#The patriarch

[questintheskies]

[grumpyoldfker]

Absolution

Rocks fell. Blood spilled. Eyes filled with sorrow and love met his own, a soft smile lingering even as she was buried beneath the weight of stone. His beloved. His Aleria. Sealed away in agony, lost to the ruin of their home while he could do nothing but watch.

The battlefield was a chorus of suffering. Blood soaked the boot-trodden grass. The sharp cries of the dying merged with the thunderous roar of war. A troll, wild with bloodlust, charged toward him, a crude axe raised high to deliver the killing blow.

Then Adonis awoke.

The covers lay in disarray, kicked aside from a night of restless thrashing. Sweat clung to his skin, beading along his brow and chest as his breath came in harsh, uneven gasps.

Your nightmares are unrelenting, old man.

Slowly, he sat up, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose before swinging his legs over the mattress. The cool marble floor met his bare feet, grounding him in the present. Yet, the voice in his mind did not relent. It taunted him, whispered at him to surrender—to let go of duty, of purpose, to wither into dust like the forgotten.

Her memory stains your very being.

Rising, Adonis moved to the window. The moon hung high, casting the courtyard in silver light. The weapons of his patrolling guardsmen glinted as they moved through the night, silent sentinels of his domain. His gaze flicked back to the bed. Sleep would not return to him—not with the past clawing at his mind, not with the phantom voices refusing to fade. He longed for release, for a reprieve from the weight of memory. But what freedom could the mind offer when it was the very thing ensnaring him?

His thoughts drifted to his Majordomo and his wisened words.

"My Lord, you are a man rooted in war, but one who branches out in valour and honour."

His gaze wandered the room until it settled upon his armor, standing tall upon its stand, each strap fastened with meticulous care. Beside it, his warhammer rested, waiting. He stepped forward, fingers curling around the hilt as he lifted it, turning the raw iron over in his hand.

"Old friend," he murmured. "You have seen more of me than any other."

He lowered the hammer, but he did not release it.

Are you truly just an old fool, destined to die in the halls of a decaying estate?

His brow furrowed. He moved to the door, heedless of his state—bare-chested, clad only in loose trousers—before stepping into the torchlit hall. The guards at his door snapped to attention, their expressions unreadable. If they found their Lord’s dishevelled state unusual, they did not show it.

Adonis moved through the winding corridors of his home until he reached the front entrance. He pushed through, stepping into the courtyard. The patrolling guards halted, their eyes flicking toward him. Without a word, he jerked his head toward a familiar space.

You are mad.

The soft foliage and cobbled paths gave way to the dust and dirt of the training grounds. Adonis stood in the center, waiting. His retinue had already understood the unspoken command. They advanced, drawing their weapons—not out of defiance, but duty. Duty that outweighed hesitation.

Do you wish to die, then?

The first blade struck. Adonis came alive. His hammer rose, parrying the blow with a forceful deflection that sent the attacker stumbling. Another lunged with unerring precision. He twisted, slipping past the strike, then pivoted, driving an elbow into the assailant’s jaw. More came. More fell away.

I like watching you dance, my love…

Two shielded guardsmen advanced in tandem, one feinting left, the other charging head-on. Adonis did not wait. He met the charge, crashing into the shielded warrior with the force of a bull, sending him sprawling. The second guard hesitated—just enough for Adonis to turn upon him, blade and hammer clashed in rapid succession. Then, with brutal efficiency, he drove a boot into the man’s chest, sending him reeling.

You are nothing more than an animal, clawing at the history of your failures.

Adonis stilled. His guards lay scattered at his feet, clutching their wounds, gazing up at him with a mixture of awe and unease. He closed his eyes.

And there she was.

Aleria. Her hand outstretched. A whisper of calm in the storm, offering peace to his endless rage.

His fingers slackened around the hilt. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for her.

Who are you, my love?

Adonis opened his eyes. The ghost was gone. But his resolve remained.

His hand lowered as he exhaled, steady and sure.

"I am Lord Adonis B’andtherion—Patriarch of my house, the Bull upon the battlefield. Hear me well: no tide will drown my will, no storm will extinguish my fire. My lineage shall bear the weight of the fallen and stand where others falter. Let the world remember my name, let the stars bear witness—I am here and I am forever."

