#World Wide Web journey

[manasastuff-blog]

"World Wide Web Day" #trending#viral

Celebrate World Wide Web Day by understanding its profound impact on our daily routines, communication, and access to information. This dives deep into why World Wide Web Day is celebrated globally, exploring how it has revolutionized how we live, work, and connect. From facilitating instant communication to providing a wealth of knowledge at our fingertips, the World Wide Web has become an indispensable part of modern life. Join us as we uncover surprising facts and historical milestones that highlight the significance of this pivotal innovation. Discover how the web has shaped various aspects of society, from education and commerce to entertainment and social interactions.

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Website: www.manasadefenceacademy.com

#WorldWideWebDay#WebDayImportance#InternetRevolution#CelebrateWebDay#TechHistory#WebImpact#DigitalTransformation#WebMilestones#TechCelebration#GlobalConnectivity#trending#viral#manasadefenceacademy

[todayontumblr]

Wednesday, July 5.

Taylor Swift Fan: Woman hides identity because she called in sick to work.

Not all heroes wear capes. That said, some nearly do. Some instead wear a pink, white polka dot towel over their head, adorned with sunglasses to keep the look effortlessly stylish. This magnificent look, like a nonchalant phantom, is then captured on tape forEvermore in live, broadcast interview—and sent gleefully around the World Wide Web. This is a look of disguise as necessitated by trying circumstance, yet fearlessness in the face of tyranny. This is someone who will not be bowed by threats of disciplinary measures such as "verbal or written warnings", "demotions", "pay cuts", "suspensions", or even "termination." This is the look of someone who spits in the face of such threats and then wipes the saliva dribbling down her chin with the towel handily draped over her head. This is Taylor Swift Fan: Woman hides identity because she called in sick to work.

Hers is ultimately a parable of choice—of the decisions made when confronted by tyranny, and the lengths one may take in pursuit of what really matters. Faced with the threats of those "superior" to you, and the opportunity to experience #the eras tour, what would you do? Cow from the promise of disciplinary measures? Or do whatever it takes to attend @taylorswift's magnum opus: a journey through all of her musical eras, a defying feat of over three hours of 44 songs divided into ten distinct acts to portray the albums conceptually, a tour that has received unanimous critical acclaim for its production, striking visual identities, execution of its concept, and Swift's musicianship, vocals, charisma, stamina, and versatility as an entertainer? 

Faced with such a dilemma, Taylor Swift Fan did what must be done. She took her phone, feigned a cough, and tickled her nostril until she started sneezing. She called her captors and told them im so sorry *cough* im sick and i wont be able to make it into work today, before taking the lift in her apartment, selecting B (for basement), and emerging in the TayCave below. She walks along a metal walkway, past supercomputers on standby. At the end of the walkway in a pristine glass cabinet, lit up lavender in the darkness, is a mannequin. This mannequin, silent and ready, sports a pink polka dot towel adorned with sunglasses. She presses a taybutton on the Cave wall, and the cabinet opens. 

Whoever you are, wherever you are, know that we see you. Know that you are the best of us.

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (13)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For the rest of the parts of the story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 12

- Next part: 14

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @alyssa-dayne

The sun was setting over the vast expanse of Dorne as you and Arthur rode toward Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne. The long journey had been grueling, but the sight of the pale stone walls of the castle rising against the desert landscape brought a sense of relief. Starfall, nestled near the shores of the Torrentine, shimmered in the fading light, the Sword of the Morning’s ancestral home looking like a beacon of safety amidst the chaos you had fled.

Arthur rode beside you, his gaze sharp and focused as always, but there was a heaviness in the air between you, a shared understanding of what you had left behind and what awaited you here. His hand, warm and steady, had gripped yours tightly for much of the journey, a silent promise that he would see you through this. But even Arthur, as confident and unwavering as he had been, knew the gravity of what was to come.

As the gates of Starfall opened before you, a small party emerged from the castle to greet you. At the forefront stood Ashara Dayne, her violet eyes wide with anticipation. Her dark hair, flowing freely over her shoulders, caught the last rays of the sun, and her expression—though composed—betrayed a mix of emotions as she saw you and Arthur approaching.

She had received the letter, of course. She had known they were coming. But seeing it unfold before her eyes—the dragon princess, you, and her brother, the famed Sword of the Morning, now a man branded a traitor to the crown—was something else entirely.

Behind her, several retainers of House Dayne stood, their expressions somber but respectful. The atmosphere was heavy with the weight of what was happening. Here, even in Dorne, word had spread like a storm of King Aerys' descent into insenity, of his obsession with his daughter, and of the dark ritual that had led to the hatching of a dragon—a miracle, some whispered. But others, even here, spoke of it with a shiver of unease. The way in which the dragon had been brought into the world—the burning of men, the wildfire—it cast a shadow over what should have been a wonder.

As you and Arthur dismounted, Ashara stepped forward, her eyes flickering between you and her brother. She was beautiful, as she always had been, but there was an intensity in her gaze that spoke of understanding and concern.

“Arthur,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of both affection and caution. Her eyes moved to you, and she gave a respectful nod. “Princess Y/N.”

You managed a faint smile, though you could feel the tension in your chest, the exhaustion of the journey and the enormity of what you had fled catching up to you. “Lady Ashara,” you replied, your voice quieter than usual.

Ashara’s eyes softened, and she glanced at her brother again, as if searching for something in his expression. “I received your letter,” she said, her voice careful. “But seeing you both here...”

Arthur, ever composed, stepped forward. “We had no choice,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with an unspoken weight. “The situation in King’s Landing has grown far worse than you know.”

Ashara sighed, her eyes darkening with concern. “It is all anyone can speak of, even here in Dorne. The king’s madness... his obsession with his daughter.” She glanced at you then, her expression softening. “The birth of the dragon. It’s seen as a miracle in some corners, but...” She trailed off, and the unspoken truth lingered in the air.

“But the manner of its birth,” she continued after a moment, “has unsettled many. The burning of men with wildfire... it casts a dark shadow, even on a miracle.”

You looked away, the memories of that ritual flashing through your mind, the heat of the wildfire, the sight of the men burning, feeling fires on you skin, the scent of their flesh still resides in your soul. It was something you could never forget, a nightmare that clung to you even now.

Arthur reached for your hand again, his fingers curling around yours gently. “We’re not here for miracles,” he said softly, his voice filled with the kind of tenderness he only ever used with you. “We’re here because the king’s obsession has reached its peak. Rhaegar... Rhaegar had no choice but to take action. And now, we must protect Y/N.”

Ashara’s face tightened as she heard her brother’s words, the weight of them settling over her. “Rhaegar has started a war,” she murmured, her eyes searching Arthur’s. “And you... you’ve broken your oath to the crown.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, but his gaze remained steady. “I’ve broken no oath that matters. My loyalty is to her, to protecting her from a fate worse than any betrayal to the crown.”

There was a long pause, the silence filled with the heavy weight of what lay ahead. Ashara, torn between her own loyalty to her brother and the reality of what this all meant, finally nodded.

“I understand,” she said softly, her voice filled with sorrow and resolve. “Come inside. We will keep you safe here, for as long as we can.”

She turned and led the way toward the gates of Starfall, her retainers following closely behind. You and Arthur exchanged a glance, and for a moment, despite everything, there was a sense of relief. You had made it to Starfall. For now, you were safe.

But as you walked through the gates and entered the shadowed halls of the ancient castle, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

The halls of Starfall were cool and dim, a sharp contrast to the scorching Dornish sun outside. Ashara led you and Arthur through the shadowed corridors, her movements swift and graceful, though her face was etched with worry. Arthur remained close to you, his presence a steady comfort as your steps echoed through the ancient stone halls. Starfall’s very walls seemed to carry the weight of history, of long-forgotten battles and the legacy of House Dayne.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but glance at Arthur, his jaw tight, his hand brushing against yours in quiet reassurance. But just as you were about to speak, a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Well, well,” the voice drawled, smooth and unmistakable. “The princess of dragons graces us with her presence. It’s been too long since we’ve seen that pretty face.”

You stopped, your heart skipping a beat as you turned to find Prince Oberyn Martell leaning against one of the stone pillars, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. His lips curled into a slow smile, and he stepped forward, his gaze flicking between you and Arthur with a knowing look. He was dressed as casually as ever, but the power and confidence he exuded made the air around him feel charged.

“Oberyn,” you greeted with a small, tired smile, surprised to see him here. The last time you had seen him was at the festival of the Mother in King’s Landing, when the court had tried to match his sister, Elia, with Rhaegar. It felt like a lifetime ago now. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Oberyn’s smile widened, his eyes flicking over you, taking in your travel-worn appearance but with no less warmth. “And I wasn’t expecting to find the famed dragon princess on my doorstep, but here we are,” he said lightly, his voice teasing but not unkind. “You’ve certainly brought a bit of excitement to Dorne, though I suppose that’s no surprise for someone with dragon blood.”

You chuckled softly, despite everything, and offered a light jest, your words more out of habit than ease. “You flatter me, Prince Oberyn. Though I’m sure there’s plenty of excitement in Dorne without me.”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but then his gaze shifted to Arthur, who had remained by your side, ever watchful. The prince’s expression turned more thoughtful, his smile turning into a smirk. “I must say, Arthur, you’re looking... particularly attentive,” he remarked, his tone dripping with suggestion. “And very close to the princess.”

Arthur straightened, his face calm but unreadable as always. “I’m protecting her, Oberyn,” he said, his voice steady. “That’s my duty.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, the smirk on his lips deepening. “Oh, I remember,” he said smoothly. “At the festival in King’s Landing, you and I spoke, and I noticed it then—the way you looked at her. The Sword of the Morning, in love with the dragon princess.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “It seems I was right.”

Your heart skipped a beat, heat rising to your cheeks at Oberyn’s words. You glanced at Arthur, who remained composed, though there was a faint tension in his jaw. He didn’t deny it. And neither did you.

Before the moment could stretch on further, Ashara cleared her throat, giving the prince a sharp look. “Your Grace,” she said firmly. “This is not the time.”

Oberyn shrugged, though his smile remained. “Very well, Lady Ashara,” he said, though his gaze lingered on you and Arthur for a moment longer. Then, with a graceful step, he turned to face you more fully, his expression softening.

“You’re safe here, Princess,” Oberyn said, his tone turning serious. “Starfall is well-guarded, and if Aerys sends men to Dorne, we will respond. Dorne does not bow easily to the will of mad kings.”

You frowned, the weight of everything pressing down on you again. “Why are you protecting me?” you asked, the question escaping your lips before you could stop it. There was gratitude in your voice, but also confusion. “I don’t... I don’t understand why you’re taking such a risk.”

Oberyn smiled, but there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—something sharp and calculating. “I have a passion for protecting damsels in distress,” he said with a smirk, though his voice was softer now. “But more than that... it’s the right thing to do.”

