an older sister was an odd thing, Rhaenyra Targaryen had thought.

To suddenly be a motherless child, an even odder one. 

The eldest princess looks down at the babe lying in her fine wooden cradle, swathed in soft cloths. Maevys had finally quieted, after hours of squawking and shrieking, as if her cries should make up for the one’s her brother never had the chance to utter. 

Her sister was small, too small for even an infant. Pale as well, as though all her strength had been drained from her from the mere attempt of being born. 

If you could call it such a thing. 

Rhaenyra was haunted by the news of what had become of her mother. Her mother, once so full of life and laughter and love – reduced to a broodmare of a woman. So much so, that it became her undoing. 

The image of her sister however, soothed the princess. Perhaps a piece of her mother still lay before her.

She had a little sister, a girl to love and cherish and tell stories of their mother to. A girl she and Alicent could parade around with and take under their wings. Is that what sisters did?

Rhaenyra leans closer to the cradle. Did I look like this once?

The infant has all the hallmark Targaryen features: silver-white hair and expressive purple eyes. Perhaps she even had the Arryn look about her, some remnants of their mother. Though, only time would tell.

Rhaenyra feared, though, that the girl would not live very long at all. The babe was a weak looking thing after all. She even heard hushed whispers amongst her mother’s handmaidens, that the maester did not expect the girl to live past a week. The nickname, “The Porcelain Princess” had already begun to circulate throughout the castle walls due to her sister’s delicate state. Though no one would dare utter the words in front of the girl’s father or older sister.

“Maevys,” Rhaenyra breathed and watched as the little girl stirred, as though she already recognized her name, “You must prove them wrong, Maevys. You must stay.” Her voice quivers at the end of her plea, a hand grasping the babe’s cradle so hard, Rhaenyra’s knuckles turn white. 

And so, Maevys did.

Author's Note: hello there! i hope you enjoyed this very depressing and grim first chapter (I promise they wont ALL be like this). this is the beginning of what will hopefully be a pretty lenghty fic, which will come to focus on the ~eventual~ relationship between maevys and aemond. this is my second aemond fic (i am not immune to his charm) and i will be updating this alongside another project that is currently ongoing. because of this, updates may be a little sporadic, but i am dedicated to both series :) i hope you all enjoy this story! i have many ideas for many characters that i cannot wait to put to page and share with you all. thank you so much for reading <3

[anonymouscapybara]

people say the worst SI unit is the mole. "ohhh but it's just a number it doesn't even have anything attached it doesn't deserve to be an official unit" BZZZ WRONG

the worst unit is the candela. the candela is stupid.

what's the candela, you ask? well, it measures the brightness of light

"oh that sounds reasonable" you say, "just measure the energy or power emitted!" nope. they would not do anything nearly so simple. a lightbulb emitting a watt of yellow light is more candelas than a lightbulb emitting a watt of red light.

"ok that's weird" you say, "but maybe they're adjusting for that somehow? maybe it measures number of photons?" again, that would be far too reasonable. a lightbulb emitting a fixed rate of yellow-light photons is more candelas than the same rate of purple-light photons.

but what are they even measuring then? what else is there to measure? clearly they ran out of ideas while making up units, because what they're actually measuring is the SUBJECTIVE BRIGHTNESS OF LIGHT TO THE HUMAN EYE. the candela is STUPID

a reasonable question to ask is: how would you even measure the brightness of light to the human eye? aren't a lot of human eyes different? don't different things look bright in different circumstances? aren't there colorblind people in the world?

surely the General Conference on Weights and Measures, which spent millions precisely calibrating magnetic quantum flux to avoid basing the kilogram on a random block in France, has a clever solution!

no. no they don't. the candela is stupid.

as far as I can tell, what you do is you first measure how much light of each wavelength comes in. Then you multiply each measurement by a "luminosity function", which measures brightness to the human eye:

you will notice that there are multiple functions shown in this diagram. the SI system has five of these, for different lighting conditions. do your lighting conditions not exactly follow one of the Five Official Standardized Lighting Conditions? guess you're out of luck then.

and whose eye are we using? why, the Official Standardized CIE Photometric Observer, of course: the "ideal observer having a relative spectral responsivity that conforms to a CIE-defined spectral luminous efficiency function for human vision"

(and no I can't show you this function because the fine people of the ISO put it BEHIND A PAYWALL. who puts measurements determining a fundamental SI unit BEHIND A PAYWALL. the candela is stupid)

all right, so we're measuring a fundamental unit using a (nonexistent) idealized observer in one of five random lighting conditions. how did they find the values for this? i'm...not entirely sure. but here's a glimpse, based on a few of the most recent studies I found used for this:

"...heterochromatic (minimum) flicker photometric data obtained from 40 observers (35 males, 5 females) of known genotype..."

"To obtain an estimate of the mean L-cone fundamental, we weighted [weird variables] according to the ratio of 0.56 L(S180) to 0.44 L(A180) found in the normal, male Caucasian population...and averaged them together"

that's right, our Official Objective Brightness Unit is probably sexist and racist. none of the other SI units have a chance to be sexist and racist. a meter is a meter in every country on Earth. 6.022*10^23 For Women is still 6.022*10^23. but the candela is-- probably-- the white man's candela, because you can absolutely bet that genetic drift around the world gives different values for this stuff.

in summary: my opinion, as you might have guessed, is that the candela is stupid. hopefully you agree with me after reading this that we need to completely eradicate it from the planet. failing that could we at not give it the same level of officialness as the meter or the kilogram?

[writerfromshikahr]

Late Evening: Exercises - Lucanis X Rook Fanfic

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rook sat at Lucanis’s small makeshift desk, the soft light from the nearby lantern illuminating the neat stacks of papers and meticulously kept log books. She had been sifting through reports when something in one of his entries caught her eye. A smile curved her lips as she ran her finger over the word exercises, neatly penciled in under Late Evening a few nights ago.

Exercises.

Her cheeks warmed at the memory that surfaced. Rook wasn’t sure she would describe what they had done that night in his cramped, rickety bed in the old pantry as simple “exercises,” but trust him to write it down with his usual disciplined precision. He was a man of routine, methodical and unwavering, even in the way he documented his daily activities. And yet, beneath that veneer of structure, he was so much more.

Her smile widened, and she let out a soft, breathless laugh, recalling how he had pressed her back against the rough wooden boards, the room filled with the scent of coffee beans and spices. The memory of his hands on her, strong and commanding, made her heart race even now. Lucanis had kept one hand firmly over her mouth to muffle her cries of pleasure, his dark eyes full of a possessive, almost desperate heat. They could never be too sure who might wander into the kitchen at night, but he had always been insistent on protecting his privacy—even when everyone in the Lighthouse knew they were together.

And yet, despite the urgency of that night, there had been an underlying tenderness. The way he had looked at her, as if she were the only thing that mattered, had made her feel cherished in a way she wasn’t sure she had ever known before. Even Spite had lowered their voice, the demon’s usually sharp tone taking on a dangerously sultry edge as they whispered in her ear, their spectral wings brushing against her skin. YOU. MINE. OURS, they had said, each word laced with desire, a declaration that made her feel claimed and protected in equal measure.

Rook’s fingertips lingered over the word exercises, and she wondered how Lucanis could ever describe their passion so simply. But then, that was part of what she loved about him: the contrast between the structured assassin who wrote everything down and the man who had swept her off her feet with a love that felt anything but routine.

