#Unlike Eivor

[recitedemise]

Gale could exercise someone's death as easily as the winds may sway. All the same, with a similar absence of effort, he is capable of tenderness as gentle as a morning--and, perhaps, is a bulwark amidst a storm.

I am, beyond all question and doubt, here for you. You shall never doubt that. No. Carefully, Eivor's memories begin to flow. Dithering like a river and slow with old terror, they encroach on the cradle of the wizard's waiting thoughts. Gale shuts his eyes, breathes, and falls, falls, falls.

Gale lives it. He sees himself in Eivor's eyes, but a few scant feet taller than the sprawling grass beneath them. He feels young with life, spirit bright and honeyed in the bell of their laughter, sunshine ripe in the air with the smell of dessert. It feels so freeing. It feels so merry. And with one blink of his eyes, the smell of sugar fades to fire...and the birdsong to yowling. With the swinging of blades. Gale--Eivor peers now into the dark. Fire springs into the yawning penumbra, so scalding as to threaten him from yards away. He watches his home erupt in flames, crying women bolting with babes in their arms, and there lays mother and father bleeding before him. He feels his heart shatter, and then brother at her side. No. Turn back! We have to help them! But they can't. Then, there lays the woods. Then, there prowls a wolf. And as its teeth tear his throat brother fades away, his bones burst open, his mortal flesh fissuring. He wakes to the moonrise. And he's tied in chains.

The memories fade, rippling with the shiver of a wintry terror. Gale collects himself, wondering, before Eivor's voice returns.

He peers back over. They are older now. There throbs wisdom in their eyes, one that belies years of consistent hardship, and--ah--a vulnerability that comes with trust like theirs. Gale is not one to waste it. He places his hand down, there beside their own. "And there is no part of you that I would not like to know. Heavy as they may be, I will share in those burdens you've carried for so long alone. As I can attest, nothing feels so impossible when you've company to dare it with. Grand company at that."

With a beat of silence, the warmth off his hand bleeding into their own, Gale waits. He is there to hold to, anchor to, if they so need it. "That memory...something came to me as rather familiar: the smell of the arcane. Those fires were not started through traditional means. Whoever had wronged you was steeped in magic--and that's to say nothing of the curse you bear." What a shame. For Eivor, magic has only hurt. Gale breathes, his own orb throbbing. "This may surprise you, but I may understand the scars the Weave may leave. Though there is beauty, too. Those from that night...have you any recollection who they may be?"

His hands were capable of felling many enemies of theirs, and yet Gale had a calmness and steadiness to him. Someone the wolf-kissed felt safe with. It felt... Intimate in the way their worms wiggled to connect - oddly so, but they were glad such a memory didn't have to be recounted by their words alone. Showing felt much better, and with a small grimace on Eivor's face they finally allowed him to have access to those long buried memories. Start from the beginning, they feel - it'd explain it better. All of this started when they were just six years old - he would see them as a child walking around the long house trying to find their father, and all seemed to be pleasant - the smell of mead, treats, and food roasting on the fire - and within a quick second it all changed into a scene with fire and death. It was the night of their parents death, the way their heart sunk, the way their fury built and the blood that filled the air. The burning of buildings and the screams of their people until it all died down eerily. One of the bastards tried to capture them, but their brother swept them up in time on a horse and rode off into a clearing. They couldn't remember how it happened, but they were separated from their brother - all alone in the middle of the woods. Heart racing as they caught eyes with a wolf stalking in the distance - but it seemed much bigger than a normal wolf. It lunges and captures their throat in its maw - its large claw pinning their head down - digging into their skin - death seemed to have its grasp on them until a flock of ravens cut in and saved them. That was the night they had been marked by a wolf- a werewolf, and soon he would have to delve deeper with the help of their worm - 6 years after of turning into a beast. Having to be chained up and muzzled. The night of when one of their clan mates thought to be rid of the curse, but only seemed to make it worse and brought them near death the second time. It was then the clanmate had been banished, and their adopted father made sure that everyone remembered that night so that it may not happen again. After a moment they finally break the connection between their worms. Eivor did not like recounting those nights, but they trust Gale more than words, or even worms could express. ❝... It's not easy thinking about that night, but now you know.❞ The endless trauma they endured since after, and the claws and teeth of the wolf that gave them this condition they seemed to have no cure, and they did not wish to seek for one after. This was now a part of them - a part of them they couldn't take away.

[bansheeoftheforest]

Winter Night [AC M!Eivor x Hytham]

A/N: recieved a poem from a school organisation today, so I wrote this during school and I am posting it during school because I felt the urge to post something for Valentines. I have not even read through this as well as I normally do because it is so short and I decided to just let be as casual as possible. Happy Valentine's day <3

Summary: Eivor and Hytham meet up in secret during the night, and Eivor feels love unlike anything he has ever felt before.

CW: Some vaguely sexual mentions but quite brief/nongraphic.

Wordcount: 1,131

The snow had fallen heavy over Ravensthrope.

Beyond the white sheets, beyond the winter frost clinging to tree and pine needles, beyond the lakes and rivers of ice, remained the warmth that the people held onto. Yule had passed, the darkest nights were now a distant memory, and the light would return to them once more. 

Yet, out of everyone, the Wolf-Kissed had found his solace through the winter months. 

There was someone. Someone who smiled brighter than the sun, whose eyes sparkled with the beauty of a thousand stars, whose words were filled with warmth and love and promises of a better future, whose lips were soft, whose skin still smelt of flowers and perfume, and whose hands bore no calluses. Someone who loved, who helped, someone whose body fit perfectly against his, within his arms, someone who was loyal and fierce and brave. 

It was, in the darkest nights, this someone that Eivor met. It was this someone he visited during the day, this someone who snuck into his bedroom, this someone who left notes of secret places where they could meet, places where they would be alone, away from the scurrying gaze of others. 

His footsteps felt heavy on the beaten road where the snow was trampled, yet the cold did not bite, for within his chest spread the warmth and anticipation, every step was a step closer to the one he sought. 

And there it was, the cabin, the one abandoned a long time ago, one they had claimed for themselves, one they had cleaned and furnished together, one that had become their sanctuary. The chimney smoke was rising to the starry sky, and the windows glowed with lingering firelight. When he stepped through the door, he was met with that smile that he saw in his dreams, soft hands that cradled his face, soft lips against his. The night was theirs. 

Against the lips of his lovers, a sigh of content escaped him. He unclasped the furs around his shoulders, let them drop to the floor, so that his strong arms could wrap around the other’s waist, pulling his lover taut against him. 

“Hytham,” he sighed, when his body finally was given the one he had longed for. Soft as a prayer, his lover’s name upon his lips. 

And his lover breathed out his name, “Eivor…” 

His name always sounded so lovely on the tongue of his lover. He adored the way he said it, the way he pronounced it, the way it sounded nothing like the way it had been spoken for all these years. It was entirely his, in a way. It was his because Hytham said it.

With the door locked, the fire burning in the fireplace, nothing stood in their way. Eivor had never considered himself particularly pious, but when his hands moved against Hytham’s body, every touch felt like a prayer to something holier than he could ever comprehend. It was with this piety that he held his lover, cradled him, carried him, towards the bed that they had made. It was with this zeal that he undressed him from his robes. It was with this tenderness that he let his lips and his hands roam his body, so that he could taste him, so that he could hear him, the way his breathing turned deep and calm against him. 

He liked being tender. Love had never made him soft before, desire had made him rough, but that which he shared with Hytham had made him gentle. It made him careful, slow, deliberate. When they were bare, he took his time. He savoured his taste, savoured his sounds, savoured his voice and his trembles and his shudders. When they laid together, when his lips trailed down to his neck, to his chest, to his abdomen, when his lover closed his eyes and tilted his head against the pillows and breathed out uneasily, still sensitive and unused to all the pleasures of the flesh and of love, he felt valhalla, and he felt heaven.

He loved him, all of him. He loved his personality, he loved his body, he loved his voice and his eyes and his words and his actions. He loved making love to him. He loved to tangle hands and limbs together. He loved holding him close. He loved feeling his body against his own. He loved him. 