He turned to the men he had bested, watching as they rose to their feet, cradling their bruises and gripping their wounds with silent resilience. Not one among them faltered. One by one, they retrieved their swords, and then—without command, without hesitation—they struck their blades against their shields and roared. He roared with them in unity.

The sound rang out, deep and unyielding, a steady rhythm that surged through the night like rolling thunder. They encircled their Lord, their fealty absolute, their devotion forged in steel and blood. The echoes of their tribute carried across the Ghostlands, a testament to the unbroken will of their Patriarch.

[jupiterjunebug]

cageland, 48, for the kiss meme

Cageland, out of habit

They haven't been on good terms in a long time. Sometimes it feels like they never have been. But that second part sounds like a really over dramatic thing to think about the current situation, so Adam shoves it down and settles for they aren't on good terms as far as the email he's composing in his mind to AEW's travel coordinator about their… seating arrangement.

Christian had tried to make a stink to the airline about it, insisting an upgrade for his troubles, because he never considers anything too over dramatic. The panicked gate attendant had informed them there were no free seats, and no flights that'd get them to Collision in time except for the one they're on. So Christian had sniffed, insisted on trading seats with Adam, and then spent the first half of the flight not-on-purpose elbowing him and acting annoyed. Then, he'd fallen asleep.

Adam knows it sounds crazy, but he thinks that's on purpose. Christian knows from all the years they've traveled together that the back half of any given flight is when Adam has to pee. And they both know Christian, despite how prissy he acts about hotels, could fall asleep on the dirt and sleep through the apocalypse half the time. That means he's gambling when he reaches over and pokes the man in the shoulder, hard.

Christian mumbles something and turns his head, and Adam's half convinced the man's gonna bite him. Instead he does something a lot stranger, pressing his mouth to Adam's knuckles like things had never gone bad between them. Then he seems to catch himself, eyes snapping open as he tries to spring away. The seat belt stops him and he wheezes in discomfort at it before pouting.

"Tell no one this happened," Christian declares haughtily, and stands up to let him pee.

[majordomo-haldir]

What was Adonis like as a child? As a teenager? Was he ill-tempered then, or was his sour disposition something cultivated with age?

Haldir stood before the extravagant courtyard of the B’andtherion estate, his gaze sweeping over the familiar grounds. The courtyard had always been a nexus of memory for the Majordomo—a place where time itself seemed to linger. It was here that countless moments had unfolded, each etching its mark on the estate’s storied legacy.

One memory came to him when the question was asked: a much younger Adonis walking beside his father, the then Patriarch. The scene was not one of paternal warmth, but of instruction—rigid and firm, a father shaping his heir with deliberate precision.

“I recall...” Haldir began, his voice heavy with thought, “I recall a young man eager to learn, exceptionally disciplined in navigating life’s trials. Ill-tempered? No, not quite. I would say firm—crafted that way by his father, just as his father had been shaped before him. There was a fire in him then, a genuine enthusiasm for bettering our people, for ushering in a new dawn for Quel’Thalas. But fairy tales rarely endure.”

His tone darkened, tinged with sorrow. “Frustration grew. Betrayal came from men and women he once trusted. He learned that many who entertained his words did so only for their own gain. The Matriarch tempered that sharp edge, softened it with her influence. But since her passing, that edge has honed itself once more—so sharp now that even the slightest graze draws blood.”

He turned to the Lioness, his eyes filled with poignant intensity. “I can only hope that edge finds itself tapered—not dulled, but refined—by a whetstone placed in purposeful hands.”

@themadamelioness ty for the ask )

[theunhingedcowboy]

Anyways heres a screenshot from Collision last night of me flipping off the patriarchy.

[madhatterbri]

Christian didn't do anything wrong. Nick made something from scratch while Killswitch paid for it. 💅

I'll see myself out.

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Ethiopian Bible — considered as the oldest and most complete 'Bible' on earth.

The world’s earliest illustrated Christian book has been saved by a British charity, which located it at a remote Ethiopian monastery.

The incredible Garima Gospels are named after a monk who arrived in the African country in 5th century AD.

Abba Garima arrived from Constantinople in 494 AD. Legend has it that he was able to copy the Gospels in a day because God delayed the sun from setting and is said to have copied them out in just one day.

It is beautifully illustrated and the colours are still vivid. It has been conserved through the Ethiopian Heritage Fund.

The incredible relic has been kept ever since in Garima Monastery near Adwa in the north of the country, which is in Tigray region at 7000ft.