She closed the log book gently, a warmth blooming in her chest. The memory of his hands, his lips, the way his body had moved with hers in that cramped, hidden space—it made her feel alive. Loved. She traced the word one last time, whispering it to herself with a grin. “Exercises…”

Yes, she thought, her heart still racing. Perhaps not the word she would have chosen, but it was a moment she would never forget.

[yuurei20]

Malleus Facts Part 19: Malleus and Rook

Rook says he finds the option to pursue either Malleus or Leona during Beanfest to be “an embarrassment of riches.”

While Rook invites both Housewardens to his birthday party, its seems that neither attended.

Rook, Leona and Malleus overlapped during a previous Beanfest when Malleus and Leona both began to pursue him while quarreling with one another.

Rook says that he took both on in an attempt to help Vil escape, and he was brought down before he could put up much resistance. Silver says he remembers Malleus remarking that it was the first time he’d gotten heated in a long while.

Rook says that Malleus usually completes the exercises that they are assigned in gym classes within seconds, and then rests beneath a tree.

Rook approaches Malleus with, “I have simply taken an interest in you,” and when he asks if he might pose a few questions about his lifestyle Malleus says he offers no guarantee that he will answer.

Rook asks about what animal it is that dragons resemble most, such as impala or crocodiles, and Malleus takes offense.

Rook says he has never hunted a dragon, annoying Malleus even further, but when Rook compares fae to monsters Malleus realizes that Rook is going out of his way to be infuriating on purpose.

Rook confesses that that was his aim: he had been trying to throw his prey off-balance and lure him into his territory, “a basic hunting technique.”

Malleus says that he has no interest wasting time on Rook’s obvious provocations, encouraging him to resist his impulses unless he wants his life cut short.

They interact civilly during Spectral Soiree, where Rook strikes up a conversation with Malleus about Idia’s costume.

Malleus says he did not expect Rook and Idia to know as much as they do about armor and Rook recommends the musical “King’s Road,” which Malleus already knows.

Malleus explains, “Both humans and fae share a longing to express what’s truly important through song and dance.”

Rook begins to sing the musical’s main theme. Malleus says that Lilia used to sing it to him when telling him bedtime stories, and begins to accompany Rook’s singing on the pipe organ.

Malleus receives clothes from Rook for his birthday and has a voice line wondering about how it is that Rook learned his measurements.

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 20: I speak in tongues

"I'm not like you, I speak in tongues. It's a different language to those of us, who’ve faced the storm against all odds and found the truth inside." -can u see me in the dark? by Halestorm, I Prevail

Regent Masterlist Part 19 AO3 Mundane Macabre (Main)

When Ellie first began traveling, she’d (rightfully) assumed that she would never stop being surprised by humankind. Humans are curious creatures, capable of both kindness and cruelty in equal measure. 

(The Fentons were prime examples of cruelty)

(Cruel towards the living, dead and those who lie in between.) 

(Their children suffered, maybe even more than the ghosts they tried to hunt) 

With time, Ellie had decided to create her alter ego of Wraith, the quiet being of shadows that was just eerie enough to pass as something other regardless of what form she was in. Wraith was Ellie’s favorite mask to slip on, to hide from the living world as she tried to help where she could. 

Ellie Nightingale was a nomadic medium with a preference for punk rock, bleached hair and her leather jacket. 

Wraith was the opposite in ways that mattered, was created to help with the violence the halfa was witness to, fists bruised and weapons bloody. 

Ellie was not. 

Perhaps she’d broken herself into too many pieces, too many identities, for a solid visage to form. Cracked like a mirror, dirty and covered in old marker messages from friends long gone. Messages she’d carry with her no matter what name she went by, or style of hair, leather jacket or denim- halfa or not. 

That’s what made her unique. 

(Clone.) 

(Failure.)

(Danielle.)

(Ellie.) 

(Wraith.) 

Vlad had been her origin story, her beginning, but he was no longer her master. Slave to no one, daughter of nobody. 

But she was a sister to good people. 

Sometimes Ellie caught herself thinking ‘what would Danny do?’ when confronted with an extraordinary problem, trying to channel his brilliance despite their distance. He might not consider himself very intelligent, but Danny was the cleverest (and kindest) person she’d ever met. He loved her, his clone made as a violation of his bodily autonomy and by his fruitloop of a godfather. 

(Superman had not treated his clone the same.) 

(She understood his feelings of violation) 

(Kon was a living being and needed support too.) 

However, Jazz was her idol. 

Many people would’ve written off the woman as a know-it-all golden child, but those in the inner circle knew the truth. Jazz was the first child of the Fentons, who had nobody but herself to teach or to guide her. When Danny was born, Jasmine devoted everything to caring for him, to raising him as their parents should’ve. 

(His first words, his first steps)

Jasmine Fenton was a woman who loved fiercely and so, so very deeply that she’s willing to sacrifice her own wellbeing to ensure the happiness of the ones lucky enough to be given her love. 

With the rise to Regency and the subsequent downfall of her progenitors, Jasmine Fenton was left to rot in the basement with Danny’s grave, just like the yellow flowers she so fondly left in memorial. 

(Ellie would forever grieve the loss of Jasmine Fenton, the mother she so desperately wanted.) 

Yet, the Lady Nightingale arose from the grave, ash and blood staining her name, a ghost in an inhuman shell, ready to remake the world should she have to burn it down. 

(Jazz carried so few regrets, but they weighed her down like anchors.) 

(One day they might drown her in the dark depths.) 

(Her template’s younger visage admist the spectral mist spoke volumes.) 

(Maybe one day the faces of the elder Fentons would fade away.)

(Ellie could only hope.) 

The Regent, despite having staked her territory in the Ridge alongside Phantom, was unofficially claimed as one of the Crime Alley’s own. Defending the working girls, helping kids with homework or getting them away from ner-do-wells, the Regent had not hesitated to reach out a helping hand even after being targeted by those who would break her will. 

Black Mask, for instance, had put a bounty on the woman’s head with an eagerness that disgusted many others. People knew what a man like him would do with powerful woman, what enjoyment he’d receive breaking her. 

It was also no secret how much the Mask wanted to get his hands on the Red Hood. 

The helmeted vigilante had been a frequent pain in the ass ever since his debut some years ago, destroying his black market operations and getting the Big Bat involved. Sionis wanted little more than to rip off the fucker’s head- helmet and all. 

However, Sionis had tried his hand at subtly for once- he’d hired freelance to take out Hood’s second-in-command while the guy had his guard down with his girlfriend, a pretty red-haired civilian Sionis wouldn’t mind a turn with. The idea was to throw Hood’s gang leadership into chaos so Black Mask’s men could sweep in. Jason Todd was high in the ranks that his death would do just that. 

Figures the guy would survive. 

Jason had been seen with his girlfriend in the Ridge only days after the failed assassination attempt, no worse for the wear. Red Hood had come sniffing around his operations, with Regent stalking his men and the Phantom destroying his latest shipment of merchandise. Though, with the under-the-table job he’d hired out for, Hood found nothing linking him to the attempt on his second-in-command. 

It was time to change tactics. 

The Regent was confirmed to be in a romantic relationship with Hood, if the various Gothamite twitter posts and the sub-reddit r/RedHoodRegent dedicated to commemorating their obvious status, was to be believed. 

There wasn’t many problems with targeting the older sword-wielding vigilante; unlike Robin, Regent didn’t have the Big Bat for backup, but did have the Phantom. The ghost-like meta (or actual ghost, Sionis wasn’t sure how much he believed the rumors) was the biggest obstacle between him and Regent. If Mask could distract (or get rid of) Phantom, then his men could sweep in and eliminate Regent when the vigilante inevitably falls to his numbers. Sure, Sionis was sure he would  lose quite a few men, but it's Gotham. The numbers can always be recouped later. 