He paused, his gaze thoughtful as he considered his next words. “And perhaps,” he added, his tone more deliberate, “saving you could be beneficial to Dorne in the long run. Once Rhaegar secures the throne, there will be... opportunities for future alliances. A free princess, safe and sound, could open many doors.”

You felt a pang of unease at his words, a reminder of the political games that had always surrounded you. Even now, far from King’s Landing, you were still a piece on the board—a tool for others to use.

But more than that, Oberyn’s words stirred something deeper, something painful. You shifted uncomfortably, the conflicting emotions swirling inside you. No matter how deranged Aerys had become, he was still your father. Your blood. And despite everything, despite the fear and the horrors you had witnessed, you could not shake the love you still felt for the man he once was. The father who had once held you close, who had smiled at you with genuine affection before the madness consumed him.

“I... I understand,” you said quietly, your voice faltering slightly. “But it’s still... difficult. He’s still my father, no matter what he’s become. And all of this... it still feels alien to me.”

Oberyn’s expression softened, and for a moment, the playful, teasing prince was gone, replaced by someone who understood the weight of loss, the pain of family. “I don’t envy your position, Princess,” he said quietly. “But remember, you didn’t choose this. None of this is your fault.”

Arthur’s hand found yours again, a silent comfort, and you squeezed it gently, grateful for his steady presence.

Ashara stepped forward, placing a hand on your shoulder, her expression kind. “You’re safe here,” she repeated softly. “You have people who care for you.”

You nodded, though the knot in your chest remained. The love you still carried for your father, the man he had once been, warred with the reality of what he had become. And the uncertainty of the future hung over you like a dark cloud.

But here, in Starfall, surrounded by those who had chosen to protect you, you knew you were not alone.

The journey to Dragonstone had been long and weighed down with silance, the heavy skies mirroring the burden that hung over Rhaegar’s heart. The sea winds whipped around the island fortress, carrying the salt of the Narrow Sea, but they did little to cleanse the worries from his mind. He had successfully escorted his mother, Queen Rhaella, to safety with the aid of Varys' men, ensuring she was far from the madness of King’s Landing. Yet even here, in the ancient stronghold of House Targaryen, the shadows of his father’s madness loomed.

Rhaegar stood on the terrace overlooking the stormy sea, his silver hair blowing in the wind, his violet eyes dark with the weight of the world pressing upon him. His thoughts drifted to you—to the sister he had sent away with Ser Arthur Dayne, trusting him with your life. His heart ached at the thought of you, far from him, but safer in the hands of the man he trusted most. But the weight of keeping you hidden, even from his own mother, gnawed at him.

Behind him, the door to the chamber opened quietly, and his mother, Queen Rhaella, stepped out to join him. She was pale and fragile, her face lined with worry. The toll of years spent under Aerys’ madness was clear in her eyes, though she carried herself with the dignity of a queen.

"Rhaegar," she called softly, her voice filled with concern.

Rhaegar turned to face her, his expression softening as he saw the worry etched into her face. She was his mother, the woman who had endured more than anyone should ever have to. And now, as he stood on the precipice of war, he knew the pain he was causing her—the uncertainty, the fear for her children.

"Mother," Rhaegar said gently, stepping forward to take her hands in his. "You’re safe here, at Dragonstone. No harm will come to you."

Rhaella’s eyes searched his face, and though she nodded, her worry was not so easily dismissed. "But what of you?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "And your sister? Where is Y/N, Rhaegar? I don’t even know where she’s been taken. How can I be at peace when I don’t know if my children are safe?"

Her words hit Rhaegar with the force of a storm. He had expected this, had known his mother would ask. But now, standing before her, he could feel the weight of his decision bearing down on him. He could not tell her where you were. He couldn’t risk it. Not with his father’s insanity growing, not with Aerys' wrath so unpredictable. If she knew, and if Aerys ever turned his wrath on Rhaella again, she might suffer because of the knowledge.

"Y/N is safe," Rhaegar said softly, his voice steady but filled with the burden of what he withheld. "She’s with Ser Arthur. He will protect her."

Rhaella’s eyes flickered with relief, but also with a trace of doubt. "Arthur is a good man," she said, her voice still soft, "but why must I be kept in the dark about where she’s been taken? What danger is she in that you can’t share with me?"

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his heart aching for the truth he couldn’t share. "The less you know, Mother, the safer you are," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Father’s instability... it’s growing worse. If he turns his attention to you again, if he seeks to punish you for what has happened... I can’t risk you being harmed because of knowledge you shouldn’t carry."

Rhaella’s face tightened with fear, her grip on Rhaegar’s hands tightening. "Your father..." she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "He won’t let this go, will he? He’ll come for her. For you."

Rhaegar nodded slowly, his expression grim. "He will. But I won’t let him take her. I won’t let him destroy us."

Tears welled in Rhaella’s eyes, but she blinked them back, her fingers gripping her son’s hands as though she could anchor herself to him. "I’ve already lost so much," she said, her voice trembling. "I can’t lose you, Rhaegar. I can’t lose Y/N. I’ve lost your father, the man he once was... but not you. Not my children."

Rhaegar’s throat tightened, and he pulled his mother into a gentle embrace, holding her close as the stormy winds whipped around them. "You won’t lose us," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I swear it. I will protect Y/N, and I will do everything in my power to protect you."

They stood there for a moment, mother and son, bound by shared pain and love, both knowing that the storm that had begun in King’s Landing was only just gathering strength.

After a long silence, Rhaella pulled back slightly, searching her son’s face. "What will you do now?" she asked softly.

Rhaegar’s eyes darkened as he looked out over the sea, his thoughts already turning to the war he knew was coming. "I will prepare," he said, his voice resolute. "The North is already moving. The Riverlands will follow. Father has ignited the flames of rebellion with his madness, and there’s no turning back now."

Rhaella’s hand trembled as she reached up to touch Rhaegar’s face, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Be careful, Rhaegar," she whispered. "I know your destiny, your dreams... but be careful. You and Y/N are all I have left."

Rhaegar nodded, his heart heavy with the weight of his mother’s love and fear. "I will," he promised.

The warm air of summer clung to the open field, the sun hanging high in the sky as Rhaegar Targaryen stood, watching the approaching banners of House Baratheon. The grass swayed gently in the breeze, but there was a sense of foreboding in the air that even the heat couldn’t dispel. Across the distance, Robert Baratheon rode forward with his men, the stag on a field of gold flying proudly behind him. The meeting was inevitable, a consequence of all that had transpired.

Rhaegar stood tall, his silver hair catching the light, his violet eyes focused ahead. Though stripped of his title as Prince of Dragonstone, branded a traitor by his father, none of that concerned him as much as the accusations leveled against him—the claim that he had stolen his own sister. The gravity of those words hung over him, even as he prepared to face Robert.

The two had not met since that fateful festival in King’s Landing, when the court had tried to match Elia Martell with Rhaegar. But now, they faced each other under very different circumstances.

As Robert and his men came to a halt, Rhaegar's thoughts momentarily drifted to you. You were safely hidden with Ser Arthur Dayne, far from the madness that had engulfed the realm. But that safety had come at a price, and now the consequences were unfolding before him.

Robert dismounted, his powerful frame towering over the men who stood behind him. His face was hard, his blue eyes filled with anger and accusation. His warhammer, which had already claimed many lives in this rebellion, hung at his side, a menacing reminder of the brute force he commanded.

"Rhaegar," Robert said, his voice carrying across the field like a growl. "Last time we stood together, we were in King’s Landing. Now look at what you’ve become."

Rhaegar remained calm, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword as he met Robert’s gaze. "Much has changed since then, Robert," he replied. "But we both know why we are here today."

Robert’s expression darkened as he took a step closer. "Aye, I know exactly why," he said, his voice thick with contempt. "You’re a traitor to the crown. You’ve turned your back on your own father, and you’ve dragged the realm into chaos. You’re no prince anymore—you’re just a thief."

The accusation hit like a blow, but Rhaegar had expected it. His hand tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword, though his face remained composed.

"I’m no thief, Robert," he said firmly. "I’ve protected my sister from a king who has lost his mind. My father is no longer the man he once was. His obsession with power, his madness, has poisoned the realm. I couldn’t let him drag Y/N into that madness."

Robert’s fists clenched, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "And you thought it was your right to take her away?" he spat, stepping closer. "To defy the crown? You think that makes you better than Aerys?"

Rhaegar stood his ground, his eyes never leaving Robert’s. "It wasn’t about defiance—it was about doing what was right. Y/N was never meant to be used as a toy in my father’s delusions. He wanted to take her as his wife, Robert. His own daughter. I couldn’t let that happen."

Robert’s face twisted in disgust, but his rage remained unchecked. "So you decided to start a war to protect her?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think that makes you some kind of hero? You think this rebellion is about saving your sister?"

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. "This isn’t about me," he said quietly. "It’s about protecting her from becoming another victim of my father’s madness. The man who sits on the Iron Throne will burn the realm to the ground if it means keeping his twisted grip on power."

Robert’s eyes narrowed, and he took another step closer, looming over Rhaegar. "You think you’re better than him? You think you can just claim her for yourself and call it protection?"

Rhaegar’s breath caught for a moment, but he forced himself to remain steady. He knew the truth of his actions—knew the purity of his intentions when it came to you. His love for you, his desire to keep you safe, had driven him to do things he never thought possible. But Robert’s insinuations cut deep.

"I love my sister," Rhaegar said, his voice low but filled with conviction. "But not in the way you think. I would die before I let Aerys destroy her, or destroy the realm. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect her from a fate worse than death."

Robert scoffed, shaking his head. "You’ve already brought death, Rhaegar," he said coldly. "You’ve dragged the realm into war, and now it’s going to destroy everything you think you’re protecting."

For a moment, the only sound was the distant rustling of the wind through the grass. The tension between them was shimmering, both men knowing that the words exchanged here were only the beginning.

Robert took a step back, his face hardening once more. "This isn’t going to end well for you, Rhaegar," he said, his voice quiet but full of menace. "You’ve made your choice. Now you’ll face the consequences."

Rhaegar met Robert’s gaze, his expression resolute. "The consequences have already begun, Robert," he said. "But they won’t end with my death. They’ll end with a mad king removed from the throne."

Robert’s lip curled, and without another word, he turned and strode back toward his men, his warhammer swinging heavily at his side.

As Robert’s men mounted their horses and prepared to leave, Rhaegar remained standing in the field, the wind brushing through his hair. The meeting was over, but the battle that lay ahead was only just beginning.

The throne room was suffused with an uneasy warmth, the late summer heat mixing with the heavy dread that clung to the walls of the Red Keep. Behind the Iron Throne, Terrax lay coiled in the shadows, the massive black dragon’s slow breaths audible in the otherwise silent hall. His golden eyes, half-lidded but ever watchful, glowed faintly in the low light. The courtiers and council members stood still, their attention split between the maddened king and the restless creature behind him, each movement of the dragon a reminder of the volatile situation they faced.