And when their climaxes have been reached, when they have been cleaned from sweat and spend, when they are nothing more but two lovers together, Eivor will hold him closer, still. Or perhaps he will lay against him, or on him. Let his head rest against his chest and hear his heart beat in the cage of mangled ribs. And Hytham will be exhausted, but he will wrap an arm around his lover’s shoulders, and he will let his hand run through the blond locks, letting braids slip between his soft fingers. And they will lay there, skin to skin, with their breaths combined into one, with their bodies pressed together, as the winter darkness moves ever onwards. 

By dawn, when a new morning rose, when the sun shone over snowfall, they would wake together, and they would press their fleeting, lazy kisses together, savouring the warmth and the feeling of their lover’s body against their own. Then they would rise, and they would dress, and when the sky still flamed in yellow and orange, his lover would stand on the tips of his toes and press their lips together one last time, and then he would slip out of the cabin. He would walk alone with his hood raised, and only when he had disappeared between the trees that separated them from the settlement, only when the sun stood freely against the sky, would Eivor follow.

And when he would walk the path where his lover’s footsteps could be found, snow would whirl in the air. He would walk quickly, for nothing could weigh him down, and when he came back to Ravensthorpe, he would greet his friends with smiles. They would smile, too. He would feel free, freer than the ocean bird soaring over the tides and waves, freer than the breeze and freer than a mustang. The music that emanated from the house of the skalds would make him feel even lighter, and the whirling snow and shining sun and the memories of warmth and body would make him soar. 

And then, when the hours had passed, when he came down from his high, their paths would cross on the streets, their eyes would meet, they would smile so warmly, perhaps their hands would brush together, and once again, he would feel miles above any pain and suffering.

For, after all, the love felt light in his heart.

Please consider supporting this fic on ao3 too!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63059221

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

Just finished grinding Assassin's Creed Mirage! WOOHOO! ୧⁠(⁠ ⁠ಠ⁠ ⁠Д⁠ ⁠ಠ⁠ ⁠)⁠୨

I think it's a deffo wonderful game and a refreshment after the RPG trilogy (it does have RPG elements to it, but still), and it also have some things that are lacking. It reminds me of the good 'ol days, but deffo not on par with the good 'ol days.

Here're some of my thoughts and reviews!

🕌 Sleepy's Assassin's Creed Mirage Review 🗡️

(Spoiler Warning ⚠️ Including the ending ⚠️)

Disclaimer, this is just my personal opinion. You may agree and disagree. I’m just gonna talk a lot because I LOVE Assassin’s Creed with all my heart. Here goes.

VISUALS

(+) Basim Ibn Ishaq, the handsome man that you are… HOLY SHIT (yes I’m adding him as the first plus point of this game what of it). Man's fine AF. 

(+) Baghdad’s really beautiful, nuff said. The color palette is PERFECT - displays the warmth of the atmosphere really well, but also just enough greens and many starking hues of flowers. 

(+) The waters and environment textures are CRISPY.  The detailed patterns on the clothes, the engravings and the state of the arts is really cool. I haven’t really looked a lot into the 800’ Baghdad arts, but I can see lots of good details and art styles. SHOUT OUT TO THE ARTISTS!!

GAMEPLAY - Now here’s what I have a lot to comment on.

(+) Stealth -> I think they did quite good with the stealth. One of the many complaints that I saw on the previous RPG trilogy games was the fact that the main characters/players had no reason to be stealthy, because they can just barge in and defeat the enemies easily. Ubi has marketed the game to be more stealth focused and intentionally made Basim a less of a fighter (make sense, since he came from a thief background, unlike Bayek, Kassandra, and Eivor who are actual trained warriors since they’re kids). However, this brings me to the first lacking point.

(-) Combat -> The combat feels janky. I feel like I’m really fucked up in combat situations if I don’t upgrade my sword and dagger. Like I get it, Basim is not meant to be much of a fighter, but in the beginning parts (or… even the middle parts of the game, let’s be real), I feel like combat is HELL. I forgot the Youtuber who said it, but he said something along the lines of “I’m an assassin, I want to feel like an assassin and want to feel like a badass and can take down many enemies with ease.” And that actually rings true with me. When I’m in combat and countless soldiers are fighting or following me (and I don’t have the smoke bomb with the forgetting effect), I’m most certainly FUCKED. 

(+) The fighting style is cool though, it's stylish and the finishing moves are sick af. It could deffo use some work. 

(-+) Parkour/Movements - It’s alright. It’s most certainly better than the previous RPG trilogy, but it’s definitely not Unity or Syndicate. Sometimes Basim can do something that I didn’t want and I’ve lost count on how many times I got caught and died just from a mis-movement. I literally don’t understand why they don’t use the Unity parkours and combat styles. Unity’s parkour is smooth, swift, and stylish. It feels GOOD. 

(+) Stealing - I’m a loot goblin in games, and believe me, I think I’ve spent like hours just stealing from the entire population of Baghdad that by the end of the game I’m probably richer than the Taxmaster and the whole entire Abbasid Caliphate. It’s fun, it’s easy, but it can sometimes be hard enough to miss. I just hope there’s more variety/difficulty in the stealings in different places – Like maybe in the Round City the diamond thingy is much smaller, or in like for stealing merchants (who has particular fashion/silhouette or have wallets/pouches with different colors) can be harder to steal from but have more rewards and money. 

(-+) Map - OKAY. I love the fact that Mirage has a significantly smaller map than that of Odyssey and Valhalla. It’s focused and it’s much more centered. HOWEVER. For a game this caliber, and with this good of a graphic? It’s much too small and it’s too divided between two parts. Hear me out – The graphics are really cool, but I feel like the map is too divided between – either a densely populated city, or just barren lands of desert. I think the map could be much much bigger with much more collectibles and much more variety in the terrains. Like, for example in Black Flag (The S tier game. Argue with a wall), there’re more than one major city, while in Mirage the map is so very centered (Yes I get it it’s the Round City), but I’d love it if there’s another major city that we can travel to, like Damascus, for instace. + I love the Tales of Baghdad. MORE TALES OF BAGHDAD PLEASE. 

STORY - nOW THIS… I never liked the stories post - Origins and here's why : 

(-) LET 👏 THE ACTORS 👏 DO 👏 MOTION 👏 CAPTURE 👏 - My biggest complaint for the RPG game styles is always about the facial and motion animation. The cutscenes feel DEAD. The eyes are DEAD. I almost can't feel anything. Ubi is rich af, why not use facial capturing? AC3 was the first AC game to use motion capture, and holy shit… it's one of my fave games. Yes. All games, not only AC series. The emotion in their faces, the gestures, the small glances, the little movements - they all decide every character's personality. The reason why I love every AC since AC3-ACOrigins is because the actors pour all their voices, faces, even body movements into the interactions between characters, because they make the stories feel alive. Let the actors be actors. I can rant more but this is already a long post so I'll stop. MOTION 👏 CAPTURE 👏.

(+) I love Basim's origin story. Dude's a 17 year old street thief who got a bit over his head and ended up becoming a fugitive because he killed the fucking caliph himself. That was crazy HAHAHAH anyway even though I think the beginning felt a bit rushed I love it. I just wish they could milk it more.

(+) I love the side characters! Especially Ali (I think he's hot 👉👈 and he's the absolute freedom fighter). Anyway, even though they don’t really do much, they all feel alive and do lots of things (except Roshan prolly HAHAHAH but there's a reason I guess)

(+) Roshan. Mentor and reminds me of Al-Mualim. I particularly love the fact that after all that wise words throughout the game, she literally threatened Basim if he actually went to the underground temple. And when she showed up covered in blood??? And THE TWIST AT THE END??? "Roshan bint La-Ahad". SHE'S ALTAIR'S ANCESTOR. THAT FUCKING SHOCKED ME YOOOO. She's just amazing. 

(-) Pacing - I feel like this is because they’re speeding things up (which is a good thing), the pacing is pretty standard in the beginning, but the ending is a bit too high of a rollercoaster mount. The ending went from 0-100 real quick. I feel like we need a more of a climbing storyline. This is why I kind of don’t agree with the ‘centering’ storyline instead of a linear story. Centering styles of story has no climb in the intensity, and because of that we can’t feel the character developments because he’s supposed to stay the same even though we’ve killed like 3 bosses already. And then when all the underlings are dead, finally the boss racks up Basim’s curiosity super duper high that it becomes too sudden.