Perhaps when Red Hood tries to save his girlfriend, Mask could finally get his hands on him. 

Two birds, one stone. 

Oh yes, Sionis liked this plan. 

He had some calls to make.

A/N: I'm back! This was supposed to be posted on my birthday back in August, but I wasn't in the best headspace for writing or even being on any social media. I have several pieces waiting in the wings to be finished and edited, but I'm back and ready to write again! (Famous last words.)

(To those who guessed Black Mask had something to do with the bomb, kudos.)

Also, for those who might be uncomforable with Sionis' thoughts about Jazz, just remember- he's a bad guy, deranged and over all not the kind of morally upstanding person you want in charge of anything. Things get really dark where it concerns Sionis and what he plans for the future. Just a warning, because those who've read my other works know my penchant for angst.

[sqyyadina]

nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.

Pairing: Rose the Hat X Reader

Word Count: 4k

Tags: smut, oral (r. recieving), blood kink, reader has magic!

Summary: A distant voice fills your mind, you go and find it.

Author’s Note: I read somewhere that book!Rose has a deep fascination with blood, I tried to add it a bit here! This is also on my AO3!

“You’re a special little thing, aren’t you?”

The voice comes from all around you. The teasing words swim through your brain, creating a mist between your ears that you can’t shake. It may be the whiskey that’s making your vision go blurry, but seeing as you haven’t even finished half of your share, you’re close to believing that you’ve become drunk on that voice.

“The special ones always taste the best.”

You lift your nose from the glass you’ve been nursing for far too long, now uninterested in the drink entirely but too shameful to return it to the bartender. Drinks come rarely, dangerously, now, yet are completely necessary to keep your mind, your power, at bay.

“Come and find me.”

She’s going to make you work for it.

You haven’t done the workin quite some time. You’re lucky enough to not remember the last time it happened. You’re not entirely sure how it happens. All you can hope is that your longing to put a face to this mystery voice will jumpstart your brain into action.

You shut your eyes, focusing on the smooth jazz humming from the quartet in the far corner of the speakeasy. Their faces begin to fill in behind their instruments, blue eyes and suit jackets blurry, yet still enough to form a picture in your mind’s eye. Then come the bodies of slow dancers, a few women clad in fringe dresses clinging to mustachioed men who cling to their drinks.

Your spectral being guides out the room, through the secret bookshelf entrance and back into the hobby of the hotel where the speakeasy hides. You glance around, bodies forming from lumps of fuzz as you move through the room, trying to focus on any discerning features, any mischievous smirks or knowing glances. You pay no attention to the men, of course, but you do take the time to note a few of them with particularly expensive watches that you stow in your mind for later. None of the women sitting in the hotel lobby seem at all evil enough to match the sultry voice still lingering between your ears, so you move on, weaving through hallways and, eventually, up the master staircase.

There’s no chance that you’re going to spend hours searching through every last room that the hotel has. You were desperate to meet this mystery woman, but not that desperate. She’d leave her room soon enough. You’re ready to give up her search, let her come to you if she wants, but—

“You’re getting closer…” The voice teases again, her voice mockingly low, a hint of a moan behind her tongue. You focus harder, trying to pick up on anything that might lead you in her direction. Then, you grab it. Cars honking in the distance, voices of people, But the voices are too muffled, she isn’t on the street.

Your eyebrows furrow, you grip the glass between your hands so hard you fear it may shatter. It’s been too long since you’ve let your astral body subtract from your own like this, and the minute amount of alcohol flowing through you is rendering you a bit wobbly.

The voice disappears.

You think, for far too long, so much so that you fear you look utterly ridiculous, sitting at a bar with your eyes shut, gripping your glass like a mad woman.

Then, it hits you.

The roof.

Your ghost snaps back into action, ascending the many floors of the hotel in a heartbeat’s time. To use a heart’s beating as a measurement of time is fruitless, as your own is beating so quick that it’s impossible to count them. You feel the flutter in your chest as you fly through the door, and there the owner of the voice sits.

She flicks her head around, surely feeling your presence, and you only see the shockingly beautiful face before your soul returns to your restless body. You rise from your chair in a start, racing out of the bar and into the hotel with the speed of a rabbit. Your desperation to find this woman has been satisfied, but now you’re overcome by an insatiable need to truly stand in her presence. You don’t think your eyes have ever graced a woman so alluring, with such wild hair and the piercing eyes of an owl, which, if you recall, had the littlest shimmer of a glow to them.

By the time you’ve made it up the stairs, knees weak and chest heaving, you feel a sudden block standing in your way. You take a moment to let your breath catch up to the rest of you, fiddling anxiously with your skirt as you consider all of the ways that the woman behind this door could be dangerous. She was certainly just as powerful as, if not more than, you, if she was able to get inside your mind, the mind so built up with fortitude and yet so deeply dilapidated by your own drinking habits, that you were barely able to gain control of yourself.

You didn’t even know there was anyone else like you in this world. You always knew there was something special about you, since the time when you were quite young and found yourself able to spy on the entire neighborhood from the comfort of your little pink canopy bed. The skill raised a mischievous little girl, and an entirely heartbroken young woman.

Your delicate brain was now wracked with prescient visions of your own death, but that subconscious need to wrap your arms around this mystery woman, to know all of her stories and to count the trinkets in her hair, took control of your hands and opened the door onto the roof of the building.

“Well, hi there.”  She grins, her eyes hungry, but the rest of her face as sweet and caring as a mother’s.

You shakily take a few steps forward out of the shadows and into the moon’s cool glow, the small porch light on the roof flickering a few times before diminishing. You can’t help but wonder if it’s something that she’s done, if she’s read your mind and felt your discomfort in the flashing, put it out for you.

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby.” She coos, outstretching a hand. She’s definitely sensed your discomfort in her presence, but anyone with a trained eye would mark your fidgeting hands and shaky breath floating in the cool night air.

You swallow hard before taking a shy step closer, then another, until you’re sitting by her side before you can think to even do such a thing. She sits on the ledge of the roof, legs dangling over, threatening to spill out onto the alleyway that’s at least fifteen stories down. You force your eyes not to look down as you take a similar seat, but keep your legs on the concrete of the building’s roof.

“Don’t be frightened.” She hums, her lithe fingers raising to twirl in your hair. Her breath is warm against your cheek, marred by the smell of starvation and cheap wine, but it’s far from a scent you’d turn away from. You find yourself leaning ever closer to the woman, entranced by the woman’s soft voice and divinely pointed nose. You’re so very close to her, yet the words that you’re begging to say, the questions you yearn for answers to, refuse to leave your throat. It feels as though she’s wrapped a sly finger around your vocal cords, allowing only a few needy whimpers to pass your lips.

“My name is Rose.” She purrs, her fingers gliding against your jaw, tilting your head each way so that she may see the fullness of your cheeks under the rising moon. You try to do the same to her, to take in each feature of her face, but you’re so entranced by her glowing eyes, that you can’t seem to pull yourself out of them. “And you, little one… You sure are something.”

You can only blink back at her, body feeling weak below your heavy shoulders. You try to conjure up words of your own, try to introduce yourself, but you can’t. And you’re sure she’s already been through each ridge and valley of your mind, so introductions won’t be necessary.

