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novaursa · 3 months ago

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Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.”

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

#house of the dragon #hotd cregan #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark #jacaerys velaryon

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iamespecter · 28 days ago

Note

Ziku, do you have any advice for the color technique? I really like how you apply shadows and lights.

My advice? start with grayscales.

using grayscales helps you distinguish the proper lighting without having to worry about the colors. It's also why I'm able to do the 1-hour pomnis: I could place the colors after I'm done with the lighting placement.

my process is this:

I first start off using airbrush, softly shading areas that don't get hit with light often.

I then proceed to roughly put of where should light hit with a light shade of gray, and how it affects the surrounding area with darker greys. The closer a solid object is to another, the harder the edges of the shadows are. I embrace the imperfection of my strokes, and do not perfect them at this stage since it would be a waste of time.

fun fact: you can make hard edges look more defined by placing a very light shade of gray. This is how I achieve the illusion of lighting hitting something on my art :)

once I'm done with the values, I move to coloring. I keep the strokes as loose as I did the lighting placements, because again. Imperfections HELPS. Glossy things like eyes, teeth and the apple are colored a bit darker, to make the shine pop later.

Apply a multiply layer above the colors between 15-30% depending (for this piece it's set to 26%), it's up to you if you want the multiply layer to be cooler colors, or warmer. I chose a saturated orange coloring for mine.

now this is my favorite part: glow dodge. Set to 100% and above every other layer except lineart, light dap it around using an airbrush where the light hits the most.

This part is mostly optional, since this is where I "clean up" the lineart by locking the layer, then color dropping the edges to "erase" most of the lines.

you don't have to do this, it's just easier for me for the rendering stage since it won't get in the way.

You can also go ahead and combine every layer (grayscales + colors + lineart and etc.) afterwards. This one is important.

all that's left to do now... is to render your painting.

and you render,

and you fucking trust the process even though Pomni looks like a stoned as fuck vampire with a receding hairline,

and you render. (and add more glow dodge for the glossy objects)

When I finish a painting, I actually apply a difference layer above it all to give it some flare,

to which after that I'll do a render noise, chromatic aberration, tone curve and posterization for final touches.

That is all :)

#thanks for the ask!#ziku's insane rambles #tadc #pomni #tutorial-ish #the amazing digital circus #art wip #this is my tadc anniversary piece btw

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magicaldestinyharmony · 1 month ago

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In Life and in Death

male!knight x female!count's daughter!reader part 2

CW: mentions of death, blood and self-harm

WC: 1.6k words

A/N: part 2 is here! I'm planning to make this a short series though I'm not sure how long it will be. Anyways, enjoy!

[Part 1]

You sit up suddenly and gasp. You blink at the sudden brightness. When did it become morning? You think. Taking a look around you, you realize that you’re in your room. At first, you were confused. How did you get on your bed? Didn't you die? Then it hits you. The Returner's Stone must have worked! Immediately, you turn to your bedside table and pick up the blue calendar you got as a gift. It's true! The Returner's Stone wasn't a legend after all. You take note of the day. It's 10 years in the past. You sigh in relief. Crisis avoided successfully. You smile and decide to reward yourself with 10 minutes of extra sleep before getting up for breakfast.

“Miss! My lady!” Violent knocking at your door rouses you from sleep, “My lady, are you still sleeping? You have to get up! The count will be arriving shortly!”

The door creaks open, and you sit up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. Your maid, Aida, enters, “Oh good, you're up. Come let's get you ready to receive the count.”

“Wait, what about breakfast?” you drowsily ask, still a little sleepy.

“You overslept, miss! There's no time for that!” says your ever-helpful maid as she drags you to take a bath.

You suck up more protests and let Aida continue the familiar yet tedious steps to making you look presentable.

3 dresses, 2 hairstyles and 6 accessories later, Aida deems the chosen dress, hairstyle and accessories passable. “Ta-da! What do you think, my lady?”

You glance in the mirror only to find a woman dressed in blue staring back at you. Your hair was styled immaculately with beautiful accessories decorating it. You smile, “Thanks, Aida. I can always count on you.”

Your only faithful maid grins, looking very proud of herself. She starts going on and on about how naturally beautiful you look and that she only enhanced your natural beauty, but you stop listening to her.

You are truly thankful for Aida’s presence. As the fifth daughter, you had little to no influence. Not many maids wanted to side with you as that job came with little benefits. Only Aida remained, ever faithful.

“Oh my, miss! We must hurry! The count should be arriving soon!” Aida pushes you out the door and you let her, albeit reluctantly.

You never really liked your father. Not only did he give off the aura of a ravenous beast, but his disregard for the law and basic human rights weren't exactly the best combination for a great father.

As soon as you make it off the threshold of the stairs, the butler announces your father's arrival, “Count Balcom has arrived!”

You curtsy in greeting of the man who sired you and stand up. What you don't expect is to find grey eyes instead of black ones staring back at you. You frown in confusion. Once you look up, you receive your answer. You find your father standing a little behind the young boy, talking to the butler. Ah, This must be the day Lucca arrives at this gloomy mansion.

Your father nods, then loudly proclaims, “Hey, you!” He points to one of the maids, “Take the boy to the dungeons.”

The maid nods and immediately does as she's told, lest she incurs the wrath of the count. She drags Lucca away in the direction of the dungeons.

And you? Well, you stand there, dazed, and watch as things happen exactly as you remember them.

◇◇◇◇

The sun has long set, but you remain awake staring at the dark ceiling of your bedroom. Lucca's unexpected appearance rattled you. Although, now that you think about it, this is the day Lucca entered this house and sealed your death warrant by association.

You sigh. The relief you felt this morning didn't last long. How will you get out of this predicament? Maybe, maybe, if I appeal to his emotions long enough, he'll spare me? Doing something is better than doing nothing.

You get up, resolved to your fate. You gather up some ointment and some bandages, to treat Lucca if needed. After you get your hand on some food, you sneak to the dungeons. You reach the cell where Lucca is held, successfully completing your stealth mission.

“My lady? What are you doing here?” you jump at the sudden question.

Turning around, you see the stern face of the prison guard. How did you forget about the guards?! The guard stands there waiting for your response. “Um, I wanted to see the boy?” you try your luck with the truth.

“You can't, my lady. Please head back to your room. If the count catches you here, you might not escape punishment.”

How do I get this guard to cooperate? You speculate. Taking off your sapphire bracelet, you hope bribery will work its magic. “Here, sir, have this. You should be rewarded for having to work the night shift,” you say and hand the guard your bracelet.

“Oh my, my lady! You're so generous!” the guard takes the bracelet, touched.

“You never saw me here, though, right?” you say, placing your finger on your lips.

“Yes, my lady! Of course, my lady!” the guard bows and you fear that his head will touch the floor at this rate.

“Just unlock the door,” you remark, not used to the sudden sincerity.

“Right away, my lady!” the guard unlocks the door, gesturing for you to head in.

You sigh and enter the cell. Your face contorts at the smell of mould and blood. Once your gaze lands on Lucca you gasp. He's splayed on the floor, seemingly unconscious, with wounds and bruises littered all over his body.

“Oh, no,” you whisper.

The sight makes you shudder. You brush your fingertips over a big purplish bruise forming on his shoulder. This must have hurt a lot. Opening the ointment, you immediately get to work, treating his wounds.

There are so many. Bruise after bruise, cut after cut and lots of blood. You treat as much of Lucca's wounds as you can.

After applying some ointment on an especially deep gash, Lucca hisses. He must've come to. Subconsciously, you retract your hands and glance at his face. He blinks and stares up at you.

“Are you okay?” you ask, “I tried to be as gentle as possible. I'm sorry if it hurt.”

The boy eyes you in silence. “Here, I got you some food.” you rummage in your bag for the bread you were able to take from the kitchen.

There was no reaction from Lucca—only more silence. Awkwardness starts to settle in, so you place the bread under a handkerchief in front of him. He blinks. Once, twice, three times.

What's wrong with him? Does he think there's something wrong with the bread? “Don't worry! I didn't do anything to the bread. It's not poisoned or anything.” you try to reassure him, though you're not sure if it's working.