(-) Weak Villains - The villains since Origins are always hidden and unknown, unlike the previous games where the Templars are literally KNOWN by the people. I want more villains like Haytham tbh, where he literally doesn’t care about the precusor sites and only wants stability in his reign as a Grandmaster. Or if the villains do care about the Pieces of Eden or have a prior interest of the First Civ, at least let them have an actual personality and character, let them be a menace and a threat since the beginning of the game instead of being the NPC’s we kill to finish the game. Let them challenge our beliefs as an Assassin/Hidden Ones. Let the villains actually have an impact to the main storyline. Imagine in the end Basim and Qabiha really went to the underground temple together, and got confronted by Roshan. That’s where the conflict in Basim climaxed! Imagine the emotion! The drama~! 

(+) How the stories interlinked with Valhalla. Basim is a sage, and host of Loki who sought revenge to Odin (who wronged him). So I don't think Basim nor Loki are evil per se. They're just gray. Now the stories aren't just about Templars vs Assassin, it's more focused towards the First Civilization. It's a bit hard to keep up but it's nothing a bit of reading/looking up some lore videos wouldn't solve.

MISC

We need more outfits! The outfits are far too few for us to choose from! 

Wonderful and mystifying music. Nuff said. Brendan Angelides and Layth Sidiq nailed it. One Republic and Mishaal Tamer’s “Mirage” in on repeat on my Spotify right now.

I love gear chests hunting and all the collectibles. I just wish the map is bigger and there’re more collectibles T_T I’M A LOOT GOBLIN OKAY.

I learn history of Baghdad LFG. I play largely for the stories and not the gameplays, so if there’s a codex entry or any new historical sites I always read it. Learning history doesn’t hurt! 

How I can really relate to the real world. I live in Indonesia where 90% of the people is Muslim (I’m a Christian), so when I here familiar words like Alhamdullilah, Assalam’ualaikum and Wa’alaikumsalam, or see the people praying, the Adzan sounds throughout the city, the people praying towards the Ka’bah, it kinda feels like home! Just hope that they add more funny shit to it though, like “Yaallah Basim! Istighfar!” Or “WALLAHI.” Or more Arabic sayings so we can immerse more to the world.

MAKE BASIM DO THE 5 PRAYERS (maybe when we pass time or after a big mission we come back to him finishing a prayer).

FINAL VERDICT - 7.8/10 -> It’s a focused game, and it really did come back to some of the original elements of AC before the RPG trilogy. It’s not too long and casuals can play it without feeling like we have to grind like Odyssey or Valhalla. Deffo would recommend playing it!

Once again, BRING BACK MOTION CAPTURE ‼️‼️‼️🗣️🗣️

If you did play it gimme some thoughts in the comments! Thank you for reading! (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

[brambles-and-wyld-things]

Insert Introductory Post Here

Welcome! Sit down, grab a cup of something warm or hot and vaguely distinct!

I've actually been on gw2 off and on for nearly ten years now, although I consider myself a filthy casual. (Those of you who remember me from my RP days, no you don't /j)

That being said, I write a truly horrendous amount of fanfiction, and it only seemed appropriate to start a blog now that my brainrot has grown to medically concerning proportions.

But you're not here for that! You're here because for some godforsaken reason you were bored enough to read my introductory post that I made at the early hour of 1am, so without further ado, let me introduce you to the characters that you'll see me posting about on this blog.

The Provisional Commanders

My friend @mossydots and I brainrot about our lovely OCs together and put them in the torment nexus, and our four (their two OCs and my two OCs) are called The Provisionals, all four being Commanders together. I'm being light on the details for personal consent reasons, although I'm happy to chatter about my two!

Eivor Forgalsdottir (she/her)

“I don't like secrets. They're just lies with extra edges. A dagger you don't expect.”

Eivor Forgalsdottir is my main. For stats stuff, she's primarily a Scourge Necromancer with incredibly high condition damage and minions to draw aggro. I usually run her with dagger/torch and staff as my off-hand/range.

I didn't intend for her to become an incredible powerhouse, but good lord I clean house with her, She soaks up damage and is self-sustaining like nobody's business.

She's also my "I'm not the Chosen One but fuck if I don't keep stumbling into some weird-ass shit" character. A Norn who stubbornly turned her back to that whole Legend making business from a young age, who was considered particularly odd by Norn standards. A necromancer who's guided by Wolf, she usually lets her fists do the talking (or her friends).

But, as is often said, those who fight hardest against Fate often find themselves choked by it.

Or forcibly adopted by their Vigil mentor.

Roscel Bloomheart (he/they)

Those eyes carried a thousand yard stare, one that seemed to look through him. As if the Sapling was constantly elsewhere. Somewhere…undefined.

Roscel Bloomheart is my favorite punching bag, my torment nexus of endless delights. He's also, unlike Eivor, a deeply complex creature.

Stats-wise, he's a Warrior, who's currently rocking the Spellblade elite specialization with a dagger/mace and longbow for off-hand range. I'm still struggling quite heavily with his build, especially seeing as I'm looking to swap to greatsword to accommodate Caladbolg. Build websites cannot save me from my lack of comprehension and tendency to play support builds. When I figure out how to turn this man into a walking damage tank, it's over for the Elder Dragons.

His backstory is deeply complex and only partially lore compliant. Seeing as Trahearne has been my favorite since before Heart of Thorns came out, ten years later I decided to make a character who's quite entangled with his tragedy.

Trahearne deserved better.

Now that Roscel's widowed as of Heart of Thorns, he's beginning to find his own way as a Provisional Commander. Roscel, while charismatic and surface-level pleasant to be around, is a deeply wounded and distrusting individual. Thank the Pale Tree for good friends to make sure he doesn't get considerably worse.

The B Team

This is what I affectionately refer to my two other OCs as! I'm much less likely to post about them, unless for some reason I hyperfixate on them intensely, in which case we're all doomed.

I'll update this part later, when I have more pictures of them. But rest assured, if you hear me talk about Aoibheann and Alfhild, they're from this group. I love my foul-mouthed linguistics expert Sylvari and my Dolyak-loving Trader Norn.

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

For now, that's all! Thanks so much for taking the time to read this over, and I'll see you all in the Tangled Depths, where we're all still lost looking for Rox's track markers.

Bye!

[ordinorultor-if]

Some Physical Descriptions, pt.2

Hilda/Hilmar Hardrada

Imagine a stereotypical viking. Now give them an ice saw and cover them in scars. That's H. Built like a brick-shithouse with height to match, H is imposing in spite of their friendly nature. The fact that they have a penchant for wearing furs, thus adding volume to their silhouette, compounds this.

H's torso and arms are crisscrossed by all sorts of cut and stab scars, but their most noticeable scar is a graze wound on the right side of their head, which prevents their golden hair from growing there. Their scars aren't the only man-made mark on their body, however - they, and both of their younger siblings, have a kraken tattooed over their heart, in memory of their mother.

From what they say (and what a half-Ostrowegian MC can remember), H mostly takes after their father.

It's not a perfect match, but a good way to imagine H is Eivor from AC Valhalla. Best part is there's male and female variants for both characters, lol.

Dagrun/Dagobert Hardrada

D looks about like you'd imagine a mage to - thin and lanky, a penchant for dark-colored hooded robes, pale-skinned, and long haired, with their jet-black hair reaching all the way to their waist. When engaging in combat, they, like H, make use of chainmail and padded leather, though unlike H, D also makes use of a breastplate.

Despite their lack of room organization, D makes certain their person is immaculate. Many times has their elder sibling tried to catch them with even a speck of dirt on them, and many times have they failed.

Since D lacks both the frontline combat style and... adventurous... lifestyle of their older sibling, they are mostly mark-free, with two major exceptions: their lower-right arm, which is almost entirely scar tissue, and the space over their heart, which, just like both of their older siblings, is tattooed with a kraken in memory of their mother.