Rose practically has full control of you now, and before you can fight back, she has you pinned to the ledge, back flat against cold stone, her muscled arm positioned by your head so that you can’t fight against her. You can only wiggle, but the hand that lays flat against your stomach keeps you still, allowing no more movement from your body. You feel tears prick your eyes, try to fight them down. You’re not so much scared of the woman above you as you are terrified of your possible fall from this roof, but your previous prescience hadn’t outlined such a death, so your tears subside.

“Don’t cry, sweet thing…” She purrs, lifting a hand to the flat-brimmed hat taming her wonderful curls, producing a thin needle from its body. “This won’t hurt a bit. Well, it will, but you won’t be alive long enough to feel the pain.” Her voice is impossibly calming, and it tricks your brain into trusting her, into falling victim to her body’s heat and her lulling tone, sending you into a meditative state, your body going limp below her.

“Get off…” You’re able to force out, though it’s just above a whisper, and she’s either not heard you or chooses to ignore you, because Rose’s hand is unshaken as she points the needle to your eye, daring to press it in further. But she’s taking her sweet time, feeding off of the fear in your eyes, enjoying the sight of your flushed cheeks and hooded lids, the way you’re completely subservient to her every move.

“I said, get off!” you yell, and the power of your voice is enough to fling the predator off of you, sending her straight back into the brick wall behind her. You scurry off of the ledge, finding safety on the floor of the roof, curling into yourself as you gaze upon what you’ve done. Nothing like this has every happened before. The astral projection, the visions of the future, those were all frequent experiences. You’d never so much as moved something an inch with your mind, so to throw a grown woman a couple meters into the air… it brought a new shake to your fingers.

She lay against the brick wall, blood dripping from her nose, eyes shut as though unconscious, but you could still hear her breathing, still feel a life force beating through her.

“I’m…” You stutter, standing to check her wounds. Though the woman was about to kill you, you felt a sympathy for her tug at your heart, so though you keep your distance, you still hope she wasn’t too badly hurt. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know I would… That anything like that would happen…” Your voice is breathy, stuttering over your words, and the fear returns when she stirs, sits up, stares at you.

But it’s not fear, and she can feel it. You’re not scared of Rose. Not in the typical meaning of the word. You feel an invisible string tying you to her, a deep-rooted need for her that dares you to step closer, and you do.

“I was right. You’re powerful, aren’t you…” There’s a smirk on her lips when you bend to kneel by her side, her hands returning to your face, forefinger swiping at the blood pooling on your cheek, from her long needle swiping your flesh. She grins at the glossy liquid, slides her own finger against her tongue, accepting your blood against her tastebuds, eliciting a sigh from the flavor she’d so dearly missed. “You’re not scared of me, are you, little bunny?” Her smile is downright starving, as she shifts to sit on her knees, towering over you once again.

You think for a moment, pensively chewing on your lower lip, but ultimately shake your head in response. She must be aware that despite your rushed blood flow and dilated pupils, it’s not in fear that your body reacts. It’s in intense attraction. An attraction that Rose feels, that she reciprocates, that she acts on. She wraps her arm around your neck, not squeezing, only stabilizing, holding you steady as she peppers a few rushed, sloppy kisses to your cheek, greedy for the taste of your blood, greedy to feel the warmth of your cheeks against her undead lips.

“Rose…” You groan, your hands finally tangling in the hair that you so desperately wanted to grip into since first laying eyes on the woman. “I have a room, downstairs…” Your voice is replaced by moans when the woman moves her attacking kisses from your cheeks to your jaw, her teeth grating against the sharp bone there, surely leaving redness in her wake.

“Take me there, special girl.” She grunts in return, allowing herself a few more kisses to your skin before standing, pulling you up on weak legs forcing you in the direction of the door. But you don’t make it far before you’ve thrown yourself onto her once again, placing a few hungry kisses of your own to her lips, tasting your own blood on her tongue, gripping her waist so hard that you nearly leave the ground. She laughs into you, picking you up so that you may reach her height more appropriately, pressing you hard against the exit door, laying you flat against the cold metal of the door.

You pull away, hands playing with the small metal trinkets braided into her hair, tugging her head back as well. “Not here.” You whisper, voice small but still carrying the resolve needed. You couldn’t risk being seen, even though it was nearing the middle of the night, and you were on one of the highest buildings in the city, that fear of being caught still nipped at you.

Rose relented, pressing a kiss to your forehead before placing you back on the ground, allowing you to lead her back to your hotel room. The walk is short, but you find it prolonged by the aching between your legs, by the way Rose walks a few paces behind you as to not raise suspicion. Though you’re sure you’ve raised enough suspicion just from your appearances, you with your hair a mess and your eye makeup running, Rose with the marks of red lipstick smudged around her mouth. But you don’t care, you like the feeling of being so scandalous.

It's a matter of milliseconds from your entrance in your hotel room to your body hitting the bed, Rose holding herself up over you, your hands gripping the patterned tie that dangles from her neck. You’d at first missed the look of her menswear, the dark of the roof turning her into a blob of darkness below the shoulders, but in the light, you appreciate her clothing choices. She looks impossibly dapper, wearing the suit better than any man you’d ever met. You use the tie to bring her down over you, to connect your lips once more, enjoying the feeling of Rose’s warm tongue collecting your blood once again. Her fascination with blood is a spectacle to you, such an strange thing that’s not unbecoming of her, that, if anything, matches her odd spirit, her magical eyes. You find it incredibly attractive.

Rose drags her kisses down your neck once again, moving so that you may remove the drop-waist dress, throw it into pile on the floor. She sits back, looms over you, loosens the tie and unbuttons a few of the top buttons of her shirt before throwing her jacket to the same fate as your dress. Though she’s pinned you down, her hips over yours, keeping you flat against the mattress, you still wiggle below her, hands reaching up to grab at her belt, undoing it as best you can with shaking hands.

Her smirk is ever resting on her face, tongue swiping over her lower cheek when you lift your hips to rock into her own, her hand once again lowering so that you cease your movement.

“How pretty.” She purrs lowly, her voice still as low and seductive as it had been in your mind. Her lithe fingers toy with the lace of your underwear, tugging at it gently, enjoying the hitch in your breath as she does so. She enjoys your excitement so much so, that she leaves your underwear on, and instead returns to your top half to tease your already red skin. Rose does allow the removal of your matching bra, however, undoing the clasp with ease before discarding it to an unknown location, her eyes only focused on the curve of your breasts. She chews on her lip, as though trying to hold herself back, to remind herself that you’re a delicate little thing, that she must be gentle. A very difficult thing for a beast such as herself to remember.

When you’ve groaned her name enough times, tugged at her pants hard enough, Rose finally lets herself at you, fervently wrapping her lips around your nipple, her mouth’s moisture dripping onto you, rough hands roaming your body, eventually finding your other breast to tease the nipple there. Her hips buck against your thigh, and you rise it so that she may straddle it fully, and you moan when the feeling of wet cloth presses against your bare skin. She rubs against you as if in heat, as if the taste of your blood has sent her into a daze.

Your hands rest atop her hat, the vintage velvet material impossibly soft against your fingers, yet those fingers yearn to feel her hair, so you lift the hat an inch or so to remove to from her head entirely.  Rose’s head snaps up, her eyes shining a bright, nearly blinding, white light, her brows furrowed.

“Don’t.” is all she says before returning to her work at your chest, and though you huff a little at the order, you accept it. She has so much more experience in this world than you, so even though you’re upset by the inability to muss her hair, you accept her demand.

