#Who sows the wind reaps the storm

[unbury-the-gays]

Together

Adrien: We've been through so much together, haven't we, kitty?

Kiyan: Yeah. And most of it was your fault.

[unbury-the-gays]

Hello, hi! I have some thoughts!

I'd like to point out that this elven heritage in the Cat's School is a bit of an exaggerated theme. It is true that this half of the witches, led by Gezras (the half-elf), survived after the Cat School schism. And it is true that this group fraternized with the elves, even adopting some of their weapons and fighting techniques. But in the end, most of the witchers of the Cat School were still human. All the witchers of the Cat School that Geralt meets are human. If they had some elven genes in them, it was not enough to manifest in their appearance. Brehen, Jad, Gaetan - everything in their physicality points to humans.

Also: in the Polish comic Betrayal, which can be considered at least partially canon because it was created based on Sapkowski's unused idea and the author's notes, all the witchers from the School of the Cat are also human.

Granted, Ireneus (mage who kidnapped Kiyan) mentions in his notes that Kiyan revealed the secrets of his school under torture, and there are many references to the school's ties to elves, but Ireneus doesn't note that Kiyan himself is of elven origin. And we know that he kept his disgusting diary very meticulously. He focused on Kiyan's endurance, and I believe that if Kiyan had elven blood in him, Ireneus would have taken note.

All in all I think it's reasonable to assume that the Cat School didn't mind turning elves into witchers, but the elves were in the minority anyway. So when it comes to the instability of cats, I don't think it's the species that matters. I think it was just their formulas and potions that were bad.

Despite the fall of the Witcher Order, other schools continued to maintain a certain tradition, working with mages on the trials. The Cats, on the other hand, not only murdered their mages, but also accepted badly mutated witchers from other schools into their ranks. Simply put, they didn't care about the technical side of the Trials. They transformed into witchers and accepted anyone, and they did so in a careless manner, without full knowledge of potions of the Grasses.

Anyway, despite my conclusion, I think the Cat School consisting largely of elves is an interesting concept. And I think it can be accepted as canon that they, of all the Witcher schools, probably had the most elves in their ranks, even if I personally believe that elves were not in the majority. Nor even half.

As for Kiyan, he is my beloved son. @gavilansblog and I have written some fix-it fic to save him from the hands of Ireneus. If you're interested, welcome!

Below are some of our works:

Unbury The Gays by Advena87, Gavilan :

Still Here - complete - The first time his friends disappeared, Kiyan was too young to understand.

Decision - complete - Kiyan, a young witcher on the Path, survivor of the pogrom, has a routine contract in a small and inhospitable town. Nevertheless, he decides to visit a local brothel in the hope that he will find nice company there and relax. He finds something completely different.

Who sows the wind, reaps the storm - main story, work in progress - The ruins of the elven palace Est Tayiar in Redania were mentioned several times in the records of the oldest cat school masters as a potential source of exquisite weapons and diagrams, but the records didn’t specify the exact location of the palace or what it had been, exactly, in its heyday. Either way, Kiyan had nothing better to do, except avoid headhunters, so he planned on spending this year on the path searching for treasures.

Mirror - complete - Witcher Kiyan has been saved from the hands of a sadistic mage, but this marks only the beginning of his journey to regain himself.

Dream - complete - Two years after Kiyan's rescue, the nightmares weren’t as vivid and painful as they had been in the beginning, especially with Adrien’s calming, familiar scent and warmth beside him. Calming, that is, except the nights that Adrien also suffered nightmares of his own.

Kadiz - work in progress - Kiyan was counting on a quiet afternoon, but his unpredictable prince decided to surprise him with an extraordinary gift. The witcher immediately sensed trouble, but as usual with Adrien's romantic ideas, it was definitely too late to stop the series of unfortunate events.

Gift - complete - Four years after being kidnapped by the mage, witcher Kiyan tries to lead a normal life on the Path. However, in the middle of the season, an unexpected meeting thwarted his plans.

Persimmons- complete - Kiyan does not need aphrodisiacs, thank you very much, Adrien.

Rendezvous in the woods - complete - The erratic prince insisted on rendezvous in the woods, and Kiyan reluctantly followed him to a secret place. And while Kiyan expected this date to be a dud, he hadn't anticipated the extent to which things could get out of hand.

We also have two fics in Modern AU.

Stray Cat - complete - "If a cat runs away, you should tie a bell around his neck. Then you will always know where he is."