King Aerys II sat upon the Iron Throne, his silver hair wild, eyes blazing with anger. His thin frame seemed to tremble with barely contained fury, and the small council could feel it in the air, crackling like the heat of a fire about to blaze out of control. Lord Owen Merryweather, his face pale and drawn, stood at the center of the storm, the weight of the king’s rage fully upon him.

“You have failed me, Merryweather!” Aerys shouted, his voice sharp and cold. “The rebellion grows stronger, my enemies multiply, and my daughter—my daughter—remains out of reach! What good are you as Hand if you cannot stop even this?”

Behind the throne, Terrax shifted, his tail scraping against the stone floor with a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers through those gathered. The dragon’s presence had always unnerved them, and now, with the king’s madness growing unchecked, it felt as though the beast was an extension of Aerys' wild temper, ready to erupt at any moment.

Merryweather swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. “Your Grace, I—"

“Silence!” Aerys barked, cutting him off. “You were meant to serve me, to keep order in my realm. Instead, you have allowed chaos to spread! You have let my son steal away my daughter, and you have done nothing to stop it!”

The entire council stood frozen, none daring to meet the king’s gaze for fear of drawing his ire. Even the smallest glance toward Terrax could betray fear or hesitation, which Aerys would certainly seize upon. The dragon’s breathing grew heavier, and the oppressive heat in the room seemed to intensify.

“You are no longer fit to serve,” Aerys continued, his voice lowering into something more menacing. “I strip you of your title as Hand of the King. You are banished from my sight and from this court. Leave now, before I decide to deal with you more harshly.”

Merryweather, ashen-faced, bowed low and backed away from the throne, his departure marked by the soft clinking of armor and murmurs from the court. The doors closed behind him with a resounding thud, leaving the room in a stifling silence.

The king’s eyes swept over the remaining council members, his gaze wild and dangerous. His fingers gripped the arms of the Iron Throne so tightly that the sharp blades beneath his hands dug into his skin, leaving thin trails of blood. But Aerys paid no mind to the pain—his thoughts were consumed by other matters, chief among them your absence.

“Jon Connington,” Aerys called, turning his attention to the man who now stood before him. “You will be my new Hand. Bring my enemies to their knees, bring my daughter back to me, or suffer the same fate as your predecessor.”

Jon Connington, calm and composed, bowed deeply. “I will not fail you, Your Grace,” he said in a measured tone. His words were confident, but the gravity of his new role was evident. He knew the dangers that lay ahead, both from within the court and beyond its walls.

As Connington took his place, Aerys’ gaze snapped to Varys, who had been standing silently at the edge of the room. The Master of Whisperers, ever composed, offered a slight bow, his hands hidden within the folds of his robes. But Aerys was in no mood for silence or patience.

“You!” Aerys hissed, his voice sharp and filled with venom. “You claim to know every secret in this kingdom, to have spies in every corner, yet you still have not found her! Where is Y/N?”

Varys, unmoved by the king’s outburst, responded in his usual soft, unflappable manner. “Your Grace, my little birds are searching every corner of Westeros. There are whispers, but—”

“Whispers?!” Aerys’ voice rose to a fever pitch, the madness in his eyes flaring. “I do not want whispers, Varys, I want my daughter! You will find her, or I will burn every spy of yours alive! Do you hear me?”

At the mention of burning, Terrax’s tail twitched again, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. The dragon, though bonded to you and not Aerys, sensed the turmoil in the room. His presence was a constant reminder of the thin line between power and destruction that Aerys walked so carelessly.

Varys bowed his head, his voice smooth and deferential. “Your Grace, I assure you, we are close. The princess will be found, and she will be returned to you.”

Aerys stared at Varys for a long moment, his breathing heavy and erratic. “You had better,” he muttered darkly. “Or I will feed you to the flames myself.”

As Varys bowed again and stepped back, Grand Maester Pycelle, standing nearby, cleared his throat nervously, hoping to ease the king’s temper. “Your Grace,” he began cautiously, “perhaps if we—”

“Quiet, you old fool!” Aerys snapped, turning his anger on Pycelle. “I have no use for your weak counsel! We are beyond diplomacy—this is a time for fire and blood!”

At the mention of fire, Wisdom Rossart stepped forward, his lips curling into a thin smile. “Wildfire, Your Grace,” he said, his voice eager. “With wildfire, we can cleanse your enemies from the earth. Rhaegar, the traitors, all of them can be burned away.”

Aerys' expression shifted, a gleam of dark satisfaction lighting his eyes. "Yes," he murmured, as though Rossart’s words had calmed his storm. "Wildfire. I will bathe them in flames, and they will know the wrath of the dragon."

Terrax’s head lifted slightly, his golden eyes gleaming as if in acknowledgment of the words. His massive body remained coiled behind the throne, a shadow of danger that made every man in the room acutely aware of their own mortality.

Ser Gerold Hightower stood silently, as stoic as ever, but even he could feel the weight of the king’s madness pressing down upon the room. His presence, once that of a steadfast protector, now seemed to waver as he witnessed Aerys descend further into darkness.

Aerys, seemingly appeased for the moment, sat back on the Iron Throne, his bloody fingers gripping the metal as he spoke in a low, dangerous tone. “Find her,” he commanded, his voice filled with malice. “Bring Y/N back to me, or you will all burn for your failures.”

The small council exchanged brief, uneasy glances before bowing and retreating from the hall. The tension in the air was almost unbearable as they filed out, leaving Aerys alone with his twisted thoughts and the ever-watchful dragon behind him.

The doors closed with a heavy thud, and Aerys remained seated, his mind racing with thoughts of betrayal, fire, and the daughter who had been taken from him.

The night was calm at Starfall, the vast Dornish skies speckled with stars, but inside the cool stone walls, your mind was anything but still. You lay curled in Arthur’s arms, his warmth against your back a comfort, yet sleep did not bring you peace. Instead, it dragged you into darkness—a darkness that twisted and churned with an ancient and foreboding sense of doom.

In the nightmare, you stood in the heart of a desolate, frozen wasteland. The air was heavy, and the sky above you was a bruised, sickly green, swirling with strange lights that seemed to whisper as they danced across the horizon. The world around you was coated in thick layers of ice and snow, a cold so deep it seeped into your bones, making your breath come out in ragged puffs of white.

There were figures in the distance—vague shapes moving across the horizon, their forms blending with the howling winds. The cold gnawed at your skin, yet you felt something far worse in the air: a creeping sense of dread, as if something ancient and evil was stirring beneath the ice.

"The Long Night," a voice whispered, soft and mocking. "It’s coming again, princess. It’s always coming. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it."

You turned, searching for the source of the voice, but found nothing. Only the endless expanse of ice and shadows, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The winds screamed around you, carrying with them whispers—fragments of words, lost promises, broken oaths. The cold grew sharper, more painful, until it felt like knives slicing through your skin.

“You will fall.”

The voice was clearer now, slithering through the winds like a serpent’s hiss. “You cannot escape what is coming. Not even with a dragon by your side.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath your feet cracked, and with a sharp jolt, you were falling—plunging into a chasm of ice and darkness. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, but the voice followed you, laughing softly in your ears.

“Do you hear it? The dead are coming for you, princess. They always have.”

The terror rose, thick and suffocating. You could feel the icy hands of the dead clawing at you, pulling you deeper into the frozen abyss, their empty eyes staring through you, their mouths twisted into grotesque smiles. The dead were all around you now, their bodies rising from the snow, their skeletal fingers grasping for you, dragging you down.

"Look how far you’ve fallen."

The voice was taunting, gloating, as you struggled to break free, but your limbs felt heavy, useless. You couldn’t escape. The cold was everywhere now, inside you, freezing your very soul.

"There is no escape, little dragon. You belong to the darkness."

And then, piercing through the nightmare, came a sound—a deep, thunderous roar that shook the very ground beneath your feet. The dead scattered, their twisted forms retreating into the shadows as the roar echoed through the icy wasteland. The sky above cracked with a brilliant light, and in the distance, you saw him—Terrax, your dragon, his golden eyes blazing as he cut through the storm with a fury that shattered the nightmare’s grip.

With a sharp gasp, you woke, your body trembling and drenched in sweat. The darkness of the dream still clung to you, the voice’s taunts lingering in your mind like a poisoned whisper. But the warmth of the real world was there to greet you. Arthur’s arms tightened around you protectively, his voice soft in your ear.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his tone filled with concern as he held you close. “You were dreaming again.”

You turned in his embrace, your breath still ragged from the fear that lingered in your chest. Your eyes met his, and the depth of his affection and worry was clear in the moonlight that filtered through the window. Arthur’s hand gently brushed your hair away from your face, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your temple.

“I’m here,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “It’s all right. You’re safe with me.”

The warmth of his body against yours was grounding, pulling you away from the icy grip of the nightmare. You rested your forehead against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, allowing his steady heartbeat to calm the storm still raging inside you.

“I saw it again,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “The Long Night... the dead...”

Arthur’s hand moved gently along your back, his touch a constant source of comfort. “It’s just a dream,” he said softly, though there was a weight in his voice, a worry that he couldn’t fully hide. “It’s not real.”

But even as he said it, you both knew that your dreams, your visions, were never just dreams. You had seen too much, felt too much for them to be dismissed so easily. The weight of your dragondreams always lingered, their warnings carried deep within your soul.

“And the voice,” you murmured, your fingers curling into his shirt. “It keeps taunting me, Arthur. It... it says things that feel too real.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, and he held you tighter, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. “You’re stronger than whatever that voice says,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “You’re stronger than the darkness, Y/N.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude and love for the man who had stood by your side through all of this madness. In his eyes, you found the safety and strength that the nightmare had tried to take from you. With him, you knew you could face anything, even the shadows that haunted your dreams.

Gently, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of the bond between you. Arthur responded with tenderness, his hand resting at the small of your back, holding you close as he deepened the kiss, his affection pouring into the simple act of being with you.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and comforting against your skin. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet of the night. “And I will protect you from whatever comes.”

You nodded, your heart steadying in his arms, the terror of the dream fading as you found solace in his embrace. Terrax’s distant roar echoed faintly in your mind, a reminder that you were never truly alone.

As you lay back down, nestled safely against Arthur’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively, you knew that no matter how dark the dreams became, you had the strength to face them.

Because with Arthur—and with your dragon—you would never be lost to the darkness.

The soft light of dawn spilled through the open window of the solar, casting a warm glow on the smooth stone walls of Starfall. You sat by the window, looking out at the Torrentine River below, its waters gleaming in the early morning light. The sound of the river’s gentle rush echoed faintly, but the quiet peace of the moment did little to calm the storm that churned within you.

Ashara Dayne sat across from you, her long dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her violet eyes filled with understanding as she watched you. She was patient, allowing the silence to stretch as she waited for you to speak. You had asked to talk, but now that you were here, the weight of everything seemed too heavy to put into words.

Finally, you let out a breath, your voice quiet but laced with frustration. "I feel so helpless here, Ashara."