Her kisses soon move down your stomach, her indulgent smile all too pleased when she finally reaches your thighs, and you toss your legs over her shoulders, allowing her to stake claim over your heat. Rose nudges her head against the soft skin of your thigh before sucking at your skin, leaving her signature red marks there. You’re growing impatient, and you know that the pool in your underwear has grown incredibly large.

Rose confirms your suspicions when she pushes the lace material to the side, a low laugh erupting from her before her tongue swipes a long line through your wetness, collecting all of your taste into her starving mouth, eyes glowing impossibly brighter from the taste. She lets out a series of curses, but you don’t hear them, for a moan of your own has encapsulated the room, you voice louder than it has ever been in your life.

“You taste of whiskey.” She purrs against your skin, her voice sending a vibration though you that sends your head flying back into the thin pillow beneath you.

Rose takes another moment to enjoy the sight of you from this angle, and as much as you enjoy her overindulgent personality, the beautifully awe-filled expression on her sweet face, you’re growing impatient, even more wet, with each moment that passes. You squeeze your legs around her neck, tugging her down so that she may finally do what you’re both begging for.

The older woman drops her head, her lips attaching to your clit, smooth, rhythmic movements to the bundle of nerves forcing your back off the bed, your hands returning to lay on her hat, desperate to tug on the hair there. She must hear your mind’s desperation, must have changed her mind in the high of your taste, for she removes the hat, careful to place it beside you on the bed, not daring to let it touch the ground. You want to thank her, but when you finally do sink your fingers into her incredible curls, one of Rose’s own skilled fingers slides into you, curling so that another series of moans flies from your lips.

“Rose—” Your voice is strained as you rock your hips against her mouth, fingers tugging on her hair, hard enough that you should be able to pull her off of you entirely, but she is so focused on her tongue’s movement that not even the hand of God could pull her off of you. You try to praise her, to tell her how good she’s making you feel, but all that comes out are a series of curses, and judging by the way she’s already read your mind so many times this evening, you don’t need spoken words to communicate with your lover. She knows exactly what you need before you even register your need for it, and slips a second finger into your cunt, dipping her fingers in and out of your warm body with quick motions.

You groan her name many more times, your hands flying out of her hair and over your face when the tightness forms in your stomach.

Rose, ever clairvoyant about your own emotions, picks up her pace.

“Come on my tongue, my darling.” She says without speaking, her voice filling your mind once again, creating that brain fog that had so drawn you to her in the first place.

You do as you’re told right away, your muscles tensing up before falling weak against the cheap hotel mattress. You still hide your face beneath your hands, fingers able to feel your heartbeat through the flushed skin of your cheeks. Rose is gentle, yet entirely selfish with her next movements, her tongue swiping up all of your wetness, making sure that she’s stolen all of your taste, licked you clean, before she moves to lay next to you on the bed. She forces your hands away from your face, caressing your cheek gently, lightly laughing at how red you are. Rose thoroughly enjoys the sight, as the warmth of your cheeks is a dear reminder of how much life you possess, a stark contrast from her own flesh, which, though it is still tan and freckled from time spent in the sun, is growing sad from the lack of nutrients, from her centuries spent walking the earth.

You crawl on top of her, pressing a kiss to her lips, reversing your role and pinning her down with your own hips this time.

“You are so special.” She whispers as you gently unbutton her shirt, your body fueled by a craving to see just how low her freckles trail. You gaze up to her when she speaks, fingers ceasing their movements when she lifts a hand to cradle your chin. “Such a special girl deserves to live long.” She purrs, drawing you back down for another longing kiss. When you rise from it, head tilting to the side in curiosity, she simply shakes her head, pulls you back down so that your head rests on her shoulder, where you lay calmly, ears searching for a heartbeat that never arrives. “I have a plan for you, sweet girl. You’ll need to rest.” Her voice is heavy when it enters your eyes, your eyelids drooping almost immediately. You don’t notice the way Rose places her hat back on her head, only fall into a deep slumber, only relying on the rise and fall of her chest.

[scribbledghost]

Vessel!Ghost part 3. Inspiration: Jaws by Sleep Token.

Sometimes Simon wonders who's truly in control of him.

He wonders if you speculate the same.

He still visits in your dreams (the Deity still refuses to allow him to reveal himself during your waking hours), half of the time speaking words that aren't his with a thousand voices mixed with his own. The Deity speaks poetry, flowing prose detailing its devotion to you, combining words Simon never would have thought to put together.

An ancient spectral creature worshipping a human.

Every so often, Simon develops a pit in his stomach. He wonders if Old Things like what resides in him can love. He wonders if the Deity is only flattering you in order to bring you under its spell, to bring more followers to its flock.

To gain another voice amongst its collection.

You feel the apprehension, too. He can tell. It's been months of dream visits and still, you eye him like a predator eyeing a hunter. But the Deity is patient. It's thousands of millenia old, after all. Years are nothing.

But sometimes, Simon is allowed to use his own words.

I won't hurt you.

He's lost count of how many times he's repeated it. He may not be sure if the Deity's devotion is true or if it's simply a manipulation tactic, but he is sure that if it tries to hurt you, Simon will tear himself apart keeping it at bay. Even if it's down to his molecules, he will destroy himself completely in order to keep you safe.

It's the least he can do - be a savior you never asked for.

The Deity knows it too. He wonders if this is why it hasn't taken more... direct measures, if its intent truly is malicious. Because it knows that to even attempt to harm an inch of your flesh would result in its expulsion.

Or, maybe all of the words it speaks from his mouth are true. Maybe you truly have caught the affections of something older than galaxies. Simon doesn't know.

There is so much he doesn't know about the Deity, and there is so much he doesn't know about you.

You fear him - or the thing masquerading as him. Even in your dreams, where nothing can harm you, you still bear so much apprehension, your very subconscious throwing up your emotional walls. Why?

He wants to know.

He wants to know why you bare your teeth so easily.

He wants to know what you've lost. Wants to know your wounds.

He wants to know you. And he wants you to know him in return.

The sting of pain he gets in his head when he thinks about such things worries him.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: The Tithing House

For decades the gang of highwaymen known as the Gallerwood Outlaws were famed and feared for equal measure, melting out of the forest to rob merchants, nobles, even mages, before vanishing back into the trees. Even after their awful deaths at the hand of a bountyhunter some years ago folk still sing of their deeds, and of the secret hideaway in which they stored their ill gotten gains.

Adventure Hooks:

Folk have been saying that the ghosts of the Gallerwood outlaws have been stalking the roads near where their bodies were hanged, still looking for one last haul. The party are tasked with investigating rumours after a fearful carter was set upon by these spectres, losing something precious in the process. This provides the excellent framing for a first adventure as each member of the party can be invested in retrieving something different out of the carter's cargo giving them a reason to work in the same direction.

As they investigate, the party will discover that these ghosts are infact local toughs who have dressed up and painted themselves phosphorescent cave lichen in order to shake down passers by. After giving them a thrashing and a Scooby-Doo unmasking, the party can retrieve the stolen goods and return to the inn for celebratory drinking. In the dead of night one of the party awakens to a shadowy figure looming at the foot of their bed, spectral face illuminated by the ghoul-light that flickers in the bowl of their pipe. Evidently the story of the party's antics has spread, and it appears one of the real ghosts of the Gallerwood wants a word.

Frauds and phantoms aside,  entirely possible for the party to stumble across the dungeon while exploring the surrounding swampland, only realizing it served as a bandit hideout after stumbling into the remnants of their camp. 