Much like how H claims to mostly take after their father in terms of looks, D (allegedly) mostly takes after their mother.

Charlotte/Charles de Alençon

C is basically Wolverine the shortest of the cast, but they're still fierce - they're even the second-most muscled RO, after H.

C is a more martial focused person due to their circumstances, and they have the looks to match. Much like B, they wear leather armor even at home (and change into plate when preparing for battle), and they keep their hair relatively short, only growing it slightly down their back (a little past their armpits, if I had to give an exact spot). Charles also declines to grow much facial hair (which he gets teased about, if B is also male.)

Despite the constant need to defend their territory, C actually has relatively few battle scars. In fact, their most notable scar is actually of medical origin, the result of a surgery performed as a young child to try and prevent improper bone growth in their left arm.

Florence/Ferdinand Anglouême

F is... the way I'd describe them is 'average but pretty'. Despite this, F is the one who probably cares the most about appearances. Much like D, they're never seen with a single speck of dirt on their body, and this extends to their outfit. F actually wears rather fine clothes, befitting their status as a duke/duchess.

Ferdinand is one of the two ROs to have facial hair. Unlike Hilmar's beard, however, Ferdinand's mustache is rather well contained, and he takes great care to make sure it's prim and proper. If you want an idea of what Ferdinand looks like, Aaron Taylor-Johnson in Anna Karenina isn't the worst illustration, different hair color aside...

F has several scars on their body, with several concentrated where their neck meets their left shoulder, underneath their right armpit, and around their groin. They also have a handful on their nose and some other extremities. These scars are the result of plague, which infected both them and their father, claiming the latter's life.

[cippicat]

Why is Eivor a female ?

Disclaimer: Eivor is female in Valhalla. STOP*

So...

There are many online theories about Eivor's gender. One of the most supported theory about her gender is that:

"During the Toba's catastrophe (AKA Ragnarok) the asgardian ISU, led by Odin/Havi the Allfather, used the seventh method to tranfer their soul/mind into a human form. A real proper reincarnation. To recognise each other they would have a mark on their necks. But something went wrong, because of the seventh method that was uncomplete. Havi, and one of the female ISU (not Freya), accidentally swapped places in front of Yggdrasill and Havi transfer his soul/mind into a woman, Eivor Varinsdottir. ".

I think that this theory is a quite probable theory.

BUT

There is a little problem

Look at their aspect

They are too similar like twins. This led me think that the seventh method was made to transfer also the body of an ISU, and the gender had not been contemplated so much.

And, we must not forget that the seventh method was uncomplete.

But why the others ISU had the same gender as before?

Plot requirements...

That's all

If Eivor had been a male, Basim/Loki would have recognised him immediately as the reincarnation of Havi/Odin.

Let's not forget that Eivor has no more the mark of the reincarnation, because of the bite of the wolf, and she has not be defeated by Havi (unlike Basim).

She will accept (tolerate) his presence. They will live togheter as an old couple, in Vinland. That's sad and quite disgusting in my humble opinion.

*and Ubisoft is sexist but this is a story for another time

[saltuary]

⪼ @allmonster // cont.

Faramir stood at the edge of the ruin, the hem of his cloak sodden with rain and stained with the oily smear of scorched timber. Smoke, that age-old ghost, curled from the wreckage like the fingers of a dying hand, whispering its lament into the wet air. He had seen such destruction before, knew there was no accident in this, so fresh and cunning and cruel in its timing. It kindled dread. A story not yet written, only threatened.

The northerner’s voice cut through the drizzle with that sharp, iron-edged clarity he had come to know so well. It was a voice born of snow and blood, a voice that refused submission. Still, it softened when they turned to him, even in their agitation. Their fury was not mindless, never was. It had the intelligence of a hound scenting out the snares in a hunter’s path. When they cursed in their strange and secret tongue, he did not ask them to translate. He did not need the words to know the meaning.

Faramir’s hand drifted instinctually to the hilt of his sword. This path – the long and winding vein through the dark hills – was not unknown to him, not entirely. Yet, like a wound reopened, it carried new dangers now. A ghost trail through forgotten villages and watchless woods, where the trees leaned close and the wind spoke in riddles. It had been years since any ranger passed that way with a full company and returned with all his men.

A crow cried somewhere distant. Sýnin, circling.

He drew in a breath, slow and contemplative, letting the taste of the moment steep on his tongue. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, each word placed careful as a cairn stone.

“Five days, yes. Four, if we surrender sleep. The map does not lie, nor do the scars on the land.” His gaze swept across the splintered beams and skeletal ropes, then back to his unlikely companion. “But neither do they account for purpose. This – ” He gestured to the broken bridge. “ – was no accident of storm or age.”

Beneath the shadow of his hood, flint-coloured eyes hardened with understanding. He turned from the chasm, away from the ruin and into the woods now thick with grey. Their path awaited, crooked as a broken rib.

“Eivor,” he said softly, but the name still held its shape like a stone in the mouth. “Your company is a grace I did not seek, but would not now forsake. Your trust, a thing rarer still. I shall not spend it idly.”

He offered them a glance, brief and piercing, before stepping forward – towards the trees, towards whatever fate would be theirs.

“Should we fall into some dark design, know this – I would rather be lost with you beneath these shadowed boughs than return to the safety of stone walls alone.”

[eivorx]

When your sul’dam forced your shift, there was no reverence or awe in the way they spoke to you - a dragon. It was with unbridled command, you resisted because of course you did, but it did nothing for you but cause more pain as you fought your own draconic transformation. Wings exploded from your back mid-scream, scales burst from your skin like bone shards, and as you spread to take flight, that lifting feeling of freedom never came. An island passed by on the horizon and you were the first instrument the sul’dam used to take it, those who did not bow were destroyed, those with a hint of magic were collared and as your sul’dam dismounted your back, he stroked your scales and whispered: good boy.  Vaelzhar, the Kossith have renamed you. Sky-Brand. You have been assigned to the Heart of Bone, run by the sul’dam Shaekir. A heart forged for precision, subjugation, and extraction. Shaekir believes that rahaat are little more than a flawed system, one that can be retooled and optimized to meet his expectations.  

Hiding for so long had always caused him pain. Every beat, every breath, it was one that was shortened for a reason, held back for another.

Eivor wasn't sure why he thought he could get away from this, hiding in his Elvhen form when they had others who could pull forward what he was holding back.

Pain was familiar, and pain was mindless. It wasn't unlike what he'd known for three centuries straight; what he'd felt beneath the hand of the Archon, of the Aetherians who ensured he held hearts in his palm and bodies beneath his jaws. But the Kossith knew what to pull, how much pain to inflict before it was against his will that his prismatic scales burst forth, his wings spread, and he roared to the sky.

It was a lesson, one that he had perhaps been wondering about all along. Why did the dragons of this world turn their backs? Because they were seen as fearsome creatures, beasts that held ill will towards all. The sul'dam only reminded him that he was a weapon; no great, revered dragon. No pride to be found swirling in his chest. Just obedience. Only violence.

Violence was an old friend, wrapped around the jaws of a dragon that had always been too afraid to open them and become what the dragons of the world had already learned. Yet he had been the first lesson, torn from this time, in a place that wasn't his own.

Witches crumbled beneath his claws, Elvhen, anyone whom the Kossith wanted, they bowed or they were torn from their world with a blast of prismatic magic that would leave nothing but perhaps a moment in the Wheel from when they had existed.

Anger. It was easy, and Eivor would let it consume him. He'd learned this lesson before, how easily rage could inhabit a body such as his. But this was his own demon, the one he carried with him. Every inch of him fought until he couldn't, until he could rise again the next day and start again. But more fell beneath him, with the sul'dam on his back, the praise that cut like knives through his scales. Another weapon for someone else's use. If he could've found death, it couldn't have been another answer. Not until he found his vengeance.

Vaelzhar. It wouldn't leave him; it would haunt him, or perhaps, one day, it would become another weapon. A tool against anyone that stood in his way. He'd become that dragon, and when it turned on the Kossith, with nothing in its gaze but the hate that filled its chest, he would have the last laugh.

