#Unraveling Enigmatic Ruins

[davidclark24]

Unraveling Secrets of the World's Most Enigmatic Ruins | Evocative Explorer | Exploring the Secrets of Most Enigmatic Ruins in the World

AncientMysteries #HistoricalSecrets #HiddenRuins #LostCivilizations #AncientWonders #ForgottenWorlds #MysteryUnveiled #RuinsExploration #AncientSites #HistoricMysteries #SecretRuins #AncientLegends #ArchaeologicalDiscoveries #HistoricWonders #RuinsOfTime #AncientArchitecture #UnsolvedHistories #AncientEnigmas #TimeTravelThroughRuins #MythicalRuins

[deadly-diminuendo]

The Ascendant Takes a Bride

an ascended astarion x fem!reader oneshot / nsfw / ~4.4k words

Summary: Just as you and your family are about to fall into ruin, you agree to marry the mysterious Astarion Ancunín in exchange for his promise to pay off all your debts. Attractive and charming though he is, you cannot help but to feel nervous about your arrangement. Some say he is a vampire. You have seen evidence that both supports and counters that claim. You are not sure what to believe. Finally you find yourself alone with him on your wedding night—and Astarion has some unexpected surprises in store for you.

CW/Tags: breeding kink, wedding night, loss of virginity, vampire bites/blood drinking, piv sex, fingering, post-game

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Or read below...

Your husband lifts you across the threshold, tearing you from the comfortable life you knew and thrusting you into a fate unknown, a fate you hope will be kind but fear will be grim.

You did what you had to do. Your family would either flourish or it would fall, and you knew your willingness to marry Astarion Ancunín would make all the difference. Why accept utter ruination when you could instead ensure the prosperity of everyone you love?

Ill fortune plagued your clan for decades—dwindling wealth, diminishing influence, a decaying estate—there was almost nothing left. Poverty was no longer a distant nightmare but an imminent reality. Your parents prayed you might escape its chokehold with a prudent match, but without a single gold coin for your dowry, your prospects for marriage were dire.

When almost all hope was lost the unlikely offer came—the affluent and prestigious owner of the castle on the hill would be willing to pay off all debts and restore your household to its former glory—if only you would agree to become his bride.

The proposal shocked you. You had been introduced to the enigmatic pale elf, but he was far from a man you knew well. Your acquaintanceship amounted to no more than a few polite but empty conversations and the occasional twirl about a dance floor. Then again you did notice how his gaze tended to follow you about the room, and you could never help but to regard him with an equally curious eye.

You were both attracted to and intimidated by him. The gods themselves could not have crafted a more beautiful man, and yet… something about him unsettled you. His grip a little too tight, his smile not quite sincere. He gave you the distinct impression of a scoundrel only pretending to be a gentleman.

And you had heard whisperings about him. They say he is a vampire. A devious, ruthless, heartless man who subsists on the blood of his enemies.

Still you were intrigued. You spent more time than you care to admit constructing and revising his biography in your mind, attempting to, but never succeeding in unravelling all his mysteries. The red irises and the sharp canines certainly supported the local gossip. Yet you’d seen him in broad daylight. You’d seen him eat real food. You’d felt the heat of his skin every time you’d danced together.

Surely the rumours could not be true.

You had a choice to make. Suddenly you possessed the power to save your whole family. Everything—everyone—depended on you and you alone.

So of course you said yes.

Determined as you were, you could never fully exorcise your doubts. Instead you chose to ignore them, to focus on all the good that could come from this arrangement. Your troubles would be over. Your family would live well. You would want for nothing.

Not to mention it was surprisingly easy to picture yourself in his bed.

But those doubts you buried did not lie dormant. Oh, no. They crept and crawled beneath your skin, festering and mutating into a dread that now threatens to consume you whole.

You cannot help but wonder: are you a saviour or a sacrificial lamb?

Either way it is far too late for second thoughts. Today you vowed yourself to Astarion. You promised him your body, your heart, your soul.

You are his wife.

Every part of you tingles with nervous energy—the expected wedding night jitters greatly exacerbated by the misgivings you feel concerning your new husband—and yet you cannot deny the thrill underlying it all.

The way he kissed you at the altar was downright sinful. The way he whispered his desire in your ear made you shiver. The way he held your hips tight against his as you danced left you weak in the knees.

He frightens you, and excites you, and—gods help you—you want him to fuck you.

You thought he might throw you on the bed and make you well and truly his the very second you were alone together. Instead he sets you down with care, ensuring you find your footing despite the bulk of your billowing skirts.

You manage a brief survey of the room—a canopy bed draped in scarlet silk, a plush loveseat in front of the fireplace, high-vaulted windows welcoming in the starlight—and as excessive as it all is in its extravagance, you find it cozy. Romantic, even. A place that might yet become your personal paradise.

Or your gilded cage. You shudder.

Your gaze falls upon the object nearest you: an ornate full-length mirror. You almost fail to recognize the woman you see staring back at you. You are the very picture of fairytale whimsy in your intricate ivory lace and your crown of white roses. You smile. To hells with your unwelcome anxiety. This is your wedding night, and you will enjoy every minute of it.

Or at least you will try.

Astarion’s reflection closes in behind yours, and you find yourself rather relieved to see that he has one. Another strike against the rumours.

You admire him in the looking glass. High cheekbones, enticing lips, bewitching eyes. Even his so-called flaws, all his wrinkles and his laugh lines, suit him to perfection.

And he admires you right back—more shamelessly than you do him—hungry eyes mentally peeling off your dress as they rake you over.

“My beautiful bride.” You melt under his simple yet sultry praise, your imagination running wild with fantasies of what bliss the coming hours might bring. You know little of carnal pleasure but your own touch. By the end of this night you are sure to know much, much more.

His hands sweep across your shoulders, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your little capped sleeves. In the mirror you catch a flash of that devious smirk, the one that hints at the rogue you think he truly is.

“Almost a shame that I have to undress you.”

Your mouth runs dry, any words you might have said forever lost in the silence.

You do want this. You want to make love to your husband. You want to learn to love him in every sense of the word.

You want to trust him.

But can you?

“May I?” he asks, one hand travelling down to the laces at your back, the other hand enclosing yours in his. Feigning chivalry all while his firm grip screams out his barely suppressed urge to tear your gown from your flesh and pin you hard against the wall.

This is it. There is no going back now. You passed the point of no return hours before, your fate sealed with two little words: “I do.”

He wants you.

And so you will let him have you.

“Yes.”

With that, his fingers thread through your laces, pulling them loose with alarmingly efficient speed. Quite the expert he must be. You have, after all, heard talk of his rakish ways. Those rumours are much easier for you to believe.

You feel your bodice loosening, though your struggle to breathe persists, the weight of this moment somehow heavier than the mass of your dress. You gather your courage to do your part, tugging off your sleeves and letting the fabric fall away from your skin, pushing what remains down over your hips. Astarion takes your hand as you step out and away from your unwieldy gown, kicking it unceremoniously into a corner. The second it is out of the way, he pulls you back in front of the mirror with a force that makes you gasp.

“Look at you,” he says, and you glance at your reflection. You are bare before him save for what hides beneath your lacy smallclothes. “You are exquisite, darling.”

His fingers dig into your skin, seeking all your soft and sensitive places, your body beautifully pliable under his exploratory touch. He gives ample attention to the delicate curve from your waist to your hips, and to the lovely heft of your breasts, squeezing and kneading and molding you to his liking. You watch, mesmerized, the self-consciousness that might have held you back fading away. His thumbs repeatedly ghost across your nipples, soft lips nuzzling your neck as he grows hard against your backside—and, gods, your cunt aches for him. Not even the graze of his sharp teeth, suspect as it is, could dissuade you now.

Lust obliterates what was left of your modesty as sweet sounds spill forth from your parted lips. Already you are falling apart in his arms and he has not yet once stroked you between your legs. “Please…” you hear yourself beg.

He laughs. It’s a hearty, almost mocking sound, but you are too far gone to mind. “You will have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” As if he could not guess. Both of you know exactly what you want. “Use your words, pet.”

“Please touch me.”

Insufficient.

“Make love to me.”

Much better.

And there is one other little thing you should tell him.

“Like no one before you ever has.”

There it is, that devilish, devastatingly sexy grin. He is pleased. Maybe a little too pleased. You again note the pointed tips of his canines, and you expect, one way or another, you will soon be devoured.

“Oh, my sweet little virgin,” he purrs, hands slipping off your smallclothes, a finger dipping inside your slick heat. Hells. A relief sublime and yet nowhere near enough. “You have been so, so patient for me, haven’t you?” Patient is the last thing you feel right now as you arch into his touch, desperate for more friction, more pleasure, more Astarion. “Rest assured, my little love. I will reward you well. Grant you your every desire. Of course, I expect all I want in return.”

“Anything,” you cry, and you mean it. You waste no time contemplating the meaning of his words, nor your own. You just want to be fucked.

“Anything?” You nod and he smirks, increasing the pressure and pace as he inserts a second finger, holding you steady as you squirm. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you? All these years you saved yourself for my bed, and you didn’t even know it, did you?”

Should you be answering with a nod or a shake of the head now? You are no longer sure, your mind incapable of thought beyond imagining how glorious your orgasm will feel when he grants it to you. You eventually decide upon nodding, and you hear him chuckle.

“Adorable. The way you look, the way you sound—” He nibbles at your neck, then breathes into your ear. “And I bet you taste just as sweet.”

Your blood chills at the thought of him tasting it. A shiver runs down your spine.

No… Surely he speaks of something pleasurable. Something you have heard other young women gush and giggle about. Something you would like to experience for yourself. You let passion burn your needless worry away, writhing about as you refocus on release, your eyelids fluttering closed.

The next thing you know his hand is clutching your neck. “Watch.” You immediately obey his growled command, your eyes locking upon your own reflection, all flushed and disheveled. Gods, you look positively ravaged and you have yet to even take his cock. You glimpse his smile, a sure sign he is thoroughly enjoying the utter mess he is making of you.

“This pretty body of yours was meant to be mine, wasn’t it, pet?”

This time you know just what your answer should be. You nod furiously and he moves deliciously faster. It won’t be long now.

“Oh, and I assure you I will put it to excellent use.”

You nod again. You are certain he will. You keen as his fingers curl into you.

He grins. He knows he has you now.

“My, what an eager thing. You will be the perfect little vessel for me, won’t you?”

You agree. You would give him anything. As long as he takes care of you, too.

And he will take care of you, won’t he?

“A vessel to take my pleasure in whenever, wherever, however I want?”

You will. Gods, you will. You moan out your assent and punctuate it with his name. You will spend your life parting your mouth, spreading your legs, offering your body to fill and to fuck as he pleases. As long as he makes you come, too.

And he is about to make you…

“And to carry my children?”

You surrender to ecstasy as it wracks you senseless, clenching violently around his fingers and singing out your instinctive answer with ardour. “Yes!”

Only as the pleasure subsides do you begin to think things through.

What did he just say? What did you just say?

You knew this topic would come up eventually. It is an inescapable expectation among the nobility—sometimes unspoken, sometimes spoken very loudly—but always present either way. And yet the last thing you expected was for Astarion to speak of children right on the cusp of your consummation. You thought you would at least first get to know each other as lovers and partners before ever considering becoming parents.

Your state of shock does not discourage him. Instead he smiles wickedly as he gives your hardened nipple a pinch, sending another jolt of desire straight to your cunt. He begins rubbing your clit again, making you mewl, only to leave you whining when he withdraws. He leaves a trail of your own slick along your skin as his hand slides up to rest at your lower abdomen.

“Oh, my sweet love. I can already imagine how gorgeous you will look swollen with my child. You do want to give me a child, don’t you?”

You stare in silence though you have to admit it is not an unwelcome idea.

“You will let me come inside you, won’t you?”

Gods. Now that is an idea you welcome gladly. Something innate, something deeply ingrained within your core cries out your need. You crave it, crave to let him spill his seed inside you. You wriggle about in his arms as you picture it.

Motherhood just might suit you.

Astarion spins you around and you gaze into those stunningly hypnotic eyes. You press a hand to his chest and discover that his heart beats just like yours, its steady, strong tempo dismantling your lingering doubt. A mortal. Like you. 

“I can tell you want this, darling,” he says. Perhaps you do. “Your heart races at the thought. Give yourself to destiny. Give yourself to me.”

Only one answer comes to your mind.

“Yes.”

He captures your lips in a kiss that ignites your lust and kindles your affection. His arms feel like home. Like you have always belonged to him and you always will.

You need him now.

You only manage to undo a single button of his overcoat before he lifts you off the floor and lays you atop the silk and softness of his bed. Your bed, you realize. You imagine spending many endless nights together here in a tangle of limbs.

He stands there stripping himself as you lie and watch with rapt attention, and yet you hardly know where to look—his beautiful eyes bore into you with intense hunger, his deft hands work effortlessly through his every layer, his newly bared skin tempts and tantalizes you—every part of him competes for your admiration. When he finally pulls off his smallclothes your eyes are instantly drawn to his cock, thick and flaunting his desire. On instinct you part your legs.

The sight of you splayed in invitation lures Astarion onto the bed and over you, arms and legs caging you in, lips colliding with yours, cock ready at your entrance. You roll up your hips to tease him, your lack of patience testing what little remains of his.

Your little nudge is all it takes to make the last of it crumble and he crashes into you.

You wince at the initial tinge of pain. It passes in seconds, dulled by your arousal, and you are thankful for the mercy. You succumb to the pleasure of him stretching and sinking into you, your body eager to accept the whole of him as he slides deeper inside.

“Easy, darling. I promise a little pain is worth all the pleasure.” He gives you the soothing coos and slow movements of a gentle and cautious lover—a part he plays well, you would think, if not for the tension you detect coiled in his muscles. You recognize he is a man struggling to hold back, and that epiphany has your cunt clenching around him.

Emboldened by your obvious want, he starts to fuck into you in earnest, pushing in and pulling back in a rhythm you already know will be your new addiction. At first you try to match every intoxicating motion, pushing your hips upwards to meet him thrust for thrust, but instead you find yourself squirming wildly, only able to pet him as he works. You relish the sound of his grunts and groans, how they signal his enjoyment of you, though you know you are drowning them out with your wanton moans. He does look far too in command of himself for your liking, and in your mind you set yourself a goal: you will learn how to make him relinquish that tight control.

Of course, if Astarion wants to focus on your pleasure—well, you certainly will not complain about that. If nothing else, your husband is proving to be a generous lover.

You reach up for a kiss, eliciting from him a growl that rumbles down your throat as you taste his tongue. Never have you felt this close to another person, and you long to get even closer. You touch his face, his chest, his shoulders, wanting to explore every inch of his skin as you take every inch of his cock. When you throw your arms around his back, the scars your fingertips find there briefly distract you, but you quickly decide that is a story for another time.

Experimenting a little, you pull your legs back and angle your hips, the slight adjustment to your position an even better fit than you thought possible. You squeal when he presses into a delightfully sensitive spot—and so he does it again, and again, and again, repeatedly, rigorously, relentlessly. You concentrate hard on your impending climax, your mind conjuring up an image of him filling you to the brim with come night after night.

“You are mine. Mine to treasure. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed.”

That delicious thought sends your walls spasming, your mind shattering, your entire body pulsing with incomprehensible bliss. His name bursts from your lips as you ride out the sensation, and it pleases you to know you will be calling it out the rest of your life. You have never felt better.

Still you wanted him to join you in your freefall over the edge and you cannot help the twinge of disappointment you feel when you realize he did not finish with you.

Not that you mind continuing to indulge in your favourite new activity.

He stills a moment and you stare up at him, confused, concerned, even. “I would like to try… a little something else. Take a little more from you. That is if my dearest little love would be so good as to oblige me.” You cannot imagine what he means. You must look utterly baffled because he then chuckles and asks, “Do you trust me?”

“I would trust you with anything.” The words slip out automatically and yet they come as a surprise to you. He is your husband, yes. But you barely know him. You thought you were done questioning this, but a shadow of doubt creeps back in. Something in his tone you do not like. Honey laced with poison.

Is one night of passionate sex really enough to found your trust on?

You decide it is a good start at least, and brush off the invasive thought.

He grins and turns you around, his hands all over you again, his lips planting kisses along your back, your shoulders, your neck. You let out a contented sigh.

A sharp, searing pain rips through you. You grimace. In your hysteria you imagine daggers embedded in your neck. And then it hits you.

Fangs.

You married a vampire. You let him fuck you. You let him bite you.

The first shock subsides, leaving a throbbing numbness in its wake, blood rushing out of your veins and into his greedy mouth. You should be screaming in horror, planning your escape, forsaking your vows in hopes of a return to a normal life. Instead you lean back, pliant and willing, nestling yourself against him as he holds you in his fierce embrace.

You have never known such peril and yet in the cradle of his arms you feel… safe. 

You should not feel safe.

“Sweet hells,” he rasps when he stops, lapping at your wound one last time. “I have not tasted something so delectable in decades.”

This is madness. And yet a surge of pride swells in your heart at his praise. You do feel a little dizzy, a little weak—but still very much alive.

He pushes you to your knees and plunges back into you, a hand pressing you down as he fucks you into the mattress. You steal a little glance at him over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for only a second—but you will never forget their eerie, unnatural glow. You bury your face in your pillow and shut your eyes. Perhaps it is better that you don’t look. That you don’t know.

So this is Astarion out of control.

You tremble in ecstasy and in fear, still shaken by the frightful revelation, and yet still yearning to merge and meld with him endlessly. Your body begs you to bend to his will, an echo of his voice reverberating in your mind. Succumb. Surrender. Submit. So you do. You could not deny him now even if you wanted to.

You let yourself moan with abandon as his length slams in and out of you. You revel in the divine new depth this position allows him to explore and the feral sounds he makes as he drives into you faster. Bucking against him, you find yourself shaking as you reach the precipice of your pleasure.

With every pump, each more erratic than the one before, you can sense Astarion losing more and more of himself in his frantic search for euphoria. When at last he finds it, cock twitching and pulsing against your walls as he spends himself inside you, you break apart again with a delighted cry. Your final thought as he fully empties into you is a question of how long it will be before you begin to grow round with his child.

When it is done, you lie panting beneath him, logic and reason beginning to clear your clouded mind. You become all too aware of his seed seeping out of you, and the dull pangs of pain in your punctured neck. How can you just accept all of this?

Astarion settles in beside you, and taking a tentative turn, you face him, eyes catching sight of the red trail trickling down from the corner of his mouth. Blood. Your blood. He casually wipes it away as if it were no more unusual than a little spilled wine. You shiver.

You know your shock must be written all over your face. “Come,” he says, and you listen, shifting your body closer to his and giving into his gentle caresses. When he speaks again, his expression is soft, his voice smooth. You feel a touch more at ease.

“You were so, so brave for me tonight. You need not fear what I am, love. Besides—I need you mortal. Fertile.”

A deluge of questions and concerns flood your mind, and yet that last word sends a thrill through you that shakes you to your core, pushing your worries away. Already you want more of Astarion—you want him to cherish you, to worship your being, to bring you heaven again and again. You snuggle up against him, communicating your desire with a burning kiss. 

You will ask for answers someday.

But not tonight.

+++

Astarion likes to watch you.

Never has he seen a lovelier creature. You sit smiling down at the sweet baby bundled in your arms, the swell of a second child already beginning to show even through the layers of your dress. You have done your duty so beautifully well. Like he always knew you would.