Setup: The ghost introduces himself as the late Cullen Carver, once founding and now final member of the Gallerwood outlaws. Cullen has an offer for the party, and is willing to guide them to the cache kept by his fellow bandits if they will perform for him a last request. As Cullen explains it, neither he nor the other outlaw spirits will be able to rest so long as there is no end to their tale, and there can be no end so long as the mystery of their hidden treasure remains unsolved in the common imagination.

Cullen is in high spirits despite being dead, so the party should expect some gallows humour as the hanged man leads them through the swamp's hazards, eventually arriving at the outlaw's secret base: The Tithing House, a long abandoned temple of Erathis concealed within the depths of the wilderness that's become infested with all sorts of mire creatures since the thieves met their end.

Challenges & Complications:

The Outlaws kept their treasure in the temple's crypts, and to access these the part are going to need to venture through the gauntlet of dark chambers and traps the bandits set up to keep eachother's hands out of the cookie jar. Cullen can help with some of these, but the whole point of the traps was to keep his fellow thieves honest. The only other way into the vault is through a heavily reinforced door, the key to which is currently in the possession of the bountyhunter who hung the Gallerwoods from trees in the firstplace.

While the party has the pick of spoils, Cullen points out a particular chest kept apart from the rest and calls upon them to fulfill their end of the bargain. This chest was Cullen's nestegg, put aside from numerous heists and robberies to be delivered to his wife and children in the event of his death. With no surviving highwaymen to carry out the promise Cullen's REAL unfinished business comes to light. The party can keep their word, or they can snipe the treasure for themselves, earning the spectre's undying enmity and curse to boot.

To get out of the the Tithing House the party will need to face off with a demon of avarice.. but not in the traditional form of bossfight. He'll approach just as they're leaving the dungeon, taking the form of a plump old man with a grandfatherly smile who wears the spotless robes of an Erathian friar despite the flooded cemetery in which they stand. He is all calm words and politeness, congratulating them on making off with such a fine haul and urging them to never mind that silly old ghost and his wishes, banishing Cullen beneath a nearby grave so that they can talk cordially. The Smiling Friar explains that he had a deal with the highwaymen; feeding off the greed of their crimes in exchange for concealing their hideaway and passage through the forest. There's no reason the party couldn't renew the deal, become the new band of legendary thieves, save that they'll have to forsake their ghostly guide and his last act of charity. Should they turn him down the Smiling Friar will call up the dead of the cemetery to slaughter them, clearing the way for the next band of ambitious treasurehunters.

Art 1 Art 2

[vir-tanadahl]

The Wolf's Redemption

Summary: Join Solas and Lavellan has they break free from the prison of regret and begin their work finding ways to soothe the anger of the Titans and the blight! Read on Ao3!

Chapter 5: The First Step Forward

The parchment trembled in Lavellan's hands as her eyes scanned Harding's elegant script. A smile bloomed on her face, relief washing over her.

"She's agreed to help us," Lavellan breathed, looking up at Solas. "Harding is back in Redcliffe helping with the recovery efforts. She said to meet her at the Gull and Lantern tavern."

Solas's violet eyes met hers, a storm of emotions swirling within their depths. His lips curved into a small, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That is…fortuitous," he said, his voice carefully measured. Lavellan's brow furrowed, recognizing the tension in his voice that he tried to hide. "You don't seem pleased, vhenan. I thought this was what we wanted?" Her voice is laced with confusion.

Solas sighed, his shoulders tensing. "It is. I merely…” He hesitates for a moment, “I fear the judgment we may face. The consequences of my actions will not easily forgotten."

Lavellan reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. "We're in this together, Solas. Harding understands more than most. She'll hear us out." As she spoke, a glint of light caught her eye. Lavellan glanced down, her gaze falling on the prosthetic arm that had replaced the one she'd lost.

Rather, Solas took after the anchor was becoming increasing unstable, dangerous, and threatened her life. The Inquisition's symbol, etched into the metal, seemed to mock her with its familiarity. A surge of panic clenched her chest, sharp and unforgiving. "Fenedhis," she hissed under her breath, her thoughts spiraling. "The arm... it's too recognizable."

Solas leaned in, his gaze darkening as he studied the prosthetic with a pained intensity. Regret flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken. Lavellan straightened, resolve hardening in her expression. "We need to fix this. Disguise it, alter it—replace it, if we must." Her mind raced, grasping at ideas that felt both impossible and necessary, each one more desperate than the last.

Solas gently hums in thought as he places his hand on her arm. "The Caretaker should be able to help," he assures her. Lavellan smiles and nods in agreement, saying, "I'll go speak with them now.”

Lavellan scurried away from Solas and out to the Caretaker's workshop. She hesitated before speaking, her voice catching in the stillness. "Caretaker," she said softly, her tone laced with urgency, "I need your help." Raising her prosthetic arm, the engraved symbol of the Inquisition caught the spectral light, gleaming like an accusation. The weight of its presence was suffocating. "This... it’s too recognizable," she continued, her voice steadying. "I need something that won’t give me away—something discreet."

The Caretaker turned, their form shifting slightly like a breeze stirring a still pond. Their voice, calm and layered with depth, resonated through the space. "A limb, forged in need. A symbol, etched in time. Both carry weight unseen." Their glowing eyes lingered on the prosthetic as if peering beyond its surface. "Change is required, dweller. The arm you bear draws eyes, and eyes bring peril. Yet, the metal holds purpose. A thread, unraveled, can be rewoven." They gestured slowly, their hand tracing invisible patterns in the air.

"Can you help?" Lavellan asked.

The Caretaker tilted their head, the light around them flickering like a fading memory. "Help. A small word for a vast need. The limb you seek must not merely replace but transform,” their voice drifted, calm and resonant, as if carried on unseen currents. They extended a hand, tracing a shimmering outline in the air, the gesture heavy with meaning. "Metal and magic. Memory and purpose. These threads must be woven anew. But the shape it takes will depend on what you offer in return." Their glowing gaze fixed on Lavellan, unblinking.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lavellan responds hestitantly as she hands the prosthetic to the Caretaker who is floating in their workshop.

The Caretaker took the prosthetic with a slow, deliberate motion, their fingers brushing the metal as though reading the story it carried. The air around them seemed to hum, the faint glow of their form intensifying as they turned the limb over in their hands. "Yes, dweller. But not as you mean it." They drifted to a central space in the workshop, where strands of light wove themselves into intricate patterns, forming a suspended, ethereal loom.

The prosthetic hovered between their hands, caught in the threads of light. "This limb speaks of loss. Of survival. The Inquisition’s mark is burned into its bones. Such weight cannot simply be removed. It must be remade." Their voice deepened, resonant with the gravity of the task. "Metal forged in purpose. Threads of need, unwound. Magic, woven with care. What was, now becomes what is needed." As they worked, the prosthetic shifted, reshaped by unseen forces.

Metal melted and reformed, flowing like water; light poured into its edges, binding it with power. The once-recognizable design faded, replaced by something elegant and otherworldly—a creation both functional and untraceable.

"A new arm for a new path. But remember, dweller—what you carry will always mark you." They turned, the newly forged prosthetic hovering before Lavellan, gleaming with subtle light. "Take it. Let it serve, but do not let it define. A journey is shaped not by what you bear, but by how you bear it."

"It will seem as flesh," the Caretaker intoned, their voice rippling with timeless resonance. "A mirror of what was taken, yet not bound by illusion alone."

Lavellan watched as the magical prosthetic seamlessly melded with her existing arm, indistinguishable from her real limb. "Thank you," she breathed, flexing her new fingers in wonder. As she turned to leave, the Caretaker’s voice drifted after her, soft yet resonant. "Strength is not in the seeming, dweller. It is forged in the becoming."