He was a creature of pure magic, the telperion in his veins had only attempted to poison such a thing. He was Vaeros, and if he never became Eivor again, he would not waste a moment of mourning. Death would always answer in his place.

[radiofreewylde]

unlikely friends

I almost wasn't going to post this photo set when I remembered that I literally painted in Eivor's arm on every single photo because there was a gap between her forearm and upper arm and I wasn't gonna let my hard work go to waste lol

and you wouldn't have known this unless I told you 😈

[kyndaris]

Coffee Shop AU

Most first dates, or meet-ups as I like to call them (especially with a stranger), that I've gone to have involved lunch or coffee at a local cafe. Thankfully, in the city of Sydney, there are plenty of cafes (of varying quality) one can visit. And all of them come with a decent brunch menu (though some will close by 2:30 or 3 PM at the latest). Enter Edition Roasters. While it has a few branches in and around the CBD (Australian shorthand for Central Business District), my date and I picked the one in Darling Quater.

But I've jumped forward to our date and failed to introduce the person behind it all!

Although I've gone on a date before with a woman, Eivor, which didn't end up as well as I had hoped, I wasn't quite willing to quite throw in the towel. After all, how many dates have I gone with men? And while the men in my life have failed to make my heart flutter, who was to say I wasn't an asexual lesbian?

Especially with the so-called 'squishes'/ brief flirtations of attraction I've had with a few women I've met over the years? THough now that I think on it, do fictional men count in terms of romantic attraction? Am I still clutching at straws?

No, I couldn't yet label myself as aromantic just yet!

I mean, Dikottir isn't bad! It's just...I don't feel a sense of romantic attraction to him. Even though we've gone on five dates and have technically 'known' each other for a year now.

Alas, I have once more been distracted. Where was I? Ah yes, my so-called 'date.' So, yes, this trip out to Edition Roasters was my second meet-up with a woman.

From the very start on Hinge, we struck up a conversation on musicals including one that has yet to grace the stage - Epic: The Troy Saga by Jorge Rivera-Herrans. As a frequenter of Tiktok, she had heard the songs being performed whilst I had the good fortune for my Spotify shuffle list to insert a few of the songs whenever I chose to listen to songs from musicals.

Though not a frequent replier, we were both able to share our passion for musicals and also touched a little on their second passion: fanfiction. Given the obsession of my fellow classmates back in Year 8 and 9 for all things anime, and to stretch our writing skills, I was no stranger to fanfiction.

Back in my heyday, I used to frequent ones for Kingdom Hearts, Naruto, Shugo Chara! Even now, trying to ween myself off fanfiction, I still can't quite kick the bucket as I continue to lurk among the Harry Potter fandom, while occasionally experimenting with Far Cry 5 (yes, I'm a gosh darn sinner), She-Ra and a host of Disney ones as well.

It was because of her heartfelt passion for Epic, and how we did initially chat about mythology, that I've given my date the code name: Athena. Unlike Eivor before her, she was keen to arrange a meet-up sooner rather than later. So, after some discussion - with a variety of choice between multiple places to eat at - we finally settled on Darling Square.

I was the first to arrive. Shivering in the cold Australian winter, I put my name down on the paper sheet out front and waited for our number to be called out. Athena joined me shortly afterwards and we chatted a little about our week and our lives. Before too long, our number was called and we were directed to a table out in the wind (perhaps not the best choice but given how busy the place was, it made nabbing a table easier). Despite not having much sun, there was a heater purposely positioned close by to offer some warmth. Although, if I'm being honest, it was the hot chocolate I ordered, more than anything else, which served to defrost me.

Then it was time for the main meal. Athena ordered a miso salmon ochazuke after crunching the numbers on online reviews regarding the cafe's signature dishes, while I settled for a miso wagyu bolognese. As we ate, we talked a little of the work we did, our family composition, and the reason why we were dating. We even reminisced on many a bad date we've had - with her recounting one where the man hailed Hitler.

And though this is the second time someone I know has gone on a date with a seeming Nazi sympathiser, it's a bit strange that it's happened twice. I honestly have to wonder if they went on the date with the same man.

After lunch, we walked around Darling Harbour before heading up towards Town Hall station. It was, in my eyes, a wonderful day out. While I wouldn't have called it love at first sight, I certainly didn't feel as intimidated as my meet-up with Eivor at the ice-rink. Nor did I feel like Athena fail to meet the expectations I'd set up in my head.

I wouldn't say we clicked immediately but it definitely felt like we had a strong connection and understanding of the other.

Now, I wouldn't call that love but I'd say it went far more swimmingly than I'd feared. Yes, I was probably still putting up a front, but I didn't feel either one of us dominated the conversation. It flowed well, like having a good deep and meaningful natter with a good friend (rather than an acquaintance).

Is this a good sign?

But Athena did say to hit her up for another outing.

The only problem, of course, is that I'm not so much a foodie as someone who simply tags along and enjoys the food on offer (as long as it's not spicy). Does make me wonder if the two are related, though...

Are all asexuals bad with spice? Or is it just me with a low tolerance for both? Probably just me. And the smut fanfictions I read simply represents my ability to enjoy wasabi (to a degree). It's not the perfect analogy but I'll have to make do. This is, after all, coming down from spending an entire Saturday out and about at the Sydney Manga and Anime Show (SMASH!) and then finishing off all the chores I needed to do in preparation for the week ahead.

Give a 31, who will be 32 when this post goes up, woman a break! It ain't easy trying to juggle care for an elderly grandparent, work, hobbies, dating and what else when it comes to the adulting life. It's not like there's a manual!

[thebonerpit]

After playing four huge new games in a row recently I wanted to jump back into a game I've already played, and I ended up on Assassin's Creed Valhalla. It kind of made me reflect a bit on how initially I was quite disappointed with this game but now it's really, really grown on me.

I'm a huge fan of the newer AC games but when Valhalla first came out it was a very distant third place in that trilogy. There are still some things that annoy me (being forced into open combat for so many encounters rather than being able to stealth) but I think what threw me off the most at first was coming into it after Odyssey which has SUCH different vibes.

Like, Origins to me is a really fun adventure/mystery story. It has some dark and serious elements but it also has Bayek who can be quick-witted and funny, it has the great Bayek/Aya romance, and it has the creation of the Hidden Ones which is SO cool. And then Odyssey is just pure joy imho. Alexios/Kassandra is a big old goober and they're so silly and I mean I guess it depends on the choices you make but it always makes me feel so fufilled and happy at the end when the family gets back together. It's heroic and light-hearted, has a lot of really goofy side missions, and even the world itself is bright and colourful and full of life.

Then you have Valhalla. Valhalla is DARK. It has this overarching sense of futility and inevitability, like your fate has been written and there's no escape. Eivor is stoic and brusque and violent and quite frankly a little unlikeable. A lot of the victories don't even feel like victories. They're tainted by loveable characters dying, friends betraying you, basically: winning but at what cost? Eivor often feels lost in their own story, being manipulated by people like Basim and Fulke and Alfred. They're also burdened with Odin's memories and end up having to leave everyone they know and love to deal with that.

But it also has these moments of searing beauty that make it into a wonderfully stirring experience, and I think it took me a while to realize that. I missed the joy of Odyssey so much I couldn't appreciate what Valhalla had to offer. I've been listening to the OST a lot and I think it captures that bittersweet vibe perfectly... the main theme alone is so haunting. Most of the England you explore is dirty and muddy and brown but every once in a while you are at the top of a hill and you see a beautiful sunrise light up the gold in the trees and it's breathtaking. That, to me, is what Valhalla excels at.

[bansheeoftheforest]

Beneath the Northern Lights [ACV M!Evior x Hytham]

A/N: Another one of those wips I was practically done with in January/February and just did nothing with. This time a little prequel to Lingering Firelight! Hopefully I will be able to actually get out this mini series in an actual logical order from now on ✨

Summary: Hytham sneaks out of the Seer's hut at night, and Eivor seeks to reconcile. Together they share a moment under the northern lights.

CW: None that I can think of!

Wordcount: 3,891

Series: Part 1 of When The Light Lingers

Part 2 - Lingering Firelight

Norway is a desolate wasteland of darkness and impenetrable cold, with frost biting into the very bones of the soul. Only the smouldering fires glowing throughout the night made existence in such an unforgiving land less miserable.