You sigh. There's no getting through to him right now. “Alright. I'll leave you alone.” You get up and dust yourself off.“I'll come back tomorrow to heal your wounds and get you some food!”

You leave the cell hoping that if you keep coming back every day until he leaves, he'll spare you when he comes back 10 years later.

You were wrong. So wrong. Lucca came back and killed you anyway. You woke up surprised to find yourself in the past again. This time I'll leave as soon as possible!

You still go down every night into the depths of the cold dungeons to check on Lucca and he still acts indifferent towards you.

This time, however, instead of sitting on your hands in that dreadful estate, you leave the empire as soon as you turn 18. Sad to say, Lucca still managed to find you and end your short life.

Imagine your surprise when you're met with the ceiling of your bedroom when you open your eyes in the past for the fourth time.

You sigh. This time, you resolve to abandon the Balcom name.

Helping Lucca at night became a habit. Before you go to sleep, you stop by the basement to take care of him.

Once you had your debutante ball, you busy yourself with finding a suitable marriage partner. You end up getting married to a countryside baron, hoping the distance from the capital will keep Lucca off your back.

Yet, your plan fails. Again. Apparently, Lucca doesn't consider your marriage an abandonment of the Balcom family.

Once your eyes drift open to your sunlit ceiling again, you've had enough. It's like all reason left your mind.

As soon as your father arrives, you're in his office asking to find a way to drain your blood safely. No. You don't ask him. You demand to know. Your father frowns at you in displeasure while you stand there mumbling to yourself that this has to end.

Your father shakes his head, clearly thinking that you've lost your mind. He orders you to be moved to the Balcom villa under the guise of recuperating. But you know the truth. You've been deemed unuseful and tossed aside.

Not that you really care. You pore over thousands of books trying to get the Balcom blood out of you. Your body ends up covered in scars, still-healing wounds and unhealed cuts.

Yet you don't stop. Crazily obsessed and focused on the condition Lucca stated to spare you. You were found multiple times on the floor in a pool of the red liquid.

In the end, the maids reporting back to your father, chain you to your bed, successfully keeping you from inflicting more cuts on yourself.

Once Lucca's dreaded arrival comes, you barely even register his presence. You're sick and tired of this vicious cycle. Death, life, death, life, death, life, on and on and on.

When Lucca's sword eventually cuts you down, you hope with all your might that you won't be met with the mocking sight of your ceiling again.

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sexyapostate · 1 year ago

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Auntie Ethel's Race-Specific Vicious Mockeries

Because of this post by rpgchoices, I figured I'd compile all the other Vicious Mockery lines Auntiel Ethel can hit the player with. These don't include the origin companion specific ones. You can find those in the linked post.

DROW ELF

Filthy underscum!

Just another of Lolth's pretty harlots.

Slaver. Sadist. How dare you judge me?

DROW ELF (MALE)

Bare your throat, spider-bait.

Kneel, boy. Just like the matriarchs taught you to.

Bow to your betters, boy.

HALF-ELF DROW

Even the Underdark doesn't want you, half-breed.

Surprised you show yourself in public, abomination.

A half-drow? How grotesque.

DWARF

More beard than brains, the lot of you.

Bet you'd trade your friends for a trinket or two, gold-eater!

I'll squeeze that stone heart until it bleeds, dwarf.

DUERGAR DWARF

Bow your head, slave. You remember how, don't you?

Grey and useless as a stone comb.

Need a new master, illithid lover?

DRAGONBORN

Aww, where's your clan? Bet they'd exile you for that brainworm in a blink.

Bet that honour of yours shatters easy as your scales.

You foul-breathed little lizard!

GNOME

Disgusting burrow rat.

Bet your clan's happy you're gone!

Try laughing after I rip your throat out, gnome.

ELF

Fancy yourself immortal? We'll see how long that lasts.

I'll show you what a true fey does, dearie.

Elves are so pretty. Pretty worthless!

HALF-ELF

I wonder which parent regrets you more, half-breed.

How revolting. Another thin-blooded mongrel. Half-elf. Half-human. All useless.

HUMAN

Another human rat infesting Faerûn.

A human! So desperate to be special.

Pity. That tadpole actually made you interesting.

HALFLING

No flabby dwarf's a threat to me.

Come closer, little softie. You'll be tender.

A tiny, sweet morsel. Just for me.

HALF-ORC

Come now, tusks-for-brains! Doesn't this make you angry?

All that bloodlust. A little tap, and I bet you won't know friend from foe!

Lumbering half-orc. Twice as ugly as your parents combined!

TIEFLING

I'll burn you alive and everyone will celebrate.

You're everyone's punching bag and no one's favourite.

I see the Hells spit out another tragic little tiefling.

These were included in the dialogue document and the races listed are exactly what's in the dialogue's trigger flags.

PLANAR (githyanki, warforged)

What kind of botched portal brought something like you here?

Are you lost, little one? Maybe your soul will make it back home.

I'll banish you for good, outsider!

RARE (aasimar, dragonborn, firbolg, genasi, githyanki, half-drow, half-orc, tiefling, triton, warforged, yuan-ti pureblood)

I'm one step closer to wiping your kind off Faerûn for good!

Freakish thing. I bet everyone stares when you walk by.

Not a lot like you. You'll be my prettiest trophy.

BEASTIAL (aarakocra, kenku, lizardfolk, tabaxi, tortle)

Think you're a person because you're walking on two feet? Adorable.

Can't wait to throw a collar on your neck and make you my familiar.

I'll tan your hide, beast!

BONUS: MINSC? FOR SOME REASON? I don't know why there seem to be unlabeled Minsc-specific Vicious Mockeries. Maybe Ethel played BG1/2 and just really hates him.

How quaint! The hamster has a pet.

Only evil here is what's inside you, ranger.

Go rub your rat, soft-skull.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 spoilers #bg3 datamine

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mythalism · 3 days ago

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my #1 complaint with veilguard is probably the lack of moral complexity and maturity and how much of northern thedas is sanitized and almost all issues (outside of solas and mythal, which they knocked out of the park imo, but the moral complexity of them as characters and of their relationship makes the lack of nuance in every other faction and relationship stand out even worse) are presented as black and white, good vs. evil. i think the absence of the presence of slavery in northern thedas is the most egregious example of this. the crows are found-family heroes with absolutely no mention of the fact that they canonically populate their ranks with abused elven child slaves and kill them if they try to escape. we know minrathous to be the capital of a massive empire that was built and founded on slave labor and blood magic. the slave trade is baked into every single stone of that city, and it should be everywhere in a disenfranchised area like docktown. and yet.... its nowhere? its like they went, "okay well the factions all need to be GOOD and slavery is BAD so lets just pretend it doesnt exist so we dont have to talk about the way these factions have historically participated in it!" a few codex entries? a few mentions of freeing slaves by the shadow dragons and by solas but its never actually depicted? i think its something a lot of people have picked up on in accusations of the game feeling like something made by marvel or disney, and a lot of people are attributing that mostly to the art style and cheugy dialogue, but i honestly think it is the very simplistic and juvenile presentation of what should be complex issues diluted down to the sort of hero vs. villain, good vs. evil no-nuance conflicts that is creating that juvenile feeling, rather than the art style. past games have always had cheesy-ass dialogue and the graphics have never been the highlight of the game, but neither had the same feeling of playing something incredibly glossy but also incredibly shallow, especially in a franchise that is famed for its complex and nuanced (though, often poorly done and racist - looking at you qunari and dalish) depictions of sociopolitical issues through a fantasy lens.

but whats especially interesting is that the artbook (just the first 50 pages that are free) reveals that... this was present in the early stages of the game. the concept art of tevinter is full of disturbing depictions of slavery, as is the concept art of arlathan. now, to be clear, slavery is not a morally complex or ambiguous issue. slavery in fantasy is often depicted in ways that is damaging and problematic, especially when written by people who have no real understanding of it and its lasting effects on a group of people. bioware has been guilty of this in the past.