He decided he would have you the moment he saw you. So like a love he lost ages ago and yet her superior in every way. The defiance he recalled and resented had long been bred out of your line, replaced with a demurity and a domesticity that made you ideally suited to your purpose. You could not be any more perfect for him.

And so he made it his mission to make you his. No doubt he could simply charm you into bed, but it was not enough to make you want him. He had to make you need him. The fools in your family had already made much progress in that regard without his interference, but the pull of a string here and there ensured your desperation.

And of course he made every claim on you he could. He wedded you. He was the first and the only to bed you. And he impregnated you so very easily. It was like you were made to be bred. What better way to declare to the world that you are his and his alone?

Your beautiful brood of children will strengthen his reign, infiltrate and influence every powerful organization, spread the Ancunín name throughout the city and the whole world. And the nobility does like a lord to have his heirs—even if an immortal will never need a replacement.

He watches as you look up. You notice him and give him that pretty smile.

You have given him so much. Even love. In him you have awakened an affection he thought he might never feel again. That he did not even know he needed.

You complete him.

He smiles back at you.

There is only one claim left on you to make, one that will come years from now, when the time of child-bearing is behind you.

To make you his bride for all eternity.

Thank you for reading!

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[realspacejunk]

Across the sprawling tapestry of our world, amidst the flat lands and forests, the mountains' solemn peaks, the rugged coasts, sprawling dunes and the silent depths of cavernous earth, there stand monuments of enigmatic grandeur. Reminders of a time forgotten, there lie scattered remnants of the bygone Age of Wonders, veiled in mystery and cloaked in the hushed secrets of heresy. These ruins, wrought of ethereal white stone intertwined with veins of golden and silver, stand as solemn sentinels to an era lost. Their works speak of skill and power beyond our reckoning, a testament to the ingenuity of minds now forever stilled. Tales among the learned speak of a people long vanished, a race of ancients known as the Nairim. Once, they walked beneath the god's golden light, their footsteps echoing through the halls of time, the wonders of their creation inspiring fairy tales of fools. Yet, lust for grandeur and folly marked their days, and they dared to defy the gods themselves, their ambition a flame that consumed them til their race was destroyed and their last bones became dust. They stand as a warning, a cautionary tale of betrail enshrined in words and tongue. To admire the ruins of the Nairim is to court the ire of powers long dormant, to stir the embers of forgotten evil. Thus the voices of the wise counsel against delving too deeply, against unravelling the threads of a past best left undisturbed and buried. Let the ruins of the Nairim, these Humans, stand as silent witnesses to the folly of their hubris, as testament to the fragility of mortal pride. Let them stand, and let us heed the lessons they impart, lest we too be consumed by the flames of our own hubris and the thoughts of heretical darkness.

Thalas the historian, History of the White Towers - Introduction to the Old Cultures of the Continent of Sands Fourth Age

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (8/15)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @lovebittenbyevans @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @httpsserene @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @xoscar03 @saturnville @weetjy @pinkcatcus @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @vile-harlot @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @destinyg237 @niahxo @purplelewlew

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 8: Big Fraud

The Ritz-Carlton in Mexico City buzzed with anticipation as the cream of society gathered for the Almave tequila launch. Rorie stood beside Lewis, her sequined gown catching the soft light of the chandeliers. The ballroom was a symphony of clinking glasses and animated conversations in Spanish and English.

"You look stunning," Lewis whispered, his hand finding the small of her back.

Rorie smiled, leaning into his touch. "Thanks, babe. You clean up pretty well yourself."

As they made their rounds, greeting investors and celebrities alike, Rorie couldn't help but feel a sense of surrealism. Just a week ago, she had been on stage at Austin City Limits, her performance with Lil Yachty still reverberating through social media and music circles.

The aftermath of that night had been a whirlwind. Clips of her performance had gone viral, with music critics hailing it as a triumphant debut to the stage. She unconsciously placed a hand on her still-flat stomach, remembering the moment they had seen those two pink lines on the pregnancy test after such an amazing show.

"Rorie," Lewis's voice brought her back to the present. "Carlos was just asking about your performance."

Rorie blinked, focusing on the smiling face of Carlos Slim Jr. "Oh, I'm sorry. It was an incredible experience. The energy of the crowd was unlike anything I've felt before."

The launch was a culmination of Lewis's hard work and passion, but recent events cast a shadow over their celebration. Her mind kept drifting back to the recent developments. The lawyers had been working tirelessly to uncover the source of the leaked information.

Rorie's phone buzzed in her clutch. She ignored it, having grown accustomed to the constant notifications since her sperm donor's attempts to contact her had intensified.

Lewis sidled up beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Everything okay, love?"

Rorie sighed, showing him her phone. "Five missed calls from unknown numbers. I'm pretty sure it's him."

Lewis's jaw tightened. "We'll handle it, babe. Don't let him ruin this night for us." He leaned close to place a tender kiss on her forehead. "How 'bout we get some dessert?"

"Are you trying to distract me with sweets, Sir?"

Her teasing made her husband chuckle, his eyes brightening with mischief as he waggled his eyebrows seductively. "Is it working? Because I'd love to get you back to the hotel room and cover you in choc–"

"Lewis!" a familiar voice called, causing the couple to turn and face Iván Saldaña, Almave's co-founder and Master Distiller. "C'mon, unravel yourself from the missus for one second for a photo. Dios mio, you're obsessed with her."

"Shit, have you seen my wife?" was Lewis' response, followed by a hard slap on Rorie's ass. She yelped in slight pain, swatting him off, and he had the wherewithal to laugh like the menace he was. "Three photos tops, Iván."

Before she knew it, Lewis was off, padding towards Iván to pose for a couple of photos.

Rorie shook her head, smiling despite herself at Lewis's playful antics. As she watched him pose with Iván, her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out, her smile fading as she saw an unknown number flashing on the screen.

With a deep breath, she answered. "Hello?"

"Aurora," her father's voice came through, a mixture of relief and anxiety evident in his tone. "Thank you for picking up. I've been trying to reach you."

Rorie's jaw clenched. "I know. What do you want?"

"I want to talk, to explain. Please, give me a chance to—"

"Now isn't the time," Rorie cut him off, her eyes darting around the crowded ballroom. "I can't do this right now."

Before he could respond, she ended the call, her heart racing. She barely had time to collect herself when her phone buzzed again, this time with a text message from another unknown number:

Your perfect little world is about to come crashing down.

Rorie felt a chill run down her spine. This wasn't her sperm donor - the tone was all wrong. Who the fuck was this? Was it the same person from Paris?

"Are you ready to head out?" Lewis's voice startled her. He had returned from his photo session with Iván, concern etched on his face as he noticed her troubled expression.

Rorie hesitated for a moment before showing him the text. "I think we have a problem."

Lewis's expression hardened as he read the message. "We need to talk to our security team. This isn't just annoying anymore; it's threatening."

Rorie nodded, feeling a mix of fear and determination. "You're right. But let's not let it ruin the night. This was your moment, babe."

Lewis wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. "Our moment. We're in this together, remember?"

As they stood there, the party continued around them, oblivious to the tension between the couple. Rorie leaned into Lewis's embrace, drawing strength from his presence.

"I just don't understand who would do this," Rorie murmured, her voice muffled against Lewis's chest. "And why now?"

Lewis pulled back slightly, his hands moving to cup Rorie's face. "We'll figure it out, love. I promise you, whoever's behind this, they won't get away with it."

Rorie nodded, forcing a smile. "You're right. We've faced worse, haven't we?"

"Much worse," Lewis agreed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Remember that time Lyric decided to redecorate the living room with his finger paints?"

The memory brought a genuine laugh from Rorie, easing some of the tension. "God, that was a nightmare. This is nothing compared to that, right?"

Lewis grinned, pleased to see some of the worry leave Rorie's eyes. "Exactly. Now, let's say our goodbyes and head out. We'll deal with this head-on tomorrow."

With renewed determination, they made their way through the crowd, saying their farewells to key guests and thanking them for coming. As they stepped out into the cool Mexican night, both Lewis and Rorie knew that come morning, they'd be ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead – together.

The next few days were a whirlwind of preparations for the Mexican Grand Prix. Rorie accompanied Lewis to the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, her presence a calming influence amidst the pre-race chaos.

The circuit was a marvel of engineering and culture, its layout weaving through the heart of Mexico City. The iconic stadium section buzzed with anticipation, its grandstands already filling with passionate fans. The air was thick with the scent of street food and the sound of mariachi bands, creating a uniquely Mexican atmosphere that set this Grand Prix apart from all others.

During a quiet moment in the Mercedes garage, Rorie's phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from an unknown number:

Aurora, please. We need to talk. - Dad

Rorie showed the message to Lewis, her frustration evident. "He just won't stop."

Lewis pulled her into a hug, then hesitated. "Actually, babe, there's something I need to tell you. I... I had a conversation with your dad at the Austin Grand Prix."

Rorie stiffened in his arms, pulling back to look at him. "You what? Why didn't you tell me?"

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his braids. "It was unexpected. Toto called me to his office, and your father was there. I didn't want to upset you, especially with your performance coming up."

Rorie's emotions warred between anger and understanding. "What did he say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "He said he wants to make things right, to be part of your life. He talked about regrets, about missed opportunities. I could see the pain in his eyes, Rorie, but I also saw determination."

Rorie's mind raced. "And what did you say to him?"

"I told him it wasn't my decision to make," Lewis replied softly. "I said that you're the strongest, most incredible woman I know, and that if he wanted a chance, he'd have to earn it. I made it clear that I'd support whatever decision you make."

Rorie nodded slowly, processing the information. A mix of emotions played across her face - gratitude for Lewis's protection, frustration at being kept in the dark, and a lingering sense of uncertainty about her father's intentions.

"I appreciate you looking out for me," she said finally, her voice thick with emotion. "But next time, please tell me. We're in this together, remember? No matter how difficult the conversation might be."

Lewis nodded, relief evident on his face. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just... I saw how stressed you were about the performance, and I didn't want to add to that. But you're right, we're a team. No more secrets."

Rorie leaned into him, drawing comfort from his presence. "Thank you for standing up for me. I just... I don't know how to feel about all this. Part of me wants to hear him out, but another part is so angry at him for showing up now, after all these years."

Lewis wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You don't have to decide anything right now. Take your time, think it through. Whatever you choose, I'm here."

"Lewis, it's time!" Rosa yelled, earning a small smile from Rorie.

"Go race, we'll talk later," she told him.

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." After a kiss on her lips, Lewis jogged over to Rosa and his engineers.

Rorie watched as Lewis prepared for the race, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. The constant attempts at contact from her father, the revelation of Lewis's meeting with him, and the excitement of the impending race all vied for her attention.

She observed Lewis as he went through his pre-race routine, his focus unwavering despite the chaos around them. Rorie couldn't help but marvel at his strength, his ability to compartmentalize and perform under pressure. It was one of the many reasons she loved him.

As Lewis pulled on his helmet, he turned to Rorie, giving her a thumbs up. She returned the gesture, forcing a smile despite her inner turmoil. For now, she would push her personal concerns aside and focus on supporting her husband. The race was about to begin, and with it, a temporary escape from the complicated emotions surrounding her father's sudden reappearance in her life.

The roar of engines filled the air as the Mexican Grand Prix got underway and the cars lined up in their designated spots. From her spot next to Toto, Rorie nibbled on her nails, her eyes absentmindedly on a screen, her heart thumping erratically in her chest as she waited for lights out.

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

The Miami bar buzzed with Sunday afternoon energy, sunlight streaming through large windows. A woman sat at the counter, sipping a colorful tequila cocktail. She brushed her long extensions off her shoulders as she settled in her seat, her eyes glancing up at the TV.

Lewis Hamilton appeared on screen, celebrating his podium finish at the Mexican Grand Prix. The woman's lips curved into a slight smirk. There was no denying how attractive he was.

Too bad he wanted to be with such a boring, lame-ass bitch.

She sat up a bit straighter, a cocky air about her. Lewis would be so much better with someone like her on his arm. Someone who could truly match his star power.

Her phone buzzed with a message:

Running late. Be there in 10. - A

She sighed, signaling the bartender for another drink. As she waited, she contemplated the weight of the information she possessed about Rorie and Lewis's life. It was a power that both thrilled and unsettled her.

The door opened, and Alexander strode in, his face set in its usual mask of cool indifference. He took the seat next to her, ordering a scotch.

"What do you have for me?" he asked without preamble.

She reached into her bag, pulling out a manila envelope. "Everything I could get my hands on. Financial records, private correspondence, even some additional medical information."

Alexander's eyebrows raised slightly as he leafed through the contents. "Impressive. How did you manage this?"

A conniving smile played on her lips. "Someone close to them who's feeling... overlooked."

"Let me see the files," Alexander said, reaching for the envelope.

She held up a hand. "First, let's talk money. I want more."

Alexander's eyes narrowed. "We've discussed this. I can't increase the amount."

"Do you understand the risk I'm taking?" she countered. "If they find out—"

"They already have a lawsuit against us," Alexander interrupted. "We're proceeding carefully."

The woman leaned back, her posture defiant. "Without more money, I'm not giving you the info. Maybe I'll find another tabloid that values my contributions more."

Alexander's jaw clenched, anger flashing in his eyes. After a pregnant pause, he spoke, his voice low and controlled. "Fine. If that's what you want to do, then do it."

With that, he stood up and left the bar, leaving the woman alone with her secrets and her tequila cocktail. She watched him go, a mixture of frustration and uncertainty crossing her face as she contemplated her next move. The woman's confident facade faltered slightly. She turned back to the bar, her manicured nails tapping against the polished wood surface.

"Another?" the bartender asked, gesturing to her nearly empty glass.

She nodded, her eyes drifting back to the TV where highlights from the Mexican Grand Prix were still playing. Lewis's face flashed across the screen again, his radiant smile a stark contrast to her current mood.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb hovered over a name - KiKi. She hesitated, weighing her options. KiKi had agreed to meet with her briefly for lunch a couple of weeks ago, but the meal quickly went left when KiKi realized that it was nothing more than a bashing on Rorie. Despite her initial liking for Kiara, she was still too far up Rorie's ass and she didn't need to draw any suspicion right now.

A notification popped up on her screen - a news alert about Rorie's recent performance at Austin City Limits. The woman's lips curled into a sneer as she read the glowing review.

"If they only knew," she muttered under her breath.

The bartender set down her fresh drink, and she took a long sip, savoring the burn of the tequila. Her mind raced with possibilities. Alexander might have called her bluff, but she wasn't out of options yet.

She opened her notes app, reviewing the information she had gathered thus far. Financial records, private correspondence, medical information - it was a treasure trove of potential scandals. But without Alexander's backing, publishing it would be risky.

Was I ready to put that kind of heat on me? I can always go to TheShadeRoom or something...

A familiar face caught her eye at the other end of the bar. It was a reporter she recognized from a rival tabloid. An idea began to form in her mind.

Gathering her things, she stood up, smoothing down her dress. She tossed back the rest of her drink and made her way towards the reporter, a calculated smile playing on her lips.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "I couldn't help but notice you're from The Globe. I think I might have a story that would interest you…"

She sat beside the reporter and began telling him about the secrets she uncovered about Rorie and her family.

The reporter’s brows furrowed as he listened, his interest slowly waning. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "I’m not saying it’s not juicy," he began, holding up a hand to stop her mid-pitch. "But it’s too much heat right now. You’re talking about exposing big names, and our editorial team won’t touch it. They’d rather run another puff piece than risk the legal blowback."

The woman’s carefully constructed smile wavered, but she quickly recovered. "So, you’re telling me The Globe isn’t interested in the truth anymore? That’s disappointing." Her voice dripped with feigned surprise, masking her frustration.

"Look, I get it. You want to break a big story, but this one’s a no-go. If I were you, I’d sit on it until the timing’s better." He gave her a sympathetic shrug, clearly eager to wrap up the conversation.

She forced a polite laugh, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Thanks for the advice." With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bar, the weight of yet another rejection pressing on her chest.

By the time she reached her apartment, her heels clicking against the floor tiles echoed the pulse of determination in her veins. She wasn’t about to let some risk-averse reporter stand in her way. She dropped her purse on the entry table and kicked off her shoes, moving with purpose through the space until she reached her living room.

The room was a contrast to the polished exterior she showed the world—papers strewn across every surface, sticky notes marking key points, and a laptop open to various incriminating files. She knelt down, spreading the documents across the floor, each one representing hours of careful digging, discreet meetings, and favors called in. Emails, private text messages, medical records — it was all there.

If no publication was willing to continue running with this, she’d have to do it herself. And she had just the platform for it.

Standing up, she crossed the room to her vanity where her ring light and phone stand were already set up. She adjusted the light, making sure it cast just the right shadows to enhance her fierce determination rather than reveal the strain she was feeling. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore—it was about taking control of the narrative, about showing the world that Rorie was nothing more than a bum-ass whore who used people.

She opened Instagram, her fingers moving swiftly as she set up the live stream. Her followers were used to seeing her poised, offering advice on fashion and makeup, but tonight’s stream would be different.

As the screen flashed "You’re live!" her expression shifted from controlled anger to cool confidence. "Hey, y'all," she began, her voice silky smooth, with just a hint of venom. "I know you’re all used to seeing me share fashion tips, but tonight’s different. Tonight, I’m exposing the truth behind the smoke and mirrors. Let’s talk about Rorie Hamilton, and the fact that she's nothing more than a manstealing, fake ass bitch."

She leaned closer to the camera, letting the tension build. "You see, perfection comes with a price, and what if I told you that behind every glowing headline, there’s a trail of deceit, betrayal, and lies? I’ve got receipts—documents, messages, things that will make you rethink every article, every performance, every charming interview she’s given."

The chat exploded with comments as her followers clamored for details, but she remained calm, letting the suspense build. "I’m going to walk you through it all. So sit back, grab some popcorn, and let’s dive into the real Rorie—the one who’s been hiding behind that carefully curated mask."

With that, she reached down and held up the first document for the camera, zooming in just enough to reveal a hint of the damning information. She knew exactly how to play this—releasing just enough to whet their appetites, while keeping the most explosive content for the right moment. She was in control now, and nothing was going to stop her from burning it all to the ground.

As she continued her exposé, detailing every sordid secret, the view count climbed higher and higher. This was only the beginning, and she was just getting started.

Rorie’s nerves were frayed, her fingers tapping anxiously against the armrest of the leather chair in their suite. The luxurious comfort of the hotel room did little to ease the tension that had settled in her chest. The room’s atmosphere was thick with unspoken worries, but the muted sound of Julian’s voice on the phone filled the silence.

The emergency meeting was inevitable after Deja Barnes' Instagram live took the internet by storm. Julian, the Hamiltons’ long-time lawyer and fixer, had booked the first flight to Mexico as soon as the situation escalated. Within hours, headlines were ablaze, tabloids feeding off Deja’s revelations like sharks scenting blood in the water. The story had gone viral overnight, turning their world into a frenzy.

Julian finally hung up the phone and turned to face them, his expression severe. "We’ve got a crisis on our hands. Deja’s live went beyond just gossip; she laid out things only someone close would know. Every major tabloid is picking it up—she’s framed it as the inside scoop on your marriage and the most salacious details about your lives."