Or, at the very least, that is how Hytham saw it.

There was beauty in it, of course, even if little excused the cold. The snow-covered tundras reminded him briefly of the deserts back home, yet so crystal white that it almost seemed uncannily unreal, with thick forests unlike any of the clusters of olive trees or tropical vegetation of home, teeming with fauna like a distorted echos of the animals of the Caliphate. And when the sun rose, the normally dark land of Norway shone with a glistening light unlike anything he had ever seen before, unlike anything he could ever describe. The snowbanks sparkled like a white night sky, and for a moment, he could forget the darkness a few hours away.

That was not even to mention the surreal green lights which lit up the sky at night.

It had greeted them when they had sailed towards the coast of Fornburg, nearly dancing across the sky like flowing fabrics. He had been absolutely mesmerised, standing by the prow of the ship together with Basim and Sigurd. His mentor had no snarky remarks over his childish amazement; on the contrary, he seemed quite amused—or perhaps he was merely equally taken aback by the sight before them. Sigurd had taken great enjoyment in explaining the phenomena to them. It was the glow of Valkyrie armour, he had said, brightening up the night sky as they descended from their flight to take the worthy souls to Valhalla.

He supposed it had been a positive, then, when he had been thrown against the cliff wall and, lying on the ground, looked up towards the northern lights. He had been sure of an imminent death, he was unsure if he even still was alive, but as the sounds of Kjotve’s final scream died in his ears, as the sounds of battle and war-cries turned further and further away, and as he had seen his mentor’s face peering over him, he had realized that Fate, or God, or the Valkyries, had other plans. He had failed, but he was alive.

He had not died that day, although he had yet to decide if that was a good thing. Basim had been by his side for the majority of it, even if he had been silent. His ribs had been broken, the healer said. It would be nearly impossible for them to be set correctly, heal correctly, this would be a wound that would remain. Just like that, he had thrown his life away. Perhaps Basim knew.

The northern lights were a comfort, though.

The healer was away for the evening, the sun had long since set and his restlessness had won over the pain, so he had put on his robes, his boots, and taken the furs that had been wrapped around him and with careful, limping steps made his way outside. He couldn’t say that he had experienced any worse injuries in his life, but he had experienced similar pain, and he had learned to grit his teeth and continue, even when his body howled in despair. A log had been placed close to the hut, a perfect place for respite until his mentor or healer came back. At least it would be, once he had brushed off the snow.

From here, near the mountain peaks, far away from the village itself, he could see the shoreline and the water, the sea, perhaps the ocean, a glistening mirror for the sky to reflect upon, dancing lights covering every surface of this part of the world. A vast shimmering nothingness where the tracks of their travel had disappeared just as soon as the ripples had been made. He should be grateful, of course, to travel. He got to see much more of the world than any of the other initiates and apprentices back in Alamut got, and yet...

“Are you supposed to be out in the cold like this?”

Hytham flinched. He looked towards the new voice; for some reason, Eivor was merely smiling at him, as if he was teasing a long-known friend. It seemed like the drengr decided that the log was big enough for both of them, as Eivor soon sat down next to him. Hytham didn’t even think to ask what the Wolf-Kissed was doing so far away from the rest of the village. Perhaps he knew what awaited him now.

As a Hidden One, one of the first things that he had been taught was the disguise. Not a physical one, although he had learned that as well, but a mental fortification to mask emotions and fear. A way to make one’s expression perfectly blank, intentions unclear, to never give an enemy a clue about the thoughts in one’s head. Eivor was not necessarily an enemy, but either way, said disguise seemed lost as they sat next to each other. Hytham felt a sort of embarrassment, humiliation, or simple nervousness taking hold of him. Perhaps Eivor was noticing.

You should apologise, the little voice in his head said. He saved your life, you attempted to take his honour. Yet he merely opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to say, like a gaping fish.

Eivor, to his credit, seemed to be more amused than anything else.

“Relax, friend,” Eivor spoke, voice kind and easy. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Friend. After such a short amount of time, after everything, friend.

“My apologies,” the Hidden One finally said. “For... Ah, everything.”

A crude consolation after what he had done. Had their threads in this tapestry been weaved any differently, switched in place, had it been Eivor keeping him from avenging the unrightful death of his parents, he was not sure if he would have been able to forgive him. And yet, as the tapestry currently stood, Eivor merely shook his head. While Hytham was hunched, unable to uncurl or move his torso more than necessary, Eivor stretched his legs out in front of them and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. It was not a pose of irritation, more... Nonchalance, in a way, as he took in the view before them. On his lips played a small smile. A gentle tug from the corner of his mouth.

“No need,” Eivor said easily. “If I am entirely honest, I might have done the same in your shoes.”

The younger man took a moment to process Eivor’s words. It was... Comforting, actually. To know, or perhaps assume, that their threads would be knotted the same way regardless of who had taken the leap. It made him feel slightly less guilty, slightly less foolish.

Still, Hytham said nothing, and instead adjusted the furs he had wrapped around him. He wondered momentarily how many creatures were skinned for such a large cloak. Maybe he was just small in comparison to the Nordic fauna.

“What is important,” Eivor continued, “is that Kjotve is dead, and that we can put all of this behind us.”

His head tilted slightly, not properly turning, but he glanced back at Hytham again. His smile widened. It was quite wolf-like, in a way, ironic considering the moniker he bore. His mentor had a certain habit of looking like a predator on the hunt, eyes peering as if always planning the most efficient way to tear his enemies apart, despite his facial expression remaining entirely neutral, wolf-like. But Eivor’s smiles and grins were little else than teeth, the physical manifestation of fangs bared. It was hard to know what was friendliness and what was threats when it felt like he was looking into the face of a hungry wolf. Eivor could tear someone apart with his maws if he wished.

Now, why did that make his cheeks turn warm? Yet, he just cleared his throat, tried to shake whatever that feeling was.

“Indeed.”

As Eivor turned back to the view, neither looked at each other, and they sat in silence for a moment. It had not been too hard to learn Sigurd’s language, at the very least verbally, yet he could not say that he knew anything about how to socially traverse in this moment. None of the many languages he knew could make up for the barrier between two strangers, and the aches within his soul made everything harder. Eventually, his gaze travelled from the shoreline to the sky once more.

It was different tonight, not a mere green or blue against the dark night sky, but like a rainbow of hues merging into one as the lights travelled and moved throughout the horizon; bright blues and vivid greens, as it always were, but also strong pinks and soothing purples moving as if in a dance. No one back home would ever believe such a sight. It was... Otherworldly. Indescribable, in a sense.

“I see you like our norðrljós,” the drengr spoke then. “I suppose you don’t have that further south?”

Hytham almost laughed. Perhaps he would have, if his ribs did not poke threateningly into his lungs. Every movement was a warning.

“No, nothing as such. Back home, we can see all the colours of the night sky, but never anything so...” He shifted slightly, momentarily forgetting that both hands were hidden under the furs, and hand gestures did nothing. “Fantastical?”

Eivor chuckled. Hytham couldn’t help but feel the corners of his lips tug into a soft smile, too. It was fascinating how at ease he felt next to Eivor, despite everything.

“I hope it makes up for the harsh climate,” Eivor joked, “Sigurd told me your land was hotter than the fires of Ragnarǫk itself. I cannot imagine dealing with such heat.”

Hytham couldn’t help but snort.

“He made that opinion quite known during our travels.” He shifted slightly, relaxed slightly, and straightened a tiny bit. “In our defence, we did tell him his furs were not suited for our climate. It is hardly our fault he didn’t listen.”

Eivor laughed again, loud and bright and warm. It was as if the sound itself warmed up Hytham’s cold, aching limbs, cradling him. He had missed gentle company.

“He has always been particular,” he agreed. “And exaggeration has always been in his nature.”

Oh yes, Hytham had noticed that many years ago, when he had first met the red-headed vikingr. The bravado was exasperating and amusing at the same time. Hytham offered Eivor a few inessential words in reply; they smiled, and then sat in silence once more.