Adrien doesn't know what's going on in Kiyan's life that keeps him running away, but he's determined to keep trying to build something with his mysterious stranger.

Golden Hour - complete - A really difficult client shows up at Kiyan's door. Little does Kiyan know that what seems to be a minor inconvenience will change his life.

98% of our work focuses on the Kiyan/Adrien rare pairing, but you might find something for you here! Either way, if you want to shower Kiyan with love, we are here to cooperate!

Advena (@advena87)

So we know from TW3 storyline with the Mad Witcher Kiyan that a lot of the cat school is made up of Witchers with Elven origins. But I’ve never seen anyone mention that this could be the reason they tend to be more unstable? Essentially they use mutations meant for humans (presumably) on descendants of elves and it’s probably a bit fucked. We know elven and human ancestry can physically mess up a person, like is shown with Yennefer, so were most of these trainees physically disabled in some capacity when they were brought to the Cat School? Is that why more schools didn’t adopt this method? Does it have to do with them being slightly closer to the Source and having a bit of chaos themselves which makes them more prone to mental illness? Thinking of Eskel being shown to have proficiency in signs due to his inclination to magic, it seems unlikely. So it must be something more physical/emotional. I don’t know, just pondering. Also, we under appreciate Kiyan as a fandom, please give this poor lad some love, I beg you.

[echeveriia]

song of the day is the racing heart by katatonia

[melanchol1cs]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

word count: 3.4k summary: a man reaps what he sows. masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

18+ MDNI. catholicism, religious connotations, no specific time frame but i’d like to say victorian era-ish, alot of allusions to the lord or god, reader’s dead husband idk, inner conflict, denial, guilt, leon asking for forgiveness like a hundred times, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex.

a/n: started this like two months ago, just had the motivation to finally finish. i don’t really know how i feel about my writing on this one… i feel like i’ve lost all my skills after not writing for a few weeks

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[lovesickeros]

☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, violence {☆} word count 0.8k

You are dying.

Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.

It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.

You will die.

"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."

A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.

"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."

They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.

"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."

Silence.

You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.

It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.

In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.

They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.

And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.

And alone, the cold remains.

Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.

But the cold remains, bathed in gold.

It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.

It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.

Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.

But you are yourself.

And you are where you belong.

They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.

All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.

One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.

Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.

[goodqueenaly]

Hi and I hope you are well! I don’t know if this is a weird question, but I’m always fascinated by the legends of the Reach particularly regarding the children of Garth Greenhand, and how that connects to the Faith in those areas. I think I saw a post you wrote some time ago about how for example Rowan Gold Tree’s story might have been adapted by the Faith into a parable about the Mother (apologies if I’m mistaken). I guess my question is, do you think Rowan and the others might have been actually worshipped as gods before the Faith, like Garth might have been? Also if I may ask a second question: do you have thoughts about Floris (my personal fave) how her story fits into Westeros’ patriarchal attitudes towards women? Does the fact that she founded three houses mean that she’s not vilified by the Faith for being non monogamous? Thanks and sorry again for weird questions!!

(I was mistaken, I think it was actually about Rowan’s story as a parable about the Maiden, like that her hair turned into a tree as a sign of being favored by the Maiden? I don’t quite remember who wrote this post.)

I have a vague memory of a post I wrote along similar lines a very long time ago too, but I couldn’t find it, so either I never did or I deleted it. Anyway, I do very much like to headcanon that the myth of Rowan Gold-Tree was co-opted by the Faith during its early establishment in the Reach as a myth about the Maiden - that Rowan, abandoned by her love for a richer rival, prayed to the Maiden in her heartbreak, and the Maiden, guardian and benefactor of virtuous maids, gave Rowan her golden tree, almost Cinderella style, perhaps as a sort of dowry to show that maidenly virtue was literally worth more than gold.