Ashara’s gaze remained steady, but she tilted her head slightly, encouraging you to continue.

“I can’t just sit here while Rhaegar fights this war alone,” you went on, your hands clenched in your lap. "He’s out there, risking everything, and I’m... I’m hiding here, waiting for it all to be over. It feels like I’m abandoning him. I can’t let him do this by himself."

Ashara's expression softened, and she leaned forward slightly, her tone gentle but firm. "You’re not abandoning him, Y/N. You’re protecting yourself, and Rhaegar wants you to be safe. That’s why he sent you here."

You shook your head, the frustration bubbling up again. "I know that’s what he wants, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m his sister—his blood. I should be out there, doing something. I should be helping him, not hiding away like some helpless... damsel."

Ashara’s lips curved into a small smile at your choice of words, but her eyes remained serious. "You’re far from helpless, and you know that."

You met her gaze, your mind racing. The nightmares had grown worse, and with each passing day, the weight of the war pressed heavier on your shoulders. Rhaegar had always been the one to protect you, the one to fight for you, but now… everything was different. Aerys’ wrath, the rebellion, the shifting loyalties across the realm—it felt like you were drowning in it all, powerless to change anything.

"I can’t let him fight for me," you murmured, almost to yourself. "Not alone."

Ashara was quiet for a moment, considering her next words. She leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. "There are many ways to fight, Y/N. Not all battles are fought with swords and armor. Your presence here, alive, free—that is something Rhaegar is fighting for. He needs to know you’re safe. You being here isn’t just hiding away—it’s part of the larger plan to keep you away from your father’s madness."

Her words were logical, and you knew she was right in some ways. But it didn’t lessen the weight of your guilt, or the desire to act. "I understand that," you said quietly, "but I still need to do something."

Ashara gave you a thoughtful look, her violet eyes searching your face. "You have power, Y/N," she said softly. "More than you realize. You have your dragon, you have your lineage, and you have the strength that’s been passed down through the Targaryen line. When the time comes, you’ll know how to use that power."

You looked away, your eyes drifting back to the window. The wind stirred the curtains gently, carrying the scent of the river and the warmth of the sun. Ashara’s words lingered in your mind, but they didn’t dispel the ache in your chest, the need to do more than simply wait.

After a long silence, Ashara’s voice broke through your thoughts, her tone shifting slightly as she changed the subject. "Speaking of strength," she said, her lips curving into a knowing smile, "Arthur seems to have found something special with you."

You blinked, startled by the sudden change in topic. Turning back to her, you saw the warmth in her eyes, the subtle teasing behind her words. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your cheeks warm.

"Arthur..." you began, but words failed you for a moment. "Arthur has been... my anchor through all of this."

Ashara’s smile widened slightly. "I can see that. And I can see how deeply he cares for you. It’s not every day that the Sword of the Morning risks everything for a princess."

You felt a swell of affection as you thought of Arthur, his steady presence, the way he had held you through your nightmares, the way he had promised to protect you, no matter what. He had been your protector, your confidant, and now, something more.

"I don’t know what I’d do without him," you admitted softly. "He’s been there for me through everything, and... I love him."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, her smile turning playful. "Oh, you love him, do you?"

You laughed softly, feeling a bit of the tension leave your chest. "Yes, I do. It’s... it’s not something I ever expected, but it’s real."

Ashara’s gaze softened, and she leaned forward again, her voice quieter now. "Arthur is one of the finest men I’ve ever known. And he’s chosen you. That’s not something to take lightly."

You nodded, feeling the truth of her words settle in your heart. "I know. And I won’t."

There was a comfortable silence between you for a few moments, the bond between you and Ashara strengthened by shared understanding. She reached out, placing a hand on yours, her smile filled with sisterly warmth. 

"You have the strength you need, Y/N," she said softly. "And when the time comes, you’ll know what to do. But for now, let Arthur be your strength, too."

You squeezed her hand in return, the ache in your chest easing just slightly. Ashara was right—Arthur was your strength, just as much as you were his. You weren’t helpless, and you wouldn’t let Rhaegar face this war alone.

But for now, you would gather your strength, and when the time came, you would fight—however that battle would unfold.

The battlefield stretched before Rhaegar like a sea of metal and banners, the morning mist lifting to reveal the grim reality of war. The sun barely broke through the thick clouds overhead, casting a gray pallor over the land, as though the very sky was mourning what was to come. He could hear the clank of armor, the snorting of horses, and the murmur of men preparing themselves for the bloodshed that was about to unfold.

Rhaegar sat tall on his white stallion, his violet eyes scanning the ranks of his forces. His armor gleamed with silver and black, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his chest. Beside him stood the loyal bannermen of the Riverlands, the men of House Tully and their allies, their faces grim but determined. Further along the line, the northern forces were just beginning to arrive, banners of the direwolf of House Stark flapping in the wind, led by Eddard Stark’s forces marching south to support Rhaegar in defiance of King Aerys.

The wind carried the faint scent of blood and steel, and Rhaegar could feel the weight of his decisions pressing heavily upon his shoulders. His rebellion, ignited by the need to protect you and free Westeros from his father’s tyranny, had led to this moment. There was no turning back now.

Ahead, the forces of King Aerys were already arrayed on the field, their banners rippling in the wind—the crowned dragon of House Targaryen, the royal sigil of his father, flanked by the soldiers of the Crownlands and the Gold Cloaks of King’s Landing. The forces were led by those loyal to Aerys: Ser Jon Connington, now Hand of the King, and Ser Gerold Hightower, who had taken the field despite his growing unease about Aerys’ madness. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had brought with him some of the most fearsome knights, including Ser Jonothor Darry, and those who still believed in their king’s right to rule.

The tension in the air was palpable, the calm before the storm. Rhaegar knew that the battle would be fierce, and the stakes were higher than ever. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but his mind remained clear. This was no longer just about him or his sister. This was about the realm, about saving Westeros from the fire that Aerys threatened to unleash.

Rhaegar turned to one of his commanders, a grizzled man from the Riverlands, his face marked by years of battle. “The North has arrived to avenge its father and son,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Eddard Stark’s men will flank Aerys’ forces from the west. We hold the center and press forward when the moment comes.”

The commander nodded, his eyes flicking toward the northern banners. “The Starks have always been slow to move, but when they do, they move like a storm.”

Rhaegar gave a grim smile at that. “Then let us hope they bring the storm today.”

As he looked over the battlefield, his thoughts flickered to you—safe, for now, with Arthur Dayne at Starfall. The knowledge that you were out of Aerys’ reach gave him strength, but it also fueled the fire inside him. He couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t.

A sound like thunder broke through the murmur of the armies—horns blaring from the other side of the field. Aerys’ forces were moving. The distant figures of knights and foot soldiers began to march, their steel glinting in the dull light as they advanced. At the forefront, Rhaegar could see the royal banners, the sight of them stirring a mixture of anger and resolve within him.

Jon Connington rode at the head of the force, his armor bright, his expression set in determination. He had always been fiercely loyal to Aerys, and Rhaegar knew that Connington would fight until the last breath to uphold the king’s claim. But Rhaegar could see the uncertainty in the ranks behind him—the men who fought because they were sworn to, but perhaps not because they believed in their king.

Rhaegar glanced at his own commanders, giving a short nod. “Hold your ground until we have them where we need them.”

The battle lines were drawn, and the moment stretched out, tense and silent, before the storm of steel and blood began.

Suddenly, with a roar that seemed to shake the earth itself, the two forces collided. Men shouted, swords clashed, and the sound of steel on steel filled the air. Rhaegar spurred his horse forward, charging into the fray, his blade flashing in the sunlight as he cut down the first man who came at him.

The chaos of battle surrounded him—screams of the wounded, the clash of swords and shields, the stampede of horses as cavalry units smashed into the lines of infantry. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and Rhaegar’s heart raced as he fought, each blow driven by the knowledge that this battle could decide the fate of the realm.

He found himself facing a knight in gold-plated armor, one of Aerys’ personal guards. The knight swung his sword with a vicious cry, but Rhaegar parried the blow, his own blade flashing in retaliation. The force of the impact sent a shock through Rhaegar’s arm, but he pushed forward, his strikes precise and deadly. Within moments, the knight crumpled to the ground, his armor stained with blood.

Around him, the battle raged. The Riverlands forces, led by Lord Tully’s bannermen, were holding the line, but Aerys’ men were pressing hard. Rhaegar could see Jon Connington at the forefront, rallying his men, his sword flashing as he cut through the lines of northern soldiers who had joined the battle. Ser Gerold Hightower was there as well, his white cloak stained with blood as he fought with the cold precision of a seasoned warrior.

Amid the chaos, Rhaegar found a moment to breathe, his eyes scanning the battlefield for signs of the northern reinforcements. The men of the North were slow to move, but when they did, they came with a fury that was unmistakable. Eddard Stark’s forces, now fully engaged, were sweeping in from the west, flanking Aerys’ troops and cutting through their lines with brutal efficiency.

Rhaegar saw Eddard himself, his long sword in hand, moving through the chaos with deadly purpose. The two men’s eyes met briefly across the battlefield, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They were fighting for the same cause, though the stakes were personal for each of them.

But the battle was far from over.

As Rhaegar drove deeper into the heart of the fight, he caught sight of Jon Connington, who had dismounted and was now fighting on foot, his face set in determination. The two men locked eyes, and Rhaegar knew that this confrontation had been inevitable.

"Traitor!" Connington roared, his voice cutting through the chaos of the battle. "You’ve brought this ruin upon the realm!"

Rhaegar spurred his horse toward him, leaping down with a fluid motion, sword in hand. "No, Jon," Rhaegar called back, his voice cold and resolute. "It is Aerys who has brought ruin. He is no longer fit to rule."

Connington’s face twisted in fury as he charged, their swords meeting with a loud, ringing clash. The force of the blow reverberated through Rhaegar’s arms, but he held his ground. The fight was brutal, a dance of steel and fury, each man driven by his own sense of duty.

"You would destroy your own blood for your selfish rebellion?" Connington spat, swinging his blade with ferocious power.

"I fight to save my sister, to save the realm!" Rhaegar countered, parrying the blow and spinning to deliver a strike of his own.

Their blades clashed again and again, the fight raging around them as the two men battled for control of the field. Connington’s strikes were wild, fueled by anger, while Rhaegar’s movements were controlled, precise, as if every swing of his sword was driven by a higher purpose.

With a final, brutal thrust, Rhaegar found an opening, his sword sliding through Connington’s armor and sending the man to his knees. The Hand of the King gasped in pain, blood seeping through his mail, but his eyes burned with defiance even as he fell.

Rhaegar stood over him, his breath heavy, his sword dripping with blood. "Aerys is done, Jon," he said quietly. "The time of his reign is over."

Connington’s eyes darkened, and with his last breath, he spat at Rhaegar’s feet, refusing to yield even in death.