Lavellan nodded, the weight of those words settling in her chest as she made her way back to Solas. She found him pacing, his lean frame taut with tension, violet eyes clouded with worry. "Vhenan," she called softly, drawing his attention.

Solas turned, his gaze immediately drawn to her new arm. "Remarkable," he murmured, reaching out to touch it before pulling back, his hand trembling slightly. Lavellan noticed his unease, the way his shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible burden. "Solas, what troubles you?"

He exhaled a shaky breath, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Harding. The thought of standing before her... of facing the weight of what I have done…"

Lavellan's heart ached at the vulnerability in Solas's voice. She stepped closer, gently taking his trembling hand in hers.

"Vhenan," she said softly, her warm eyes meeting his troubled gaze. "I understand your hestitation, but facing our past is the only way to move forward."

Solas’s brow furrowed, tension shadowing his features. "How can I stand before her, knowing the pain I have caused... the destruction I have unleashed?"

Lavellan squeezed his hand, her voice filled with quiet determination. "Because you are not that person anymore. You have chosen a different path, one of redemption." She reached up, cupping his cheek with her newly crafted hand. Solas leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly. "Remember," Lavellan continued, "Harding agreed to meet us. That alone shows she's willing to listen, to understand."

Solas opened his eyes, a flicker of hope battling the doubt within them. "And if she cannot forgive?"

"Then we face that together," Lavellan replied firmly. "But we must try. Our mission is too important to let fear hold us back."

A moment passed, tension palpable in the air. Then, almost imperceptibly, Solas nodded. "You are right," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I cannot change the past, but I can still shape what is to come. We will meet Harding."

Lavellan's face relaxed into a smile, feeling the comforting release of tension. While she was prepared to meet with Harding on her own, she understood that Solas needed to be there.

***

Lavellan's hands shook slightly as she prepared for their journey, wrapping her fingers around the lyrium dagger. Its surface was cool and pulsing with a soft blue light. She shared a significant look with Solas, who nodded in support.

"Ready, vhenan?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath. "As I'll ever be."

With practiced precision, Lavellan traced the intricate pattern of the Vir'Revas in the air before them. The dagger left a shimmering trail of magic, forming an elaborate old elven sigil. As the final line connected, the air crackled with energy. Solas placed his hand on the small of her back. "Now, focus on unlocking the eluvian." He whispers. She did as she was told and the Vir’Revas unlocked allowing them access back into the Crossroads.

Lavellan's face lit up with a bright smile, her eyes shining with excitement as she looked up at Solas. She couldn't help but bounce slightly on her feet as the eluvian to unlock and come back to life.

Solas' chuckle filled the air, his own smile mirroring hers as he watched with pride as Lavellan successfully unlocked the Vir'Revas.

Lavellan waves the lyrium dagger, causing the blade to retract before handing it back to Solas. He steps through the eluvian first, with Lavellan following closely behind. They find themselves back at the Crossroads and Solas leads them to a boat where the Caregiver materializes to ferry them to their destination island.

Once on the island, Solas takes them to the necessary eluvian and effortlessly activates it with the dagger before they walk through once more. They were standing amidst crumbling pillars and statues overgrown with flora and fauna. They quietly make their way out of the ruins and begin making their way towards Redcliffe.

As they made their way through the untamed Hinterlands, Lavellan's thoughts were racing. "Do you think Harding will be able to provide us with contacts among the Grey Wardens?" she asked, brushing away a low-hanging branch. While Lavellan was confident that Harding would have connections, she couldn't help but feel anxious about it.

Solas's brow furrowed. "More than likely,” He responds, but then his voice drops low as to not draw more attention to himself. The closer they got to Redcliffe, the more Lavellan's stomach knotted with anticipation. Every snapping twig made her jump, every rustle of leaves had her scanning for potential threats.

"Something weighs on you," Solas observed, his own posture tense. Lavellan let out a nervous laugh. "Is it that obvious?” She murmured, “what if Harding can't offer us any help? What if she turns us away?" She had been trying to appear confident after Solas confided in her about his reservations regarding their upcoming encounter with Harding.

Solas's eyes softened. "Then we find another way," he responded. As they approached the outskirts of Redcliffe, Lavellan's heart began to race with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The once grand town had fallen on hard times.

Buildings lay in various states of disrepair, some still under construction, while others showed signs of blight damage on their walls and roofs. Lavellan took a deep breath to steady herself, reminding herself of their purpose for being there. With one final exchange of resolute glances, they continued towards the Gull and Lantern, feeling the weight of their mission and the thought of reuniting with Harding after years apart lingering in the air.

The heavy wooden door of the Gull and Lantern creaked open, admitting Lavellan and Solas into a cacophony of clinking tankards and raucous laughter. Lavellan's eyes darted beneath her hood, taking in the crowded tavern. Smoke from the hearth mingled with the scent of ale and sweat, creating a haze that clung to the rafters.

"This way," Lavellan murmured, guiding Solas towards a secluded corner table. Her heart raced beneath her cloak, every face a potential threat. As they settled onto rough-hewn benches, she leaned close to Solas. "Do you see her?" she asked. Solas's lips barely moved as he replied, "Not yet. But we should take care not to draw attention." A barmaid approached, her apron stained with spilled ale. "What'll it be, then?"

Lavellan forced a smile. "Two ales, please." As the woman bustled away, Lavellan knew neither of them would drink the ale. The tavern door swung open again, and Lavellan's breath caught. There, silhouetted against the fading daylight, stood Lace Harding.

The dwarf's keen eyes scanned the room, a tentative smile playing on her lips. Lavellan's fingers twitched, longing to wave, but caution stayed her hand. Instead, she watched as recognition dawned on Harding's face. The scout made her way through the crowd with practiced ease.

"It's good to see you," Harding said warmly as she reached their table, her gaze fixed on Lavellan. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "Both of you."

Lavellan felt Solas stiffen beside her. "Harding," he acknowledged, his voice carefully neutral.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Lavellan admitted, gesturing for Harding to sit. As Harding settled across from them, her smile faltered slightly. "Truthfully, I wasn't sure I would either. But…well, old loyalties die hard."

Lavellan's heart swelled with gratitude, even as she noted the way Harding's eyes kept flicking warily to Solas. 'This might be more complicated than I thought,' she realized, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. Harding took a seat. “I must say, I was surprised to receive a letter addressed from you, Inquisitor,” she says in a lower voice before adding, “It’s been two years.”

“I’ve told you to call me by my name,” Lavellan smiles. “It’s good to see you again, Lace,” Lavellan tells her, her voice warm. “How is your mother? How have the recovery efforts been?” she inquires.

“Oh habits, I guess!” Harding says with a laugh, her face brightens with a warm smile. "Ma’s doing well! She was pretty happy to have me home." She chuckles softly, but her tone shifts as she adds, "The rebuilding’s been tough…but we’re getting there."

Harding hesitates before asking, "And...how have things been between you two?" She looks back and forth between Lavellan and Solas. Lavellan hums thoughtfully and turns to look at Solas. "We've been doing well," she responds softly. "We recently returned…," she adds vaguely, not wanting to mention out loud that they had just come back from the Fade in the tavern.

“Oh?” Harding tilts her head, catching on to what Lavellan meant. “Really?” She pauses, leaning in with a curious glint in her eye and lowering her voice. “Alright, spill it. Your letter didn’t exactly give much away.”