Whatever the particular relationship between the Faith and the myth of Rowan Gold-Tree, do I think that some or all of the legendary children of Garth Greenhand may have been worshiped as gods themselves? Very possibly. We know that there was at least some tradition of Garth being worshiped as or at least considered a god by Westerosi: Yandel notes that “[s]ome even say [Garth Greenhand] was a god” and that “[a] few of the very oldest tales” present Garth as a “considerably darker deity, one who demanded blood sacrifice from his worshippers to ensure a bountiful harvest” and a “green god [who] die[d] every autumn … only to be reborn with the coming of spring”. Yandel also compares Garth to fertility gods and goddesses worshiped by “[m]any of the more primitive peoples of the earth”, as Garth not only “taught men to farm” and “showed them how to plant and sow, how to raise crops and reap the harvest” but also scattered a seemingly divinely plentiful bag of various seeds and “brought the gift of fertility” to people and crops alike. Nor was this early history of Westeros an era without the worship of local deities beyond the old gods: the myth of Durran Godsgrief features a sea god and a goddess of the wind, the people of the Three Sisters worshiped the Lady of the Waved and the Lord of the Skies, and of course the ironborn believe in the eternal divine struggle between the Drowned God and the Storm God.  

So I could see where, depending on the era and the location, various individuals among Garth’s legendary children might have been worshiped as gods or semi-divine heroes themselves. If Garth Greenhand was worshiped as a god for teaching the First Men to sow, cultivate, and reap, might Gilbert of the Vines have been similarly worshiped by the people of the Arbor for teaching these people “to make sweet wine” from their island’s lush native grapes (and indeed, might there have been some local tradition that Gilbert had inherited his father’s fertility and made these grapes grow “so fat and lush across their island”)? If Garth was treated as a god for his apparently mystical and/or divine ability to bring and cultivate life from the land, might Ellyn Ever-Sweet, Rowan Gold-Tree, and/or Rose of Red Lake have been similarly worshiped by the locals of Beesbury, Goldengrove, and/or Red Lake, respectively, for their supernatural, perhaps also seemingly divine, connections to and power over the natural world? If the earliest worshipers of Garth Greenhand offered him blood sacrifices in return for bountiful harvests, might worshipers have given Bors the Breaker similar blood sacrifices in return for grants of strength and courage, since he himself had supposedly drunk the blood of bulls to gain the power of 20 men? If Garth’s divine power included the gift of specifically sexual fertility so strong that he “[made] barren women fruitful with a touch” and caused “[m]aidens [to ripen] in his presence”, “mothers [to bring] forth twins or even triplets when he blessed them”, and “young girls [to flower] at his smile”, then might Harlon and Herndon have been similarly worshiped for the seeming eternal fertility they apparently enjoyed and represented as husbands to their woods witch wife, or Foss the Archer worshiped as a similar roving fertility god casting a welcome eye on maidens as his father had done (with his arrow and apple exploits perhaps a sort of sexual euphemism)? Again, these are just a few creative examples, but the larger point is that I could very well see where Garth’s children may have been seen not only as extensions of his own legend, but gods in their own right who took over aspects of the worship of Garth Greenhand. (To say nothing of whether any of them might have been worshiped for their own persons and/or deeds - if, say, John the Oak, Owen Oakenshield, and/or Brandon of the Bloody Blade might have been viewed as a sort of proto-Warrior or god of war, or if Maris the Maid became a sort of mother goddess for Oldtown and House Hightower.) 

As far as Florys the Fox goes … eh. I think that strict monogamy was not an entirely consistent or mandated practiced among the First Men before the arrival of the Andals, including in the Reach: not only do the myths of both Florys and the twin ancestors of House Tarly feature as their protagonists participants in polygamous (and, indeed, polyandrous) marriages, but King Garland II successfully brought Oldtown into the Gardener kingdom by putting aside his wives, plural, to marry Lymond Hightower’s daughter. Nor indeed should we ignore the fact that Florys seems to have been considered clever not just for having three husbands but for keeping each a secret from the others - a suggestion, perhaps, that the expected (read: patriarchal) order of the universe, playfully subverted by the literally extraordinary Florys, was that a woman should be the submissive partner to a single man, rather than the dominant mistress keeping three men at her nuptial leisure. So I think the pre-Andal Reach may have accepted two beliefs as true at the same time - namely, a patriarchal world in which women were expected to serve and obey men and also a pro-polygamy world in which a demigod/heroine/goddess figure could be lauded for having kept multiple husbands simultaneously without being caught. 