As Rhaegar turned back to the battlefield, he saw that the tide was shifting. The northern forces, bolstered by the Riverlands, were cutting through Aerys’ troops. The royal banners were falling, and the lines of the Crownlands were beginning to break.

The field was slick with blood, the cries of the wounded and dying filling the air, but through the chaos, Rhaegar could see victory on the horizon.

[snorklingfae]

Shades of Deception- Prologue

Dark!Joel Miller x naive!Fem reader

Synopsis: Amidst the ruins of a broken world, one survivor stands out from the rest - Joel Miller. With his sharp wit and unmatched ability to deceive, Joel has always managed to outmaneuver those around him. But when he meets y/n, an unsuspecting and trusting survivor, Joel sees an opportunity to take his game to the next level. As their relationship progresses, y/n unwittingly becomes entangled in Joel's web of lies and deceit, utterly unaware of the true extent of his cunning and manipulation. Will y/n break free from Joel's grasp before it's too late?

Notes: thinking of instead using the term y/n as it can get tedious to write but use Bambi instead as a nickname Joel uses.

Warnings: none yet more will be added in each chapter

Joel trudged wearily through the overgrown remnants of what was once a thriving city. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay, and the dilapidated buildings echoed his every footstep, reminding him of the world that had crumbled around him.

His senses were on high alert, scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. Survival had become his second nature in this unforgiving landscape.

One day, fate intervened as Joel was patrolling the area, and he saw a movement amidst the rubble of an abandoned storefront.

He slowly approached, weapon at the ready, prepared for any threat. But as he drew closer, he realized it wasn't a runner or clicker. It was a survivor, like himself, but far more vulnerable than he could have imagined.

She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and her face was illuminated by a faint glimmer of hope that still flickered within her.

Despite the grim reality of their world, she radiated an aura of innocence and purity that Joel found both unsettling and strangely captivating.

As Joel observed her, a comparison sprang to mind, one that surprised even him. She reminded him of a character from a storybook, a creature from a world untouched by the darkness that now enveloped them—a fawn, fragile and trusting, with wide eyes that held a spark of curiosity and wonder.

Bambi, he thought to himself, though he doubted she would understand the reference in this harsh new reality.

"Are you bit?" Joel's gruff voice betrayed his concern as he approached cautiously.

"No, I swear," she replied, her voice trembling.

After a few seconds of debating, Joel sighed, "Are you alright?"

She nodded, offering him a tentative smile that tugged at something deep within Joel's hardened heart.

“I'm fine," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just... scared."

Joel crouched beside her, his expression unreadable as he studied her carefully. He could see the fear in her eyes, and the uncertainty mirrored his inner turmoil.

Despite the danger that lurked around every corner, there was something about this girl that drew him in, a flicker of humanity amidst the chaos that consumed their world.

Without a word, Joel extended a hand to her, offering her comfort in a world devoid of kindness.

“Come on," he said gruffly, his tone softened by a hint of warmth that surprised even him. "You'll be safer with me."

And with that simple gesture, Joel's solitary journey took an unexpected turn, leading him down a path he never could have anticipated—a path that would intertwine his fate with hers in ways neither of them could have imagined.

As they set out together into the unknown, they would discover that sometimes, in the darkest of times, it was the tiniest glimmer of hope that could light the way forward.

Shades of deception tags

@orcasoul @paanchusblog

[hayatheauthor]

Ink And Venom: A Writer’s Guide To Poisonous Prose

Within the realm of storytelling, poison holds a certain allure—a dark, mysterious substance that can both captivate and terrify readers. In this guide, I will delve into the world of writing with poison, exploring its various facets, techniques, and implications. Whether you seek to add a touch of danger, heighten suspense, or create memorable villains, this guide will equip you with the knowledge you need to master the art of poisonous prose.

When to Use Poison in Your Story

When should you use poison in your story? Poison can be a powerful tool for creating suspense and intrigue. By introducing poison into your narrative, you can build tension and keep readers on the edge of their seats. Consider incorporating poison in the following situations:

A Murder Mystery: Poison adds an element of mystery, as the true cause of death may not be immediately apparent. It allows you to create a web of suspects, each with their own motives and opportunities.

Political Intrigue: Poison has a rich history in political assassinations and power struggles. It can heighten the stakes and create an atmosphere of paranoia and treachery.

Betrayal and Revenge: Poison can be a weapon of choice for characters seeking revenge or harboring deep-seated grudges. It symbolizes a hidden threat, striking when least expected.

Psychological Thrillers: Poison can serve as a metaphorical representation of internal conflicts or toxic relationships, adding psychological depth to your characters and their journeys.

By strategically incorporating poison into your story, you can create unforgettable moments that will keep your readers engaged and guessing.

Types of Poisons for Writers to Consider

As a writer, it's important to familiarize yourself with the various types of poisons available to your storytelling arsenal. Here are some common types of poisons to consider when crafting your narrative:

Plant-Based Poisons: Derived from various plants, these poisons can range from deadly nightshade (belladonna) to oleander. Research the properties and effects of different botanical poisons to create realistic and intriguing scenarios. In Agatha Christie's "Five Little Pigs," the deadly poison coniine from hemlock plays a crucial role in the murder mystery.

Toxic Metals: Poisons such as arsenic, mercury, and lead fall under this category. Their presence in the story can be subtle or overt, depending on the desired effect. These poisons often have accumulative effects, making them useful for long-term poisoning plots. In Alexandre Dumas' "The Count of Monte Cristo," the antagonist, Fernand Mondego, uses a slow-acting poison containing arsenic to bring about the demise of his enemies.

Chemical Compounds: This broad category encompasses a wide range of synthetic poisons, including cyanide, ricin, and strychnine. These substances can be potent, swift-acting, and offer opportunities for creative storytelling twists. In Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot," a poisoned powder containing the deadly plant toxin ricin plays a central role in Sherlock Holmes' investigation.

Venomous Creatures: Poisons derived from venomous creatures such as snakes, spiders, or exotic marine life introduce an element of danger and natural lethality into your narrative. Understanding the effects and characteristics of different venoms adds authenticity to your writing. In J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," the venom of a basilisk becomes a crucial ingredient in creating antidotes and battling the Dark Arts.

Remember to research each poison thoroughly, ensuring accuracy in both their effects and potential antidotes, as this will lend credibility to your storytelling.

Common Side Effects and Symptoms of Poison

When writing about poison, it's important to understand the common side effects and symptoms associated with different toxins. This knowledge will help you craft realistic and believable scenarios. Here are some common side effects and symptoms of poisoning to consider:

Gastrointestinal Distress: Many poisons, especially those ingested orally, initially affect the digestive system. Symptoms may include nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal pain, and cramping.

Neurological Effects: Certain poisons can target the central nervous system, leading to a range of neurological symptoms. These may include dizziness, confusion, seizures, tremors, paralysis, or even loss of consciousness.

Cardiovascular Effects: Some poisons interfere with the heart and circulatory system, causing abnormal heart rhythms (arrhythmias), increased or decreased heart rate, high blood pressure, or a sudden drop in blood pressure.

Respiratory Distress: Certain poisons can affect breathing and lung function. Symptoms may include difficulty breathing, shortness of breath, coughing, or wheezing.

Organ Damage: Prolonged exposure to certain toxins can cause damage to specific organs such as the liver, kidneys, or lungs. This damage may manifest as organ failure, jaundice, or difficulty with normal bodily functions.

Skin and Eye Effects: Some poisons can have immediate effects on the skin or eyes upon contact. This may include irritation, redness, blistering, or even vision impairment.

Remember that the severity and timeline of symptoms can vary depending on the poison, dose, and individual characteristics. Conduct thorough research to ensure accuracy and realism in portraying the effects of poisoning in your writing.

Famous Poisons Through the Ages and How They Work

Throughout history, numerous poisons have gained infamy for their use in real-life incidents and their portrayal in literature. Understanding the famous poisons of the past can provide inspiration and context for your writing. Here are some notable examples:

Socrates' Hemlock: Hemlock, derived from the plant Conium maculatum, was famously used to execute the Greek philosopher Socrates. It acts as a neurotoxin, paralyzing the central nervous system and causing respiratory failure.

Arsenic: Arsenic, a toxic metalloid, has a dark history and was commonly used in poisoning cases. It was virtually tasteless and odourless, making it a popular choice for covert murders. Arsenic interferes with cellular respiration, leading to organ failure.

Curare: Curare is a plant-based poison used by indigenous peoples of South America for hunting. It works by blocking neuromuscular transmission, leading to muscle paralysis and respiratory arrest.

Cyanide: Cyanide compounds, such as potassium cyanide, are highly lethal and act rapidly. They disrupt cellular respiration by binding to enzymes crucial for energy production, causing cells to suffocate.

Ricin: Ricin is a potent toxin derived from castor beans. It inhibits protein synthesis within cells, leading to organ failure. It gained notoriety due to its use in real-life assassination attempts and its portrayal in literature.

Tetrodotoxin: Tetrodotoxin is a deadly poison found in certain marine creatures, such as pufferfish. It blocks sodium channels in nerve cells, leading to paralysis, respiratory failure, and potentially death.

By researching and understanding the mechanisms of these famous poisons, you can add authenticity and depth to your storytelling. Remember to weave their effects and characteristics into your narrative in a plausible and engaging manner.

How to Kill a Character with Poison

When it comes to killing a character with poison, careful planning and attention to detail are crucial. Here are some key considerations for crafting the perfect crime:

Motivation and Intent: Establish a compelling motive for the character administering the poison. This could be driven by revenge, jealousy, power, or other deep-seated emotions. The intent behind the act will shape the overall narrative and character development.

Research and Accuracy: Thoroughly research the chosen poison to understand its properties, effects, and dosages. Accuracy is essential for maintaining reader engagement and suspension of disbelief. Ensure that the chosen poison aligns with the character's access and knowledge.

Method of Administration: Determine how the poison will be administered. Common methods include lacing food or drink, injecting a solution, applying a poisonous substance to an object, or even using a poisoned weapon. Consider the character's opportunities, resources, and the desired level of subtlety or overt confrontation.

Timing and Dose: Consider the timing and dose of the poison. A well-timed dose can create suspense and unexpected twists. The dose should be lethal but plausible, taking into account factors such as body weight, individual tolerance, and potential mitigating factors (e.g., antidotes).

Covering Tracks: Craft a plan to cover the tracks of the poisoner. This may involve creating alibis, tampering with evidence, or diverting suspicion toward other characters. A well-executed cover-up adds layers of complexity and intrigue to the narrative.

Consequences and Repercussions: Explore the aftermath of the poisoning. How does the death impact other characters and the overall plot? Consider the emotional and psychological toll on those involved, as well as potential investigations or consequences faced by the poisoner.

Remember that portraying a realistic poisoning scenario requires a delicate balance between creativity and accuracy. Strive to captivate readers while maintaining plausibility within the world you have crafted.