Rorie’s hands curled into fists. "She’s not ‘someone close’ anymore, Julian. She hasn’t been for a long time."

Lewis sat across from her, his brows knitted in disbelief. "Deja? This doesn’t make sense." His voice was strained, caught between confusion and hurt. "Why would she do this? We were friends. She was like family at one point. This doesn’t seem like her at all."

Rorie’s chest tightened at the way he said "we were friends." She’d known this moment would come, when the truth she had kept buried would have to be laid bare. Her eyes met Lewis’s, seeing the pain and bewilderment swirling in them, but she had to tell him what she knew—even if it shattered whatever nostalgic image he had left of Deja.

"It wasn’t what you thought, Lewis." Her voice was low, weighted with exhaustion. "Deja had her own motives, and I ignored the signs for too long."

"What do you mean?" Lewis leaned forward, bracing himself for an explanation.

Rorie took a deep breath, bracing herself for the revelation she had kept to herself for years. "Deja had a crush on you. A serious one. It wasn’t just friendly affection or admiration. It was something deeper, something… twisted."

Lewis blinked, stunned, and let out a sardonic laugh. "A crush? On me? That doesn’t make any sense. We were all close, but she never—"

"She hid it well," Rorie interjected, bitterness lacing her words. "But I saw the signs, eventually. The looks she’d give you, the way she always found excuses to be around us, especially when things were tough for us."

Lewis shook his head, still processing. "We were trying to have Lyric during that time. She was supposed to be supporting you, helping us through it."

"That’s what I thought too," Rorie said, her voice growing colder as she recalled the events. "It was all a ruse. She was using our struggles to get closer to you. She even joked once about volunteering to be our surrogate."

Lewis’s eyes widened. "She what?"

"I thought it was a joke too, but it wasn’t. Looking back, I realize she was testing the waters, seeing if we’d be open to something like that." Rorie’s expression darkened as she continued, "It got worse. There was this one night—you had a race, and I wasn’t there. When I arrived later, I found Deja waiting for you in your hotel suite, naked in the bed."

Lewis recoiled, disbelief and disgust mixing in his expression. "She was what?"

"Naked, Lewis. She was there, waiting for you like it was normal, like she had every right to be there." Rorie’s voice cracked as she relived that moment, the betrayal still fresh. "I don’t know how she got access to your room, but there she was, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She even had the nerve to say that you two had been having an affair, but I knew better."

Lewis was speechless, struggling to comprehend how someone he had trusted could betray them so completely. He was visibly shaken, running a hand through his hair as he tried to wrap his head around it all. "What did you do? How did you handle her after you found out?"

Rorie’s expression hardened. "I had security escort her out of the hotel, and I blocked her from everything—social media, our contacts, everything. I didn’t want her anywhere near us, near you, near the family we were creating. She tried reaching out a few times, but I ignored her. I thought cutting her off was enough."

Lewis’s voice was barely above a whisper. "I had no idea. I’m sorry you had to deal with that alone."

Rorie looked at him, her eyes softening for a moment. "I didn’t want to burden you with it then. We had enough on our plate with trying to get pregnant, and you were dealing with the pressure of racing. I thought it was easier to just handle it quietly and move on. But I should have told you, should have let you know what she was really like."

Julian cleared his throat, bringing their attention back to the crisis at hand. "What’s done is done, but now we have to focus on damage control. Deja’s gone public with this, and the longer we take to respond, the worse it’s going to get."

Rorie nodded, her jaw clenched in determination. "She might think she’s got the upper hand, but she’s underestimated us. We’ll handle this, and we’ll make sure the truth comes out—our truth, not hers."

Lewis reached out and took her hand, a silent promise passing between them. No matter how messy things got, they’d face it together. But the betrayal lingered in the air, a reminder of how close their past had come to tearing them apart. And as much as they wanted to put this behind them, Deja’s actions had set off a chain of events that neither of them could fully predict.

For now, all they could do was prepare for the storm ahead.

Lewis sat alone in his driver’s room, the steady hum of the paddock outside muffled by the walls. His phone was propped against the table, earbuds snug in his ears as he listened to the interview playing on The Breakfast Club. He knew Julian had warned him to stay away from it, to focus on the race weekend and leave the crisis management to the professionals. But Lewis had never been one to sit idly by when his family was under attack. Protecting them, especially now with Rorie’s pregnancy, was his top priority—even if it meant shouldering the burden himself.

The interview was already in progress. Deja’s voice, slick with false sincerity, came through clearly as she spun her tale of betrayal and heartbreak. "Rorie always wanted what I had, but I never thought she’d go as far as taking Lewis from me," Deja claimed.

Lewis clenched his jaw, his fists tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. This woman, someone who had once been close enough to be considered family, was rewriting history with a twisted narrative designed to inflict maximum damage. And what frustrated him most was that people were eating it up—treating her lies like gospel.

Angela Yee, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. Her voice cut through the nonsense with precision. "But let’s be real here, Deja. If you were so close to Lewis, how come we never heard about this supposed love story before? You’re saying you were in love with him, that Rorie took him from you, but from what the public saw, you were just a friend. So what’s the real deal?"

Deja didn’t waver, her delusions fully intact. "Of course, it wasn’t public. We kept it low-key out of respect. But I was there before she was. I was the one he leaned on, and when she saw how close we were, she made sure to push me out. It’s not the first time she’s done this to people, either. Rorie’s always been good at playing the victim while she manipulates things behind the scenes."

Lewis couldn’t take much more. He paused the interview, running a hand down his face. He glanced at a small window to stare at the Brazilian race track. Brazil has always been their sanctuary, the place where everything seemed to fall into place. The chaos surrounding them now was a stark contrast to the peace they had always found there. Brazil wasn’t just another location on the race calendar; it was where their love deepened, where Lyric had been conceived during a trip filled with laughter, love, and hope. It was their “zen den,” a place where the rest of the world faded away, leaving only them, together.

That’s why it was so important for him to shield Rorie now. She was working on her latest Nike Women campaign, a massive deal that she’d landed just before everything started unraveling. On top of that, her ambassadorships were piling up, her brand flourishing. He couldn’t let this mess derail her success or put unnecessary stress on her during her pregnancy. Julian was doing everything in his power to contain the damage, and the cease and desist had already been issued to Deja. But the interview, recorded before the legal warning, was still out there, fueling the frenzy.

Lewis sighed, taking a deep breath as he tried to refocus. He couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, not with the race looming and all the media duties he had to handle. But how could he not be? His family was everything to him, and knowing Rorie and Lyric were in Brazil as well, surrounded by close friends and family, brought some comfort. They were safe in their haven while he dealt with the ugliness of it all. That was the trade-off: he’d take the heat so they didn’t have to.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Rosa poked her head in. "Media session in five minutes, Lewis."

He nodded, slipping his phone into his pocket as he mentally prepared himself for the inevitable questions. The journalists would be circling like vultures, eager to dig into the drama, but he’d handle it. For Rorie, for Lyric, for their future child—they were counting on him to keep it all together.

Lewis walked into the media building, the energy buzzing with anticipation as reporters packed into the room. Cameras flashed as he took his seat on the driver’s panel, dressed in his black Mercedes team shirt. His expression was steely, the usual playful glint in his eyes replaced with something more guarded. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him—some curious, some sympathetic, and others eager for controversy.

He nodded to a few familiar faces among the press corps. The other drivers were already taking their seats - Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, and Fernando Alonso among them. They exchanged brief greetings, a mix of professional courtesy and the camaraderie that comes from shared experiences on the track.

The moderator began the session, and as expected, the questions started rolling in. Most were about the race weekend—the setup for the car, tire strategy, and his thoughts on the circuit. Lewis handled those with ease, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone brought up the topic he had zero interest in discussing.

And then it happened.

A journalist from a tabloid well-known for stirring up drama leaned forward, his tone dripping with false politeness. "Lewis, we’ve all seen the headlines lately, especially with that recent Breakfast Club interview involving Deja Barnes—"

Lewis cut him off, a bitter chuckle escaping as he shook his head. "Who?"

"What are your thoughts on the recent allegations made by Deja Barnes?"

"Oh," Lewis interjected, leaning back in his chair with a slight smirk. "I don’t speak on snakes. I save that for my lawyers."

The room fell silent, tension thick in the air as Lewis stared down the reporter. "Do you have any questions about the race? You know, the reason we’re here?"

The reporter stammered, caught completely off guard. "Well, uh, I was just—"

"Okay, let’s go to someone who has a question about racing," Lewis said firmly, turning away from the flustered journalist. "I’m not entertaining it."

The moderator quickly moved on, calling on another journalist who thankfully asked about tire degradation and track conditions. But even as Lewis answered the technical questions with his usual focus and precision, the shadow of that earlier exchange lingered.

Fuck The Sun, and most importantly, fuck that woman.

He could sense the ripple it had caused among the reporters, some nodding in approval while others scribbled furiously, eager to turn his comments into their next headline. But Lewis didn’t care. He was here to do his job, to represent his team, and to protect his family. And if that meant shutting down every attempt to drag him into Deja’s delusional circus, he’d do it unapologetically.

The lush greenery of São Paulo's outskirts provided a serene backdrop as Rorie lounged by the pool, watching 15-month-old Lyric splash around in his floaties. Her sister, Aaliyah, kept a watchful eye on the toddler.

"Wa! Wa!" Lyric babbled excitedly, kicking his little legs in the water.

Rorie smiled, her heart swelling with love. "That's right, baby! You're in the water!"

Aaliyah, at 23, shared the same warm smile as their mother, Marian. Though technically her half-sister - the daughter of Marian and Greg - Rorie never thought of her as anything less than her full sister. Aaliyah guided Lyric gently through the pool. "He's fearless, just like Lewis," she remarked.

"He really is," Rorie agreed, watching her son with pride. "Thanks for being here, sis. It means a lot."

Aaliyah shot her a supportive smile. "Always. That's what family's for, right? So, have you decided if you’re going to call him back?"

Rorie’s gaze shifted to her phone resting on the lounge chair beside her. The text from her father, Martin, had come in earlier that day, and it had been gnawing at the back of her mind ever since. She’d been going back and forth about whether to respond, torn between curiosity and the desire to avoid more stress. Aaliyah’s question brought that internal debate back to the forefront.

"I don’t know," Rorie sighed. “Part of me wants to just ignore it, but… I’m curious. I want to hear whatever bullshit he’s trying to spin this time."

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to open that door? You’ve done well keeping him at arm’s length. Sometimes it’s better to let toxic people stay where they are."

Rorie knew her sister was right, but something inside her nudged her toward at least hearing what he had to say. "Yeah, I know… but I think I’m gonna call him. Just to see what he’s really on."

Aaliyah shrugged, "Your call. Just don’t let him mess with your head. You’ve got enough going on without letting him add more drama."

As the day progressed, Rorie's mind kept drifting to the unopened messages on her phone. Martin's texts and voicemails had been piling up, each one a reminder of the decision she'd been avoiding.

After putting Lyric down for his nap, Rorie retreated to the privacy of her room. She took a deep breath, her thumb hovering over the call button, before eventually pressing the button.

As the phone rang, her mind raced with thoughts of Deja's betrayal, the media frenzy, and now this impending conversation with her long-absent father.

"Aurora?" Martin's voice, a mix of surprise and hope, came through the speaker.

"Hello, Martin," Rorie said, her tone neutral.

Martin took a deep breath. "I know I have a lot to explain. I've made many mistakes, and my absence in your life is my biggest regret."

"Why now?" Rorie asked. "Why reach out after all these years?"

Martin hesitated. "I've been following your career, your life. I'm so proud of the woman you've become. I... I want to be part of your life, if you'll let me."

Rorie's voice hardened. "You had that chance years ago. Why should I believe you've changed?"

The conversation continued, with Martin explaining his past actions and expressing remorse. Rorie listened, asking pointed questions about his absence, his current intentions, and his sudden desire to be in her life.

"I understand if you can't forgive me," Martin said towards the end of the call. "But I hope you'll consider giving me a chance to prove myself."

Rorie took a moment before responding. "I appreciate your honesty, Martin. But I need time to process this. I can't promise anything right now."

As they ended their call, Rorie sat on the edge of her bed, her mind reeling from the conversation. She replayed his words, searching for sincerity, for any sign that his intentions were genuine.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. "Ror? You okay?" Aaliyah's voice came through.

"Come in," Rorie called out.

Aaliyah entered, concern etched on her face. "I saw you on the phone. Was it...?"

Rorie nodded. "Yeah, it was Martin."

Aaliyah sat beside her sister, placing a comforting hand on her back. "How do you feel?"

"Confused," Rorie admitted. "He said all the right things, you know? Apologized, said he regretted not being there. But I don't know if I can trust it."

"You don't have to decide anything right now," Aaliyah reassured her. "Take your time."

Rorie leaned into her sister's embrace. "I just keep thinking about Mom and Greg, how they've always been there. And now, with everything happening with Deja and the media..."

"Hey," Aaliyah said firmly, "You've got us. Me, Mom, Dad, Lewis, Lyric. We're your real family. Whatever you decide about Martin, we've got your back."

Rorie felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. "Thanks, sis."

Just then, they heard Lyric's babbling through the baby monitor. Rorie couldn't help but smile. "Sounds like someone's up from their nap."

"Want me to get him?" Aaliyah offered.

Rorie shook her head, standing up. "No, I've got it. I could use some cuddles from my little man right now."

She padded over to Lyric's room, her heart instantly lightening at the sight of her son. Lyric was standing in his portable crib, his little hands gripping the rail as he bounced excitedly.

"Mama!" he exclaimed, his face breaking into a wide grin.

"Hi, baby," Rorie cooed, reaching in to scoop him up. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, inhaling his sweet baby scent. "Did you have a good nap?"

Lyric babbled in response, his little hands patting Rorie's cheeks. She couldn't help but smile, feeling the stress of the day melt away in her son's presence.

On a whim, Rorie decided she needed more than just a quick cuddle. She gently lowered Lyric back into his crib, then, to his delight, climbed in after him. It was a tight fit – the portable crib wasn't meant for adults – but Rorie managed to scrunch herself in, lying on her side next to Lyric.

Lyric giggled, clearly amused by his mama's antics. He snuggled close, his little body fitting perfectly against hers. Rorie wrapped an arm around him, savoring the moment.

"Mama swilly," Lyric said, patting her arm.

Rorie chuckled. "Yeah, Mama's being silly, huh?"

As they lay there, Rorie felt the tension from her conversation with Martin slowly dissipate. The world outside, with all its complications and challenges, seemed to fade away. In this moment, it was just her and Lyric, safe and content in their own little bubble.

Lyric's eyelids began to droop, the excitement of Mama's surprise visit giving way to post-nap drowsiness. Rorie hummed softly, a lullaby she remembered from her own childhood.

As Lyric drifted off to sleep, Rorie continued to hold him close. She knew she'd have to face reality again soon – decisions about Martin, dealing with the Deja situation, preparing for the baby on the way. But for now, she allowed herself this moment of peace, drawing strength from the pure, unconditional love of her son.

In the cramped confines of the portable crib, Rorie found a spaciousness in her heart. Whatever came next, she knew she had this – the love of her family, the joy of motherhood. And that, she realized, was more than enough to face any storm.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

[doumadono]

Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, smut (short & not graphic), viking themes, Shoto is a spoiled brat

Summary: in a Viking world of power, secrets and warriors, a young woman captured during a raid finds herself entangled in the life of Dabi, the enigmatic eldest son of the ruthless earl. As secrets, scars, and desires collide, their unconventional connection unfolds in a tale of love, danger, and destiny

Word count: circa 5.9k

A/N: for a few years, I've held a fascination with Viking themes and their historical era. Recently, I had the idea to place Dabi in such a setting and see where the story would take me. I sat down to write and found myself falling in love with this new narrative instantly. While it might seem trivial to some, it's already become a precious gem to me. I plan to unravel the story over six chapters. I hope you enjoy the first one, and I'm open to all opinions. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

MASTERLIST NEXT CHAPTER KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU

ACT I - UNMASKING THE SCARS

As the longship glided silently through the dark waters, the moon cast a pale, ethereal glow on the rugged Viking coastline. The scent of salt and adventure filled the night air, and the crew of fierce warriors, led by Dabi, the renegade son of the brutal, ruthless Viking earl, Endeavor, prepared to make landfall.

Dabi, at thirty years of age, bore the marks of a troubled past. Dabi's once-pale skin was now marred by those burns, darkened like a charred log in the heart of a raging fire. His body bore the scars of a fire that had ravaged him in his youth, a cruel gift from his own father, who had attempted to kill him. But it was these very scars that had forged his determination and honed his indomitable spirit. His hair was the color of snow, and his eyes were as blue as the frost-covered sea. He had a reputation as a fierce warrior, known for his ruthless tactics and the way he fought with the fury of a tempest.

The village he came from was a place of cold stone and rough-hewn timbers, where the Viking way of life reigned supreme. The women of the village shied away from Dabi, for his scars marked him as an outcast. He lived a life of solitude, seeking solace in the wild, untamed lands that surrounded their settlement.

Their destination was a small Christian village, nestled among the rolling hills. It had been raided by Dabi's people before, but tonight was different. Tonight, Dabi's heart was restless, and he was inexplicably drawn to the village's fate.

As the Vikings stormed the village, chaos erupted. Houses were set ablaze, and the cries of the villagers filled the night.

The raucous cries of his men filled the air as the village burned and the spoils of their raid were gathered. Dabi stood at the heart of the chaos, an enigmatic figure in the midst of destruction. A faint, unsettling smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hidden beneath the eerie wolf's jaw mask.

He watched with satisfaction as his warriors, his loyal comrades in arms, looted and plundered. The riches of the Christian village flowed into their grasp, their spoils of war. It was a successful trip by Viking standards, a brutal triumph in the unforgiving world they inhabited.

Amidst the smoldering ruins of the Christian village, the Vikings had unleashed their wrath. Blood had been spilled, and the lives of some villagers had been brutally cut short.

But not all of the villagers had met a swift and merciless end. The Vikings, with a calculated eye, had chosen to capture several women and a few men, sparing them from the fate that had befallen their companions. These survivors would serve a different purpose, as slaves in the service of their Viking captors. Among them a young woman. Her hair was the Y/H/C, and her eyes held the innocence of a world untouched by the brutality of the North.

As the raiders dragged the captives away from the charred remains of their homes, the air was heavy with the weight of despair and uncertainty. These men and women, once free, were now prisoners of a world far removed from the peaceful existence they had known. Their lives had taken a harrowing turn, marked by servitude and the harsh reality of Viking conquest.

For Dabi, this decision was not only about power but also about securing the resources and labor needed to sustain their existence in these harsh northern lands. The villagers had been caught in the merciless currents of fate, and their futures were now inexorably tied to the whims of the Viking warriors who had chosen to spare them for their own purposes.

As Dabi inspected the captured men, his gaze swept over the somber group, each face marked by fear and resignation. But then, as if guided by a force beyond his control, his eyes fell upon a young woman. The sight of her took his breath away, and for a moment, he couldn't lie to himself – she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon.

Despite the dirt, blood, and tears that marred her face, her beauty shone through like a radiant star in the night sky. Her cheeks bore the scars of anguish, her eyes, streaked with despair, created rivulets in the dust and grime that clung to her skin. Her once-neat clothes, now tattered and dirtied, bore witness to the cruel turn of fate she had endured.