Too, I think it’s possible that just as septons and maesters downplayed the mythology and divinity of Garth Greenhand in later accounts - with Yandel noting that legends of Garth Greenhand, “though cherished by the smallfolk, are largely discounted by both the maesters of the Citadel and the septons of the Faith, who share the view that Garth Greenhand was a man, not a god” - so these same post-Andal Invasion academics may have deemphasized the myths surrounding Florys the Fox, including her celebrated polyandry. Perhaps dynastically persnickety maesters or septons argued that Florys had not really been married to three men, but rather that the myths had conflated her marriage to the ancestor of House Ball/Peake/Florent with marriages by other women, or perhaps remarriages by Florys, to the ancestors of the other two Houses. Perhaps the myth was bowdlerized to have Florys merely be courted by the founders of each of these Houses, rather than having her marrying each, with Florys perhaps then serving as more of a spiritual or romantic ancestress rather than a literal matriarch of this bloodline. Of course, it’s also possible that septons did look down on and preach against Florys for her polygamous marriages, branding her a “wanton” - though to what extent they could or would do so, while also looking to convert these powerful aristocratic families of the Reach, is speculative at best. 

[kenyizsuartblog]

Potionomics - Storm Lord Boss Finn

In ages past, storm lords were the strongest guardians of the merfolk, especially in their struggle for survival against the land dwelling species. In these peaceful times, when all races live side by side, storm lords are all but legends.

Yet their sacred duty remains. Quell the storms. Protect the weak.

----

"One who sows wind, reaps a storm." is probably my favorite Hungarian saying. It is quite a profound warning against looking for and sowing discord for whatever reason.

.... Isn't that right, Triple-A gaming industry? You loathsome hacks.

For the first time ever, I have tried to emulate Alfons Mucha's famous Art Nouveau paintings, and you'll be the judge, how it worked out! For a first timer, I'm actually very happy with the result. I may not try it often, but I can see myself revisiting it from time to time.

Yes, this is a celebratory image over finishing Potionomics once again, now with Boss Finn added to the gang. I will be honest here, I was very very worried how they would portray Boss Finn. Afterall he is a very confrontational, very confident, very masculine character and we all know how much modern media just revels in open misandry. But once again, Voracious Games have proved me wrong and I could not be happier for it. For they took Finn and not only give him a great character arc while also leaving his core intact, but also he ends up in a very positive and protective role while staying masculine.

A true rarity these days.

Thank you, Voracious Games! There is still hope for the art of story telling in this day and age, you have proven it!

2024.12.22.

[xwhitepolar]

Speak Your Language Day 2023: Sim di Bellavista (The Sims 2) come proverbi italiani ✨

// Pleasantview (The Sims 2) sims as italian proverbs ✨

Ciao amici!! Non ho potuto pianificare molto per questo evento ma spero apprezzerete questo post! Sono un po' malaticcia quindi non è molto, ma ehi 😆 // Hello friends!! I couldn't plan much for this event but I hope you'll appreciate this post! I'm a bit sicklish so it's not much, but hey 😆

Dina Caliente: Non è tutto oro quel che luccica. "not all that glitters is gold". I can't explain why it reminds me of her, it's the vibes

Nina Caliente: Da cosa nasce cosa. the italian equivalent of "one thing leads to another", in Italy is often said about dating. Nina 🤝🏽 ACR

Brandi Broke: A mali estremi estremi rimedi. "To extreme misfortune, extreme remedies". When a situation gets tough, sometimes we need to use strong means to get where we want. You know why I chose Brandi, right? ;)

Skip Broke: Uomo avvisato mezzo salvato. literally, "a warned man is half saved". One who's warned about some danger can save themselves. Sorry Skip 💀

Dustin Broke: Fidarsi è bene, non fidarsi è meglio. "Trusting is good, not trusting is better". You just KNOW this teenager is an angsty boy who refuses to trust people lmao

Coral + Herb Oldie: Tra moglie e marito non mettere il dito. "it's better not to mind a couple's business". You don't know how Coral and Herb are together, and as soon as you open their family they have a fight. But you don't question it ;)

Don Lothario: Il lupo perde il pelo, ma non il vizio. "A wolf loses its fur but not its habit." Referring to how people rarely lose their vices. Don just loves dating around a bit too much to ever stop after marriage, no?

Darren Dreamer: Chi la dura la vince. "who persists, wins". Does Darren still think Cassandra will reciprocate his love at some point?

Mortimer Goth: Chi si fa i fatti suoi, campa cent’anni. "who minds their own business, lives a hundred years." Given how he reacts when people look through a telescope, you know this man strongly believes in this proverb.

Cassandra Goth: A buon intenditor, poche parole. "Few words are needed for one who understands". Cassandra made this her life motto, I'm sure.