Considering the Implications of Writing with Poison

While writing with poison can add intrigue and suspense to your story, it's essential to consider the ethical implications involved. Here are some key points to ponder:

Responsible Storytelling: As a writer, you have a responsibility to handle sensitive topics with care. Poisoning, especially when depicted in a realistic and detailed manner, can be distressing for some readers. Consider the potential impact on your audience and approach the subject matter responsibly.

Glorification vs. Realism: Strike a balance between creating an engaging narrative and avoiding the glorification of harmful acts. Portray the consequences and repercussions of poisonings to illustrate the gravity of such actions. Show the emotional toll on characters and explore the moral dilemmas they face.

Reader Sensibilities: Readers have varying thresholds for violence, graphic content, and triggering material. Be mindful of potential triggers related to poisoning, such as discussions of self-harm, suicide, or traumatic experiences. Offer appropriate content warnings or handle such themes with sensitivity.

Research and Accuracy: Thorough research is essential for accurate portrayal. Misinformation or sensationalized descriptions can perpetuate myths or misconceptions about poisons. Ensure that your writing is grounded in scientific understanding and consult reputable sources.

Character Empathy: Develop well-rounded characters with motivations that extend beyond their use of poison. By humanizing them and exploring their complexities, readers can empathize with their struggles, even if they engage in morally objectionable acts.

Raising Awareness and Education: Take the opportunity to raise awareness about the dangers of real-life poisonings. Provide information on prevention, identification, and response to actual poisoning incidents. Offer resources or references for readers seeking more information.

By navigating the ethical dimensions of writing with poison, you can create a compelling narrative while remaining sensitive to your readership and the broader impact of your work.

End Note 

From understanding when to use poison in your story to explore the various types of poisons and their effects, you now possess the knowledge to craft gripping tales of intrigue and suspense. 

(Note: This blog post is intended for informational purposes only and does not promote or condone harmful actions. Always prioritize the well-being and safety of others in your writing and real-life endeavours.)

I hope this blog on a writer’s guide to poisonous prose will help you in your writing journey. Be sure to comment any tips of your own to help your fellow authors prosper, and follow my blog for new blog updates every Monday and Thursday.  

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Haya’s book blog where I post writing and publishing tips for authors every Monday and Thursday! And don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

[knoepfl]

“Through the Looking Glass”

Characters:

Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter) – A deranged and lonely man obsessed with Alice in Wonderland, using mind control to twist others into playing roles in his delusions.

Reader (You) – A new obsession for Jervis. He sees you as his perfect "Alice" and will do anything to keep you by his side.

Trigger Warnings:

Obsession and mental manipulation

Kidnapping and mind control themes

Unreliable perception of reality

Masterlist

Words: 1063

The narrow streets of Gotham were shrouded in a thick mist, moonlight filtering weakly through the haze. You knew it was dangerous to wander alone at night, but something had compelled you to move through the darkness, as if pulled by invisible strings.

And then, you’d found him—or maybe he’d found you.

You woke up in a room draped with tattered silk and moth-eaten velvet, the air heavy with the scent of stale tea and dusty books. A single flickering lamp cast uneven shadows across the mismatched furniture, giving everything a distorted, dreamlike quality.

“Ah, my dear!” a familiar, singsong voice echoed from the doorway. “You’ve finally arrived. The long wait is over—at last, Alice is home.”

You blinked groggily, disoriented, your head pounding as you tried to sit up. Across the room stood a slender man dressed in a patchwork suit, his wide-brimmed top hat tilted at a jaunty angle. His pale face stretched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“W-Where am I?” you whispered, glancing around.

Jervis Tetch clasped his hands together, a delighted laugh bubbling from his lips. “Where you’re supposed to be, my dear—right here, with me! The Mad Hatter and his Alice, just as it’s meant to be. Isn’t it wonderful?”

You frowned, rubbing your temples, trying to piece together how you ended up here. You remembered… nothing. Just foggy images—his voice, warm and inviting, guiding you through the night. And now you were here, wherever here was.

“Let me go,” you said, heart racing. “I don’t belong here.”

Jervis’s smile faltered for only a second before snapping back into place, though the cheer in his eyes flickered with something far more dangerous. “No, no, no, my dear… you mustn’t say such silly things. Of course you belong here—you’re my Alice. And every Alice needs her Wonderland!”

He stepped closer, movements light and graceful, as though he were gliding through a dream. “The real world is so… dreadful, don’t you think? But here, oh… here, we can play and dance and drink tea forever.”

You tried to stand, but your legs wobbled beneath you. Jervis caught you before you could collapse, his hands strangely gentle. “Careful now,” he cooed, “you’ve had quite the journey. You must rest, my dear. There’s so much to do, so much to see—but first, you must adjust.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. “What did you do to me?”

Jervis tilted his head, as if pondering the question. “I only gave you what you needed. A way out, a way here. You see, the world is cruel, my sweet Alice. It breaks hearts, crushes dreams…” His voice dropped into a hushed whisper. “But not in Wonderland. Not here with me.”

You pulled back from him, your pulse thundering in your ears. “I’m not Alice. I don’t even know who you are!”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his expression twisting into something equal parts disappointment and frustration. “Ah, my dear… You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? But that’s quite all right. Memory can be such a troublesome thing. In time, it will come back.”

He crouched before you, tilting his head like a curious child. “You see, everyone needs a story, my dear. A role to play. And yours… oh, yours is the most important of all. You are Alice, and I—” He gave a grand, sweeping bow. “—am your humble Mad Hatter.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your limbs refused to obey. A strange, hazy warmth clouded your mind, as though a part of you were slipping deeper into his web with every passing second.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice soft and hypnotic. “The more you resist, the more it hurts. Just let go… and fall through the looking glass.”

Jervis took your hand gently, guiding you toward a small, cluttered table set with chipped porcelain cups and mismatched saucers. The teapot in the center let off a trail of steam, filling the room with the scent of chamomile and madness.

“Sit, sit!” he urged, practically vibrating with excitement. “We must have tea—oh, yes! A very merry un-birthday to you!”

You sank into the chair without meaning to, as though your body responded to his commands without your permission.

He poured tea with a flourish, eyes gleaming with manic joy. “Ah, isn’t this perfect? Just as it should be. No more lonely nights. No more searching. We’re together now, and we’ll never be apart.”

You stared into the swirling tea, mind racing as you tried to break free of the strange fog dulling your thoughts. “Please… let me go.”

Jervis paused, teapot still in hand, his expression darkening like a sudden storm. “Let you go?” His voice was soft, almost hurt. Then, slowly, it twisted into a low, bitter laugh. “Oh, Alice… You still don’t understand, do you? You’re already gone.”

He reached out, tracing a finger along the rim of your cup. “There is no escape from Wonderland, my dear. No way out, no way back. This is where you belong. With me.”

His hand drifted to your cheek, caressing it with unsettling tenderness. “We’ll be so happy here. I’ll keep you safe, my sweet Alice. No one will ever hurt you again.”

Tears stung your eyes as you fought against the haze, struggling to remember who you were before this nightmare began. But the memories were slippery, fading like smoke through your fingers.

Jervis’s gaze softened, and for a brief, haunting moment, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes—something desperate and broken, clinging to the only fantasy that gave his fractured mind meaning.

“Don’t cry, my dear,” he whispered, leaning closer. “You’re home now. And I’ll take care of you… always.”

His voice was a lullaby, drawing you deeper into the dream. The room seemed to spin, the edges of reality unraveling like threads pulled from a tapestry.

“You’ll see,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “In time, you’ll forget all about that dreadful world. And then, my dear Alice…” His lips curled into a soft, dreamy smile. “We’ll be together, forever and ever.”

And as the world faded around you, slipping into a haze of tea parties and riddles, you realized—maybe you were already too far gone to wake up.

Because in his Wonderland, the Mad Hatter always got his Alice...

[zapreportsblog]

In Love With The Same Cat

➥ summary : There’s no Spider-Man without the Black Cat just like there’s no Black Cat without Spider-Man. But what if we had a multiverse dimensional traveling jewelry stealing burglar Black Cat (try saying that seven times fast aye) that traveled across dimensions not only stealing the worlds finest jewels but also the hearts of four unlucky, or lucky depending on how you see it Spider-Man’s and Spider-Women’s hearts.

➥ chapter 1: The Daughter of Shadows

In the bustling city of Brightville, a young girl named (y/n) grew up in the enigmatic embrace of her father, Walter Hardy, a renowned and elusive cat burglar. From a tender age, (y/n) was immersed in a world of shadows and secrets, a life that few could comprehend. Under her father's watchful eye, she learned not only the art of thievery but also the invaluable lessons of confidence and seizing life's opportunities.

Walter Hardy was a figure shrouded in mystery, his exploits whispered in hushed tones among the criminal underworld. But to (y/n), he was simply her loving father—a man whose presence both comforted and challenged her. Despite the unconventional nature of their lives, Walter was determined to raise (y/n) to be a strong and confident individual, encouraging her to embrace the world with fearless determination.

From an early age, (y/n) became Walter's protégé, accompanying him on various heists and observing his every move with wide-eyed curiosity. The dark alleys and high-rise rooftops became her playground, where she learned the art of agility and the thrill of outsmarting the odds. Walter, recognizing her natural talent and thirst for knowledge, nurtured her abilities, teaching her the intricacies of the trade while instilling in her a strong moral compass.

One sunny afternoon, as (y/n) carefully observed her father's nimble maneuvers, he paused and turned to her with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "My dear (y/n)," he said, his voice laced with warmth and conviction, "life is a grand heist waiting to be seized. Do not fear the unknown, but rather embrace it with confidence. Only then can you truly discover the treasures hidden within."

With those words etched into her young heart, (y/n) embarked on a journey of self-discovery and resilience. She learned to navigate the intricate webs of deception and subterfuge, honing her skills in the art of illusion and misdirection. But more importantly, she learned to believe in herself—to trust her instincts and to never back down from a challenge.

Walter encouraged (y/n) to explore beyond the confines of their nocturnal escapades, exposing her to a multitude of experiences that would shape her worldview. They attended art exhibitions, where they marveled at the strokes of a master's brush, and visited bustling markets, where (y/n) haggled with vendors and embraced the vibrant tapestry of cultures. Through these experiences, Walter instilled in her the importance of a well-rounded education, cultivating her intellect and expanding her horizons.

But it was not just the thrill of adventure that defined their relationship. In the quiet moments, when the city slept and the moon bathed the world in its ethereal glow, (y/n) and Walter would sit beneath the starry sky, sharing stories of their past and dreaming of the future. It was in these stolen moments that (y/n) discovered the depth of her father's love—a love that transcended their clandestine activities and embraced the essence of family.

As the years passed, (y/n) grew into a confident young woman, her spirit untamed and her resolve unyielding. She possessed an uncanny ability to blend seamlessly into any situation, her nimble fingers and quick wit serving her well in the world her father had introduced her to. But it was her unwavering confidence that set her apart—a quality that Walter had nurtured from her earliest days.