Lavellan exchanged a quick glance with Solas, carefully weighing her words. "As you know, we are…he is…," she voice trailed off but her tone measured, her hands gesturing as a way to complete the sentence. Harding nods, her face solemn. "I remember," she says. "To soothe the situation, you know—hold on…" Suddenly, she stands up and makes her way back to the barmaid, exchanging a few quietly before the barmaid hands her a key.

Returning to the group, Harding motions for them to follow her to a private room in the tavern where they can speak freely. As they enter the room and close the door behind them, Harding sighs with a smile.

“That’s better. Now we can talk freely,” Harding said warmly as she makes her way to sit on the strongbox in the room. “What were you saying?” Harding encourages them to continue. Lavellan nodded. “We are—he is…” her words are getting jumbled for a moment, “We need your help,” Lavellan finally landed on.

Harding nodded, casting a wary gaze to Solas. “Okay,” Harding hummed out. Solas shifted beside Lavellan, his discomfort palpable. Lavellan goes to press on, but Harding stops her. “Why don’t we let Solas tell me,” she suggested her request gently. Lavellan nods silently before turn her gaze to Solas. She can see his guard is up.

Solas sits quietly for a moment, as he carefully thought of what he was going to say. “Harding…” he begins, “I am sorry.”

“For what, Solas?” Harding demanded, her tone sharp, cutting through the charged air. Her voice carried an edge, a mix of anger and disbelief. “Betraying the Inquisitor and breaking her heart? Trying to tear down the Veil? Killing Varric?” She pressed forward, her words hitting like daggers. “Using blood magic to twist Rook’s mind and then betraying her?” Her frustration flared, her voice rising with each accusation. “Or maybe you’re sorry for destroying the Titans’ spirits, stripping our dreams from us, and creating the darkspawn?”

Solas didn’t flinch under her assault, though his shoulders stiffened under the weight of her words. When he finally spoke, his response was simple, unadorned, and brutally honest. “Yes, I am.”

The starkness of his admission was almost absurd, an answer so brief it bordered on comical, yet the sincerity in his voice left no room for doubt. He didn’t elaborate—perhaps because he couldn’t, or perhaps because no words could truly atone for what he had done.

Harding’s glare hardened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Then why are you here?” she spat, her voice harsh and unyielding, the betrayal she felt etched into every syllable.

Before the tension could spiral further, Lavellan cleared her throat, the quiet sound drawing their attention. “Lace,” she began, her voice soft but steady, a stark contrast to the volatile emotions in the room. She met Harding’s furious gaze with a calm, measured expression. “I cannot excuse the harm he’s caused,” she said gently, her words careful and deliberate, “but may I explain what we’ve been working toward these past two years?”

Harding turned her attention to Lavellan, her expression softening as she nodded for her to continue.

"We were trapped in the Fade for those two years while Solas confronted his…" Lavellan paused, searching for the right words, "his many regrets from his lifetime. But that was just the beginning of the journey he promised to embark on, which is why we are here now."

Harding seemed to relax a little bit more. “You know, Inquisitor,” Harding hummed, “You always had a way with speaking to people, to get them to calm and listen.” Harding turns her attention back to Solas, still weary of him, but more open to what he has to say. Lavellan smiled, turn to look at Solas. Solas nodded silently. “Lavellan shared that you bonded with a Titan’s shade and soothed its pain and anger through compassion.”

“Yes,” Harding nodded. "It was unlike anything I've ever experienced," Harding continued, her eyes distant with memory. "The Titan... it communicated with me. Not with words, but with feelings, images. And then, the most amazing thing happened."

“I remember everything that the Evanuris did to the Titans…” Harding said sadly as she begins to recite from memory from her moment with the Titan. “You took everything from us, and you thought you won. But we’re still here. We’re different, but we’re not gone. We will thrive—in spite of you.”

Solas bowed his head in acknowledgement of the pain. Lavellan stepped closer to him, gently touching his back to provide support and comfort.

“I remember your letter also saying you ran into uncorrupted red lyrium and after you left, that lyrium went back to normal?” She asked Harding.

Harding nodded solemnly, her voice heavy with emotion as she responded, “Yes, it did,” She answers. “I think the disembodied rage of the Titans had nowhere else to go, so it took root in the heart. And the red lyrium extended from there, her pain infecting what as left of the Titan’s body. When I accepted that rate into myself, it cleansed it from the mountain.”

Lavellan's breath caught. "How is that possible?"

Harding shook her head, wonder evident in her expression. "I'm not entirely sure. But I felt it. The Titan's pain, its determination to heal. It was like…like the land itself was fighting back against the anger…like it wanted to be heard."

Lavellan and Solas exchange glanced. “Why? What are you trying to do?” Harding asked.

“Well,” Lavellan sighed, “Right now, we’re just trying to gather information—figure out what we can actually do,” she said, glancing over at Harding. “We were also wondering if you might have any contacts with the Grey Wardens who’d be willing to talk about the Blight?”

“Oh! You know, I’ve got just the contact you need for the Grey Wardens!��� Harding said with a bright smile. “They’ve been digging into the Blight ever since the fall of the Elven Gods.” She leaned in slightly, her excitement shifting to a more thoughtful tone.

Solas spoke once more, his tone measured. “Will you help us, then?”

Harding crossed her arms, her gaze steady but cautious. "You’re asking me to help you," she said, her tone measured, almost skeptical.

Then, after a moment, a faint smile tugs at her lips. "You know, Varric always said there was hope for you—right up until the very end. I’d like to think he wasn’t wrong." She paused, her voice softening. "So… yeah, I’ll help." Harding's freckled face scrunched in thought, her fingers drumming lightly on the table. "The are two Wardens are Evka and Antoine. They've been deep into Blight research."

Lavellan's heart quickened. "Where can we find them?"

"Last I heard, they were operating out of an old Warden outpost in the Anderfels," Harding replied. "But, I will send them letters."

Lavellan glanced at Solas, noting the subtle nod of agreement. She looked back to Harding. "There's someone else who might be able to help us. Dagna. Her expertise with lyrium and magical artifacts could be invaluable, especially when it comes to understanding the corrupted lyrium."

Harding's eyes lit up with recognition. "Dagna! Of course! That brilliant little nugget could probably turn rocks into gold if she put her mind to it." She chuckled, then grew more serious. "You're right, her knowledge would be perfect for this. Last I knew, she was working on some hush-hush project for the University of Orlais, but I can certainly help track her down."

"Thank you, Lace," Lavellan said warmly. "Your help means more than you know."

Harding gives a small, genuine smile. "Aw, come on, don’t get all mushy on me," she says with a playful tone. Then, with a hint of sincerity, she adds, "But… thanks. It’s nice to know it makes a difference."

Harding studied him for a moment, her expression cautious but not unkind. "You asking for help? That’s… new," she said with a small, wry smile. Then her tone softens, a glimmer of hope in her voice. "But it’s a good step, I’ll give you that. Let’s just make sure it’s worth it, yeah?"

Solas inclined his head slightly, a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze, and a small faint smile on his face. "A fair observation,” Solas paused for a moment, “It is new, yes. But if I am to make amends, I must start by asking for help, even from those I have wronged. Thank you for giving me that chance..."

Lavellan reached across the table, grasping Harding's hand in a gesture of sincere gratitude. "Truly, Harding, we couldn't have hoped for a better ally."

Harding's eyes softened at Lavellan's touch, a mix of emotions flickering across her freckled face. "Well," she said, her voice thick with feeling, "I suppose some bonds can't be broken, even after all this time." She squeezed Lavellan's hand before releasing it.