however, i think it is the best example of the shallowness of veilguard when compared to both the past games and the concept art. other examples, however, include literally the Qun as a whole suddenly being UNAMBIGUOUSLY EVIL combined with, imo, a super racist depiction of the antaam as mindless and animalistic, absolutely no exploration of racism against elves other than like, one mention from davrin in a game that is basically all about elves, blood magic being unambiguously evil rather than exploring how it is being used and for what purposes, the complete absence of the mage-templar mass incarceration and mass-lobotimization conflict, isseya being afforded none of the empathy that solas is given and instead presented as unambiguously evil and deserves to die, the grey wardens being heroes who definitely do not manipulate disenfranchised people into escaping their lives to join an order that will steal their bodies and eventually their minds and futures from them, and much more. going from a world that was so willing to at least ATTEMPT to depict the horrors of empires that utilized slave labor to build, the way dehumanization facilitates and interacts with these issues, violent class disparities and how poverty forces people into crime, the effects of institutionalized racism even after slavery has been legally abolished, with stories like that of varania and fenris, of zevran and taliesin, to.... finally going to the site of the horrors they faced and to find it to be completely sanitized? and yes, they did not always land, and i have a lot of issues with their execution of some of these representations (the option to give fenris back to danarius and having anders approve??????? HELLO?), but at least they TRIED to tell a story about a man recovering from the trauma of something so horrible and learning to trust again. so what happened in the middle? were they afraid of their own ability to handle the topic due to past criticism instead of attempting to learn from it? instead we are just going to pretend like it doesnt exist? we're not going to talk about it? its literally the most insane elephant in the room. of course fenris and zevran couldn't make cameos in this game, because then they'd have to make a statement on a painful, real, and difficult to discuss topic that actually means something, instead of using a warehouse full of elves being guarded by armed police at the docks as a hollywood-style backlot and depict an empire built on the blood sacrifices of the poor and enslaved as just another fun little area to explore. how does neve fight for the people of docktown but slavery literally never comes up in her story????? we know that blood magic exists but we never see who is being disproportionately used for those blood sacrifices?

i think its especially interesting considering how explicitly supportive of trans people this game is, which is fantastic and i admire bioware deeply for making such a strong and unapologetic statement of their values of acceptance. but that strong statement makes the lack of any other strong statements or exploration of issues even mildly contentious (again, slavery is not even a contentious issue, and i think that's why their fear to depict it at all, much less as unambiguously horrifying, is so insane) leaves the world of northern thedas feeling so shallow and sterile. it is as if bioware doesnt trust me to engage with topics like an adult capable of using critical thinking skills, and did not trust themselves to depict these issues like adults capable of critical thinking skills either. maybe, considering the presence of these things in the artbook, this was on EA for pushing for more mass-market appeal, or maybe it was really the bioware devs backing away from difficult topics due to a lack of confidence to do them justice. idk. but its really disappointing to me

#just me blabbing more #veilguard spoilers

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spiceywawa · 2 months ago

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@boolger <-

I couldn't help myself and had to try doing this shite again and write my little idea inspired heavily? by their fic.

Kitty♡

Current -> Next

John price moved from the city and bought a farm with all the works. Cows, pigs, chickens, etc. He previously considered getting a hybrid kitten along his other hybrids but never did due to living deep in the city with not a lot of room. After his abrupt retirement, John decided why not to help make the farming/food industry just a little better.

He decided to start his farm, and funny enough, the farm came with its own kitty hybrid. A beautiful stone Grey short haired kitty that took care of rodents and smaller predators. Kitty would laze wherever they pleased and previously had the freedom to come and go around the property and house as they saw fit.

John never minded them, and on the listing for the farm, the hybrid was in the description as a poor kitty that was left behind. It took quite a bit of time to get the skittish kitty used to him and even let him close enough to smell him. It's not entirely surprising the cautious and skeptical looks kitty gives him because while their owner left kitty, and the seller forgot to mention the many working hybrid dogs they owned went with them Abandoning poor kitty, leaving them all alone with not one to cuddle with at night.

Sweet farm kitty hybrid only met John price at first, but little did they know John had his own three dog hybrids. All retired from military after many years of admirable service. Before John thought you were ready to meet his three boys, he set up your own room and safe spots around the giant farmhouse. Giving you your own designated space when you decided to stay in the house with him. Of course, at some point, when john gently lured you into your new room, it was somewhat of a shit show. You went as far as deciding using the window to the roof to come in, and out of the house was a better option than using the actual doors.

You eventually settled and decided the room was better than the hay loft and tried out being a couch potato. When you quietly and cautiously joined John on the new couch for the first time, he immediately froze to not deter you from approaching him. He watched you out of his peripheral lay next to him, resting your head on his thigh. Only when you relaxed and began quietly purring did he attempt to stroke your head, petting your fuzzy ears watching them flick at his gentle touch. After that encounter and many positive moments, john decided it was time to bring the boys home for good.

The boys often dog piled in John's room, so separate rooms for them were pretty much unnecessary unless they asked for it. They had freedom to roam and wouldnt be allowed in your room without permission, he doubted you would so he would make sure the boys knew if was off limits until otherwise said. But considering they had all the space they needed and john has the biggest room and bathroom amenities in the house, the boys had their own section of the room, including a corner cubby with their stuff and combined beds.

Of course, after being out of a strict military environment for so long the moment the boys arrived when they got a whiff of your scent, johnny and gaz scattered trying to find you and simon ended up chasing after johnny trying to get him to quit it. Gaz beat johnny to the punch, chasing you up above the fridge on top of the cabinets. He was leaning against the fridge, wagging his tail sniffing the air, trying to get closer to you, curiosity and excitement emanating from him. When johnny heard the commotion, he wriggled away from simons grip toward gaz. John yelled stop, and all his hybrids looked at him.

You were less amused than the three behemoths before you. Johnny and gaz both whined, saying they only wanted to meet their new friend, and simon was glaring at the two having more self-control of his instincts and curiosity. John cringed at the poor first introduction. The low growl in your throat brought everyone's attention back to you. John shooed the three away simon, grabbing the two by their harnesses being the most dominant out of the three.

You glared at John as he began trying to coax you in getting down. "It's alright, my pretty girl. You're ok. Those two aren't gonna get ya, I promise." He coos at you. In John's defense, he told the three to behave simon was indifferent, but gaz and johnny were the ones he was worried about. You watch him with your ears pinned down and tail flicking rapidly in annoyance as he is trying to get you down with treats and your favorite toy your, very first toy ever. But you don't budge for a solid 20 minutes. "Come on, sweet kitty, there are all a bunch of big ol teddy bears they aren't gonna hurt ya." He says to you, running his finger down the bridge of your nose as you won't let him pet you.

Johnny and Gaz are sitting a few feet away patiently waiting for you to come down and allow them to scent you and say hello, their tails swishing excitedly behind them. They are all definitely German Shepard or a mix of one you can see that much, and they are all ridiculously large compared to you.

Simon is standing next to John, watching you with a curious expression. You eye him, taking in his scared face and equally battered fuzzy ears nestles in blond hair. Much to everyone's surprise, simon reaches up and grabs you gently, taking you off the fridge and into his big arms. You freeze from shock as simon settles you against his chest, holding you with one arm. You latch onto him to prevent yourself from falling, watching his face suspiciously.

Simon traces the scars on your face and arms from fending of other critters around the farm. "That's simon Kitty." John says, trying not to laugh as your frozen form clutches to simon. You frown as johnny and Gaz laugh, simons low chuckle vibrating through you. "You're a stubborn little thing." Simon says as he sits down next to the other two, positioning you in his lap, keeping a protective distance from gaz and johnny.

His tail swishes behind him as you let him hold you, unsure if you're gonna bolt or stay. You settle to johns surprise, holding onto simons arm, watching the other two scoot closer. You did miss your pack mates, so you tolerated the curiosity for a bit unsure if this was even gonna be permanent. Simon watches gaz close as he scents you first, seeing as he did find you first. He sniffs for a bit, his nose gently bumping your chin as he sniffs higherup your neck, simon lets out a low growl, telling gaz that's enough. Johnny takes that as his cue that it's his turn and bounds in face first into your neck. Simon reaches for johnny, pulling him away. "Careful with the lil thing, johnny. Don't wanna break em do you?" He shakes his head rapidly tail going a mile a minute. John chimes in watching this interaction unfold. "Gentle boys." He says, watching your face for any discomfort.