With each heist they embarked upon, (y/n) faced challenges head-on, her unwavering confidence shining through the darkness that surrounded them. She reveled in the adrenaline rush, the thrill of outsmarting her adversaries, and the satisfaction of retrieving the treasured artifacts they sought. Through it all, she carried with her the lessons her father had imparted—the importance of self-belief and the courage to seize every opportunity that presented itself.

As (y/n) stood on the precipice of her own journey, she carried the legacy of her father's teachings within her heart. The world awaited her, full of untold adventures and uncharted territories. With Walter's lessons guiding her, she knew that she had the tools to carve her own path, to embrace the shadows and emerge victorious.

In the heart of Brightville, (y/n) stood as a testament to her father's unwavering belief in her potential. She was more than the daughter of a cat burglar; she was a force to be reckoned with—a beacon of confidence and resilience in a world that often sought to overshadow her. And as she prepared to step into the spotlight, she did so with the knowledge that she was the culmination of her father's love and guidance—a testament to the indomitable spirit that Walter Hardy had instilled within her.

[kirby0strombolli]

Ghostface | Matt Sturniolo Part 8

'What's the matter Sidney? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

ghostface!matt x reader

Chapter 8 - The Night of terror.

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8

warnings: swearing, chasing, fighting...

a/n: PENULTIMATE CHAPTER!!!!

The night of terror.

It was some sort of repeating dream that had occurred every night.

A lucid dream.

But this was no false dream- no.

It was as if I wasn't in control of my own body, every step feeling like I'd disobeyed myself. Every breath that I took wasn't my doing.

Every time I had tried to convince myself that it wasn't real, there'd be a niggling sense of doubt, hiding, in the corners of my mind.

~

The setting was always the same; a mirror maze, eerie and disorienting. The walls were lined with countless mirrors, each one reflecting an endless corridor of twisted images.

Dim, flickering lights cast long, distorted shadows, and the air was cold, carrying a faint, metallic tang.

Everywhere I looked, there was a mirror.

My reflection stared back at me from every angle, eyes wide with the same fear I felt in my heart.

Then, without warning, a sharp crack appeared in one of the mirrors, spider-webbing across the surface and shattering the eerie silence.

The sound reverberated through the maze, jolting me from the dark depths of my 'dream,' bringing me back to the very real sense of pain throbbing in my chest.

To my horror, when I look down, there is a knife piercing the flesh of my chest. I cry out in pain as I attempt to grasp the hilt, trying desperately to stem the flow, but my body resists as my eyes lock on the intricate designs of the hilt of the knife.

A haunting vision of swirling spectral figures glares up at me, complete with the crest of the menacing Ghostface symbol. With a deep breath and a surge of determination, I pull the knife from my chest.

As soon as the blade was free, the world around me shifted violently.

Back to the mirror maze.

Back to the nightmare.

I was no longer in control, swept away by an unseen force.

Was this even real? Was it yet another nightmare, or the grim truth of real life?

I had been transported back to the heart of the mirror maze, the familiar terror gripping me once more.

The mirrors were intact again, the labyrinth stretching endlessly before me.

The whispers returned, louder and more insidious, echoing in my mind. I realized that the knife had not only wounded my flesh but had also bound me deeper into the nightmare.

I knew I had to find a way out, but every step felt like a journey deeper into the abyss. I stumbled through the maze, unsure of what set apart reality and nightmare.

Each step echoed with the doubt that I might never wake up, that I might be trapped in this hellish labyrinth forever.

Suddenly, I heard a muffled cry. My heart raced as I turned a corner and saw y/n.

Terror gripped me as I saw the spectral figure of Ghostface looming behind her, a hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her scream.

"Don't scream," he whispered, his voice chilling and hollow, echoing throughout the mirror maze. The sight of y/n's wide, terrified eyes galvanized me into action.

I had to save her, but how? My mind raced, searching for a solution in the chaos.

Then, a memory surfaced—a fleeting, half-remembered thought about how to kill a doppelganger.

The key was the mirrors. I needed to use the mirrors against him. Why hadn't I remembered?

With renewed determination, I lunged at Ghostface, forcing him away from y/n.

We struggled, our movements chaotic and violent, smashing into the mirrored walls. Each impact sent ripples through the reflections, distorting the images further.

In a desperate bid, I managed to shove Ghostface directly into one of the mirrors. The glass shattered on impact, and for a moment, he seemed to disintegrate, his form breaking apart into thousands of tiny fragments.

But he wasn't gone yet. The pieces of his reflection began to reassemble, pulling back together.

Thinking quickly, I grabbed a shard of broken mirror and held it up. As Ghostface reformed, I drove the shard into his chest.

The mirrors around us began to crack and shatter, the labyrinth itself breaking apart under the force of his demise.

His scream echoed through the maze, a sound of pure, otherworldly agony, as I am wrenched from the lifelike dream, my own scream fading in my throat, eyes flying open.

'Shit, I'm alive?' I rasp out, sitting up in the familiar kitchen of y/n's apartment, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

Next to me, I hear Y/n cough out what sounds like a laugh before turning to me and saying, "Probably…" before slumping down to the ground, her chest heaving as she overcomes a fit of giggles.

To my surprise, I find myself joining in, rolling over to her and enveloping her in a tight embrace, feeling her stomach heave with laughter as mine does, too.

As the laughter subsides, the halloween decorations catch my eye, strewn around the place.

"Fuck, still Halloween, huh?" Y/n smirks, glancing over to see what I'm looking at and catching sight of the Halloween decorations that still adorn the kitchen.

'Impossible.' I furrow my brows, the expression suddenly serious.

'What the shit actually just happened?', y/n asks, her voice full of panic now. I shake my head before getting to my feet, and helping her do the same.

Pulling her close, I hold her tightly as if the embrace alone could anchor us to this fleeting, perfect moment.

Our laughter slowly fades into a tender silence, and we bask in the warmth of each other's presence.

But then, the doorbell rings, its shrill chime slicing through the calm and jolting us back to reality.

The doorbell rings.

A chill runs through me as I recall the faint, ominous words: "Don't Leave The House, Don't Answer The Phone, Don't scream..."

The memory lingers, a whisper of dread that underscores the urgency of the moment.

"But most importantly," I remember with a shiver, "don't answer the door."

I dismiss my fears with a scoff as I glance again at y/n. Her face was a deathly white, eyes wide with a mix of anxiety and dread. Ignoring my surroundings, I stride toward the door, my hand lingering on the doorknob.

This was it.

It was going to be the police. We were going to be safe. I wasnt going to keep having these nightmares.

~

I am shocked when I open the door to see myself standing there, a twisted grin on my face. "Trick or treat, bitch," the doppelgänger sneers, holding a bloodied candy bag.

a/n: FINALE NEXT!!!

taglist: @lexisecretaccx @itssophiasstuff @junnniiieee07

[eldar-of-zemlya]

A few days ago, I realized that I’ve spent my last three birthdays in three different countries—each one a temporary home, but never quite the real home. And since today is my birthday, it feels like the right moment to share my story—a story about growing up queer in Russia, navigating an absurd system, escaping it, and constantly being on the run. It’s a long journey, but one that I hope will offer some insight as I reflect on where life has taken me so far.

Illustrated by yours truly.

I was born in Russia, in a small countryside town that sits right on the border between Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus. Like many families in this region, mine is a chaotic blend of Slavic identities, plus a bit of Tatar heritage on my father’s side.

We come from a long line of Orthodox priests who were repressed and executed by the KGB during Stalin’s regime. The only branch of our family that survived had to be constantly on the run, changing towns and professions to avoid persecution as the children of “enemies of the nation.” I guess that’s the family curse I’ve never been able to escape—always searching for a homeland and always running away from it.

My father was an artist and my mother a university professor. My father was so absent from my life that when my parents separated when I was five, it took me two weeks to notice he was gone. My first question wasn’t even about him—it was about our dog. “Mom, where is Julie?… And where is Dad?” After that, my mother had to return to work to provide for me, so I spent most of my early years at my grandmother’s house, left to my own devices.

In pre-school, I was obsessed with Michael Jackson, rewinding the same VHS of his music videos until it barely played anymore. In primary school, I had a bunch of Tokio Hotel’s songs burned onto a floppy disk by my mother’s colleague, who had access to the new wonder of the time—the World Wide Web. I’d wait eagerly for their music video to play on some random music channel, glued to the screen in our cramped, Soviet-era Khrushchyovka apartment. That’s when I stumbled upon something that started a chain reaction that, in hindsight, brought me to where I am now.

The lower third of the screen briefly flashed a title: “LM.C — Ghost†Heart (Japan).” At first, there was nothing particularly strange about the music video, except maybe that it was from Japan. But when the two “girls” began singing with a voice that was unmistakably male, I realized they weren’t girls at all. There was something captivating about how they embodied both masculinity and femininity so beautifully at the same time. I didn’t even know the word “androgynous” back then, but I instinctively recognized that the same thing that had drawn me to my previous interests was now pulling me toward them.

As soon as we finally got our first slow dial-up connection, I searched for LM.C. That’s when an entirely new world opened up to me—J-rock, Visual Kei, a genre of Japanese music that focused on extravagant stage costumes where musicians often wore dresses and makeup. I was immediately hooked.

And I wasn’t alone. There was a small but growing community of J-rock fans across Russia, even a few in my small town. Some were teens, others pre-teens like me, and even a few adults. We would gather on Lenin Square—the heart of our little town—dreaming and talking about Japan, anime, and J-rock. My mom often came with me to our local meet-ups—not just to show support, but for safety. We were what others called “non-formals”—subculture kids. Our high platform boots, chains, band shirts, and unconventional looks made us stand out in our post-Soviet town, often attracting unwanted attention. People would make snide comments, and the police would sometimes chase us off. Once, one of the guys in our group got ambushed by gopniks, and they ripped chunks of his long hair out of his scalp. Being different was dangerous in the Russian countryside.

I was always open about the bands I listened to, which earned me the label “the weird kid who listens to Japanese transvestites and watches cartoons for kids.” (Honestly, I was ahead of my time. Nowadays, kids get bullied if they don’t watch anime.) Through all of this, my mom was incredibly supportive. I would sew Visual Kei-inspired outfits from fabric scraps and even dyed my hair red once. That might seem normal now, but back then it made me the laughingstock of the whole school. Even the teachers thought I was strange and probably wished they could get me in trouble. But there was nothing they could do aside from making the occasional snarky comment about my looks. Our country didn’t enforce a school dress code, and I was at the top of my class, so they had no grounds to discipline me.

Naturally, discovering anime led me to yaoi and slash fanfiction. At the time, our country was still relatively free, and LGBT stories weren’t illegal yet—considered strange, disgusting, and perverted by some, but not illegal. Somehow, I could relate to the characters, even though I was a straight teenage girl, which was incredibly confusing. I wanted to be a man, have a male body, and yet I was also attracted to men. My confusion with gender and sexuality was overwhelming, and I was stuck in a linguistic bubble, trying to make sense of myself with whatever scraps of information I could find in Russian. I read about “tomboy,” “butch,” “femboy,” and even “fag hag,” but none of it quite fit. Then, one night, I stumbled across the Wikipedia entry for “trans man.” I’d heard of trans women from scandalous Russian talk shows and the occasional foreign film, but trans men? At that time, the Russian Wikipedia article on “trans man” was just a single, pathetic paragraph. I could hardly believe it was a real thing, but deep down, I knew this was the answer I’d been searching for.