Dabi's heart, which had been hardened by the harshness of Viking life, thudded in his chest with a new and unfamiliar emotion. She was a vision amidst the chaos, and in that moment, he realized that there was something more to her than just her physical beauty. There was a strength in her, a resilience that had allowed her to endure even in the face of such brutality.

As Dabi's eyes locked onto her, a strange and unsettling sensation coursed through him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite comprehend, a magnetic pull that defied all reason. In the midst of the chaos and destruction, this woman, captured from the village, appeared before him like an enigma.

Her hair, now messy, and those defiant eyes held a fierce determination that had not been extinguished by the horrors of the raid. She was a picture of vulnerability and strength intertwined, a paradox that captivated his very soul.

Dabi, who had always been driven by the uncompromising resolve of a Viking warrior, found himself unnerved by the intensity of this attraction. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions, but her presence stirred something deep within him, a longing he could not explain. He questioned the very nature of his emotions, grappling with the unfamiliar warmth that her presence kindled within him, even though they hadn't spoken.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. Every time their eyes met, it felt as if the fates themselves had intervened, weaving their destinies together in a tapestry of fire and ice.

Their initial meeting was far from the romantic tales sung by skalds. She was bound and helpless, standing amidst the ash and ruin of her once-peaceful village. Dabi, cloaked in darkened furs, surveyed the captives with an air of detached authority. His icy gaze met hers, a meeting of two souls from opposite worlds. "You," he spoke, his voice as cold as the northern winds, "What's your name?"

The woman's voice trembled as she replied, avoiding looking at him, "It doesn't matter anymore."

Dabi's frustration simmered just beneath the surface as her initial reply didn't satisfy his curiosity. He huffed in annoyance, the cold air from his breath mingling with the tension in the atmosphere. His desire to understand her and the strange attraction he felt only intensified.

Closing the distance between them, he moved with a predatory grace, catching her by the shoulders and forcing her to turn to face him. His grip, firm but not unkind, held a subtle hint of authority. Their eyes locked, his piercing gaze penetrating her soul. "I asked you for your name, woman," Dabi demanded, his voice tinged with impatience. It was a command that brooked no disobedience, his intensity pushing past the boundaries of the tumultuous situation they found themselves in. His own desire to know her name and the unexplainable connection he felt had turned into an obsession, and he needed answers, regardless of the circumstances.

As Dabi's demand hung in the air, she met his unwavering gaze. Her eyes, a mixture of fear and defiance, looked up into his, a silent struggle raging within her. But shortly after, her gaze faltered, shifting to the mask he wore, crafted from the jagged jaw of a wolf. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, a symbol of the fierce, untamed nature of the man who stood before her.

The man, with the mask that lent him an imposing visage, was tall and imposing, easily towering over her. His presence alone was enough to instill a sense of vulnerability in her.

Trembling, she finally surrendered to his demand, her voice quivering as she spoke, "I am Y/N." Her name, offered with a tremor in her voice, was a fragile gift, a shard of her identity laid bare in the face of the formidable Viking who had claimed her as his captive.

For the next two days, the Viking raiders worked tirelessly to pack the spoils of their conquest onto their longships.

Dabi, ever the watchful leader, stood guard over the entire process, ensuring that the riches plundered from the Christian village were securely stowed away. The village's treasures, from precious metals to food supplies, were meticulously organized and divided amongst the victorious Vikings.

The night of their conquest, the Vikings celebrated their successful raid with an infernal party. Driven by the spoils they had claimed, they emptied the Christians' pantries of beer, meat, and mead. The sound of merriment echoed through the night, a stark contrast to the sorrow that had befallen the captured villagers.

However, amidst the revelry, there were dark moments that marred the festivities. Some of the Viking warriors, fueled by intoxication and the ruthless nature of their world, committed terrible acts upon the captive Christian women without their consent. It was a grim reminder of the brutality that often accompanied such raids, where power and desire clashed with the innocence of the conquered.

Dabi, torn between his leadership role and the strange attraction he felt for one of the captives, observed the chaos with a heavy heart. The celebration, for him, was a juxtaposition of the jubilant and the sinister, a reflection of the duality that defined their lives as Vikings.

After days of tireless packing, the Viking raiders were finally ready to set sail for their homeland. The longships, laden with the spoils of their conquest, were now prepared to embark on the journey back to the rugged shores they called home.

Dabi took his place at the bow of his longship, a position of command and observation. His keen, turquise eyes surveyed the captivated people who had survived the ruthless acts of the past nights. They were a motley group, marked by both the physical and emotional scars of the raid. Some carried the burden of their violated dignity, while others were haunted by the loss of their loved ones and the destruction of their once-peaceful village.

The longship that Dabi commanded was the largest among the six that had come to the shore. It loomed like a dark behemoth against the horizon, its figurehead carving through the waves, a symbol of the Viking's ruthless power. Dabi watched as the captives, those who would serve as slaves in their new life, reluctantly boarded the vessel. It was a moment that carried with it a sense of foreboding, a step into the unknown, as they embarked on a perilous journey to a life that was bound by the harsh code of the Viking world.

Dabi's keen eyes never left the captivating young woman named Y/N as she hesitantly approached the longship. She was one of the last to board, and her trembling form didn't escape his notice. She might have tried to mask her fears with a poker face, but the vulnerability that emanated from her was unmistakable.

A faint, almost smug smirk played at the corners of Dabi's lips. He knew that Y/N was not going to be easily sold in any market or to another earl. The strange attraction he felt for her had ignited something within him, a desire to protect and possess her. He understood that she was unique, an enigma amidst the other captives, and he was prepared to put pressure on his father to ensure she remained with their family in their Great Hall.

The journey back home was arduous and relentless, the Viking longships battling through raging storms and colossal waves that crashed against their sides. The tempestuous sea was a cruel reminder of nature's might, a fierce adversary they had to contend with on their voyage.

For days on end, they sailed through the tumultuous waters, each day bringing new challenges and peril. The crew worked tirelessly to navigate the treacherous waves, their lives intertwined with the unpredictable whims of the sea. The longships, laden with their ill-gotten gains, were tossed like leaves in a tempest, and the thunderous roars of the ocean were their constant companion.

Dabi, despite his role as a leader, occasionally took walks along the longship to check on his comrades. It was an excuse, he told himself, but the truth was that he sought to steal moments to take a closer look at the captivating young woman named Y/N. She was bound to a mast, her body curled in a defensive posture, a vulnerable figure amidst the chaos.

One night, as they braved the wrath of the sea, Dabi stood close to the place where Y/N was tied. He leaned against the side of the boat, his arms crossed, gazing into the darkness that enveloped them. The crashing waves and the howling winds created an eerie symphony, but his focus remained on the woman who had become a focal point of his thoughts.

"I was curious how," Dabi's voice suddenly pierced the silence.

Startled, Y/N was pulled out from a shallow slumber she had allowed to envelop her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and apprehension.

Dabi, who had been standing nearby, turned his gaze toward her. "How do you know our language?" he inquired, his words delivered with a curious, almost neutral tone. It was a question that had been gnawing at him, the mystery of her familiarity with their Viking tongue.

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing as she grappled with how to respond. The truth was a delicate matter, a secret that she had guarded with her life. "My father was a Northman," Y/N replied, her voice carrying a note of bitterness, "and as long as he was around, he was teaching me some things."

Dabi's response was not immediate, and in the dim light, his smirk was concealed by the wolf's jaw mask he wore. The revelation intrigued him, and the knowledge that she had learned their language from her Northman father added another layer of complexity to the enigma of Y/N. It was a connection he hadn't anticipated, a bridge between their two worlds that he had yet to fully explore.

"What are you going to do to us?" Y/N asked suddenly, the uncertainty in her eyes betraying her anxiety.

Dabi sighed heavily and walked closer to her, resting his hip against the mast to which she was tied. "You'll work for us," he replied simply, his tone carrying a hint of slyness.

Y/N's expression darkened as she processed his words. "So, we're going to be your slaves," she said with a tinge of bitterness, "a beautiful perspective."

Dabi chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his mask. "Well, we Vikings have a different way of looking at things, you see. You'll find our 'perspective' quite interesting, I assure you."

"Why us?" Y/N asked, curiosity mingling with her apprehension.

Dabi's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your village was raided before, and you happen to possess a huge amount of goods we needed," he replied, the slyness in his voice becoming more apparent. "You could say it's just a matter of unfortunate circumstances."

"You're a monster. You all are. You killed innocent people!" Y/N ground the accusation from the depths of her mind.

Dabi chuckled darkly, his head tilting back slightly. "We? Oh no, sunshine, we're not monsters," he retorted, his voice dripping with a chilling nonchalance. Dabi leaned in closer to Y/N, his voice low and filled with an air of mystery. "You see," he began, a hint of smugness in his tone. "We are Vikings, warriors of the North. Our ways are brutal, but they're also fiercely proud. We live by the sword and sail by the stars. Our world is one of conquest and survival, where strength and cunning are the ultimate currencies." Dabi paused for a moment, as if considering whether to reveal more. "And you, Y/N, have found yourself caught in the wake of our world. Your journey is now intertwined with ours, and how it unfolds, well, that remains to be seen."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Dabi's sharp ears caught the sound of Y/N's quiet sobs, and he turned his gaze toward her.

Her words, filled with pain and anger, washed over him. "I wanna rather die than be a slave," she lamented, "you're animals, killing and robbing for fun. I'll never forgive you for killing my friends."

He let out a low, almost amused chuckle, a sound that resonated with a kind of sly arrogance. "Animals, you say?" he responded, his voice carrying a note of mockery. "Perhaps, but in our world, it's the fittest that survive. We aren't much for sentiment, and the reality is, we did what we had to do to ensure our own survival." Dabi's gaze remained fixed on her, and his tone took on a more cryptic edge. "As for forgiveness, sunshine, that's not something I'm particularly concerned about. We live by the code of the North, and it's a world where the line between predator and prey is often blurred. It's a harsh existence, but it's ours."

As the Viking longships sailed southward through the tempestuous sea, they finally reached their home village, known as Skjaldvargr nestled on the southern shores of Norway.

The arrival of Dabi and his crew was met with a raucous reception. The people of Skjaldvargr, mostly guards and shieldmaidens, had been eagerly awaiting their return. The shieldmaidens, with their fierce eyes and battle-worn armor, stood proudly alongside their male counterparts, a testament to the equality that defined Viking society.

The village came to life with the clanging of shields and the joyful cries of reunion as the raiders disembarked, their ill-gotten treasures in tow. It was a homecoming marked by the spoils of their conquest and the triumphant return of their warriors, a scene that underscored the unyielding spirit of the people of Skjaldvargr.

The longships were expertly unloaded, and the captivated men and women were carefully escorted off the vessels. They were bound together, forming a dispirited line, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and resignation. The captives from the Christian village now stood on the wooden pier, their lives forever changed by the Viking raid.

Dabi was the last to disembark. As he stepped onto the pier, the people of Skjaldvargr erupted into cheers. His name carried weight in the village; he was known not only as a fierce Viking warrior but also as one of the heirs to Endeavor, their ruthless earl. His presence was a symbol of power and authority, and the villagers greeted him with a mixture of reverence and admiration.

The triumphant return of Dabi and his crew marked a momentous occasion in the life of Skjaldvargr, where the spoils of their conquest and the legend of their daring deeds would echo through the halls of their Great Hall. The fate of the captives, bound and silent, hung in the balance, as the world of the Northmen unfurled before them.

Among the men and women on the shore, there was a tall, white-haired male with a thick, long fur draped around his shoulders, a figure that stood out amidst the assembled Vikings.

Dabi approached the man and wrapped him in a warm hug. "Natsuo, brother," he greeted him with a grin that couldn't be seen behind his mask.

Natsuo, the younger of the two, returned the hug, placing his hands on Dabi's shoulders. "Looking good and returning successful again. Wonderful," he replied with a hint of admiration in his voice. He stepped back, taking a moment to study his brother. "But what's all this fuss about a Christian village?" he inquired, his curiosity evident. "You've got everyone talking."

Dabi's smirk only widened as he regarded his brother. "Oh, Natsuo, it's a long story. Let's catch up over a drink at the Great Hall. I have quite the tale to tell."

The brothers shared a knowing glance, the unspoken understanding between them evident in their eyes.

Dabi wasted no time in issuing his orders to one of his men. "Make sure the Y/H/C woman is not sent to the market but is brought straight to the Great Hall," he commanded, his tone devoid of any room for discussion.

His bondsman, ever dutiful, nodded in acknowledgment of the directive.

Natsuo, wearing a mischievous grin, couldn't resist teasing his older brother about the mysterious woman. "Dabi, she must be quite the catch if you're keeping her for yourself," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Hope you're going to share a little!"

Dabi scoffed, playfully shoving his brother's shoulder. "Don't be absurd, Natsuo. She's just a captive from the Christian village. I've got more important matters to attend to," he replied, his tone gruff but carrying a hint of a secret smile. "Now, off to the Great Hall. Father is likely impatient for the reports."

The banter between the two brothers continued as they made their way to the heart of Skjaldvargr, leaving behind the captivated woman who had captured Dabi's attention and a tale that had yet to fully unfold.

His hips moved with swift and forceful determination, and the woman beneath him found herself panting and moaning his name in response. With a final series of intense grunts and thrusts, the young man with distinctive two-coloured hair reached his climax, giving one last deep thrust into the girl, spilling his seed in her.

She gently placed her palm against his cheek, her touch brushing over a scarred, reddened area under his left eye. However, her hand was met with a swift and firm push as he growled, withdrawing from her and hurriedly adjusting his pants.

"No," he snarled, pushing her off his bed with ease. "Get the fuck out now," he demanded, his tone filled with a brusque and dismissive edge.

"But you told me you liked me and that we'd have more time together," the young thrall whispered softly as she gathered her clothes from the wooden floor.

The young man's chuckle was cold and devoid of genuine emotion. "Are you that naive?" he sneered, "I only wanted your pussy, nothing else. Get out of my bed before my father or older brother catch you. You don't want to find yourself in trouble, do you?"

The thrall, disheartened and regretful, quickly dressed and left the room. She entered the main chamber of the Great Hall just as Natsuo and Dabi stepped through the massive doors.

Their father, Endeavor, the fearsome earl of Skjaldvargr, was seated at the throne at the end of the chamber, grinding his axe. His stern gaze bore into his eldest son as they approached, a silent expectation for a report on their latest raid.

"The raid on the Christian village was a resounding success. We looted their coffers, took their goods, and brought back valuable supplies that will sustain our village for the winter. The riches we've acquired are beyond our expectations."

Endeavor nodded, acknowledging the information. "Any captives?" he inquired, his eyes scrutinizing his son.

Dabi continued, "We have several men and women who will serve as thralls. We've also secured a Y/H/C woman who is very unique, father. She possesses knowledge of our language, and I've made the decision to keep her within our Great Hall rather than sending her to the market."

He listened to Dabi's report with a stern demeanor, his eyes narrowing as his son spoke about the captive Y/H/C woman. When Dabi finished, the earl's voice held a note of warning. "You know that you shouldn't be making such decisions without my consent," he admonished, his tone heavy with authority. "But this time, I will let it slide."

Inside, Dabi couldn't help but heave a silent sigh of relief. Endeavor's leniency meant that he would have the opportunity to interact with Y/N more freely, a chance to explore the mystery and attraction that had drawn him to her during the journey home. The knowledge that he wouldn't face immediate consequences for his impulsive decision filled him with a sense of gratitude, even as he maintained his outward composure.

Natsuo, on the other hand, took a seat at the long table, where freshly cooked meat was being served by their thralls. He joined the warriors who had gathered to eat, listening to the tale of their successful raid with a satisfied grin. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the Great Hall, a stark contrast to the darkness and secrets that had transpired on the longship during the journey home.

As Dabi stood in front of his father, a sudden presence caught his attention. A young man with two-colored hair, neatly groomed but slightly untidy now, had joined them. It was Shoto, Dabi's youngest brother, who had recently celebrated his eighteenth spring. His appearance and demeanor appeared deceivingly innocent, but Dabi knew that his younger sibling was not to be underestimated.

"So, you've returned, brother," Shoto said, his tone dripping with feigned sweetness. He offered Dabi a smile that was almost too saccharine, given the complexities of their family dynamics.

Dabi acknowledged Shoto with a nod, a sense of unease brewing beneath the surface.

Shoto turned his attention to their father, Endeavor, his voice carrying a subtle air of request. "Father, this winter, I want to visit Earl Gizzor's settlement, as we discussed. It's crucial that we maintain good relationships between our settlements."

Dabi furrowed his brow, disbelief tinging his words. "What? How do you intend to do that? We've declared war on them."

Shoto maintained his sweet smile as he responded, "While you were away, brother, father and I reached an agreement. We've decided that it's no longer necessary to wage war with Earl Gizzor. Instead, we've buried the hatchet."

Dabi was taken aback, struggling to process what he was hearing. Earl Gizzor was known to be a man of dubious trustworthiness, and the sudden reconciliation with him left a bitter taste in Dabi's mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, and the unexpected alliance between his younger brother and their father raised more questions than it provided answers.

Endeavor nodded in agreement with Shoto's proposal, adding his voice to the conversation. "Shoto is right, Dabi. Maintaining alliances and peace with neighboring earls is essential. We can't be at war on all fronts."

Dabi, with a simple nod of acknowledgment, turned to leave the throne area of the chamber. However, before he walked away, he caught Shoto's shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. "You have a fucking sperm on your pants, you little bastard," he grumbled, his voice low and filled with a blend of irritation and brotherly mockery. "Which poor thrall have you managed to lure into your charms this time?"

Shoto, not one to be easily cowed, replied in a wry and cocky whisper, ensuring their father couldn't hear, "You're always looking so closely, brother. Some of us don't need a mask to be charming. If you looked look like a real man, you wouldn't need to be envious of my romantic pursuits," he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took a not-so-subtle dig at Dabi, looking him hardly in the eyes.

Their exchange, hidden beneath the veneer of family respect and decorum, hinted at a deeper sibling rivalry and a history of conflicting personalities. The tension between Dabi and Shoto was a thread woven into the very fabric of their family.

Dabi's patience worn thin by the exchange with Shoto. He scoffed and let go of his younger brother's arm. He turned and made his way straight to his chamber, his footsteps heavy.

Natsuo, who had been a silent witness to the situation between his two brothers, watched with a heavy heart. He loved them both and couldn't bring himself to pick sides, but the tension in the air was palpable, and he worried about the growing rift between Dabi and Shoto.

In his own chamber, Dabi wasted no time. He shed his outer layers, discarding the fur, the mask, woolen shirt, and pants until he stood naked in the room. He flopped onto his bed, which was covered with furs, and stared at the ceiling. His mind was filled with thoughts about everything that had transpired during the days, and he couldn't help but wonder about Shoto's intentions and the potential consequences of their father's newfound alliance.

After some contemplation, he decided to take a bath to clear his mind. Dabi wrapped a towel around his hips and called for one of the thralls to prepare a hot bath for him.

As the thrall prepared the bath, the steam filled the room, creating a cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Dabi wasted no time and immersed himself in the hot water of the wooden tub. The soothing warmth seeped into his muscles, and he leaned back comfortably against the edge, closing his eyes.

The scent of the bath's herbs and oils mixed with the steam, creating a fragrant haven that allowed Dabi to momentarily escape the complexities of his world. With each passing moment, the tensions seemed to melt away, leaving him in blissful solitude and the serene embrace of the soothing bathwater.