The only feeling you have is confusion. Have they never seen a cat hybrid before? And why are you letting them so close so quickly?

Simon lets Johnny's scruff go, and he gently smells you for a bit. Then simon tells them you're done, and it's his turn. He breathes in your scent, enjoying the sweet, subtle scent holding you closer

You sigh, giving up, seeing as much simon claimed you technically it seems they all did, and this is your life now. It doesn't seem so bad, really, you could get used to this.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #john price #hybrid au #fanfic

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rennybu · 2 months ago

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AAAAUHG.. so many things come to mind so i will start with... i like to imagine he and Fenris are the same height :') (5'11"). This got a bit long but i'm always happy to talk about this guy!!!!!!!!! @trebuchet151

he's got a big garnet signet ring with the Amell family crest carved in it, and that's about the only recognizable thing that denotes his lineage... he has always liked stamping wax seals on letters with it!!! he's a ring guy generally, he likes mixing and matching stones and metal.

his hands are very scarred and rough from reckless casting, and especially casting fire magic without a staff (in a pinch).

He has a heart tattooed on his ring finger for Fenris :') their wedding was very. Andraste as the witness, on the road, impulsive. Vows for themselves, nothing legally binding. Fenris has a plain gold band on a red cord somewhere on his person at all times.

his testosterone is taken via oral tincture, some kind of oil solution he takes drops of daily. like a mild and highly personalized potion recipe! it's the only reason he sometimes needs a home base or shop to set up in, to prepare a big batch. He stores it in little glass vials he collects from trinket shops. Malcolm found the recipe for him after he came out in his tweens.

Bethany is kind of sainted in his mind, when he's exasperated or stunned he might utter an "oh Bethany" (in the tone of "are you seeing this shit") rather than an "oh Maker"

He struggles a lot with empathy, in that he frequently can logically recognize when he should feel for another person's situation, and yet finds himself unmoved. He will deliberately go out of his way to care for others, sometimes more than is needed, to try to make up for what he perceives as a personal flaw. This is how he ended up like a wrung out mouldy rag, emotionally, by the end of DA2.

His spell class is fucking terrifying, he has a lot of mana and not much hp, but is really reckless about his reserves. He combines force magic with fire magic, trapping foes and incinerating them, and sometimes leaving himself winded in the wake of too much magical exertion at once.

he's pretty spry and strong but doesn't have a great constitution. He tires out quickly in fights, hence trying to end them explosively and quickly.

Was briefly stalked by a sloth demon, perhaps around Act 2, and passed a very "get off my doorstep" homebrew harrowing as a result. Burnt it out of his shadow and got some spring back in his step, around roughly the same time he recognized his feelings for Fenris, settled into his role as Hawke within Kirkwall, etc. He Killed Dysphoria, Forever!!!

His love for Merrill makes him very "blood magic is okay", he loves her worldview and wisdom about its use, but his upbringing prevents him from extending that grace to himself. He was forced to use blood magic in his duel against the Arishok in order to survive it!!! Angst. Hates himself quite badly for this. Until Merrill is like "why are you special" and he's like ooohh. I get it

We all kno Hawke goes thru hell but I love reflecting on Orson's arc from early family life to Now/post-DA:I, he found closure among his friends and family and was able to fully remove himself from a public leadership role and is doing much better for it. He's a bit of an anarchist i guess, jack of all trades with a pretty rigid set of personal morals that sometimes forces him to act outside the law. He's very grey market, hard to contact, arrive in the nick of time.

He and Fenris do not ever shut up around each other. Two dudes who talk about fuck all, very intelligently. If you see Fenris in the wild, Orson is probably around, too. They love hunting Venatori and only sometimes get in the way of other spy/subterfuge activities.

he smells like BRITTLE sun-baked wood, with a hint of oily herbal medicine.

#aart #orson hawke #fenhawke #da2 #dragon age 2 #THANK U ASH.. rotating orson in my mind from age 12 to 45. loml

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thesuperiorrobin · 1 year ago

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𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 ~

Pairing: Damian Wayne x reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warning: Angsty?? Hurt with little/to no comfort maybe? Happy ending???? Not proofread

Damian always made promises to you and he fulfills them no matter the cost. He just wants to see you happy. He would make them when he had to go away for a few days, sometimes weeks, for a mission.

“Promises you’ll come back?” You would always ask.

He would always reply the same—his pinky stretched out towards you, a soft reassuring smile painting his lips “to you? No matter the cost beloved” a promise that was sealed with pinkies linked together and lips pressed softly against one another.

Have you ever loved someone so much that you plan your whole future together? With the other person going along and adding their own details to your make believe shared life?

That was you two, sharing those thoughts under the stars, holding each other in a comforting manner.

Surprisingly—Damian thought of the perfect wedding, a combination of both cultures, both big families together in one big room—dancing, laughing and chatting up a storm over the loud music that plays. The thought of having your first dance together as a married couple made him feel—ecstatic. Yeah, a perfect wedding for both of you.

What was a happy thought of him planning a beautiful day turned sour.

Because the day of the funeral was held about five days after his death, on the property that belonged to Bruce Wayne, right next to his grandparents. A private invent that was considered a nightmare.

Yet even when you're standing right in front of the grave, with his name engraved into it, you still think it’s just some horrible nightmare, one that you should have woken up to the moment you heard the news. That day it was cloudy, as if the universe had known when it had lost another soul, grieving with you in the process. That’s the only thing you could remember, everything else was much of a blur, the memorial, his burial—all of it until this very moment.

You find yourself alone, everyone else gone—they don’t have the heart to pull you away after giving their condolence. The tears are no more, your cheeks stain with them . There’s a painful feeling in your heart as your eyes follow the curves of his name on the stone:

In loving memory of our lovely son, Damian Al Ghul Wayne.

it’s hurts to much and all you could do is stare at the dirt. The sigh you let out is shaky—you’re trembling in your spot.

As more time passed, the more the sky got darker and darker with Grey clouds—the sound of soft thunder striking down followed by the wisp of rain soon after. It’s not long for the rain to thicken. But you didn’t budge, you couldn’t—cause if you did you wouldn’t have the heart to come back, not wanted to bear the pain anymore. The rain leaked through your coat at some point, wetting your clothes underneath as it sticks to your body along with your hair, wet down and sticking to your neck, cheeks and forehead.

You could hear the sound of heavy footsteps behind you—then a warm heavy hand was placed on your shoulder. The rain seems to stop and when you look up and there’s an umbrella placed over your head, a hand holding the curved handle. Your eyes up the hand and arm of the person. There, Bruce stands beside you with tired red eyes and a sadden smile, ones that seemed forced.

“Let’s get you inside with the others” you wanted to say no, but the words wouldn’t leave your mouth as his arm finds itself behind your back as he leads you away from your loved ones grave. You take one last look at his grave, before it’s gone for good.

It only took one look for him to understand, nodding as you leave the older man’s side.

Alfred and Titus follow you closely. They stand by your side waiting for you to open his door, and once you do they wait until you enter it first.

Damian's bedroom has never been so…quiet.

Usually when you come over there’s normally the soft sound of his TV or his favorite music playing in the background. But there’s nothing. His room is no longer bright, the only thing keeping it dim was the light from outside. Beds undone, a couple of his clothes are scattered everywhere, and his desk is covered in his painting materials.

It's like time had stopped all together in his room. It’s funny because he was never the type to be a messy person, he probably didn’t have time before he was sent away.

Titus, that sweet big dog, rubs his nose up against your palm—whining as he does so. You make your way up against his nose and up his head—gently scratching it as Alfred jumps up into your arms. You catch him with ease. The big Great Dane leaves your side for a moment and you don’t think much of it. With the cat still in your arms, you’re scanning the quiet cold room.

Up until your eyes land on a spot in his room—the walls filled with nothing but pictures. A closer look and it’s pictures of you and him—with a handful of them also being him with his family or his pets. Tears threaten to spill once more—you try to hold them back.

But you're unsuccessful.

A few of them fall down the fat of your cheeks. Every picture holds a memory. Ones you and him held dear in your hearts. Something hits the back of your leg and you let out a small ‘ow’. Alfred jumps out your arms as you look down, eyes blurry as you blink the tears away. Titus stands below you right by your feet with a thick book in his mouth. The Great Dane nudges right up against the back of your thigh. Titus was such a smart dog, maybe smarter than other dogs around the world.