Experts believe it is also the earliest example of book binding still attached to the original pages.

The survival of the Gospels is incredible considering the country has been under Muslim invasion, Italian invasion, and a fire in the 1930s destroyed the monastery’s church.

They were written on goat skin in the early Ethiopian language of Ge’ez.

There are two volumes dated from the same time, but the second is written in a different hand from the first. Both contain illustrations and the four Gospels.

Though the texts had been mentioned by the occasional traveller since 1950s, it had been thought they dated from 11th century at the earliest.

Carbon dating, however, gives a date between 330-650 AD, which tantalisingly overlaps the date Abba Garima arrived in the country.

So, the first volume could be in his hand – even if he didn’t complete the task in a day as the oral tradition states.

The charity Ethiopian Heritage Fund that was set up to help preserve the treasures in the country has made the stunning discovery.

It also allowed incredible rare access to the texts, so experts could conserve them on site. It is now hoped the Gospels will be put in a museum at the monastery where visitors will be able to view them.

Blair Priday from the Ethiopian Heritage Fund said:

"Ethiopia has been overlooked as a source of these fantastic things. Many of these old Christian relics can only be reached by hiking and climbing to remote monasteries as roads are limited in these mountainous regions.

All the work on the texts was done in situ and everything is reversible, so if in future they can be taken away for further conservation, we won’t have hindered that.

The pages had been crudely stitched together in a restoration in the 1960s and some of the pages wouldn’t even turn. And they were falling to pieces.

The Garima Gospels have been kept high and dry, which helped preserve them all these years. They are kept in the dark so the colours look fresh.

This was the most astounding of all our projects. The Patriarch, the head of the Ethiopian Church, had to give his permission.

Most of the experts did the work for nothing. We are currently undertaking other restoration programmes on wall paintings and religious texts.

We believe that preserving Ethiopia’s cultural heritage will help to increase visitor revenue and understanding of the extraordinary history of this country."

📷 : Credit to the Owner

[questintheskies]

Christian Cage waited all these months to cash in only to FAIL in the end. Copeland and Christian both lost. Moxley leaves Revolution still the AEW World Champion.

[grumpyoldfker]

When next he entered his study, something small and white would catch the Patriarch's eye. A singular, ethereal feather wafted in the slightest breeze as his arrival disturbed the air in the room. This one did not dissipate like the others, and it drifted along the marble floor serving as a reminder of his misplaced wrath.

Heavy boots thundered along the white-marble halls, their echoes rippling through the silence of the sprawling estate. The Patriarch’s stride was steady, his pace quick and resolute despite the burden of the heavy armor that adorned him. His piercing gaze remained fixed on the massive wooden doors ahead—the entrance to his sanctuary, his study.

That place was his refuge, a haven of quietude and solace. Within its walls, he would draw at the faint threads of happiness, sitting in his worn chair by the window and dreaming of the woman who had long since departed. It was a sanctuary untouched by time or tragedy, perfect in its stillness.

As he neared, a guard moved swiftly to open the door. Adonis crossed the threshold, and the tranquility he craved washed over him. Familiarity settled like a comforting weight—until the soft thud of the door closing disturbed the air.

A faint gust stirred the stillness, lifting a feather from the ground. It floated gently, wavering momentarily before settling once more on the polished floor.

Adonis froze. His peace fractured. His control wavered.

Stooping, he picked up the delicate object, holding it in his weathered hand. The feather’s softness stood in sharp contrast to the calloused palm of the seasoned Paladin.

“You and I are fated to assist one another in some manner. I do not understand how or when, but I know this: our paths will cross and cross again, no matter how we try to evade it.”

The words were a poison, corroding his focus and disturbing his calm. His fingers clenched around the feather, but he found himself unable to crush it. His grip faltered, and his hand opened once more, revealing the feather intact.

A growl rumbled in his throat, low and frustrated. He marched to his desk, dropping the feather with a deliberate motion before sinking into his chair. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought to steady his thoughts. The weight of memory pressed heavily on him, dragging him into an uneasy slumber.

Adonis awoke to darkness. The familiar study was gone, replaced by an endless void. Feathers—countless and shimmering—drifted around him, descending slowly into the abyss. He reached out, catching one mid-air. It was soft, symmetrical, and strangely mesmerizing.

Then it burst into flames.