As you were brought to the Great Hall, everything appeared new and unfamiliar. Fear coursed through your veins as you found yourself surrounded by strangers, most of them men whose eyes bore into you with an unsettling hunger. The air was thick with whispered, lewd comments, but you did your best to avoid drawing attention, keeping your gaze lowered and your composure intact.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, an older woman, a thrall who had been through similar experiences, extended a hand to guide you away from the prying eyes. She offered a reassuring smile as she took your hand and spoke in a soothing tone. "Come with me, child. I'll explain your new duties and help you settle in," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "You'll find your place here, and in time, it will become more familiar."

Her words provided a glimmer of hope in the midst of your fear, as you followed the thrall to begin your new life in the Great Hall, embarking on a journey that held both uncertainty and the possibility of finding your own strength in a world of unfamiliar faces and customs.

The thrall, as she handed you a plain, thick, greyish dress, began to speak about the members of the earl's family. Her voice was gentle and informative, and you listened attentively, eager to learn more about the people you would be serving. In the end, it was your new life.

She explained, "The earl is Endeavor, a formidable leader and the head of this settlement. He's known for his strength and authority, but also for his ruthlessness."

You nodded, taking in the information, and she continued, "Touya, the eldest son, is a fierce warrior, and he's known for his prowess in raids. His younger brother, Natsuo, is more diplomatic, often seeking peaceful resolutions. The youngest of Endeavor's sons is Shoto," the thrall continued, her voice carrying a more cautious tone as she spoke of him. "He can be the most problematic one, especially when it comes to his affairs." Her words were filled with a hint of warning. "Shoto is known for his charisma and charm, but don't be fooled. He's a smooth talker and has a way of getting what he wants." She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she emphasized, "Be careful around him, dear. He may seem charming, but his intentions can be far from virtuous."

Overwhelmed by the realization that you had been reduced to nothing but a slave, a feeling of hopelessness and anger welled up within you. You turned to the elder woman and, with a hint of defiance, you declared, "I don't want to work. I won't be a slave."

The thrall, her expression heavy with the weight of harsh reality, looked at you with a stern gaze. She leaned in closer, her voice low and foreboding as she whispered, "You don't have a choice in this matter, my child, so hadn't I. If you refuse to work, you won't survive for long. This is the way of our world, and it's a harsh one. I arrived here several years ago, after being taken from the settlement of another earl who was killed in a battle with Endeavor, and ever since, I've been toiling for the earl's family. The tasks are far from rewarding, but such is the way of life," she explained, her voice tinged with resignation.

As you inquired about the tall man who cnquered your village, the thrall's eyes held a certain intensity, and she clarified, "It was Dabi. Dabi is his chosen warrior name. His given name is Touya."

You had obediently completed your first task of cleaning the Great Hall, even though it felt like a menial chore that reflected your new life as a thrall. However, when another thrall instructed you to go to another room to help with the bath, you complied without question. With a heavy sigh, you followed the directions and pushed open the door.

As you stepped into the room, a rush of steam enveloped you, carrying a fragrance of herbs that filled the air. Your brow furrowed in surprise, but before you could react further, the steam dissipated. What lay before you was a scene that caught you off guard: a large bed and clothes, and a mask that you recognized from when Dabi had worn it.

Then, your eyes fell upon the figure in the bath, and a gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't control. You took an involuntary step back as the sight unfolded before you. The man in the bath was Dabi, his body covered with a patchwork of purple, dark, scarred skin. These gnarled, wrinkled, and disfigured patches marred much of his lower face and neck, extending past his collarbone, and continued down his arms and legs. Your whimper of shock hung in the air, and you couldn't help but take another step back, horror etched on your face. It was the first time you saw him without a mask.

Dabi's turquoise eyes opened slowly, and he gazed at you with a haunting intensity. "That's you," he whispered, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery and a deep well of secrets.

As the realization of Dabi's disfigured appearance settled in, the room seemed to grow heavy with tension. Your initial shock gave way to a mix of empathy and curiosity, wondering about the circumstances that had led to such extensive scarring.

The room, suffused with the aroma of herbs, steam and the eerie sight of his scars, seemed to cradle you both in its embrace, marking a pivotal moment that was only beginning to unfold.

heathen wolves: @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog

[whorediaries-09]

born to die

pairing- cultleader!sirius black x reader warning(s)- mentions of murder, gore, dark themes. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- inspiration from a novel i'm writing!

ps- i'll only do a part two if people want to. this fic is not everyone's cup of tea, so i'll leave it be at this. i just wanted to tease the idea. :) let me know your thoughts though!

the slut club

choose your last words, this is the last time 'cause you and I, we were born to die

secrets were whispered ear to ear, scrolls of parchments with inked prophecies and lores were trapped under the facade of an unassuming bookstore. the cloaks of secrets unveiled a monthly ritual under pale moonlight, blood stained clothes and gashed wounds. it was an enigmatic society, with brilliant minds who were thirsty for esoteric knowledge and truths, known as the crimson harbringers. only those who unraveled the mysteries, could have initiated the cult's existence, which contained a collection of ancient texts, manuscripts and artifacts, some of which were considered to possess unimaginable powers.

this clandestine organization's helm, simply called 'the voice' was a figure of mythic proportions, who was believed to possess the ability to lull one with their voice, enchanting them under their spell, alluding to the capacity of manipulation and control over those in their circle. rumor had it, they could foresee the future, decode prophecies hidden within the time-worn parchments of manuscripts. the visions into fate and destiny were considered to be the cult's most cruelly and closely guarded secrets, the key to unlocking the universe's ultimate secret.

the chairs would scratch against the wood, creating an echo that would dull out the emptiness of the chair at the end of the high end oak table. the dim candlelight flickers over the masks of anonymity they wore. it was an eerie trepidation that crept under your skin, as you searched sat, squirming within the unfamiliar environment. but it was a mission, to end the rumors of the witches, to demolish the fear felt because of your kind.

there was a sense of shifting, a new tension in the air as the creaking floorboards announced the arrival of the helm named as the 'the voice'. he lifted his hand, rubbing his index finger against his thumb. the candlelight, the candle flame burning out with a wisp of smoke. hotness creeps on your face, as the mask of anonymity melted away. the silence within the darkness was eerie, heavy shrouded breathes echo across the room, oozing respect for the speaker.

'we meet again,' he says. the rumors about his voice weren't whispered tales. it tingled under your skin, with a feeling that made you loose your rational thoughts, clogged your head. it was as if his voice was gifted by secrets of bellowing winds, the rain and the whooshing of the trees.

'we have gathered here to discuss a recent prophecy our members have discovered. it contains a lore about aftermaths of the saints, who discovered the existence of witches.'

a collective gasp stunned the gathering.

'it speaks how witches tortured them into insanity, brutally murdering them. it explores the spectrum of tortures, where we discover how hard it is for human beings like us to exist, within the clutches of the wizards, and how painfully cruel they are,'

you sunk your nails into the skin of your toes. while what his lips spit out hurt your heart, your brain was too fogged to understand him, to fight the control he had over you, just by his words. you bit your lip, a feeling of anger overcame you as you fought your internal battle.

if you had to end these stereotypes, you had to sit there and listen. you had to understand the perspective of the other side who thought of your kind as dangerous. you had to curate a new vision for them, to fight against them.

'we have to destroy them, remove their very existence. suck their souls and rip them apart! ruin them like how they've been ruining us all these years! we have to show them how it feels to live with fear, and breath bloodshed every breathing moment into their lives.'

'if we really torture them, then what's the difference between them and us?' you speak. the room is dark, silent, but you know pairs of eyes are searching for you, some even staring at you. you realize no one dares to cut him off while he speaks, or maybe his influence is too empowering. either ways, the silence is scary when it envelopes you. he doesn't speak further, and you're not sure whether he simply doesn't care or he simply doesn't want to.

'i'm in authority. your minds have been shaped solely by me, and just me. you're not supposed to blaster out your opinions, upon mine, do you understand fellow member? or do i have to end your fate with destiny?' he breathed. you could hear his gritted teeth. 'meeting dismissed.' he ended, as the candleflame burned back to life again. you never saw his face, the mask framing his face again. it was different than what the others, including you were wearing. you sensed it was his way of standing out, of being different.

****

the distant echo of your footsteps reverberated through the empty streets. each turn towards your house crowded you into the labyrinth of shadows, of a fear that burned within your heart. you felt someone, but it was too quiet. all you could hear was your own footsteps against gravel.

while you could've disapparated, you wanted to walk to your house. you wanted to feel the cold air slashing through your skin while you let your thoughts consume you, rot your brain. it wasn't a fruitful try, but it was something. to begin with. to work with.

you murmured against your breathe, unlocking your door. the door clicked open.

'so you are a witch,'

the similar voice crawled behind you. before you could scream, you were pushed into your own house, the doors closing on it's own accord. you were trapped inside your own home, with your wand pointed at you.

dark eyes stormed into you, as he moved closer, with you taking your steps backwards. you were trapped against the wall and his chest. you gulped,

'you can't do anything with that wand.'

he provided you a lop-sided smile in response. brushing long strands of raven hair away from his face, he whispered,

'you're not sure about that sweetheart are you? i can do wonders with this wand. what makes you think i'm not a wizard?'

you splutter on you words,

'b-but you-'

his hands wrap around your throat, mocking you,

'b-but you-. it's a ploy you stupid bitch. it's a prophecy i've predicted. it's a ploy to get the wizards and witches rule over the muggles. you don't know the things i've gone through to get here! kill my friends. and oh it was just the beginning,'

you tried to breathe against the constriction, but he hardened the hold on your neck.

'i'll tell you a tale. it's so enthralling, you'd love it. you'd love to hear how i ripped out hearts, enjoyed as the blood stained my fingers. you'd love to hear how tearfully i could make them beg before they lost the hope of life in their eyes, and i'd love to chop them up, fed them to the wolves. i'll tell you all of them, make you slice through them.'

his dark eyes were all you remembered before the world blacked out.

[legoinspire]

In ancient ruins, fearless warrior Freyja with her traditional armor explored alongside her father Bjorn. He, a seasoned elder with a sturdy spear told her stories about the old ruins. Together they unraveled mysteries, strengthened their bond and left behind their own stories within the enigmatic embrace of these ancient walls.

[yoonavii]

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

Regency era! Law x Reader

A/n: a lovely chapter collaboration with my bestie @stargirldelight

Description: Lady Y/N defies societal norms with her down-to-earth nature, setting her apart from other noble ladies. During her debut, she captures the attention of numerous suitors, but her heart is unexpectedly drawn to Lord Trafalgar Law, a brooding and mysterious Duke known for his coldness towards women. As their relationship develops, they face the challenges of unraveling Lord Trafalgar’s enigmatic nature and navigating their contrasting personalities amidst societal expectations. Will their connection withstand the obstacles they encounter? or will it crumble?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

As the Viscount addresses the noble officials and esteemed gentlemen in his study, he distributes the meticulously prepared papers outlining his ambitious plans. The room brims with anticipation as the guests eagerly peruse the documents, their eyes scanning the details of the proposed elite school.  “Gentlemen, I present to you my vision for the future—an academy that will nurture the minds of our elite youth, fostering their growth and preparing them to lead our society.” He announced, his voice echoing in the study “This institution will not only impart knowledge but also cultivate character, instilling in our students the values of honor, integrity, and excellence.”

The noble officials and gentlemen pore over the information, their expressions reflecting their growing interest in the Viscount’s proposal. Excitement fills the room as they discuss the potential impact and opportunities that the school could bring to their respective regions. “This is an extraordinary initiative, my Lord!” One Noble official chirped “The establishment of such an academy will undoubtedly elevate our region’s intellectual and cultural standing. Count me in for support.” A noble gentleman then stood up “I am impressed by the comprehensive approach outlined in these papers. It demonstrates your commitment to providing a well-rounded education for our future leaders. I’m honored to contribute to this endeavor.”

The Viscount watches with satisfaction as the noble officials and gentlemen express their enthusiasm for the project. He has dedicated countless hours to carefully crafting these documents, considering every detail to make his vision a reality. “Gentlemen, your support and involvement in this venture will shape the future of our society. Together, we can establish an academy that will be a beacon of knowledge, fostering excellence and producing exceptional leaders for generations to come.” One by one, the noble officials and gentlemen affix their signatures to the papers, symbolizing their commitment and contribution to the noble cause. The Viscount’s vision is beginning to take shape, propelled forward by the collective dedication and determination of these influential individuals.

As the papers are signed and exchanged, the room hums with a sense of anticipation and shared purpose. The Viscount’s bold aspirations for the elite school are well on their way to becoming a reality, thanks to the support and collaboration of those in attendance. With each signature, the future of the academy becomes brighter, and the Viscount’s dreams inch closer to fruition.

………

You take your seat next to the Duke, feeling a mix of frustration and disappointment. You had hoped to avoid him after your earlier argument, but now you’re left with no choice. As the toasts begin and the guests settle down, you steal a glance at the Duke, who seems composed and unperturbed by the tension between you. Thoughts swirl in your mind, contemplating how to handle the situation. You take a deep breath, reminding yourself to stay composed and make the most of the evening. After all, you wouldn’t let one disagreement ruin the entire gala. Your father’s toast fills the room, and you join in the applause as he finishes. With a polite smile, you engage in small talk with the guests seated on your left, trying to distract yourself from the presence of the Duke beside you. However, you can’t help but feel his gaze on you, and you know you’ll have to address the tension, but not now. 

As you and the Duke continue sitting beside each other, a noticeable tension fills the air, and neither of you seems willing to break the silence. Your pride and stubbornness hold you back from initiating a conversation with him. However, your uneasiness is soon interrupted when Prince Geno, who’s seated across from you, decides to engage in a conversation. The Prince leans slightly forward, catching your attention. He flashes a charming smile, and you can’t help but feel a flutter in your stomach. “My Lady, I must say, you look absolutely stunning this evening. The gala wouldn’t be the same without your presence.”His words draw the attention of other ladies who were vying for his attention, and they pout as they see him conversing with you instead. “Thank you, Prince Geno. The feeling is mutual.” You replied, voice smooth like silk “Your presence adds a touch of elegance to any gathering.” The Prince chuckles softly, clearly pleased with the compliment. As the conversation continues, you find yourself surprisingly at ease in his company. He possesses an easygoing charm and genuine interest in what you have to say, which makes you feel valued and appreciated.

As you continue conversing with Prince Geno, you notice the Duke’s occasional glances in your direction. His jealousy is evident, though he manages to hide it well from the prying eyes of the other guests. However, you catch a glimpse of his tense body language before he abruptly stands up and follows one of his guards, who whispers something in his ear.

You choose to ignore his sudden departure, focusing on the pleasant conversation with Prince Geno. The Prince’s easy charm and genuine interest in you have captivated your attention, and you find yourself genuinely enjoying the company.

Meanwhile, the Duke’s mind is filled with a mix of emotions. His jealousy, combined with the earlier tension between the two of you, makes him conflicted. He wonders why he feels this way about you, especially since he’s known for his reserved and aloof demeanor around others. His heart and mind seem to be at odds, but he can’t deny that there’s something about you that intrigues him. As he follows his guard’s lead, his thoughts continue to drift back to you, even as he tries to focus on whatever information the guard is providing. He can’t shake the feeling that he wants to understand you better, to peel back the layers of your personality and discover the real person beneath the societal expectations.

Back at the table, you excuse yourself from Prince Geno’s company, thanking him for a delightful conversation. He smiles warmly and expresses his hope to see you again soon. You return the sentiment, feeling grateful for the Prince’s intervention and the enjoyable evening he provided. You step outside the grand dining hall, needing a breath of fresh air and a moment to collect your thoughts. As you walk out, you notice your father, the Viscount, glancing at you briefly. His concern for your well-being is evident, but he says nothing, letting you have some space.

Unbeknownst to you, the Viscount, being aware of the people invited by your stepmother, understands the potential dangers that could arise from some of the guests. He cares deeply for your safety and decides to take precautions. He discreetly instructs one of his trusted guards to keep a watchful eye on you from a distance, ensuring your protection without drawing any unwanted attention.

Outside the grand estate, the night is serene, and the stars twinkle above, providing a sense of comfort amidst the chaos of the gala. You stroll along the beautiful garden paths, your mind still lingering on the events of the evening. Despite the festive atmosphere, you can’t shake off the feelings of unease and confusion brought on by your encounter with the Duke and the sudden arrival of Prince Geno. As you walk, the guard assigned by your father blends seamlessly into the shadows, following at a respectful distance. You may not be aware of his presence, but his watchful eyes scan the surroundings, ensuring your safety from any potential threats.

———-

As the guard leads him to his traveling advisor and Ace, the Duke notices their solemn expressions, and a sinking feeling washes over him. “What’s happened?” he asks, trying to remain composed. The traveling advisor takes a deep breath before speaking, “I’m afraid your father’s condition has worsened. The doctors are deeply concerned, and we believe you should return to Dressrosa as soon as possible.” Ace chimes in, his voice heavy with concern, “Yeah, the situation doesn’t look good. You should be with your family, Duke.”

The news strikes the Duke’s heart like a heavy blow. His father’s illness has been a constant source of worry, but the reality of his worsening condition brings a wave of emotions. “I understand,” he replies, his voice slightly trembling. “I must go back immediately.” His mind races with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He knows his duty lies with his family and his kingdom, but a part of him can’t help but think of Lady Y/n, the encounter they had at the gala, and the spark of something unfamiliar that ignited within him. “I hope everything will be alright,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

Ace nods sympathetically, “We’ll handle things here, Duke. You take care of what’s important. If you need anything, you know you can rely on us.” With a heavy heart, the Duke bids his friends farewell, his thoughts now consumed with his father’s well-being and the responsibilities awaiting him back home in Dressrosa. As he prepares to leave the gala, he can’t shake the sense of unease that lingers in his mind, both about his father’s condition and the unexpected impact Lady Y/n had on him.

As he departs from the grand estate, his mind is a whirlwind of emotions and uncertainties. The future of Dressrosa now hangs in the balance, and he must face the challenges that lie ahead with strength and determination. But somewhere in his heart, a flicker of hope remains, sparked by the encounter with you and the possibility of something more beyond his royal duties.

——-

As you turn around, startled by the sudden presence behind you, you find yourself face to face with a striking young lady. The girl’s white eyes and hair give her an ethereal appearance, and her elegant attire exudes confidence and grace. Your curiosity is piqued as the girl apologizes and introduces herself as Parisa, the step sister of the military hero, Ace. “I’m sorry if I startled you,” Parisa says with a warm smile, her voice gentle and soothing. “I’ve been observing you from afar, and I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to be in need of a friend. It can be quite overwhelming with everyone approaching you at this gala.”

Your guard slowly starts to lower as you realize that Parisa’s intentions are genuine. You appreciate her candid approach and honesty. “You’re right,” you admit with a soft smile. “It has been quite overwhelming, and I’m grateful that you approached me. I could use a friend like you to help me navigate through this social maze.” Parisa’s smile widens, and her white eyes seem to sparkle with kindness. “I’d be more than happy to be that friend,” she says. “I know the ins and outs of high society, and I can introduce you to some respected families who could be great connections for you.” Feeling a sense of relief and gratitude, you extend your hand towards Parisa. “Then, I’m honored to accept your friendship,” you say sincerely. Parisa clasps your hand warmly, sealing your newfound connection. “Likewise,” she replies. “Let’s make this gala and many more events to come a lot more enjoyable, shall we?”