He does it one more time until you take the book out of his mouth sniffling away your tears as you do so, clearing them up with the somewhat wet sleeve of your coat, very faint teeth marks cover the back and front of it. He wants you to open it, that’s what you think and it’s probably right. You find yourself sitting on the ground, back up against the wall with your legs crossed over one another. The big dog lays beside you, head on the fat of your thigh while the cat finds its place on top of Damian’s bed.

You’re hesitant to open it and you don’t know why. Few minutes of silence and fighting with yourself about it—with a single sigh you open it. The first page is blank but the next one and the following aren’t. It was his sketchbook. One that he would try to hide from you because it would make him embarrassed if you had ever laid your eyes on it. His words not yours. Damian was amazing when he came to his artistic side no doubt about it.

Every page filled with sketches, every space taken up by them and Arabic language beautifully written on the corners of most pages. It wasn’t a surprise when you saw your reflection on paper. Actually, most of them were of you. Others might find it weird, but to you it was something that made your heart pound and your face feel warm. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want you to see it.

Flipping the page one last time, you find a small paper folded in half in the small crease of the book. You think it’s another drawing, so imagine your surprise when you unfold it and it's written later.

Addressed to you from Damian. You recognize his hand writing with every cursive on every line.

‘I’m never good with affection, I would like to apologize in advance despite being together for two years’ you find yourself smiling. Something you haven’t done in days ‘I’m not good with words either, so I hope you find this letter to be of use. Grayson told me I should do something for our third year anniversary—seeing as we both haven’t done anything special for the two previous years. With you being my first I, myself, am not very good at any of this and you know that. But I’ll try for you. Remember, not that long ago when we would talk about our future together under the bright stars? It’s a little ‘sappy’ as Todd would put it but I hope it becomes true in the near future. Grayson and Drake told me not to worry about it as much, because they are both ‘sure’—hinting at our future like they know something. And I think they do. Secretly I know Grayson is already planning a wedding. It was the first thing he did when I told him about you. He cried when he found out he was the first to know, but don’t tell him I told you. Words can’t describe how much you truly mean to me, they can’t describe how much I…..’

that’s where it ends. He never finished the letter. You wanted to yell at the letter, but doing so would make you look like you’ve lost your mind. Not that you have already. All you could was cry—trying your best to hold back loud sobs but they came out choked out instead. The letter is covered in droplets of your fallen tears as you crumble it under your grip, holding it close to your chest.

The book is long forgotten.

Maybe in a different life things could be better for the both of you.

Schools literally start’s TOMORROW 😭

Buts it’s my last year, graduate of 2024😋 (I’m a senior without a drivers license 😞)

#damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian x reader #robin x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian scenarios #damian wayne x you

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themodernwitchsguide · 4 months ago

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altars for nordic gods

keep in mind that altars like these have very little historical backing, and this information is mostly for the use of the modern pagan. also pretty much every god can be honored with offerings of meat, mead, wine, and your own blood.

ODIN

Colors: grey/silver for justice; deep blue, black for magic; red for war

Offerings: nine sacred herbs (chamomile, nettle, fennel, crab apple, mugwort, plantain, watercress, chervil, betony), runes, food for ravens, poetry

Crystals: sodalite, lapis lazuli, amethyst, lepidolite, obsidian, labradorite

Animals: his ravens (Huginn and Muninn), his wolves (Geri and Freki)

THOR

Colors: yellow, white, grey for thunderstorms; red for war; blue for the sky

Offerings: rainwater, hawthorn, oak, garlic, onion, hearty meals

Crystals: fulgarite, blue quartz/calcite, yellow jasper, sodalite, obsidian, hematite

Animals: goats

LOKI

Colors: black, green for mischief; yellow/gold for wealth; red, orange when he is combined with Logi

Offerings: yellow rattle, birch, mistletoe, snake shed, cinnamon, dandelion, coins/money

Crystals: labradorite, jade, malachite, pyrite, citrine, bloodstone, gemstones, serpentine

Animals: birds, horses, snakes, foxes

TYR

Colors: dark blue, silver/grey for justice; red for war

Offerings: holly, mustard seed, bread, oak, ash, good deeds are especially emphasized with Tyr

Crystals: lapis lazuli, sapphire, red jasper, bloodstone, obsidian, hematite

Animals: wolf, dog, bear, eagle

BALDR

Colors: gold/yellow, white for opulence; sky blue, pink for beauty

Offerings: chamomile, daisies, white blossoms, honey, juniper berries, laurel leaves, sunflower

Crystals: sunstone, celestite, selenite, pearl, rose quartz, pyrite, milky quartz

Animals: foal

FRIGG

Colors: blue, silver/grey, white for the moon; yellow/gold for opulence

Offerings: cardamom, allspice, sweet wines, milk, handspun fiber, feathers, moss

Crystals: moonstone, selenite, celestite, pyrite, milky quartz, rose quartz, agates

Animals: falcons, hawks, geese

HELA

Colors: red, orange, black for the underworld; white, grey for the dead

Offerings: white flowers, apples, willow, dark chocolate, coffee beans, mushrooms, clove--leave food until rotten

Crystals: bloodstone, jet, onyx, obsidian, black tourmaline, volcanic stone, red jasper, hematite

Animals: owl, raven, dog, wolf

FREYJA

Colors: red, pink, white for love; green, brown for nature; gold/yellow for her cape; purple, dark blue for magic

Offerings: jasmine, rose, verbena, collecting cat whiskers, honeycomb, fruit, fresh flowers, chocolate

Crystals: amber, petrified wood, agates, garnet/ruby, pyrite, lapis lazuli, rose quartz, emerald, jade, tiger's eye, cat's eye, amethyst

Animals: cats, pigs, horses, falcons

FREYR

Colors: green, brown for nature; yellow/gold for sunshine

Offerings: grain, apples, bread, nuts/seeds, venison, anything phallic, antlers, birch, hawthorn, coins/money

Crystals: green aventurine, agates, petrified wood, jaspers, jade, citrine, zoisite, pyrite

Animals: deer/stag, boar, horse, bee

NJORD

Colors: white, blues for the sea

Offerings: fish, sea salt, shells, beads, tobacco, fishing gear

Crystals: aquamarine, larimar, gemstones, pearls, malachite, sodalite, azurite, iolite

Animals: seabirds, sea mammals

SKADI

Colors: white, light blue for winter; brown for the hunt

Offerings: raw meat, berries, nuts, clear liquors, pelts, antlers

Crystals: milky quartz, bloodstone, blue calcite, chalcedony, jaspers

Animals: arctic fox

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fynsh · 25 days ago

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The Galactic marines are on shore leave and Bacara pays the Guard an unannounced visit

Stone had always been the worst of their batch when it came to keeping in contact. Being the only one assigned to the guard instead of the front lines. His excellent scores in diplomatic security and defense strategy combined with his unflappable character as well as a steadfast sense of duty had scored him the posting on Coruscant. Overall this did not help overcoming the pre-existing small walls between brothers who all liked to keep to themselves, in fact it contributed to building them up higher.

Bacara however was determined to see his youngest batcher when the rare occasion of returning from to he Heart of the Republic from the Outer Rim occured. He even reached out to their whole batch to check if any of them had received as much as a single message from Stone in the last three or so month. But neither Gree, by far the most sociable amongst them, nor Faie or Neyo could send a positive.

The Marshall Commander of the 21st Nova Corps didn't opt to wear his greys like many of his marines did when leaving the Venator to step foot on Coruscant. His bucket was cliped to his belt though, exposing his face, which was enough proof to how safe he deemed the planet his brother was assigned to protect. He didn't hesitate to immediately walk to the guard barrack in long strides. The obvious Shiny on desk duty at the entrance of the rather inconspicuous building just nodded after inquiring about the reason for his visit and note his presence down in the system. But Bacara didn't miss how the trooper discreetly pushed a button on his wrist comm when putting notes in the official databank. He was sure that this button was not a part of the standard model the reg armor provided every clone with.