Bella Goth: È meglio essere uccel di bosco, che uccel di gabbia. Literally, "it's better to be a bird in the woods than a bird in a cage". Taking risks and choosing freedom has its own disadvantages, but at least you're not caged. So, did Bella run away, or?

Daniel Pleasant: Il diavolo fa le pentole, ma non i coperchi. "The devil makes pots but not lids". Truth and nasty secrets always come up. Daniel be ready >:(

Angela Pleasant: Chi semina vento raccoglie tempesta. Literally, "One who sows wind reaps a storm". Who spreads negativity and ill intentions will get them back even more powerfully. Now, if only she stopped picking fights with her sister...

Lilith Pleasant: Chi la fa l'aspetti. "Who does [something bad] can expect it in return". Twin proverb of the previous one :D will they ever get along?

Ed è tutto per ora!! Spero vi siano piaciuti 😆 potrei farne altri in futuro, chissà.. intanto, felice giorno Parla La Tua Lingua!! // And that's all for now!! I hope you liked these 😆 I may make more in the future, who knows... in the meantime, happy Speak Your Language Day!

[witcherrarepaircommentexchange]

pairing:

Prince Adrien/Kiyan (The Witcher)

fics:

Dream by Advena87 and Gavilan

Two years after Kiyan's rescue, the nightmares weren’t as vivid and painful as they had been in the beginning, especially with Adrien’s calming, familiar scent and warmth beside him. Calming, that is, except the nights that Adrien also suffered nightmares of his own.

Saovine was approaching, the nights were growing longer and colder, and Adrien's nightmares more frequent. The prince still didn't want to talk about them, and Kiyan didn't know how to break the standstill. He wanted to help him, but there was nothing he could do but hold him in his arms.

Stray Cat by Advena87 and Gavilan

"If a cat runs away, you should tie a bell around his neck. Then you will always know where he is." Adrien doesn't know what's going on in Kiyan's life that keeps him running away, but he's determined to keep trying to build something with his mysterious stranger.

Who Sows the Wind, Reaps the Storm by Advena87 and Gavilan

"The ruins of the elven palace Est Tayiar in Redania were mentioned several times in the records of the oldest cat school masters as a potential source of exquisite weapons and diagrams, but the records didn’t specify the exact location of the palace or what it had been, exactly, in its heyday. Either way, Kiyan had nothing better to do, except avoid headhunters, so he planned on spending this year on the path searching for treasures."

[azraelgray]

"If I sow a wind now

I will reap a storm

You saw me sliding away from the sun

And tomorrow

Who will come

And put their hand over mine

Mine with the burning shape of a gun"

The Racing Heart - Katatonia - Dead End Kings (2012)

[unbury-the-gays]

Chopsticks

Gisbert: So, who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon?

Adrien: We're chopsticks!

Gisbert: Oh, that's cute! Does that mean you two snuggle together perfectly?

Kiyan: No, it means that if you take one of us away, the only thing the other is good for is stabbing.

[bebettergoback]

Save Mohammed ..

Dear humanity,

Please Help Me – My Son May Die at Any Moment. I am in desperate need of your help. My son’s life is hanging by a thread, and he may not survive without urgent medical treatment This was after he was shot by an Israeli drone He was critically injured in his feet. Time is running out, and we are facing a critical situation. I am asking for your generosity to help us save him – either through a donation or by sharing this urgent plea with others

I beg you, i kiss your feet, to help my son. My son may die at any moment

Donate now:👇👇 gofundme.com

‎��Thank you for your compassion and support during this critical time.

#free_palestine 🍉🇵🇸

How to free palestine,.. when you honor a criminal organisation,.. HAMAS ,... KILL PALESTINE,... by using Israël. Hamas begs Israël,... we must kill palestine,... If you israël do not help us to kill them,.. we fire rockets to israël ,.. so they send rockets back!!!! "he who sows the wind, will reap the storm" I'm sorry

[jlt3141592]

**Hello everyone,✨**

❤🍉🍉❤🍉🍉❤🍉🍉❤

I hope this message finds you well. I’m reaching out for your help regarding a matter that is very important to me. My family is currently suffering due to the situation in Gaza💔.

I’ve shared a post that details their story, including photos and a link to my campaign. The aim is to raise funds to support them through these challenging times.

Please consider reposting this message on your accounts to help us reach as many people as possible💫.

Could you reblog the pinned post from my account🙏🏻🥺❤?

Your support means a great deal to us, and we hope you can help spread this message to those who might be able to offer assistance💗🙏🏻.