Throughout the rest of the night, you and Parisa stick together like two peas in a pod. You laugh, chat, and share your hopes and dreams, forming a bond that feels like it has been years in the making. You feel an unexpected sense of comfort and belonging in Parisa’s presence, as if fate had brought you together at the perfect time. As the night winds down and the guests start to bid their farewells, you feel a renewed sense of confidence and excitement for your future in high society. With a friend like Parisa by your side, you know that the daunting world of aristocracy will no longer feel like an insurmountable challenge….but rather an opportunity. 

———

You stand before the grand mirror of your bedroom, reflection adorned in the resplendent elegance of your gown which reflected the aftermath of your welcome gala. The ball had been a whirlwind of laughter, music, and whispered secrets in the opulent halls of high society. Your eyes sparkle with a blend of excitement and weariness, a testament to the extravagance of the evening's festivities as well as the successful foundation to the framework of your future. 

As you extended a delicate hand to trace the intricate embroidery of your ever so slightly worn gown, Emily bustled into the room, her breath slightly hurried. "Lady Y/n," Emily's voice quivered, "Forgive my intrusion, but your father urgently requests your presence." Your brows furrowed in mild surprise. "My father? Is everything alright?" "I'm not certain, my lady" Emily replied, her gaze averted. "I just know that he wishes to speak with you." 

You nodded, dismissing her apprehension with a gentle smile. "Very well, Emily. Please inform him that I shall be there shortly, thank you." As she walked through the marbled corridors, You couldn't help but wonder about your father's sudden summons. The heavy wooden door to his study loomed ahead, and with a soft knock, you entered. The man of distinguished stature, looked up from his mahogany desk, his eyes a mirror of your own. 

His concern was etched onto his features. "Y/n," he began, his voice a blend of warmth and gravitas yet trembling, "How was the ball, my dear?" Taking a seat opposite him. You carefully craft your words, vieling the truth and speaking only of what shouldn’t concern him further with a graceful smile. “The evening was splendid, the guests seemed pleased and must’ve found the festivities delightful.” The Viscount exhaled a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

“I am glad to hear that. Did you mix in and form relationships with any of the guests?” You felt heavy with confessions, “These events can be…precarious, as you know well enough.” You shielded the whole truth from his ever-so-caring and cautious ears. Your father seemed far from at ease and on the edge of his seat, the last thing on your agenda was to further burden him by telling him the whole truth. The truth about all the fleeting moments you spent with the duke, whether they be good or bad. You couldn't let him know, steering away from becoming his cause of concern.

"Indeed, Father. I met a young woman of my age named Parissa. Her charm is matched perfectly by her intellect and the sheer poise she carries herself with.” The Viscount leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Parissa, you say? A relationship worth exploring.” With a soft, rhythmic cadence, he absentmindedly tapped a silver pen against the polished surface, the faint sound reverberating through the air as he grappled with the weight of his concerns. “And what of the gentlemen? Did any of them exhibit qualities that warrant consideration?"

You took a deep breath, heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and hesitation. There was something you longed to share, the momentous encounter that had left an indelible mark on you; but the words remained trapped within your chest, like fragile birds unwilling to take flight. Your father looked up, catching your gaze in his. You opened your mouth, a semblance of a smile forming; but the unspoken words lingered, caught in the delicate dance between your thoughts and your tongue. 

The room seemed to hold its breath, too calm, too still.

The viscount brow furrowed slightly, his attention fully on you. "Is there something you wish to say, Y/n?" You manage a small smile, fingers curling around the edges of the table ever so slightly, collecting the pieces of the broken train of thought, hopefully without his notice. "It's... nothing of great importance, Father. Just a passing thought." He leans back into the thick cushion of his armchair, a hint of worry lingered in his gaze. "Very well. If it ever becomes more than a passing thought, know that you can always share it with me."

Your heart swelled with somewhat relief and regret as you nodded back. “Although…there was another gentleman at the gala who somewhat stood out against others.” The viscount looked up, his expression curious, almost anticipating the words. "Oh? Pray tell, Y/n. Who might this gentleman be?" "He's Sir Genos," Viscount's brow lifted, at the mention of the boy's name. "Sir Genos, you say? An intriguing proposition, my dear. His connections and resources could indeed hold potential for the academy."

You nodded, heartened by your father's receptiveness. "Exactly, Father. By fostering such alliances, we could contribute to the betterment of our family and the causes we hold dear." The viscount leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile playing on his lips regardless of the mention of another young man, in league for his daughter's hand in marriage. Though the thought of someone unworthy of you plagued his mind rotten after what happened to his eldest. "I must admit, you have a keen eye and a noble heart, Y/n. I am pleased to see your commitment to our family's legacy." 

Your father let out a long, heartfelt sigh of relief as the weight of his concerns seemed to ease, at least for the moment. His daughter's thoughtful words and the prospect of potential alliances had brought a glimmer of hope into the room, dispelling the shadows that had clouded his mind. He looked at you with a mixture of pride and gratitude. "Thank you, dearest," he said, his voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "It is reassuring to know that you share in our family's aspirations."

With a nod, he gestured toward the door. "You may go. I appreciate our little conversation." He spoke rather softly. As you stepped away from the desk, a gentle air of understanding passed between you two with mixed predicaments lingering in the shadows unanswered, kept hush under the rugs. The grand room seemed to exhale along with your father, some tension dissipating like a fleeting breeze. With a parting glance, you left your father's study, leaving him to the solace of his work.

—————

The weary Viscountess sank into an ornate chair, her delicate fingers wrapping around the porcelain tea cup before her. The flickering candlelight cast a gentle glow on her fatigued face, bearing the traces of the elegant gala that had recently transpired. The strains of music and the murmur of conversation still echoed in her ears, a stark contrast to the tranquil solitude of her chambers. The Viscountess's fingers trembled with a mix of anticipation and longing as she delicately broke the seal of the letter, her heart quickening in sync with the rustle of paper. 

With each unfolding word, her lover's voice seemed to whisper in her ear, bridging the distance between them. The inked expressions of affection and devotion wove a tapestry of emotion, igniting a tender smile that graced her lips as she read…

My Dearest Viscountess,

Allow me to express my sincerest admiration for your grace and elegance, a beacon of refinement amidst the tumultuous sea of society. It is with utmost respect that I address you, for your presence alone bestows an aura of enchantment upon any occasion. As we both traverse the labyrinth of our societal obligations, It is in our best interest to kindle added intimate connection; a certain space where we may intertwine without the prying eyes of the world.

In this pursuit, I humbly extend an invitation, a delicate whisper shared only between us, to consider convening at the Rose Cottage. Nestled within the embrace of a forest known as the Cottage of Roses, this private sanctuary is a haven of tranquility and seclusion. The Rose Cottage, adorned with timeless opulence and treasures echoing tales of eras gone by, shall be the backdrop for a meeting of hearts and minds, a respite from the rigors of our station.

May this letter serve as an echo of my fervent desire to cultivate a connection that transcends the superficiality of our world. Let the whispers of the wind through the leaves be our confidants, the rustling of petals beneath our feet a testament to the delicate steps we take towards intimacy. I await, with bated breath, your response to this missive, and I fervently hope that the Rose Cottage shall soon bear witness to a union of spirits.

Until then, I remain, with unwavering devotion and the deepest of regards,

Sir Donquixote Doflamingo.

©𝐘𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

[homestuck-fanauthor-coalition]