Knowing his way around the corridors of the Guard's barracks since the floorplan mirrored the one of the GAR equibaz just a few levels up, Bacara went straight to the commanders' shared office. He didn't expect anyone to be in after having been informed about all commanders being on duty. So surprise colored his usually stoic expression when he noticed Stone's bucket on his assigned desk. Contrary to the two other desks squeezed into the room littered with data pads and empty mugs the bucket was the only thing present on it. And a thin barely noticable layer of dust. Bacara stepped closer and swept his gloved thumb over the visor. How could Stone have been so careless with his armor when he clearly was the only one keeping up with his flimsiwork? His enhanced hearing was the only reason he picked up quick and secure steps in the corridor before the door to the room opened silently.

Turning towards the newcomer Bacara felt an uneasy tension straightening his already picture perfect pose. Since it wasn't Stone coming to see him the strange feeling of foreboding intensified.

"Fox, it's good to see you."

His voice was even and a bit gruff. He always sounded like he hadn't spoken for some time - another quality their batch seemed to share.

Fox reached up to unseal his helmet and took it off. His curls were a bit longer than reg cut and a lot more messy. The greying streaks that had developed since taking up the assignment of the Marshall Commander of the Guard were more noticable than the last time they had met. Bacara couldn't actually remember when that had been. Thinking about it now, he hadn't seen Fox or any of his men in the holo calls lately. But at least Thorn was a famous for being a social butterfly so wasn't that odd?

"Bacara. I didn't expect your first stop touching planetside would be us. I'd have brought a drink for you."

A tight smile that didn't reach his eyes formed on Fox lips. The man radiated exhaustion, but it was visible only in his face. Had he not taken off his bucket Bacara would've probably taken a long time to notice the tension in the other's shoulders. The red armor looked meticulously polished, there wasn't a single dent or scratch revealed in the bright artificial lights of the office.

Fox gaze wandered to Stone's helmet propped on the desk behind Bacara, who in turn crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"That's nice of you but where's my tat?"

Straight to the point. He thought Fox would appreciate not wasting any time. But an unexpected short hesitation in the other's gestures added to his feeling of wrongness in his chest.

"Stone is not in the barracks. I'll take you to see him if you want."

"I can wait for his shift to end, we will be planetside for at least three rotations and my only plan is to talk to him because apparently that idiot forgot how to answer a comm."

A flicker of honest confusion followed by the tiniest hint or pain travelled across Fox face. Wow, he must really trust Bacara to feel safe enough to display more emotions than ever back on Kamino. Their batches had never been close back then, but always competing for the top marks and forcing each other to improve even more than the trainers had been able to with their cruel minds.

"He wouldn't want to make you wait. Let's go."

Following the corries example of putting his bucket on and keeping up with his brisk pace reminded Bacara that Fox had always been the one to snatch the first place when it came to exercises that requird speed or plotting routes in urban environments. Cause how in the haran had they reached the Jedi temple grounds in less than 18 minutes without taking a speeder or was the chronometer in his HUD malfunctioning? And wasn't this area one of the few spots on Triple Zero outside of the guard's jurisdiction? What was Stone doing here? Still Bacara just kept silent and followed the red blur in his visor. When had his heart rate started to speed up?

Fox abruptly stopped in front of a nondescript door inside the Temple and turned to face Bacara. There was no hesitation this time when he put his hand on the marine's shoulders, the firm grip and warmth palpable even though his armor.

"Stone will be happy to hear your voice, vod."

With that Fox stepped next to Bacara and guided him through the door ibto a small but airy and well lit room. He was thankful for the firmness in Fox touch as he felt his knees wobble for a fraction of a second before composing himself.

Stone lay still in a bed between white linen, contrasting the warm skin tone of his exposed arm on top of the fluffy blanket. His breathing seemed steady but the whole situation just screamed wrong wrong wrong.

"He got caught up in a prison riot. His squad made it out alive only thanks to his defense strategy."

The was a short pause where Dox audibly took a deep breath.

"I checked his comm for your contact when he was predicted to survive but you blocked him on all channels except officials.."

Bacara let out a small noise not comprehending and not caring to think more about that implication. Instead he took his brother's hand and rested it against his forehead.

"You better wake up, tat."

The steady weight of the hand on his shoulder left when Fox stepped back to give them some privacy.

"I'll go see Ponds, but I have to be back at the Rotunda in an hour. You can stay with him as long as you like, no curfews. Maybe tell him a bit about what stunts his badass ori'vod pulled in the outer rim, if you like. I'm sure he'd enjoy hearing from you instead of reading mission reports."

Bacara just nodded mutely expecting Fox to leave through the door. Instead the commander in red turned to another bed Bacara had failed to notice when zeroing in on his batchmate.

Hello thanxx for reading. I just wrote this instead of sleeping. Ponds and Stone both survive and wake up from a healing coma and everyone except the shriveled raisin makes it to a happy ending because my mental health needs that

#star wars #star wars clone wars #star wars tcw #the clone wars #commander bacara #commander fox #commander stone #light angst #brainworms leave plotholes

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theladyofbloodshed · 9 months ago

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Chapter 1

Notes: This is set after the canon events of ACOSF when Nesta and Cassian go to the Prison. Instead of opening the wards to the cells, she ends up in Lunathion. Bryce doesn't exist in this universe and no magic language beans are required.

Nesta could not do more than twitch her fingertips as an invisible, oppressive weight bore into her, like it’d flatten her into dust upon the starry ground of the strange chamber in the Prison.

Let go, she silently bade the Harp, gritting her teeth, fingers brushing over the nearest string. Free me, you blasted thing.

A beautiful, haughty voice answered, full of music so lovely it broke her heart to hear it. I do not appreciate your tone.

With that the Harp pushed into her harder, and Nesta roared silently. Her nail scraped over the string again. Let me go!

Gone was Cassian’s voice. He was kept out by the wards, witnessing it all.

Shall I open a door for you, then?

Yes! Damn you, yes!

It has been a long while, sister, since I played. I shall need time to remember the right combinations…

Don’t play games. Nesta chilled at the word it had used. Sister. Like she and this thing were one and the same.

The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders and horrors we could strum into being. Such great and monstrous magic I wrought with my last minstrel. Shall I show you?

No. Just let me out.

As you wish. Pluck the first string, then.

Nesta didn’t hesitate as her fingertip curled over the first string, grasping and then releasing it. A musical laugh filled her mind, but the weight lifted. Vanished.

And then everything swirled around her like she was being sucked down a plughole into a vast emptiness. The stars on the floor span, turning white with their speed.

Nesta clung to the Harp as wind whipped her face. She was falling – but into what, she didn’t know. It reminded her of the Cauldon, that endless dark, the never-ending cold. Nesta drifted through space and time until she plummeted downwards.

Her body hit stone, taking the wind out of her.

Nesta blinked, trying to right herself. The lights around her were blurred but there was noise – chatter and distant music.

A bright light came towards her. A long, blaring sound pierced her ears. There was a screech and the light stopped feet from her body curled on the stone.

‘What the fuck,’ came a female voice.

Something slammed and footsteps sounded. ‘Are you alright? I nearly hit you. You landed in the middle of the road.’

‘Move back. Official 33rd business,’ a male voice said.

Nesta was shaking. The bright lights were still in her eyes. Her hip and leg throbbed from the landing.

‘She’s armed, Hunt,’ somebody said.

The male who’d spoken gave a wearied sigh. ‘Ten minutes left of our shift and a fae has to leap in front of a car.’ He stepped closer to her. ‘Hands up. Don’t reach for the sword.’

Something silver and metallic was pointed at her by his hands. The male was fae. Or, looked it. He had wings similar to the Peregryn that she’d met in the Dawn Court with beautiful, grey feathers. Across his brow was a tattoo. Sable hair hung to his shoulders. The other male was slightly shorter with white feathers and fair hair.

Neither was dressed like anybody she’d seen before. Their clothes reminded her slightly of Illyrian leathers but the materials were different.

Nesta looked around, now that her eyes had adjusted to the light. Nobody was dressed in familiar clothing. People had small rectangles in their hands bearing lights and sounds. The fair haired male tutted and started moving them off, saying she was not a spectacle.