The assassin began to realise that he started to like the other’s company. It wasn’t necessarily hard to understand why. Eivor echoed the tales Sigurd had told of him and they remained largely true; he was kind, despite everything. And as Eivor sat close to him, barely an inch of space between them, a single adjustment of their thighs would have their knees pressed together, despite all the space on either side of them. Back home, physical touch was nothing that was shied away from, but the Norsemen didn’t seem to even have a concept of personal space. The Norsemen clung together, shifting and bumping like bees in a hive.

“I trust Sigurd told you the story of the northern lights?” Eivor asked then, steering back to the conversation from before and turning back to look at Hytham, seemingly set on steering the ship to this specific fjord. The southerner met his gaze for a moment, although he just as quickly looked away, as if looking at each other in such a moment, with the entire fjord in front of them, was too intimate.

He is a stranger. Hytham attempted to remind himself. Whatever he says, we are not friends.

Yet he just swallowed dryly.

“He did.” Sigurd shared many tales during their two or so years of travel. Myths and legends were equally intertwined with history and science. Hytham never made a point of trying to distinguish between what was what when it came to the beliefs of the northern people. “The glow of Valkyrie armour, if I am not mistaken?”

Eivor nodded. When the other glanced over, he saw a smile tug on the drengr’s lips again, or perhaps still.

“Or the breath of the newly deceased drengir, depending on who you ask.”

“An omen of death, regardless.”

Eivor snorted.

“It sounds quite miserable when you put it that way, friend.”

Friend again. Did the Norsemen merely throw that term around, regardless of who it was spoken to? Was it sarcasm that his ears could not yet distinguish from their foreign language? He didn’t know, and so he just shook that growing, warm feeling off, masking it as a shrug. If the blush showed on his face, perhaps he could explain it away as the cold.

“Death doesn’t have to be a bad thing, I believe that is a philosophy you are well acquainted with.” He said instead. “Sigurd told me you celebrate death more than you mourn it.”

That gentle smile still rested easily over Eivor’s lips.

“True.”

Another moment of silence. Whatever effort Eivor seemed to be putting into keeping the conversation going was once more wasted, it seemed. Hytham saw from the corner of his eye how the drengr shifted... Was he leaning closer?

“I think you would have gone there, y’know,” Eivor said then, quieter than before. This time, he did not look at the other, but merely stared at the slowly dancing lights. “Valhalla, I mean.”

Hytham could not help but feel the surprise take over his facial expression as he looked at the other, eyes wide. Yet Eivor merely looked at him from the corner of his eye and smiled again, eyes glistening with something puzzling.

He had been told of Valhalla, of course. The All-Father’s hall where those who fell in noble battle had their eternal feast and their eternal battles, the end that the majority of the Norsemen and Danes seemed to wish for themselves. Far from the heaven he had been told about back in the Caliphate. Yet he could not help but furrow his eyebrows, knitting them tightly on his forehead. Just... Confused.

“You think so?”

“Mmhm.”

Eivor said nothing else and did not attempt to explain his reasoning.

“I...” Hytham blinked. “I am afraid I don’t follow..?”

Eivor seemed actually surprised for a moment, looking once more at his companion.

“You haven’t been told of Valhalla?” he asked, as if that was the most logical conclusion to Hytham’s confusion.

“I-I have, but I am unsure how…” Hytham tried to explain, but he hesitated. Basim had always been the one who knew exactly what to say, while Hytham often stuttered and struggled. Perhaps he could not blame himself too much, considering the state he was in, who he was talking to, what they were talking about. “... I am unsure how I would qualify?”

That puzzling, puzzled look in Eivor’s eyes returned, as if the southerner was an enigma he was trying to solve. It was not merely Hytham struggling to figure out the mystery next to him.

“You might have disrespected the rules of Holmgang,” Eivor started, slowly, hoping Hytham understood, “but that is because your own duty also called for Kjotve’s blood. You fought valiantly when you could.”

Hytham’s eyebrows furrowed even further, and the words came tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could think.

“But I didn’t fight at all, Eivor.” He hadn’t gotten a single stab in that day, the first casualty of battle. “He threw me like a sack of flour —”

Ah, Eivor thought silently, he is like that.

“But you fought,” the drengr argued. “You leapt for the throat of a man three times your size for a battle larger than yourself.”

He let his words linger for a moment. Then, he placed his large hand over Hytham’s knee, hoping the smaller man would process his words. The Norseman watched the furrow in his brow, listened to the raspy breathing.

“...Why are you defending what I did?” Hytham asked then. “You should be mad.”

Eivor raised an eyebrow.

“Do you wish for me to be?”

“No— but I...” The younger man sighed in defeat. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.”

Forgiving is what I have been doing, Eivor thought. Still, he squeezed Hytham’s knee, a gesture he hoped would bring some comfort.

“I did not wish for you to get hurt, Hytham.” There was something eerily serious in the drengr’s tone as he spoke this time, not the easy, gentle one used for the conversation about the weather they had just had a few minutes earlier. “I have forgiven you, and I hope you forgive yourself.”

The simple words and their clear intention felt like an enigma, a riddle, a puzzle. Hytham cowered slightly. He felt... Small. Perhaps it was the physical, imposing size of Eivor next to him, amplified by his own hunched position, or perhaps it was the strange words that left his mouth and got his cheeks to flare with warmth. Perhaps it was the words themselves, the meanings he was forced to reckon with. Perhaps it was just the cold. Perhaps it was the fact that he was hearing such words from a stranger, one who had saved his life, even after he had disrespected him. The words that said he was forgiven.

Eivor’s gentle smile soon returned to his lips. A comforting smile. It made his entire body tingle with an undeniable, consoling warmth.

“Oh.”

‘Oh’. That was the only sound that came from Hytham. It was all he managed to say. By the way the drengr’s supposed gentle smile only widened, almost a little teasingly, he suspected he knew that he was flustered. He could do little else but tighten the grip around the furs again. He wanted to say something — anything — attempt to show Eivor the kindness he had shown him—

“Hytham!”

Whatever words he would have attempted to speak were as lost at the call of his name. He flinched again, as he had when Eivor had found him on this log, wincing as he turned towards the sound of his mentor. He seemed less than pleased, standing by the door of the healing hut. How he had managed to place himself there without either of them noticing went beyond the apprentice. Basim made a sharp motion with his head, bidding Hytham inside.

The apprentice swallowed dryly and hurried off the log, or hurried to the best of his ability, what with his injuries and frozen body, letting Eivor’s hand fall off of him. He murmured an apology to his companion, who merely watched as he limped towards the older assassin. Basim held the door open for him, letting him slink inside. He stared at Eivor for a short moment.

“Good night, Eivor.”

The drengr felt no need to accept the obvious cue to leave, yet he still smiled at the other.

“Good night, Basim.”

Basim continued to look at him, then turned and took a deep breath, although he himself was unsure if it was in relief or an attempt to calm down. Either way, he stepped inside the little cabin and closed the door behind him.

This Basim was quite unlike the one he had met in the longhouse just a few weeks earlier. Eivor couldn’t help but wonder if Basim had always been so strict.

As Basim looked into the room of the hut where his apprentice was staying, he saw that Hytham was back on the bed where he had been ordered to rest for the last few days, and the days to come. Whatever bubbling feeling — the anger or relief, whatever it was — subsided easily, and for a moment, he felt a little guilty over his harsh behaviour, seeing the way Hytham cowered as he came closer. He had been scolded enough the last few days to know what to expect.

“Hytham— ”

“I’m sorry.”

Hytham’s interjection was quiet and mellow, although both knew he was not necessarily sure what he was apologising for. Be it having spoken to Eivor — why now that would not be allowed — or venturing into the cold night when he was supposed to be resting, sleeping. Basim sighed again.

“Don’t be.” His tone was the best he could muster to be gentle, although his lips were pursed thin whenever he wasn’t speaking. “But do not risk your health any further.”

He felt like he was scolding a child, quite fittingly, because Hytham felt like a child being scolded. He looked like one, too. Once he nodded, Basim turned away from him, towards the fireplace where the embers had begun to cool off, slowly poking into it, agitating the smoldering fire, before taking a few of the logs placed by the side. It was not until the fire was crackling again that he felt like he could calm down fully. Hytham avoided watching his mentor as much as he could.