He flinched, his hand stinging from the sudden heat. Around him, the other feathers began to ignite, flames spreading like a ravenous tide. Smoke thickened the air, the heat suffocating, as memories surged forth—screams, crumbling walls, clashing steel.

“My Lord!”

The voice of Haldir, his loyal Majordomo, cut through the chaos. Adonis blinked and found himself back in the burning halls of his estate. The once-pristine marble was now stained with fire and ash.

“They’ve breached the eastern wall!” Haldir’s voice trembled with urgency. “The staff are in the catacombs, sealed in for safety. Your sons are in the courtyard, holding back the enemy, but we’re losing ground!”

Adonis’s eyes narrowed as he processed the scene. Down the hall, ghoulish figures on all fours charged toward them, their jagged teeth bared in a grotesque snarl.

The Patriarch moved on instinct, a warrior long accustomed to battle. While others might call upon the Light in moments of desperation, Adonis carried it within him—a constant, unyielding force. When the first undead claw lashed out to tear his flesh, it crumbled to ash before it could land. The creature shrieked, a brief, wretched sound, silenced as Adonis brought his warhammer down with crushing finality, shattering its skull.

The others followed in swift succession. His hammer, radiant with the Light and guided by years of honed expertise, swept through the undead with brutal precision. Flesh and bone gave way beneath the holy weapon, the first foe split in two as its remains scattered. Without pause, he turned the swing to obliterate the next, each strike a seamless testament to his mastery. They fell to the ground, smouldering silently with silent screams carved upon their features.

Adonis then looked back at Haldir. “Fly fast,” he commanded, his voice firm and steady. “Tell everyone to retreat to Silvermoon. This house is lost. Let the dead have it.”

Haldir nodded and turned to leave before Adonis grabbed his arm causing the Majordomo to look back in confusion. "Where is the Matriarch?" 

Haldir blinked, then glanced down the hallway. "She was evacuating the others before sending me to find you, my Lord. I believe she’s in the Atrium."

Adonis gave a sharp nod. "Go." His voice carried a finality that left no room for hesitation. Haldir turned and sprinted toward the main exit of the estate.

Adonis, however, ran in the opposite direction. The acrid smoke and searing flames did little to slow his stride. His focus was singular: to reach the Matriarch. Though he was known for his calm, even in the chaos of battle, a rising tide of panic threatened to overtake him. Determination tempered his fear, driving him forward with unrelenting purpose.

Adonis rounded the final corner of the estate’s labyrinthine halls, and his destination loomed ahead.

The Atrium, a sanctuary of light and life within the estate, had no ceiling, allowing natural sunlight to flood the space. Marble walls framed the lush flora and fauna that the Matriarch herself had nurtured with care. Sungrass blanketed the floor, a golden tapestry that often drew admiration and whispers of defiance against the austere traditions of elvish architecture. It was a place of quiet beauty—untamed, yet intentional.

Now, it was a hellscape. Flames consumed the greenery, licking hungrily at the tall trees, their fiery tendrils stretching skyward before the trunks gave way and crashed against the marble walls. Smoke choked the air, and the once-vibrant flora burned to ash.

At the heart of the chaos, Adonis saw the Elite Guard locked in a desperate battle against an unending tide of undead. The Scourge poured through gaping, smoldering breaches in the walls. The guards moved with precision, their formation a semicircle shielding the Matriarch. Their swords and spears struck with practiced rhythm, felling one monstrosity only for another to take its place.

At the center of the formation stood the Matriarch, radiant and resolute. Fear did not touch her; she wielded the Light as naturally as a blade. Her hands moved with practiced grace, summoning holy magic from within her core. She unleashed it in a brilliant wave that tore through the advancing horde, buying her defenders precious seconds.

But the enemy pressed harder. An Elite fell, their line momentarily broken, and the undead surged into the gap.

Adonis roared, a sound born of panic and fury, and charged toward the Atrium’s entrance. Two figures emerged to block his path—Scourge champions clad in saronite armor, their runeblades gleaming with dark energy. Death Knights.

They moved as one, their strikes calculated and relentless, but Adonis met them head-on. He shifted his weight deftly, countering their onslaught with his warhammer. The weapon, imbued with the Light, arced through the air with surprising speed, slamming into the chest of one knight and sending it hurtling backward. The second Death Knight pressed forward, but Adonis swung again, his hammer shattering steel and bone in a single, decisive blow.