‘I’m going to need you to slide that sword over to me in its sheath. Do you understand?’

Where was she? This wasn’t Prythian.

Where are we?

The Harp refused to respond to her, going mute in this strange, new world.

‘Hey,’ the male with grey wings said, not unkindly. ‘Slide it over now.’

Slowly, Nesta reached for Ataraxia and pushed it across the smooth stone towards him. He kept his metal object pointed at her as he bent down and slung her sword over a shoulder.

‘Now your instrument.’

The other male had returned and collected that. He turned it from side to side, examining it. The first handed the sword to him. ‘Fly those to Vik. Get her to run her tests on them. I’ll bring her in.’

***

Ten minutes. That was all they had left after seven days straight. Hunt was looking forward to a glorious day off but Logan had said they should walk back to the 33rd rather than fly. If they flew, they still likely would have seen a female fall from the sky, but they could have pretended it didn’t happen and finished their shift on time. Now, it meant hours of questioning plus paperwork for what he guessed was an undocumented fae who’d rocked up in Lunathion.

The female in question seemed compliant thus far. Hunt hadn’t cuffed her. She was a skinny thing that couldn’t overpower him. From the spike of her ears, she was fae, not human. After basic questioning, they’d likely call in the captain of the aux from the fae side – and Hunt planned to be in his bed by then. Technically, this female had done nothing wrong except fall from the sky with a sword and nearly be hit by a car. It was strange enough though that Micah would demand their heads if they hadn’t brought her in. He was off in the north, summoned by the Asteri. Peace for once.

‘Where are you taking me?’

He kept his hand clasped around her upper arm as they walked. ‘To the 33rd.’

She frowned. ‘The 33rd what?’

Hunt glanced at her. ‘Legion.’

How had she never heard of the 33rd? Who the hell was this?

‘Are you fae?’

She must have hit her head hard. Hunt ushered her along, surveying her for obvious injuries as they went. ‘No. Malakim. Definitely not fae.’

Her silver eyes stared at him then at the ground, processing something. A med-witch would need to see her to remove her concussion.

Hunt led her to one of their interrogation rooms. The white walls looked yellow beneath the lights and she shielded her eyes from it. It was protocol to at least chain her to the table to prevent her from running, but from the bewildered expression on her face, Hunt couldn’t do it.

‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ he said, offering a tight smile as he backed out of the room.

He met Isaiah in the corridor.

‘Viktoria’s already working on the items. Both are definitely imbued with magic,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Logan’s filled me in. Fell from the sky?’

‘Yup. Literally.’ Hunt pressed the coffee cup into his hand. ‘I don’t think she knows what coffee is so good luck.’

Isaiah gave a short laugh. ‘Do you think she’s one of the Avallen Fae?’

‘I have no fucking clue where she is from. Another planet by the looks of things.’

Naomi was waiting behind the interrogation room, computer at the ready. Hunt waited behind the screen of glass too as Isaiah introduced himself and put the cup of coffee in front of her. From the thin frame, Hunt should have grabbed her a snack too. She wore leathers like she was about to do battle. The sword would explain that too – but not the instrument. It seemed to be a common theme that swords were toted by pricks in Lunathion, however this female seemed not too bad so far.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Nesta.’

‘A last name?’

‘Archeron.’

Naomi’s fingers flew over the keyboard. ‘Not a single Archeron in history. Or a Nesta.’

‘I don’t think she’s lying,’ Hunt murmured. It would be a strange name to make up. Better if she gave a common one.

Isaiah spoke gently. ‘What house are you aligned with, Nesta?’

Nesta blinked a few times then, ‘Uh. The House of Wind.’

There was another click of keys beside him then Naomi drew a blank again.

‘What can your magic do?’

‘I don’t have magic.’

‘Why do you have a magical Harp?’

‘I’m a bard.’

The delivery was so flat from Nesta that Hunt couldn’t help but snort with laughter.

Isaiah’s wings flexed at the table. ‘Will you play for me?’

Nesta inspected her nails. ‘I don’t play for free.’

‘What’s the sword for?’

‘When people don’t pay me,’ she quipped.

This female had woken up and found her dry sense of humour then. Hunt examined her through the glass. She didn’t look like the fae of Lunathion. The majority had the same colouring as the king – red hair, tanned skin. Others were brown-haired. The prince was a rarity with black hair, but not unheard of. It tended to be the Avallen fae who were blonde. She certainly fitted the description for now with a limited knowledge of technology; she’d stared at everybody’s cell-phones with utmost confusion. But even Avallen fae knew how to use technology when they left their misty isles.

‘Which king did you pledge allegiance to?’

At that, Nesta gave a harsh laugh. ‘None of them and I never will.’

‘Who is the king of Avallen?’

‘Fionn,’ she said, brandishing her hands in the air with disinterest.

‘Danaan is here,’ a voice said over the intercom. ‘Sending him down.’

Ruhn Danaan was captain of the fae auxiliary unit and exemplified what it meant to be a fae prick. One day, he’d also be their king. And Hunt could not stand him.

He swaggered in, tongue flicking against his lip-ring. ‘This better be good, Athalar.’

Hunt gestured to Nesta Archeron currently stonewalling Isaiah as he attempted to interrogate her on her origins.

‘Don’t know her,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Wish I did.’

‘Is she one of the Avallen fae?’

‘No idea,’ replied Ruhn in a blasé tone. Hunt could stink alcohol on him. Likely the prince had been with his little pals doing what they did best and partying until dawn.

Sensing his frustrations, Naomi stepped in. ‘She fell from the sky. There’s no record of her family name in the history of Midgard. Nesta isn’t aligned to any house, seemingly has no knowledge of Lunathion. She cannot name either fae king – but did mention Fionn. She came with a sword imbued with magic – and a Harp.’

Ruhn finally took notice. He leaned closer to the glass, nose almost touching it. ‘Her eyes are silver.’

‘A fascinating conclusion, Danaan.’

‘Let me talk to her.’

It was Isaiah’s call so he allowed the prince into the interrogation room, claiming that not only was he fae royalty which gave Ruhn a pass to do what he liked in the city, but also a member of the aux. When he entered, Nesta knew him. Her eyes went wide then she stared down at her lap, murmuring something to herself.

‘Hi,’ said Ruhn who turned the chair around and leant his chest against the back. ‘Your coffee’s going cold.’

Nesta raised the cup to her mouth to take a sip then promptly spat it back out. ‘That’s vile.’

‘Need sugar?’

She folded her arms across her body. Anybody else would have called for their lawyer now or asked what they were being charged with. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Nesta seemed more interested in the security camera and even the lights above her head.

‘Are you high fae?’ she asked Ruhn.

‘I’m fae,’ he said. ‘Vanir. What other Vanir do you know?’

Nesta swallowed. Eventually, she suggested, ‘Illyrians?’

Ruhn gave an encouraging nod and lied that he knew them. Beside Hunt, Naomi was doing her best to search for the term.

‘Who else?’

‘Peregryns.’

‘Yeah. Peregryns.’ Ruhn gave another nod. ‘Those big birds that brought you to the 33rd. What are they?’

‘Malakim.’

Which she only knew because Hunt had told her.

‘What’s Sabine?’

‘I don’t know her,’ she replied.

Well, shit. She definitely was not from Lunathion because everybody knew Sabine, unfortunately. Naomi’s laptop made a pinging sound. ‘Toxicology report. Nothing in her system. Not even a drop of alcohol. Definitely no drugs.’

On arrival, the on-duty med-witch had given her a once over but had not found any major injuries beyond a few bruises from her heavy landing.

Isaiah drummed his fingers on his watch face. ‘We can’t hold her for anything. By rights, we’ve held her longer than necessary with nothing to charge her for.’

‘She’s clearly not from here.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’m reluctant to call Micah back until we have full specs on the items that she brought with her.’

‘We can keep those for a week,’ said Naomi.

Ruhn emerged from the room, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his long, black hair. ‘She’s fae. Definitely. No idea where she’s from though.’ Ruhn pulled out his cell.

‘Calling daddy?’

He threw Hunt a grin. ‘Not a chance. I’ll keep her at mine.’

‘No,’ said Hunt with a snort. ‘Do you think we’ll hand over a disorientated female to you and your little pals?’