“You will do yourself no service by getting smitten by the Wolf-Kissed,” the older spoke again. “Keep your distance.”

Hytham’s face flared with heat, embarrassment sending sparks over his skin and ringing in his ears. In shock, his eyes turned to the older man, the one who was still not looking at him.

“We— I wasn’t— ”

“Of course you weren’t.” There was no venom in his words, none that Hytham could detect, anyway. It almost sounded comforting, like he actually trusted him. But he saw the way Basim watched him from the corner of his eye. “But remember the oaths you have sworn to.”

The silence settled. The acolyte swallowed dryly, turning his gaze back to the floor. He had never feared Basim, but he feared the implications of his words. He feared what his mentor thought he had been doing.

“...Yes, Mentor.”

Basim nodded, just to show his apprentice that he had heard him. Then, he sighed once more.

“Rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, we will follow the brothers to Alrekstad and see where the althing leads. You will need to be up early.”

“Yes, Mentor.”

Basim nodded once more, still turned away from the younger man. When he said nothing else, the apprentice began to disrobe from the furs and clothes still wrapped around him, preparing for another night filled with pain and nervousness. The mentor merely stood there, letting his gaze travel across the room until his acolyte was back in bed, furs covering his meagre body, head resting against the crude pillows. For the first time since entering the hut, Basim properly looked at him. Hytham kept his eyes closed, even as he heard Basim’s footsteps come closer, even as he flinched when he felt his mentor’s cold fingers stroking his hair for just a moment. One of those small comforts occasionally allowed between them.

“Goodnight, Hytham...” Basim murmured. “Sleep well.”

The younger one pulled the furs tighter around him, murmuring his own quiet, barely audible ‘good night’. It satisfied him enough. With that, the mentor stepped out of the healing hut, knowing the seer would be back soon.

Eivor had disappeared into the night again, as seemed to be his habit. Above the mountain peaks glimmered the northern lights still.

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/66091483

[jpdoingwords]

Assassin's Creed Valhalla Fanfiction

All works are rated M, because there is canon-typical violence at times and there are multiple non-explicit sex scenes.

I ship Ubba and male Eivor, and everything I've written for this fandom has that in common.

All works are on AO3.

Thread Upon Thread Series

Snatched Moments A series of inserted scenes developing the relationship between Eivor (male) and Ubba Ragnarsson which is only hinted at in Valhalla. There will be unavoidable spoilers. Sorry! I am mostly canon compliant, but there are some things I have changed, and there will be an alternative ending to what was provided in the game (for Ubba.) * The Gods Only Know Ubba survived the battle on the Afon River, and lives now in Ravensthorpe at the side of Eivor Wolfkissed, the man he loves. Their happiness is only marred by one thing that seems impossible - their desire to have sons.

The Ravensthorpe Hotel. Summary: The pub in Ravensthorpe, Western Australia, is under new management after the passing of Ragnar. When it re-opens, the townspeople go en-masse to check out the new owners, among them, Eivor (male) and his best friends Randvi and Sigurd.

Collected Loose Threads This is a collection of odds and ends related to my Ubba/Eivor series, Thread Upon Thread, mostly following on from The Gods Only Know. I had imagined I would work them up into something more complete, but that seems unlikely now, so thought I would share them as is. Now includes The Hunting Trip, which was originally posted as the third part of the series, and a discarded continuation of the Ravensthorpe Hotel modern AU.

[leofrith]

no impulse control gang! an excerpt:

“Back there, with Leofrith… I didn’t think you would spare him,” Ceolbert commented as they walked side-by-side through the increasingly rowdy streets of Repton. 

Even with the myriad of injuries shared between them, the two had managed to heave Leofrith’s limp form back within the relative safety of the city walls and deposit him in a healer’s tent. A temporary refuge for the man while it was decided what would be done with him. 

Ceolbert had been none too pleased about the idea of leaving Leofrith alone, surrounded on all sides by revelling Northmen—Northmen who had just finished slaughtering or imprisoning the remainder of Leofrith’s forces. Eivor had installed Sten and Yrsa, two loyal members of her crew, to stand guard outside the healer’s abode. To keep Leofrith confined—he was not to be underestimated, even in spite of his injuries—but also to keep him alive. It wasn’t much in the way of protection if anyone were to attempt to kill the man in earnest, drunk as her raiders already were by the time she had asked for the favor, but it was enough to appease Ceolbert for the time being. 

“There is no honor in killing a man misled,” she answered. It had not been phrased as a question, but Ceolbert’s curiosity was plain enough. “He believed his king would die fighting for Mercia, just as he intended for himself. He was wrong.” 

And fight he had. Eivor could already feel the bruises forming under her armor, and she would surely find herself black and blue when she finally had the chance to take the hot bath she so craved. The throbbing pain emanating from the gash on her thigh was growing stronger by the minute, and she could no longer hide the limp in her step. Leofrith had been half in the grave by the time they’d crossed blades and although she could see the shadow of the exalted warrior that lay within, he had never truly stood a chance. 

But gods, he had made her work for it. 

“He knows the truth now,” Ceolbert said, overtaking her pace as they drew closer to the shadows cast by the church, where his father would surely be waiting for him. 

“Yes,” Eivor replied. But she was no longer sure the truth mattered. What good was the truth to a man who was unlikely to survive long enough for that knowledge to bear fruit? Leofrith would more likely spend his remaining days in chains before Ceolwulf thought it fit to make an example of him. A resounding message for any remnants of Burgred’s supporters who still clung to the memory of their cowardly king. His most loyal thegn, his head on a pike on Tamworth’s walls. 

Eivor had spent more than half her life pursuing her own betrayer, watching her revenge slip through her fingers time and time again like powdery sand. The idea of Kjotve the Cruel rampaging about the north while she lay in chains in far-off Ireland was a torture she couldn’t bear to imagine, even having just barely tasted its bitterness. 

No. Leofrith’s final days would be agonizing, and she was no longer certain that the truth was a mercy.

[asouthfacingfridge]

In AC Odyssey, you fight actual mythological creatures. The Minotaur is a person turned into an actual Minotaur via a precursor orb. The Cyclopes & Medusa too (Not sure about the sphynx though)

In AC Valhalla, it's at least implied that most if not all of the myth/magic stuff is Eivor hallucinating because of poison, alcohol or druid smoke. But then there are some fascinating implications from that.

Eivor fights Balor, an Irish 'supernatural being'. It's very unlikely Eivor had ever heard of Balor until that moment, but he matches descriptions of Balor. But if Eivor's fight was a hallucination or all in her head, how did she know what he'd look like?

[gurindragon]

(Post from July 29, 2024)

https://vk.com/wall279914318_315

Terasaka Karasu

A wandering ronin. Being a bushi (samurai), he failed to protect his master from an assassin's attack. Having lost his patron, he did not dare to commit ritual suicide (seppuku), preferring a life of dishonor, but with a chance to find the killer. Shay helps him in the investigation and gives him a new purpose in life, giving the Templar Order the most devoted warrior.

The ronin wears a kimono and a tattered hakama with a dirty hem. On his shoulders is a straw mino raincoat, and behind his back hangs a straw amigasa hat. A large Cormac crest adorns the samurai's cloak. His belt is wrapped in cloth, holding his katana and wakizashi, with two pendants with the insignia of the Knights Templar hanging from the hilt caps. A rosary (Buddhist, possibly Christian) hangs from his belt. On his left hand is a hidden blade, wrapped in bandages in the form of a cross (another parallel with the Order). Unlike the others, he wears the blade on the back of his hand (like Eivor and Darius), to warn his opponent of his advantage for a fair fight, but not to deprive himself of the ability to use the weapon. The blade for the blade is taken from a tanto dagger that once belonged to a ronin. Karasu has a unkempt appearance, typical of wandering warriors: an unkempt beard and raw, unkempt hair tied in a ponytail, the length of which, however, testifies to his pride and reminds him of his former status. "Karasu" translates as "raven". Belongs to the Terasaka clan and is a descendant of Terasaka Kichiemon, one of the legendary Forty-Seven Ronin.