Meanwhile, the Matriarch held the line. She poured her strength into closing the breach, her holy magic flaring brighter as the undead threatened to overwhelm. A guard cried out, his armor failing as ghouls clawed at his flesh.

Her eyes turned to Adonis, a fleeting moment of recognition amidst the chaos. Her lips curved into a bittersweet smile. She closed her eyes, summoning every ounce of her power. The air in the Atrium grew electric, crackling with energy as she drew the magic inward.

Then, with a final, deliberate motion, she released it.

A blinding sphere of Light erupted from her, expanding outward in a cataclysmic wave. It consumed the undead and the living alike, purging everything in its path. The Light slammed into the Atrium walls, already weakened by the assault, and they collapsed inward. The ceilingless sanctuary crumbled in a cacophony of marble and fire, burying the combatants beneath an avalanche of stone and flame.

Adonis had just struck down the second Death Knight when he saw it happen. His warhammer fell from his grip as his eyes locked onto the Matriarch. For one brief moment, their gazes met. Her smile was warm, unyieldingly kind—even as the walls came crashing down around her.

And then she was gone.

Silence fell over the ruins.

Adonis stood amidst the devastation, his breathing ragged. The weight of what had transpired pressed down on him like the very stones that now buried the Atrium.

Then, something stirred. A feather, impossibly untouched by the carnage, floated gently down before him. It danced in the faint breeze, its delicate edges catching the light, before settling softly on the scorched ground.

He bent to pick it up, his fingers brushing the downy surface. When he looked up, the world had shifted.

The smoke was gone. The flames extinguished. The Atrium stood as it had always been—untouched, serene. Marble walls gleamed, the Sungrass was whole and golden, and the air carried the faint scent of blooming flowers.

Before him, near one of the reflective pools, stood the Matriarch.

Adonis let his hammer fall and ran to her. She turned at the sound of his approach, her laughter soft and melodic, and he swept her into his arms. Her delicate hands looped under his arms, pulling herself close against him.

“And what, I wonder, has you in such a mood?” she asked, her voice a soothing balm to his turmoil.

“I…” He struggled for words, gripping her tightly as if she might vanish. She was a flickering light in the encroaching darkness, a warmth against the cold.

Something brushed against his cheek—soft, familiar. He opened his eyes to see wings folding around him, their embrace protective and comforting.

“How often is it that I stray from your gaze, my love?” she whispered, threading her fingers gently through his hair. “Can I not walk my path just as you walk yours?”

“What do you mean?” Adonis asked, his voice trembling as he clung to her.

“I died,” she said softly. “My journey is over, my love, but yours continues.”

He shook his head fiercely. “No… You’re here now. I can feel you. I can hear you…” The desperation in his voice was raw, unrestrained.

Her voice shifted, as though another presence interwove with hers.

“You are a man of few threads, Adonis,” it said, calm yet laced with intrigue. “You hold significantly less than most.”

Adonis froze. The voice—he knew it. Recognition dawned as the woman in his arms shifted before him, her form changing. Her beauty remained, but it was no longer his Matriarch. Wings unfurled behind her, and confident, piercing eyes met his.

“…imagine my astonishment,” she said, her tone almost playful, “when I discovered a golden thread flowing from you… into me.”

He blinked, stepping back. “What are you—”

His words caught in his throat as he beheld her fully. The woman who now stood before him was not his wife but her.

“Does that not astonish you as well… darling?”

Adonis jolted awake with a gasp, sweat clinging to his brow.

He was back in his study. Alone. Yet the weight of the dream—and the memories it unearthed—clung to him, unrelenting. He looked down and saw the feather on his desk, untouched and unharmed. The Patriarch picked it up and stared at it with an expressionless gaze before he opened a drawer and slid it gently inside. He turned his eyes towards the courtyard and beyond. The thread began its pull.

@themadamelioness @kelzthalassunwhisper for family things

[brideofinfamy]

like HOW??! He's aging like the finest wine🥵🤤

[mchasmfiend]

Sin from Lolina by R L Hughes

Hellfire from High Noon Over Camelot by the Mechanisms

Did I make this post because I have been listening to Sin on loop? Maybe.

[madhatterbri]

👀

[officialchristiancagebbgirlblog]

IM ON NICKS STORY?!?!?!

[theunhingedcowboy]

Shayna is mothering

[questintheskies]

The Patriarchy is starting to implode