Palace of Cold and Silence

Palace of Cold and Silence (15809 words) by JonayaRiley Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Jane Crocker, Jade Harley, Jake English, Roxy Lalonde, Rose Lalonde, June Egbert, Dad Crocker Additional Tags: Horror, Alternate Universe - Alternian Invasion, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Pre-Sburb/Sgrub, Pre-Sburb (Homestuck), Isolation, Murder, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - 1990s, 1980s, 1990s, Diary/Journal, POV First Person, POV Jane Crocker, POV Jade Harley, Government Conspiracy, Government Agencies, Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Scientists, SBURB (Homestuck) Summary: On an Earth in 1989, Jane Crocker is on an expedition to the Antarctic to uncover a mysterious ruin and the reason for the disappearance of the previous team sent to find its secrets. On another Earth in 1999, Jade Harley leads Project SunGlass, an enigmatic government program that finds itself tasked with sorting through the bizarre logs found in the Antarctic ice and dated to 1989. A 1989 that never happened. As the two women unravel the mysteries of their respective timelines, their fates become inexorably linked as they discover the secrets of the ancient past, parallel timelines, and a game that they are both fated to play.

~~~~~~~~

written by @jonayariley ; one of the newest members of our Coalition, this story brings to another world entirely! M^3 really loves the beauty of the diary as a storytelling medium, as it reminds her fondly of a detective-pony-esque immersive experience! But don't worry, there's an accessible text version too!

[justtrash202]

Welcome to the chaotic world of Shattered Dimensions, a Sonic the Hedgehog AU where realities collide!

Plot Summary:

Infinite, fueled by his warped desire for control, unleashed the Phantom Ruby's power, shattering reality. Once vibrant locations from games, shows, comics, and even fan creations merged into a nightmarish void. Sonic the Hedgehog, beloved hero of the IDW comics, succumbed to the corruption, transforming into a monstrous Dark Sonic. In a desperate act of love and self-sacrifice, Shadow the Hedgehog unleashed a powerful emotional blast, weakening himself and sending him plummeting into the void. Dark Sonic, consumed by darkness, unleashed a cataclysmic blast that birthed this fractured multiverse.

Main Goal

- Find Sonic and restore their shattered world.

- Protect Multi Silver from the Time Guardians.

- Navigate the dangers of the fractured districts, including the deadly Exe District and Shadow's potential transformation.

- Unravel the secrets of the shattered dimensions and find a way to heal them.

Key Characters

Multi Shadow: The battle-hardened IDW Shadow, forever haunted by the loss of his Sonic. He searches for a way to restore his world and reunite with him.

Multi Silver: A paradox born from the disrupted timeline, a Silver the Hedgehog who shouldn't exist. He grapples with his purpose and the Time Guardians who relentlessly pursue him.

Multi Knuckles: A corrupted Knuckles from Sonic Adventure 2, seeking redemption and a way to return to normalcy.

The Council of Silvers

A mysterious group of Silver the Hedgehogs from various timelines who appear in Multi Silver's dreams, offering cryptic advice and warnings.

The Time Guardians

Enigmatic beings who strive to maintain the integrity of timelines. They view Multi Silver as a threat and relentlessly pursue his erasure.

World Building

Multi’s clothes/appearances will change when they enter certain district to fit the world they are currently in/ all districts will have the songs that they have in their proper game

Advance wrist watch communicators: the multi will be equipped with these, as they act alot like the fallout four pit-boys. They will have the map to all the world and each district (in form of game map), will be able to locate any other Time Anomalies that are in the area, and other chaos energies, give multiples information of the world they are in, and can be used to talk to each other

The Districts

Sonic Adventure District: Blends elements of Station Square, Mystic Ruins, and Prison Island.

Sonic Unleashed District: Divided into a vibrant Daytime area and a twisted Nighttime Werehog zone.

Sonic Colors District: A colorful world reflecting Tropical Resort or Planet Wisp, where Wisp powers are prominent.

Sonic Forces District: A war-torn world overrun by Dr. Eggman.

Sonic 06 District: A fractured and distorted version of Soleanna, constantly glitching between timelines.

Classic District: The combined worlds of classic Sonic games, with a unique corruption.

Exe District: The most dangerous zone, inhabited by monstrous "exe" versions of Sonic characters.

Sonic Riders District: A world focused on Extreme Gear racing, with a darker undercurrent.

Will they succeed? Can love and hope mend the fractured dimensions? Explore the world of Shattered Dimensions and find out!

[Ci]Stay tuned for character bios, district details, and more!

[makeela]

[slaps miquella on the back] this little guy can hold so many alter egos

ok. here it is. my gigantic tinhat thesis about Miquella and my belief that he is, in fact, like, just so many different guys. at the same time. or, well, mostly women, actually. diversity win!

Disclaimer: this post assumes in large part that you already know a fair bit of the “established lore”. Some things may only be mentioned in passing or glossed over for this reason.

lets fucking go

Miquella and St Trina

Relevant item descriptions:

“Candlestand torch that burns with a light-purple flame. The carvings depict St. Trina, but in adult form, somewhat unnervingly. The light-purple flame induces sleep.” (St. Trina’s Torch, found in the Consecrated Snowfield)

“Silver sword carried by clerics of St. Trina. Inflicts sleep ailment upon foes. St. Trina is an enigmatic figure. Some say she is a comely young girl, others are sure he is a boy. The only certainty is that their appearance was as sudden as their disappearance.” (Sword of St. Trina, found at the Forsaken Ruins south of the Divine Tower of Caelid) “Tree branch blessed with an incantation of unalloyed gold. Craftable item. Pierce a foe, using FP to turn them into a temporary ally. The Empyrean Miquella is loved by many people. Indeed, he has learned very well how to compel such affection.” (Bewitching Branch)

“A record of crafting techniques left by a man who was utterly captivated by St. Trina. He continued the search for her in his slumber. Acquire the knowledge to craft the following: - Bewitching Branch” (Fervor’s Cookbook[3], obtained from Gideon in Roundtable Hold after entering Mohgwyn Palace and resting at a Site of Grace)

This one was kind of a given, but is important to mention for subsequent tie-ins. Given these item descriptions, plus cut quest content from a character named Rhico, which was meant to end in the Consecrated Snowfield after helping him travel in dreams in his search for St. Trina (written below) it’s fairly easy to assume that Miquella and St. Trina were, at least at one point, the same person.

“You know, a holy personage was once abducted from these lands. Thus I am here in search of clues that might unravel the mystery. The abductor's bloody footprints are said to have disappeared in the Forest of Ancient Bowers. Finally, I have found it! St. Trina's, no, Lord Miquella's cadaver.” 

Empyreans, as We Know Them

According to Ranni upon doing her quest, there are currently three (technically two, if you don’t count Ranni herself, which she does not) distinct Empyreans. Herself, Malenia, and Miquella.

“I was once an Empyrean. Of the demigods, only I, Miquella, and Malenia could claim that title. Each of us was chosen by our own Two Fingers, as a candidate to succeed Queen Marika, to become the new god of the coming age."

However, if you look deeper into item descriptions, you’ll find out there was a fourth Empyrean: The Gloam-Eyed Queen. 

“Superior Black Flame incantation of the Godskin Apostles. Summons a circle of Black Flame pillars around the caster. Charging increases the size of the circle. The Gloam-Eyed Queen led the apostles. It is said that she was an Empyrean chosen by the Fingers.” (Black Flame Ritual)

Now, at this point it’s worth noting that there are only two required qualifications to be an Empyrean. You must be chosen by your own Two Fingers, and you have to be a direct descendant of exclusively a god. Ignoring the specifics of Ranni’s parentage (something to get into later, but not on this post), unless Marika and Radagon had additional children or there’s another god floating around, our options are very slim for who it might be.

“Remembrance of Malenia, Goddess of Rot, hewn into the Erdtree. The power of its namesake can be unlocked by the Finger Reader. Alternatively, it can be used to gain a great bounty of runes. Miquella and Malenia are both the children of a single god. As such they are both Empyreans, but suffered afflictions from birth. One was cursed with eternal childhood, and the other harbored rot within.” (Remembrance of the Rot Goddess)

The Gloam-Eyed Queen and Why She’s Important

The Gloam-Eyed Queen was an Empyrean who went toe-to-toe with Marika, which eventually led to Marika removing the Rune of Death from the Elden Ring and sealing it in Farum Azula, a realm separate from the Lands Between where time works differently. The Gloam-Eyed Queen presided over the Godskins, and more importantly, raised(/potentially birthed) them. She was eventually defeated by Maliketh, and Destined Death — alongside her and her disciples’ ability to kill Gods — was sealed away.

“Sacred cloth of the Godskin Apostles, made from supple skin sewn together. Successive attacks restore HP. The Gloam-Eyed Queen cradles newborn apostles swaddled in this cloth. Soon they will grow to become the death of the gods.” (Godskin Swaddling Cloth, found after defeating the Spirit-Caller Snail in the Spiritcaller cave, located in the Mountaintops of the Giants)

“Sacred sword of the Gloam-Eyed Queen who controlled the Godskin Apostles before her defeat at the hands of Maliketh. The Black Flames wielded by the apostles are channeled from this sword.” (Godslayer Greatsword)

“Robe made by sewing together patches of smooth skin. Worn by the Godskin Apostles. The apostles, once said to serve Destined Death, are wielders of the god-slaying Black Flame.  But after their defeat by Maliketh, the Black Blade, the source of their power was sealed away.” (Godskin Apostle Robe)

So now that we know all of that, what’s so important about her? Firstly, she rose in direct defiance of the Golden Order: while we don’t know what her motivations were exactly, we know that she could wield Destined Death and could kill not only Marika, but would have been in a position to kill an Outer God, as well. As far as we know, Malenia had no intention to inherit the Elden Ring, and was fully in service to her brother. This leaves only two obvious possibilities (not including a third, which will be mentioned later): Ranni and Miquella, who both are clearly resentful of the Golden Order, though for different reasons. While it’s conceivable that Ranni could’ve been the Gloam-Eyed Queen, especially given her close proximity to Destined Death with the Night of Black Knives, something like that wouldn’t have been necessary for her to shed her body if she had control over Destined Death in the first place — she would’ve been able to shed her Empyrean flesh long before Maliketh sealed away Destined Death. This leaves Miquella.

Miquella’s Haligtree and His Purpose "... Only... a little further now... Show me the path, O gentle lights... the path to Elphael." (Lost Spirit NPC, Consecrated Snowfield)

Miquella’s Haligtree, hidden behind a waygate in the Albinauric town of Ordina, is presented to the player as a place those shunned by the Golden Order could turn to. You’re first made aware of it in Liurnia upon meeting Albus, who gives you the right half of the Haligtree Medallion and urges you to seek out Latenna, so that you might help her journey to the Consecrated Snowfield.

“A chosen land awaits us Albinaurics. The medallion is the key that leads to the city. It's only a quaint treasure, for we who cannot make the journey. But for dear Latenna, it is needed. To fulfill her purpose.” (Albus dialogue)

“Flanged iron cap adorned with a crown of unalloyed gold. Increases faith. Worn by foot soldiers sworn to the Haligtree. Who is that Miquella shall bless, if not the low and the meek?” (Sacred Crown Helm)

“Silver helm of Loretta, a Knight who served Miquella's Haligtree. Loretta, once a royal Carian Knight, went on a journey in search of a haven for Albinaurics, and determined that the Haligtree was their best chance for eventual salvation.” (Royal Knight Helm)

Upon arrival, you find Haligtree town full to the brim with Misbegotten, who are well-known to be oppressed under the Golden Order. (You’ll also find several Spirit-Caller Snails — this is important for later.) 

This was not, however, Miquella’s original intent in creating the Haligtree. His initial goal was to cure Malenia of the affliction she’s suffered since birth: the Scarlet Rot, and later, free Godwyn from his half-life as the Prince of Death. Since this was something that wasn’t viable under the Golden Order, he split off to create his own Erdtree that could hopefully help in curing his siblings. This research led him to Unalloyed Gold, which, short of removing the Outer Gods entirely, is a way to stall their affliction. This is shown both in the case of Scarlet Rot (Malenia’s armor and prosthetics, Cleanrot Knight armor, Haligtree/Elphael Knight armor) as well as the Frenzied Flame (Unalloyed Gold Needle). 

“One of the incantations of the Golden Order fundamentalists. A gift of gratitude to the young Miquella from his father, Radagon. Produces a golden ring of light and fires it across a wide area. Charging enhances range. And yet, the young Miquella abandoned fundamentalism, for it could do nothing to treat Malenia's accursed rot. This was the beginning of unalloyed gold.” (Radagon’s Rings of Light)

Before looking at how this all comes together, it’s also important to note that in Kale’s cut questline, we see that St. Trina would sing to the merchants to try and stave off the Frenzied Flame. This is the same song that some merchants can be found playing. Link to a youtube video containing the entire cut questline can be found here: https://youtu.be/LK_8F_XwLaE

Where Miquella and the Gloam-Eyed Queen Come Together

Let’s start with the obvious. All Godskins are weak to sleep — in fact, Godskin Duo is the only main story boss receptive to sleep past a brief stagger. Continuing on the sleep thread, all spirit-type enemies (Fia’s Champions, Niall/O’Neil adds, Spirit Soldiers in Castle Sol, etc.) are immune to sleep with the exception of the spirit versions of the Godskin Duo that you fight in the Spiritcaller cave and Spirit-Caller Snails. Despite the name, Spirit-Caller Snails are classified as Those Who Live In Death. Regardless, they are also the only enemy of this type not immune to sleep. As we know already, St. Trina is associated with sleep, and we have established for our purposes here that St. Trina and Miquella are one in the same, and given the fact that these are both outliers specifically because they can be slept, it’s hard not to draw a conclusion between the two. 

(As a note, I don’t think Spirit-Caller Snails on their own are SUPER hard evidence or anything, but laying out that they are all either related by Mohg, Miquella, or Godskins even coincidentally is kind of important)

It’s also definitely worth mentioning that there are only three instances of Spirit-Caller Snails outside of the Haligtree. The first is the faux Godskin Duo who drop the Godskin Swaddling Cloth on defeat, as well as lesser Spirit-Caller Snails in the same cave who summon wolves and (more importantly) disciples of Okina. For those who may not remember, Bloody Finger Okina is the NPC invasion in Mountaintops who drops Rivers of Blood. The second instance is in the Leyndell Catacombs — you know, the ones at the bottom of the sewers, where you can find Mohg’s shackle. This Spirit-Caller snail is protecting the Haligdrake Talisman +1. Lastly, and least importantly (or maybe not, depending on how you feel about “the arbitrary number is the same so therefore it MUST mean something”), in Road’s End Catacombs there is a Spirit-Caller snail that summons Crucible Knights Siluria and Ordovis. On its own this doesn’t mean much, but overall there are seven illusory walls in the dungeon, which strangely enough matches up with the Godskin Noble Robe item description: 

“Robe made by sewing together patches of smooth skin. Subcutaneous fat makes it plump and soft. Worn by Godskin Nobles, known for their seven-face aprons. Strengthens the Noble Presence incantation. Nobles are the most ancient apostles who are said to have assimilated inhuman physiology. Not unlike the crucible, the Erdtree in its primordial form.”

Now, let’s talk about the Black Flame Protection incantation. It’s given to you by Gideon after you arrive at the Haligtree and return to Roundtable Hold. This is the item description:

“A Black Flame incantation of the Godskin Apostles. Summons black fire within, increasing physical damage negation. However, sacred flasks and other such forms of HP restoration are impaired. The Apostles were all embraced by the Gloam-Eyed Queen, and the Black Flame was their armor within.”

Within the context of what and whom Miquella welcomed at the Haligtree — and the fact that this is given to you upon entering the Haligtree — it seems far from unlikely that he would turn away Godskins on his doorstep. 

Other things that are interesting but inconclusive/not worth a full paragraph:

The location where you get the Sword of St. Trina is pretty close to the Divine Tower of Caelid, where you fight a Godskin Apostle for their armor set and the Godslayer Greatsword

Miquella likely has some type of connection to the crucible, or something similar spawned from the Haligtree, considering it was basically a “proto-Erdtree” and Miquella was trying to grow his own; this could have led to physical deformities in the Godskin Nobles if they were present

Black Flame Monks are just Flame Monks that abandoned the Giantsflame in lieu of Black Flame. Doesn’t really have much to do with anything other than proximity, since Giantsflame originates in the Mountaintops

Expanding upon this point, the Black Flame Monk Amon ashes are found on the Hidden Path to the Haligtree after defeating the hidden stray Mimic Tear. Item description states that he was the first of the Flame Monks to convert.

Millicent’s optional quest location that lets you summon her at Dominula (Windmill Village) to fight the Godskin Apostle. This is available only after giving her the Valkyrie’s Prosthesis at the Erdtree-Gazing Hill, which means her route from that Site of Grace to the DTS outside Leyndell (her next summon location) is much longer than necessary, and there’s no plot reason for her to have gone there.

What About Melina?

Disclaimer: very little of this is supported by actual in-game item descriptions or text. This is based almost entirely off of my own inferences and a few lore tidbits.

Earlier I mentioned that there was another possibility for who the Gloam-Eyed Queen could be. This is, of course, Melina. She’s an extremely popular choice for people’s depictions of the Gloam-Eyed Queen, especially since in the Frenzied Flame ending she’s shown to have one purple (“gloam”) colored eye, and she promises to deliver the Tarnished Destined Death. 

“Lord of Frenzied Flame... I will seek you, as far as you may travel... To deliver you what is yours. Destined Death.”

She also has multiple burn scars that would be consistent with either Black Flame or Destined Death, and upon sacrificing herself to burn the Erdtree and grant the Tarnished entry into Farum Azula, she says,

“The one who walks alongside flame, Shall one day meet the road of Destined Death. Good-bye.”

She also brings up being “burned and bodiless” upon resting at a Grace in Altus Plateau for the first time, and later explains that she only has a physical body at the foot of the Erdtree, in Leyndell.

“The Erdtree...is close. Only a little further till the foot of the Erdtree, and the accord is fulfilled. It takes me back. I was born at the foot of the Erdtree. Where mother gave me my purpose. Though now, everything is lost to me. I...have to ascertain for myself. The reason for which I live, burned and bodiless.”

“My utmost thanks. For bringing me to the base of the Erdtree. Here, I can govern my own movement. And thus, the accord is fullfiled. I shall depart to ascertain the purpose I was given.”

Now, it’s not that I think Melina wasn’t the Gloam-Eyed Queen! Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s important to note here that we do not, for sure, know Melina’s parentage, but from context clues (born at the foot of the Erdtree, purpose given to her by her mother which she shirks upon getting to the Mountaintops, semi-corporeal form consistent with curses put on Malenia and Miquella) we can assume that her parents were Radagon and Marika. The problem is that she would’ve had to have been a hidden child, something that seems impossible to do, especially within the more omniscient scope of item descriptions that don’t even remotely mention a secret child but do mention other “secret” things, like Radagon/Marika being the same person, or the existence of Mohg and Morgott.

Truthfully, I’m not certain Melina exists at all. Or, at least, I don’t believe she exists in the traditional sense — her existence and consciousness are very real, but are probably more in line with, say, Radagon. Let me explain.

Miquella is the strongest Empyrean of all. This is stated outright by Malenia, and given what we know of him, there’s no reason not to believe her. He’s the spitting image of Marika, because he’s essentially a clone of her. 

“Winged helm made of unalloyed gold. Worn by Malenia, Blade of Miquella. Malenia awaited Miquella at the foot of the husk. "My brother will keep his promise. He possesses the wisdom, the allure, of a god—he is the most fearsome Empyrean of all." (Malenia’s Winged Helm)

Of course, he’s not as strong as Marika, due to the birth defect that keeps him in a child’s body, which is why he chose to go into slumber in a cocoon — so that he might overcome his curse and ascend to godhood. Despite this, I do think he would be capable of splitting himself off similarly to Marika, though perhaps not in quite as solid a form, perhaps due to the fact that he’s in a “dream” state, so interactions with the  “real” world may be fuzzier and less clear. This could also potentially explain why Melina was in possession of the Spectral Steed Whistle, which clearly belonged to Miquella prior to the events of the game. This is evidenced not only in the fact that the whistle is very similar in appearance to other unalloyed items, but also in the Shadow of the Erdtree DLC art, he appears to be riding Torrent.

This would also provide an explanation on how Melina has so many clear memories of Marika without technically being her daughter, and why she’s able to stave off the Frenzied Flame in the Lord of Frenzy ending — she’s resistant by the same logic that St. Trina was when she attempted to keep the Merchants from joining the Frenzy Hivemind. 

Of course, there’s not loads of evidence here either way. Melina is a mysterious character with very little actual lore to speak of, despite being a “main” character, but I do think her being split off from Miquella, especially as an instrument for him to work in the waking world, goes a long way to fill in inconsistencies left when you take her at face value. 

If you’ve managed to make it this far, thank you so much! I’ve been brewing all of this in my head for months. I’m aware that a lot of it is VERY tinhat theory, but I do think there are solid leads that could amount to something. There are too many coincidences for them all to be… coincidences, you know?

Once again, thanks so much for reading!

[lorainelegacy]

Words: 3728

The ancient ruins awaited majestically at the top of a steep cliff, standing as a silent witness to ages past. The initial ascent proved to be a formidable challenge, an intricate dance between skill and danger, where every step could be the last. Loraine, her gaze laden with awe and admiration, could not help but observe the ease with which Eleazar negotiated each obstacle and was embarrassed by the fact that, on more than one occasion, it had been his firm grip that had saved her from falling into the void.

—The young and agile one here is supposed to be you —Eleazar joked with a playful grin at the blush on her cheeks. Loraine pursed her lips and wordlessly resumed walking. To her relief, the road before them was already showing signs of improvement. —Where is your wife supposed to have gotten the portkey? —Loraine asked, deftly diverting the conversation from its momentary awkwardness. —Good question. Miriam had spent years unearthing evidence of an ancient form of magic, long forgotten.

Loraine walked cautiously behind her mentor, through a spacious stone tunnel that seemed to extend deep into the earth. With each step, she could feel the air grow colder, a chill that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

—Ancient magic? —she asked, her voice echoing and mingling with the echo of his footsteps. —Yes, a powerful magic that few can use and that seems lost to time —professor Fig replied, his voice low and serene, as if he were revealing a sacred secret—. Hogwarts was built on that magic and is itself a bastion of it.

The revelation took Loraine's breath away, as she imagined the ancient hands of wizards and witches shaping the stone with spells that echoed through the centuries. Hogwarts was not simply a place of learning; it was a living testament to the purest and most powerful magic, a sanctuary of knowledge and power that had survived the erosion of time.

Eleazar continued, his voice now a reverent whisper that seemed to blend into the dancing shadows around them:

—Every stone, every tower, every corridor of Hogwarts is steeped in stories and spells that have been woven into its very fabric. It is more than a castle; it is a legacy, a guardian of the deepest mysteries of magic.

Loraine felt a shiver run down her spine, not of cold, but of wonder. Once again, they stepped out into the outside world, where her eyes struggled again to adjust to the dazzling sunlight. They moved on for a few more minutes until they plunged into the gloom of another cavern. Loraine, though disoriented and clueless as to her destination, placed all her faith in the wisdom of Professor Fig. The urgency of arriving at Hogwarts in time for the Sorting ceremony weighed heavily on her; she could not afford to be late on her first day.

—But Professor, why was your wife so intent on seeking evidence of this ancient and forgotten magic? —Miriam was fascinated with the idea of unravelling the mystery of why such a formidable force had been eradicated from our magical world, —Professor Fig explained, his gaze lost in a distant memory—. She was a firm believer in the beneficial potential of such a power. She spoke passionately of the good it could generate, —he paused, reflective, and turned to look at his apprentice— But magic, like any force of great power, is a mirror of the soul of the wielder. Its true nature is revealed in the hands of the wielder and the intentions that guide it.

She nodded, wrapped in a blanket of contemplative silence. She understood, with a mixture of awe and fascination, Miriam's deep interest in this enigmatic and powerful magic. Suddenly they came to the end of the cave. Ahead of them, an imposing wall of ice merged with the living rock, a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Yet a glimpse of a path continued beyond, as if the barrier were an optical illusion or a mirage. Professor Fig stepped forward steadily and extended his hand towards the translucent surface. His fingers brushed against what appeared to be a layer of crystalline ice.

—Is that ice? —Loraine asked, with a mixture of curiosity and caution, keeping a safe distance. —No, it's not cold. It's more like a barrier —he replied, putting his hand to his chin. Turning on his heel, Eleazar turned to his apprentice, with a spark of defiance shining in his eyes. —Well, why don't you try some of the spells we've been practising?

Loraine nodded energetically and, with a firm, determined gesture, drew her wand from the folds of her coat, and held it with confidence. With a look of determination fixed on the towering ice barrier, she needed barely three spells to make the imposing wall of ice, seemingly unbreakable, surrender to her power and crumble into a thousand crystalline shards. The sound of shattering ice echoed through the air like a symphony of crystal bells. Together, they approached cautiously to survey the new path that unfolded before them: a steep and challenging slope. There was no time for doubt; it was the only way forward. They exchanged a knowing glance and carefully set off down the slope.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, they emerged from the mouth of the cave and were greeted by the warm embrace of the sun.