‘Careful with what you’re insinuating, angel.’

Isaiah cleared his throat. ‘Until we know more, Nesta Archeron is a free citizen of Lunathion, not under anyone’s jurisdiction.’

‘She’s fae,’ Ruhn insisted. ‘She answers to my father.’

‘You didn’t hear her, Danaan,’ Hunt said, fighting the grin from his face. ‘She’s pledged allegiance to no king and never will.’

‘Hunt, discharge her. Ruhn, I wonder if you could take a look at the sword,’ asked Isaiah, guiding the prince out of the room.

Hunt cared little for the fae but he wasn’t going to send a lone female who had no clue where she was to the Ruhn Danaan home for parties and orgies. He took up Ruhn’s vacated seat, also sitting backwards on it at the table. Nesta watched him closely.

‘How do you know Ruhn?’

‘I don’t,’ she replied, voice clipped.

‘You looked like you did.’

Nesta furrowed her brow. ‘I thought he was somebody else.’

Hunt nodded his head towards the cup. ‘You didn’t like my coffee?’

‘It was foul.’

‘Oof. No offence taken.’ He began writing out her discharge forms, explaining them to her as he wrote. It would go under a section two; the 33rd reserved the right to question any citizen at any time without reason or without consequence. Anybody from Lunathion would have kicked up a fuss over how long they’d been held for. This one had no cell, no purse, no identification, literally nothing on her person so she likely didn’t know her rights. ‘You can collect your items in a week.’

That was if they found nothing they could charge her for.

‘A week? I need the Harp.’

‘Playing in a tavern?’

Hunt glanced up at her then jerked back. Her eyes were swirling. They looked as if silver flames were trapped within, writhing to get to the surface.

‘You’re free to go, Nesta. I’ll see you out.’

The walk out of the Comitium was just as interesting. The most inane technology snagged her attention. At the coffee machine, she came to a halt to stare at it in wonder then in the waiting room, her eyes catalogued the television screens, jaw hanging open.

‘Don’t worry. You won’t miss Fangs and Bangs.’

Nesta opened her mouth to say something then the phone rang in the office. That also hooked her attention. She was child-like in her wonder as a malakh answered the phone.

‘That device allows you to communicate?’

Hunt touched two fingers to her forehead. The temperature seemed fine. ‘Try and see a med-witch. Have them check you over for concussion.’

He held the door open for her as she stumbled off into the blackness, just as perplexed as she’d been when they’d found her in the road.

Nesta wasn’t Hunt’s duty. His shift should have ended two hours ago. He was a slave, but a slave who could be off-duty – especially when Micah was out of town. Yet, he couldn’t stop the sense of dread from clawing in his chest as he watched Nesta amble aimlessly into the night.

This female would cause him a headache.

***

Seven days.

Nesta needed to survive seven days with only the clothes on her back in this strange city. There were worse places that she could have arrived to. The dungeon had not truly been a dungeon. It lacked the prowling beasts of the Hewn City. The only issue had been how bright the lights were. They hadn’t been the faelights that Rhysand conjured.

There were more lights hanging from towering metal poles on the smooth roads. There were still many out in the darkness but not all of them were fae. Some were like animals with cloven hooves instead of feet or caprine horns that jutted out from their hair.

Nesta didn’t know what to make of it.

She’d left Cassian calling her name in the Prison. Now she was in Lunathion. Wherever that was.

The city was so noisy.

Nesta needed space to think and to breathe so she fought her way out of the densest areas of the city towards a massive river. The sounds of it calmed her. She crossed over it, into the darker area where it felt more peaceful. Nesta sucked in breaths, thinking of Gwyn and her teachings to focus on the inhales and exhales and nothing else. That was easier said than done in a foreign land with no allies, no weapons, and no way back to Velaris.

Something was moving across the bridge towards her.

It made her skin prickle.

It wasn’t walking. It was gliding.

Her hand reached over her shoulder for the pommel of her sword and remembered it had been taken.

The creature made a low, gurling sound from the back of its throat then reached out a grey hand stripped of flesh in places.

Nesta backed up a step, but more were behind her, moving in that same eerie way without a sound.

The air went static.

A bolt of lightning hit the ground which forced one of the creatures to retreat.

The male who’d chaperoned her to the Comitium landed between her and the bulk of the creatures. Lightning wreathed his hands. His hair rose from the static.

‘You will not feast this night.’

Hunt jerked his chin at her, summoning Nesta to him. An arm clamped around her shoulders then he pushed off from the floor. As they lifted off, his other arm swooped beneath the back of her knees.

The motion was surprisingly fluid. Nesta did what she always did if Cassian flew her and put her arms around his neck for support.

‘What were they?’

‘Reapers,’ he replied. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have them where you come from.’

‘We have creatures just as foul.’

‘Yeah. Well, maybe don’t go for a midnight meeting with the Under-king if you want to see the dawn, Nesta.’ Hunt flew them a short distance then landed back amongst the lights on poles. He kept one hand clasped around her wrist like she might run while pulling one of the metal rectangles from his pocket. It displayed numbers that he tapped. His thumb moved down the screen, the words it showed flew by too quick for Nesta to read. ‘It’s Athalar. As you said, she’s one of your kind. She needs to be put up in a hotel.’ A pause. ‘Near the Dead Gate. I’ve flown her near Jesiba Roga’s house of horrors, but she’ll end up wandering through the meat market if I leave her.’ Hunt gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Either a hotel or the barracks with me, but not a chance I’m leaving her in your custody.’

Hunt slid the device into his back pocket. ‘The prince of pricks is booking you a hotel for the night. You hungry?’

The malakh lifted her into the air again to cross the city. They returned to the huge building where he had first taken her but did not stay long. Nesta was told to wait in the corridor outside a room while Hunt retrieved a bag of items. They stopped off at a restaurant along the way while he waited for news from the prince of pricks, whoever that was.

‘Noodles,’ he said, gesturing to the flimsy packaging.

Nesta stared down at them. They reminded her of yellow strings but there were chunks of meat and vegetables amongst them and a sweet-smelling sauce that made her ravenous. Hunt paid for it all, including the drink that was filled with bubbles.

‘Not a fan of coffee, but you like soda,’ he said between mouthfuls.

‘It is so sweet.’

‘Yeah because it’s all sugar.’

Nesta slurped it down, not caring if the ice hurt her teeth.

Hunt pulled the device – a cell phone – from his pocket. ‘Danaan came through. Let’s go.’

The lodgings were nice. One of those moving portrait boxes was hung on the wall and Hunt pressed a button on another rectangle to make it work. He pressed a few more buttons, the portraits changing rapidly.

‘Here we go. Fangs and Bangs, as promised.’

There was a half-naked female on the screen lounging on a long chair near a body of water. A male, equally as bare and bronze, was discussing their relationship beside her.

‘What do all of those buttons do?’

Hunt shrugged one shoulder. ‘Nobody knows. That’s volume. Channel up and down. On and off.’

‘It controls it?’

‘Yes. A remote. Where the hell did you come from Nesta?’

Nesta said nothing. She couldn’t bear to think of the people she had left behind. There was no guarantee that the Harp would be returned to her or it would even let her pluck a string to return to Velaris.

‘Bathroom’s through there. This is a key card. You press it to that black panel on the door handle to get in but try not to leave tonight, alright. I don’t want to retrieve your body from the Istros in the morning.’ Hunt blew out a breath. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll be by in the morning.’

Despite the day she had endured, the sight of the bed with tightly-pulled white sheets was calling to her. As soon as she hit that pillow, Nesta would be out.

Hunt rummaged in the bag that he’d collected from the Comitium. There were soft, grey pants and a white top. ‘For you to sleep in. There are slits on the back for my wings, but it will be comfier than those,’ he said, pointing to her leathers. ‘I don’t know how you breathe in that.’

‘Thank you, Hunt,’ replied Nesta, clutching the clothes to her body.

‘Tomorrow, we will talk. Off the record. About you.’ He swept his hair from his face. ‘I want to help but I can’t if you’re not honest with me. Sleep well.’

#hunt x nesta #acotar #crescent city #hunt athalar #nesta archeron

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