Thank you for your time and consideration. Wishing you all the best❤.

Fuck you, fuck your entire tribe and fuck the entire horde of terrorist scum you voted for and supported. You sowed the wind. Now reap the storm.

Am Israel Hai.

[freebirdatmidnight]

A big cheers for all people who give oral sex for their own pleasure ... but always be aware: Who sows the wind will reap the storm !!

.... ohhhhh i loooove to get these storms back

💋💋💋💋😍😍😍

Greedy_

[lorei-wrote]

Trials and Tribulations of an Unconsenting Time-Traveller

Status: Completed Pairing: OC x Mitsuhide (chosen through voting) Bitter-Sweet Ending Premise: I sent my OC to Sengoku. Help me decide where will this story lead! Content Warnings: fire, near death experience, pain, being physically restrained, blood (cat claws), food, war, injury, anxiety, background character death,

OC Chart: Maria Świętochowska 

Chapter I - Pleasant beginnings to a fatal end Chapter II - The first step is the hardest  Chapter III - As you to somebody, likewise to you Chapter IV - The evil does not sleep Chapter V - Good Beginning is Half the Work Done Chapter VI - Search and You Will Find Chapter VII - You know no more than you were tested Chapter VIII - You can count, count on yourself Chapter IX - And the king will be eaten by worms Chapter X - Hold your tongue behind your teeth Chapter XI- Those who scuffle like each other I. Chapter XII - Those who scuffle like each other II Chapter XIII - The old [wise] woman has forseen either  Chapter XIV - The less you know, the better you sleep Chapter XV - A lie has short legs Chapter XVI - Those who sow wind, reap the storms Chapter XVII - The deeper into the forest, the more trees Chapter XVIII - Outside of heart, outside of sight Chapter XIX - [To throw] Beans against the wall Chapter XX - (…) Chapter XXI - The End

[sunmmon8689]

WHAT SHOULD WE HAVE BEFORE PRACTICING MEDITATION.

THE FIRST IS A DETERMINATION TO KEEP THE MIND PURE AND SERENE. Many people develop and interest in meditation when they hear a story about a meditation master who attained enlightenment, a passage of a sutra from Buddha’s teachings on meditation, or a meditation method to purify the mind. It’s just an interest in meditation, not the determination to keep our minds pure and free from unwanted thoughts.

THE SECOND IS KNOWLEDGE OF THE LAW OF CAUSE AND EFFECT. Karma is a science that is many times higher than the doctoral level. The Karma Law is not as simple as good thing come to good ones or sow the wind and reap the storm. Understanding the Law of Cause and Effect in such a way is at the very first step. The Law of Cause and Effect is so strange and sophisticated we can’t tell all about it.

Understanding the Law of Cause and Effect, we understand our lives and others’ lives, and importantly, we understand our own minds. We will understand why we can or cannot put our minds in a serene state, and then adjust our practice in accordance with the Law of Cause and Effect.

THIRD, WE MUST HAVE KNOWLEDGE OF PSYCHOLOGY.

Meditation is to tame and control the mind, so we have to understand our minds profoundly. The human mind system is complex, closely related to and strongly influenced by each person’s karma. Because Western psychology has not studied the Law of Cause and Effect, it cannot explain all about our minds. Once, we talked to a woman with a Ph.D. in psychology, and she said, “I have studied Western psychology for a lifetime, taught it for a lifetime, but I can’t find a way out”. Buddhism can explain everything about psychology because it is based on the Law of Cause and Effect.

Practicing meditation, we have to understand all the principles and activities of our minds.

FOURTH, WE MUST HAVE KNOWLEDGE OF MEDICINE, BOTH MODERN AND TRADITIONAL.

Because purity of mind is related to the brain; The brain is related to the whole body (including hormones, blood, liver, intestines, lungs, etc.), so one must have knowledge of medicine, not just modern medicine. Our traditional medicine is very special. Traditional medicine has unique concepts, such as acupuncture points. We didn’t find anything special at the acupuncture points, but inserting needles into them can cure the disease. This is a mystery and pride of traditional medicine.

FIFTH, WE NEED KNOWLEDGE OF THE PHYSIOLOGY AND PSYCHOLOGY OF THE BRAIN. Each region of the brain is responsible for a specific function. Sometimes that our minds often get disturbed is caused by a glitch in the brain, and if we know how to solve it, we can recover well.

Collected.

#meditation#practicingmeditation#morality