—Steeper than I expected —Eleazar exclaimed as he rose to his feet, vigorously shaking the fine dust from his tunic.

Loraine mimicked his actions, her heart shrinking as she discovered the unfortunate fate of her attire. A tear marred her stockings and her skirt showed a rip that could not easily be mended. It was her best outfit, carefully chosen and now ruined, with no time or resources to find a replacement.

Before them stood the remains of a once majestic castle. It stood a few yards away, but the bridge that should have saved them from the abyss was gone, and its absence was a gaping wound in the landscape. The wind howled with relentless vigour and, far below, the waves of the sea crashed against the jagged rocks with thunderous fury.

—How are we going to get to the other side? —she asked, raising her voice to be heard.

Again, Loraine turned her watchful gaze to Eleazar, who seemed shrouded in a halo of unwavering serenity. With a firm gesture, he motioned her to stand safely behind him. At that instant, Eleazar extended his wand with the elegance of a maestro preparing to conduct a symphony of magical movements.

-Reparo! —The word, more than spoken, was hurled as a challenge to the forces that barred their way.

And then, as if time and space conspired in their favour, the chaos of rocks and debris began to dance in a symphony of orchestrated movements. One by one, the stones rose, twirling in the air with unearthly elegance, interlocking with one another until they wove the structure of a majestic bridge. Loraine, wide-eyed with surprise and awe, gazed at the scene unfolding before her. The bridge, a miracle of stone and magic, now stretched, firm and sure, to the other side that had seemed unreachable before.

They walked steadily forward until they reached the majestic ruins. Before them stood a silent testimony to forgotten greatness, a place where every stone whispered stories of a glorious past. There was no trace of treasure or relics, instead there was a mural, eternally etched on the wall, and a great sculpture that captured the essence of a man of infinite wisdom, with a long beard and a pointed hat. Rays of sunlight frolicked through the broken windows, dancing on the untamed vegetation that had claimed much of the façade, lending the place an aura of mystery and a palpable magic that enveloped the soul in an unearthly serenity. For a moment, Loraine allowed herself to forget the dragon's threat and soak in the tranquillity of the ruined sanctuary.

—Why would anyone build this here? —Loraine asked, lowering her voice slightly, almost afraid to disturb the peace that permeated the air. Her gaze was lost in the mural, trying to decipher the secrets it held. —I suspect he valued his privacy, —Eleazar replied as he surveyed the imposing sculpture that dominated the room—. Let's take a look around, see if we see anything… out of place.

Although the ruins seemed to offer little more than the mural and the solitary sculpture, Loraine, with her keen scouting instincts, managed to discern a hidden path winding behind the castle. She cast a questioning glance at Professor Fig, but something inside her urged her to venture out on her own. Following the path, it led her to another room, or rather what was left of it, where a symbol on the wall caught her attention powerfully. ‘That glow…’ she mused, and as she approached, a kind of frost began to crystallise around her, similar to the barrier they had seen earlier.

—Professor! —she called urgently.

When Fig arrived, his gaze stopped on the wall, confused. Beside him, Loraine watched with a mixture of wonder and certainty, as if she could sense something invisible to him.

—Strange, it's that symbol again, —the young woman commented, frowning as she moved closer for closer inspection— and there seems to be a room beyond it.

Eleazar, piqued by curiosity, peered closer with his eyes strained against the cold barrier of ice.

At that precise moment, Loraine extended her hand towards the enigmatic symbol that seemed to call out to her. With a subtle gesture, the world around them underwent a radical transformation. The ruins that had surrounded them until that moment gave way to the room Loraine had glimpsed through the ice. She turned her head just in time to see the wall close silently behind them, erasing all evidence of the entrance as if it had never existed.

—Godric's heart! —Fig exclaimed, his eyes sweeping over every detail. The room looked familiar—. It can't be… —he muttered, almost to himself. —What is this place? —asked the young woman, wrinkling her nose slightly.

Suddenly, the sound of snoring, deep and resonant, cut off their train of thought. Fig and Loraine exchanged a knowing glance, a silent agreement of mutual exploration, before turning their attention to the desk that rested at the far end of the room. Another snore, this time closer and louder, vibrated through the air, and together they discovered the source of the sound: a goblin, his figure silhouetted against the glow of a lamp, dozing over a large open book.

—Hello? —she called in a soft but firm voice, trying to break through the barrier of sleep that enveloped the little creature.

Another snore echoed, breaking the silence like a discordant note. Loraine exchanged another knowing glance with Fig, shrugging her shoulders. Cautiously, the two approached the desk where the elf dozed, and Fig, with a determined gesture, cleared his throat with two resounding throat clears. The effect was immediate: the goblin awoke with a start, his small eyes flickering with surprise as he found himself facing two figures watching him expectantly. He frowned and, with an almost comical gesture, rubbed his eyes with his tiny hands. He looked at his unexpected visitors, frowning in bewilderment.

—It can't be —he muttered in a voice that, despite his surprise, retained a gentle tone. He stood for a few seconds watching the young woman and Eleazar, as if waiting for one of them to break the silence. In the absence of words, he circled around the desk, muttering to himself in barely audible language, until he stood in front of them with a dignified posture—. ¡Welcome to Gringotts Wizarding Bank! —he announced with a slight bow.

Loraine acknowledged the gesture with a subtle nod. Unlike the other goblins Loraine had seen, this one had a gentle expression and a calm demeanour that invited trust.

—Vault twelve, I presume, —the goblin asked with a broad smile.

Loraine frowned in confusion and glanced at Fig as her mind raced to decipher the enigmatic scene unfolding before her.

—Exactly, —Professor Fig confirmed, nodding firmly and confidently.

The banker then turned his attention to him, stretching out his long, slender arm expectantly.

—The key?

Eleazar was thoughtful for a moment, his mind searching the recesses of his memory. It was Loraine who saved him from the awkward silence.

—The portkey, Professor —she interjected softly. —Oh, yes, of course —Fig replied with a warm, grateful look on his diligent apprentice's face. He dug into the pocket of his worn tunic and pulled out the tiny device. He held it in his hands for a moment and finally held it out to the banker, who accepted it with a nod. Parting with the object seemed to cost him more than his serene façade revealed. —Well, follow me —the goblin instructed in a voice that resonated with unexpected authority.

Led by the diminutive being, Fig and Loraine traversed a corridor that seemed to stretch infinitely before them. The light from the sconces danced across the stone walls, casting shadows that played with their concerns. Suddenly, Loraine felt Fig's hand close around her wrist.

—Stay close —he murmured with quiet urgency.

She nodded slowly, her eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and confidence. They had passed through the underground labyrinth and now stood on the threshold of a space that opened up like a cavernous cathedral. It was an expanse that mimicked an ancient station. Suddenly, the banker emitted a high-pitched whistle that pierced the silence, and from the depths of the shadows a metallic carriage emerged. It sped along the rails like a mechanical beast heading towards them and, with a frightful screech, came to a halt just ahead.

—After you —said the banker, extending his arm in a polite gesture, inviting them to proceed.

Loraine hesitated. The very thought of climbing into that structure gave her a knot in her stomach. However, Professor Fig's proximity to her instilled a sense of security. With a sigh that was meant to be confident, he settled into the carriage, sliding into the velvet seat next to Fig.

—Keep your hands inside the carriage, unless you wish to lose them, —the goblin joked playfully, letting out a chuckle that echoed mischievously. Loraine, however, was not amused.

Eleazar, ever observant, bowed his head to find his young apprentice's hands trembling with gentleness. He realised then that it must be her first time. With a smile that radiated warmth and understanding, he took Loraine's hand in his, a silent but powerful gesture that seemed to tell her that, come what may, he would be there.

The wagon came to life with a mechanical gasp, slowly awakening from its slumber and then gathering momentum and gradually accelerating, tearing through the silence with a metallic clang that echoed deep into the earth. The faint flickering light of the tunnels barely outlined the winding routes of the Gringotts underworld, that complex web-like network that stretched like a spider's web beneath the surface. There, in the bowels of the earth, lay an underground citadel, an emporium of riches and secrets. Security vaults, carved into the living rock, lined up like stone sentries, jealously guarding the treasures of witches and wizards. Loraine, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, gazed in rapture at the subterranean spectacle. It was a hidden city, a realm of shadows and glitter where gold and stone lived in silent harmony.

—How many vaults are there in Gringotts? —she asked, her voice tinged with almost childlike wonder. —Hundreds! In fact, we'll pass through quite a few before we reach vault twelve. Right now we are under the main hall. The vaults in the distance are the most recent. —Impressive… —The word escaped her lips, a whisper filled with awe at the grandeur of the infrastructure spread out before her. —Are private entrances to the bank common at Gringotts? —Professor Fig asked. —They are most uncommon, —explained the banker— Only those of great power and wealth would even contemplate requesting such an exclusive and discreet service.

The carriage, as if picking up the tune of its passengers, sprang to life and sped with renewed impetus into the depths of a new tunnel. The increasing speed tore Loraine from her ephemeral calm, and the young woman, whose fears of speed had been briefly assuaged, closed her eyes tightly again. Her face sought refuge in her mentor's protective shoulder and she dug her nails involuntarily into the fabric of his garment.

—Catch your breath! —the banker's voice rang out with authority, cutting through the air with enough force to overcome the roar of the wind and reach her ears.

Loraine, shaken by surprise, opened her eyes wide. Reality hit her with the force of thunder as her pupils met the majesty of a colossal waterfall threatening to engulf them. The sight was both terrifying and magnificent. Despite the implied promise of a glacial bath, an unexpected phenomenon enveloped the passengers: their clothes remained dry, as if protected by an invisible shield. The magic of the moment dissipated as quickly as it had come, and the carriage resumed its usual speed.

—That waterfall removes any enchantment —Fig revealed to Loraine— ’It's a security measure.

They continued their journey through the lower tunnels until it was the girl who broke the silence.

—Where are we going? —she asked, her gaze lost in the vastness of the space before them, a maze of security vaults scattered along the corridors, so tiny in the distance that they seemed mere dots on the horizon of the subterranean domain. —We are heading for vault twelve, one of the oldest and deepest in Gringotts —the banker replied, lifting his chin proudly—. It was erected shortly after the bank opened its doors more than four centuries ago. I suggest you settle in; we have a long journey into the depths ahead of us.

Eleazar looked at Loraine with a mixture of trepidation and concern, but she nodded, sending a silent message that she was fine for the moment. Soon they were plunged into the darkness of another tunnel, and the carriage, as if sharing the tension of the moment, slowed, creaking slightly in protest. To the right a new corridor was revealed, illuminated by the dim light of the security vaults, and a uniformed goblin, whose presence exuded authority, signalled the banker to stop.

—Vault number? —he asked in a hoarse voice.

Loraine stared at the being. His figure was imposing, emanating an intimidation beyond his stature. It was reminiscent of the goblin at the inn, but this one had an even more menacing air, and a shiver ran down her spine. Then her eyes fell on the bracelet that adorned his uniform. The object caught her attention, it radiated a peculiar glow, a glint that sparked an immediate memory in her mind; it was a glow identical to that of the necklace of the dragon that had ambushed them.

—Vault twelve, —replied the banker in a voice that resonated with the solemnity of the moment—. Momentous day.

The goblin, with his piercing, tiny black eyes, turned a questioning gaze on Loraine, who, feeling the weight of that gaze, frowned in defiance.

—On your way —the guard commanded in a gruff tone, accompanying his command with an imperious gesture of his arm.

The wagon resumed its journey with a creak, and Loraine kept her gaze fixed on the goblin, following him with her eyes until his figure faded into the distance. Once they were alone, she shared with Fig the disturbing revelation about the bracelet.

—Like the glow you saw on the portkey container? —Fig asked, cautiously curious. —No, that one was darker, more... sinister —she replied quietly but firmly—. I saw that same glow on the necklace of the dragon that attacked us.

After a journey that seemed to take forever, they arrived at their longed-for destination. The carriage came to a screeching halt, as if the rails were protesting the abrupt end of the journey. Loraine, pale and sick to her stomach, struggled to keep her composure, trying to stifle the nausea that threatened to betray her. At her side, Eleazar sensed her discomfort and, in a gesture of solidarity, offered her a comforting pat on the shoulder. Together they followed the banker towards the imposing door of the famous vault twelve.

Unlike the others, this vault stood alone, distant from the hustle and bustle of the others, and its design, imbued with an archaic air, exuded an aura of mystery and grandeur. Before them, the banker reached out his arm and, with pinpoint precision, inserted the key into a tiny, almost imperceptible lock. Loraine watched in fascination as the door mechanism came to life, an engineering marvel that seemed to defy the passage of time with its intricacy.

—When was this vault last accessed? —Fig asked. —No one has visited vault twelve in hundreds of years… until now, —he replied in a reverent whisper, as if the mere mention of it might awaken the ghosts of the past.

With a creak, the door snapped open, hesitantly, under the watchful eye of Loraine and Fig. They, their breath fast, peered out in the hope of catching a glimpse of a fortune of legends, but instead, their eyes met the vast nothingness of a desolate room.

—Thank you for your help, —Fig said, addressing the banker with a gesture of gratitude. Then, with a graceful gesture of his arm, he invited Loraine in first. She hesitated, but eventually, trust in her mentor prevailed and crossed the threshold. —What do you think we should look for? —she asked once inside, surrounded by the emptiness and silence of the vault. —I don't know, —Fig murmured thoughtfully, staring blankly into the sea of possibilities that this place hid. Then he turned to the banker—. Sir, I was wondering if I could— —The instructions from the vault twelve are clear, —interrupted the goblin—. I must allow access to whoever brings the key and then close the door.

Before Eleazar could articulate an answer, the door closed with a roar that echoed throughout the room. The young woman flinched.

—Professor! —she exclaimed.

The atmosphere in the room grew denser, a heavy silence hung over them, broken only by the echo of their own heartbeats. The gloom seemed to play on his nerves, and each shadow became a possible hiding place for the secrets that the vault twelfth might hold.

Previous chapter | next chapter

[goodvibesatpeace]

Distant Lands

In realms afar, where shadows dance and gleam,

Where ancient mysteries stir and secrets teem,

Lie distant lands, enigmatic and grand,

Enticing souls with an allure so unplanned.

Across the misty veils, they shimmer and beckon,

Uncharted territories, a tapestry to reckon,

Lush landscapes bloom with vibrant hues untold,

Where nature's wonders, their stories yet to be unrolled.

Beneath the moon's ethereal glow, they awaken,

Whispering tales of civilizations forsaken,

Legends whispered on the wind's gentle breath,

Of long-lost empires and forgotten depths.

Forgotten ruins, weathered by time's caress,

Crumble amidst tangled vines, a silent mess,

Their hieroglyphs etched in ancient, sacred lore,

Echoes of civilizations forevermore.

Amidst the valleys, where rivers flow unbound,

Echoes of spirit voices gently resound,

Guardians of the land, their presence felt,

Invisible threads weaving, a timeless pelt.

Through verdant forests, where sunlight barely sifts,

Ancient trees stand as guardians, their presence uplifts,

Their gnarled branches reaching for the heavens above,

Whispers of wisdom, unspoken and devout.

Beneath the starry canopy, a cosmic ballet,

Celestial bodies in a celestial array,

Guiding wanderers lost in the vast unknown,

Illuminating paths where new adventures have grown.

In distant lands, dreams unfold and wonders gleam,

A sanctuary for souls, a surreal dream,

Mysteries unravel, secrets come to light,

A tapestry of wonder, woven in the night.

With each step taken, a sense of awe profound,

The rhythm of the land in ancient beats resound,

Distant lands, enigmatic and sublime,

A symphony of wonders, transcending space and time.

[october-writes]

Pandora

Four years after a youthful indiscretion torpedoed her promising future, Ada Wong is stuck working a dead-end job behind the counter of her aunt and uncle’s grocery store in Flushing, New York. That is until a former paramour offers her a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with the ‘controversial’ Umbrella Corporation onboard their classified research facility The Persephone.

But nothing is as it seems inside The Persephone. Secrets, shifting loyalties and deadly sabotage stress the fragile bonds holding the research team together. Soon, Ada is left wondering if the ride over had been a one-way trip all along.

Ada must come to terms with her traumatic past, find out who she can trust and unravel the project’s darkest secrets if she’s to have any hope of making it back alive. If that wasn’t difficult enough, she also has to contend with the facility’s enigmatic human test subject who can’t seem to take his blue eyes off her.

Read from the beginning

Chapter List

1. A Great Plague to You Yourself and to Men That Shall Be

2. All Gifted

3. And whatever be your lot, work is best for you

4. Call your friend to a feast, but leave your enemy alone

5. For Trust and Mistrust Alike Ruin Men (Part 1)

6. For Trust and Mistrust Alike Ruin Men (Part 2)

7. Cruel Longing and Cares That Weary the Limbs

8. These days are a great blessing

9. Why Do You Cry Out?

10. Upon it Strife; Upon it Uproar; Upon it Baneful Death

11. Men who do true justice

12. Newly troubled soul

13. Wretched days

14. Born of Heaven and Earth

15. The Price for Fire

16. Surpassing all in cunning (Part 1)

17. Surpassing all in cunning (Part 2)

18. Shed Grace Upon Her Head (Part 1)

19. Shed Grace Upon Her Head (Part 2)

20. Shed Grace Upon Her Head (Part 3)

21. Shed Grace Upon Her Head (Part 4)

22. All Manners of Finery

23. A Shameless Mind and a Deceitful Nature

24. Who Delights in Thunder (Part 1)

25. Who Delights in Thunder (Part 2)

26. The weaving of the varied web

27. He Hid Fire (Part 1)

28. He Hid Fire (Part 2)

29. For the Gods Keep Hidden From Men the Means of Life (Part 1)

30. For the Gods Keep Hidden From Men the Means of Life (Part 2)

31. He called this woman “Pandora”

32. The sheer, hopeless snare (Part 1)

33. The sheer, hopeless snare (Part 2)

34. The sheer, hopeless snare (Part 3)

35. For earth is full of evils and the sea is full (Part 1)

36. For earth is full of evils and the sea is full (Part 2)

37. Only Hope Remained (Part 1)

38. Only Hope Remained (Part 2)

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Featured image: A detail of the basalt Rosetta Stone (Photo at All-len-All)

A mystery surrounds the death of a 19th century-Frenchman who unraveled a great mystery—the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

Jean-Francois Champollion died young after deciphering the Rosetta Stone, which unlocked the keys to the many enigmatic and beautiful hieroglyphic texts discovered in ruins, up and down the length of Egypt.

It gave modern people a much greater understanding of that great civilization.

Champollion was born on 23 December 1790 in France and died there on 4 March 1832, after visiting Egypt in 1829.

He had felt symptoms of malaise before departing for Egypt, according to a letter to the editor of the journal Clinical Neurophysiology by Dr. Hutan Ashrafian of the Department of Surgery and Cancer, Imperial College-London.

Jean-Francois Champollion is considered amongst the greatest linguists of all time; his decipherment of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs and the Rosetta stone has led some to consider him the ‘‘Father of Egyptology.’’

His early death at the age of forty-one has typically been ascribed to fatigue and exhaustion from overwork on a year-long visit to Egypt.

This journey is reported as having initiated his progressive demise following the return to his native France, where he died from a reported stroke two years later.’ —H. Ashrafian

Dr. Ashrafian writes that the term “stroke” is used here in a generic sense rather than a formal medical diagnosis.

His family has refused to allow an autopsy but studying reports of Champollion’s condition has led the doctor to draw some conclusions about the death of the great scholar.

While in Egypt, Champollion did not suffer from lymph disease or fevers. But later in life, Champollion suffered from muscle weakness, limb paralysis, and ultimately, could not breathe.

He didn’t suffer from heart disease or lack of blood flow.

“Furthermore, at the moment of decipherment of hieroglyphs (1828), he is noted to have collapsed, though this may be viewed as a vasovagal [fainting] episode as a result of extreme emotional outpouring.

In his final weeks, he became emotionally labile consistent with progression of pseudobulbar dysfunction and eventually demonstrated a ‘locked-in’ syndrome before his death.”

Pseudobulbar dysfunction means he was unable to speak.

It may be considered ironic that a man who gave a ‘voice’ to the people of ancient Egypt and opened their world to modern scholars like never before was unable to articulate his own thoughts just before he died.

Given that he was not mentally impaired, did not have seizures but first suffered from weakness in his legs, and later was unable to speak, led Dr. Ashrafian to conclude Champollion had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—or total paralysis of his muscles.

Exhausted by his labors during and after his scientific expedition to Egypt, Champollion died of an apoplectic attack (stroke) in Paris on 4 March 1832 at the age of 41.

His body was buried in Père Lachaise Cemetery. On his tomb is a simple obelisk erected by his wife and a stone slab stating simply:

Ici repose Jean-François Champollion, né à Figeac dept. du Lot le 23 décembre 1790, décédé à Paris le 4 mars 1832

(Here rests Jean-François Champollion, born at Figeac, Department of the Lot, on 23 December 1790, died at Paris on 4 March 1832).

Words of the Gods

The word hieroglyph means “sacred words” or “sacred signs.”

Clement of Alexandria was the first to use the word. Ancient Egyptians called their script mdju netjer or “words of the gods.”

The first known hieroglyphs date to around 3400 to 3200 BC, the pre-dynastic era.

The last known hieroglyphs were carved in stone around 394 AD.

The Rosetta Stone, found by Frenchmen in 1799 in a fort at the town of Rosetta during Napoleon’s occupation of Egypt, has hieroglyphs, Egyptian demotic, and ancient Greek translations of the same text.

Champollion, who had taught himself ancient languages, was able to decipher its meaning and unlock the entire script.

A full translation of the Rosetta Stone can be viewed at the British Museum, which acquired the document and other artifacts after Napoleon’s defeat.

Here is an excerpt:

‘Whereas King Ptolemy, living forever, the Manifest God whose excellence is fine, son of King Ptolemy [and Queen] Arsinoe, the Father-loving Gods, is wont to do many favours for the temples of Egypt and for all those who are subject to his kingship, he being a god, the son of a god and a goddess;

and being like Horus, son of Isis and Osiris, who protects his father Osiris, and his heart being beneficent concerning the gods, since he has given much money and much grain to the temples of Egypt, [he having undertaken great expenses] in order to create peace in Egypt and to establish the temples, and having rewarded all the forces that are subject to his rulership;

and of the revenues and taxes that were in force in Egypt he had reduced some or(?) had renounced them completely, in order to cause the army and all the other people to be prosperous in his time as [king].’

Ancient Egyptians carved hieroglyphs into clay seals, rock, pottery vessels, and bone and ivory.

The Rosetta Stone scripts are carved in basalt.

[travelingfevah]

Machu Picchu Beyond the Stones, Into the Mysteries

https://TravelingFevah.com - Machu Picchu, nestled high in the Andes Mountains of Peru, is not just an archaeological site but a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of the ancient Incan civilization. Dating back to the 15th century, this remarkable citadel is shrouded in mystery and intrigue, captivating the hearts and minds of travelers from around the globe. 

Historical Significance: Machu Picchu was constructed during the height of the Inca Empire, under the reign of Emperor Pachacuti. Its purpose remains a subject of debate among historians, with theories ranging from a royal estate to a religious sanctuary or a strategic military outpost. Regardless of its original function, Machu Picchu served as a symbol of Incan power and achievement. 

 Architectural Marvel: What sets Machu Picchu apart is its sophisticated stone architecture, characterized by meticulously cut and fitted stones without the use of mortar. The precision of the construction, particularly evident in structures like the Temple of the Sun and the Intihuatana stone, demonstrates the Incas' mastery of engineering and craftsmanship. Breathtaking Panoramic Views: Perched atop a ridge overlooking the Sacred Valley, Machu Picchu offers breathtaking panoramic views of the surrounding mountains and lush greenery. 

The site's strategic location amidst the Andean peaks adds to its mystique, with clouds often swirling around the peaks, enhancing the ethereal ambiance. Cultural and Spiritual Significance: Machu Picchu holds immense cultural and spiritual significance for the indigenous Quechua people of Peru. It is believed to be a sacred site with astronomical alignments and ritualistic purposes, serving as a link between the earthly realm and the celestial heavens. The Intihuatana stone, often referred to as the "Hitching Post of the Sun," is thought to have been used for astronomical observations and ceremonies. Modern-Day Wonder: 

Today, Machu Picchu is recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and one of the New Seven Wonders of the World. It attracts visitors from all corners of the globe, drawn not only by its historical and architectural marvels but also by the sense of awe and wonder that pervades its ancient ruins. In summary, Machu Picchu is more than just a collection of ancient ruins; it is a window into the rich cultural heritage and spiritual beliefs of the Inca civilization. Its breathtaking beauty, coupled with its enigmatic history, continues to inspire and enchant travelers seeking to unravel its mysteries and experience its timeless allure. 

Thanks for watching, don't forget to subscribe and hit the bell to stay updated when we're putting out new content for you. You can download your FREE Guide: "The Budget Traveler's Handbook" and get cheap flights, cheap hotels, cheap destinations, cheap car rentals, cheap traveler insurance at: https://TravelingFevah.com 

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