People often ask trans individuals, “When did you realize?” But for me, there was no single moment. It was a process of piecing together feelings I’d never had the words for—kind of like that scene in The Man From Earth when John Oldman, a man who’s lived for 45,000 years, is asked by a therapist, “When did you realize you were a caveman?” and he responds, “When I heard the word ‘caveman.’”

As always, I turned to movies to understand myself better. I found a clunky Russian website called KinoPoisk (Film Search), typed “LGBT” into the search bar, and watched every movie that came up. That’s how I discovered Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Breakfast on Pluto, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and many more. Seeing LGBT characters on screen—characters who felt what I felt—was everything to a lost, confused teenager in the Russian countryside.

Over time, my obsession shifted to TV series fandoms like Doctor Who, Torchwood, and Star Trek. And when Sherlock BBC came out, my mom joined me, and we both dove headfirst into fandom life. She also started reading fanfiction, and before long, she was writing it herself. After all, who better to write fanfiction than a middle-aged Russian literature professor who knew everything about storytelling?

Gradually, my fixation shifted from Japan to Great Britain, and my mom was right there with me. Despite not knowing a word of English, we watched everything we could find featuring our favorite British actors. It became our shared dream to visit England someday, but we didn’t have the money. My mom’s salary was $250 a month, and she was supporting me and our elderly grandmother, who had a pension of $80. But that didn’t stop us. I remember surviving on instant noodles and cheap yogurt for an entire year just to save up enough to travel to the West and see it for the first time.

In 2012, we finally made it happen. We signed up for a cheap bus tour that went through Europe—Poland, the Czech Republic, Germany, Belgium, France, and the UK. It was life-changing. We saw a completely different world, cozy old towns that Russian cities had lost in WWII bombings, and we saw freedom. The first time we flew to London on our own, we bought tickets to a theater play featuring Mark Gatiss. Who would’ve guessed that on that very day, David Tennant, Steven Moffat, and his wife, Sue Vertue, would also be there! I awkwardly approached David Tennant and, in broken English, told him, “You are my lovely Doctor” (I meant to say “favorite” but didn’t know the word back then).

We ended up returning to London every year, going to theater plays with Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hiddleston, Andrew Scott, Rupert Grint, and others. We stayed in cheap hostels and survived on McDonald’s, but we were living the dream.

As time went on, LGBT rights in Russia only got worse. Books, movies, and TV shows that even mentioned LGBT topics started getting blocked under the guise of protecting children from “LGBT propaganda.” But what these government suits failed to understand was that if I hadn’t discovered all those things as a confused teenager, I might have ended my life. When the repression began affecting fanfiction writers, we had to be cautious. One girl in our town was sentenced under the new law simply for having a photo of two guys kissing in her VK (Russian Facebook) photo album. My mom was a university professor and the sole provider for me, an underage kid. If it was discovered that she wrote slash, she could’ve lost her job, gone to prison, and I could’ve been taken away. It was terrifying. I watched our vibrant community being slowly choked out, and I knew it was now or never. I had to transition while it was still legally possible, and I could only do that if I moved to Moscow, where the only trans center in the country was located.

After graduating, I deliberately skipped one of the mandatory exams, which made it essentially impossible for me to get into any university in Russia. My mom, always understanding, accepted my decision, but the rest of the family was devastated. I was one of the best students in class, scoring 100/100 on my Russian and English final exams—something that seemed like science fiction (well, I learned my English from science fiction, so…). And here I was, with these grades, choosing not to apply to any university but instead to work in a shop.

Transitioning was expensive—around $1,500 for all the tests and evaluations—but I knew that if I stayed in the countryside, I’d be tempted to give up, settle down, and try to “fix” myself. As Dr. Frank-N-Furter taught me, “Don’t dream it, be it.”

As soon as I turned 18, I moved from the countryside to Moscow. To receive the official F64.0 diagnosis—“transsexualism”—I had to endure a grueling year-long process of psychiatric evaluations and tests, just so I could change my documents and flee the country. By then, I was already passing as a guy, which made job hunting infinitely more difficult. I tried toy stores, cosmetic stores, hotel cleaning… but no one wanted to risk being prosecuted for “LGBT propaganda” by hiring someone as gender-ambiguous as me. After endless rejections, I finally found a place that didn’t care whether you were gay, straight, or trans. That’s how I ended up working at a sex shop.

I could write a whole TV show based on that year of my life—armed robberies, kidnapping attempts, constant workplace drama, and a psychotic manager who was stealing from our salaries. None of us were even officially registered as employees. I’d work 24-hour shifts back-to-back, sometimes spending more than 48 hours at the shop, sleeping on the floor during the three-hour break we got at night. There were zero regulations, but despite everything, I made good money, and most importantly, I finally felt like I belonged.

Our team was a ragtag group of rebels—kids fresh out of high school or from poverty, who had come from all over Russia to the Capital, searching for a better life. What united us was a shared desire for freedom in a country that was becoming more and more totalitarian.

While working, I was constantly attending the “Center of Personalized Psychiatry,” where I felt like a guinea pig for doctors who knew nothing about gender identity issues. It seemed they had simply found a vacant spot to make money off devastated and depressed trans people. At the time, there wasn’t even an official document format that could be submitted to the government to allow a legal sex change. So, I had to jump through every hoop they put in front of me—filling out ridiculous questionnaires that asked whether I preferred pink or blue as a kid or if I played with dolls or cars. They explicitly told me to answer “how I thought they wanted me to answer” if I wanted to get approved for hormone therapy. So, for them, I liked blue, played with cars, and watched football and boxing.

When I finally got approved for hormone therapy, I ran into another obstacle: the financial burden of getting a prescription from the center for every testosterone shot. The prescription itself cost almost as much as the medication. Desperate, I turned to sketchy websites from “pharmacies” that constantly changed their URLs. That’s how I started getting testosterone through drop-offs, which we called “bookmarks.” I’d pay for someone to leave it under a bench or behind a tree. It was risky but much cheaper.

After enduring the year of evaluations, I finally received the long-awaited free-form paper from the center stating my diagnosis and the basis for changing my documents. But just as I was preparing to submit it, the government decided to overhaul the process. They introduced an official format for the document—good in theory but disastrous for my timing. Worse still, they added a new requirement: you had to have had top surgery before you could legally change your gender.

I was devastated. Top surgery had always been a dream of mine, but I was sure it would take years to save enough money—it cost $1,200. That’s when my mom stepped in and offered to cover it with her savings. I cried so much. I wanted the surgery, but I knew we didn’t have the money to spare.

At that time, my mom said something that has stuck with me ever since: “We never have money, but at least we have the life we want.”

So, I did it. But my happiness was overshadowed by guilt. I felt guilty for spending so much money, for leaving my job, and for being incapacitated during my recovery—unable to even help my mother around the house. By then, my mother had already started working at a university in Moscow, and after being able to provide for myself at 18, I suddenly felt like a burden. My mother, however, never saw me that way; she was incredibly happy for me. We agreed not to tell the rest of the family about my transition just yet.

Returning to my hometown in the countryside to change my documents was an experience in itself. I fully expected to be treated with hostility, but to my surprise, the civil workers made no comments. I later learned that I was the second person to transition in my town—the first female-to-male—but they acted professionally. The only comment came when I visited the citizen registry center, where old women, who had probably worked there since Soviet times, were running the show. My mother went with me for support. When I silently handed the new-format document to the elderly woman at the desk, she studied it carefully, then looked up at my mother and, smiling, said, “You have a boy now? Congratulations!”

This all happened during the summer. I was jobless, with new documents, and the next step in my plan was to flee to the West. Around that time, a friend sent me a random ad for a filmmaking program at Tallinn University in Estonia. I had never even heard of this tiny Baltic country before, but it was part of the EU, and the tuition was surprisingly affordable. I never pictured myself making films, but I knew I wanted to do something creative, so I applied the day before the deadline, not expecting much. To my shock, I soon received an invitation letter.

But there was still one more step—changing my foreign passport. In Russia, we have a national passport (in Cyrillic) and an international passport (in English), which allows travel abroad. To change the international passport, I needed a paper from the military conscription office, stating that I, as a newly-registered male, didn’t have to serve in the army and was free to leave for studies. Of course, I didn’t have such a paper, since I had never been registered for conscription in the first place.

This led me to our local conscription office. As soon as I explained the situation to the lady at the desk, she told me to stay quiet and led me to her boss. The military commander, sitting in his shabby countryside office under a portrait of Putin hung on a wall with peeling paint, was utterly confused.

“But I can’t issue him this paper because he was never registered as a conscript, which should’ve happened when he turned 15!”

“But he was a she when he was 15, sir…” his young secretary chimed in, causing the commander to spit in frustration and slam his fist on the table.

They were in a real bind. If I had transitioned from male to female, it would’ve been easy—they’d just throw my case out of the archive. But there were no regulations for how to handle female-to-male trans people.

“Okay, I think I have an idea of what we can do. When can you come back to my office?” asked the commander.

“Um, maybe tomorrow…” I hesitated.

“No ‘maybe’!” the commander shot me a stern look. “You’re a man now, so be specific.”

Suddenly feeling like James Bond, the commander deemed my case his secret mission. The next day, I returned to his office and was briefed on his plan: he was going to falsify my conscription record, making it look as if I had been a biological male my entire life, complete with medical exams and military training. He assigned one of his lackeys to follow me through the necessary medical evaluations, ensuring no one asked me to undress. The doctors, who were in on the plan, discreetly noted what they were supposed to.

Eventually, I was invited back to the commander’s office for the final round of evaluations. With the blinds pulled down and the door locked, I stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of white-coated doctors—urologists, proctologists, allergists, you name it.

“Take off all your clothes,” the commander ordered.

“Well, I’ve seen a film or two that started like this…” I thought to myself.

“Now, spin around—slowly,” he continued.

And there I was, with my ass naked, turning in a circle like some Frankenstein’s monster as the doctors scribbled notes in their notebooks.

“Did everybody see everything?” the commander asked, and the doctors nodded quickly. “Okay, dismissed.”

In the end, I was issued a military ticket marking me as category “B”—not suitable for mandatory military service (probably due to having a cunt, according to their reports), but eligible for drafting in case of war or a military operation.

With that, I received my new international passport and was off to Estonia.

I was incredibly happy. Every day, I would go to the old town square just to sit there, gazing at the medieval towers and thinking, “I made it… I finally made it!” It was everything I had dreamed of and more. No one cared how anyone looked, LGBT people had no restrictions, and I saw same-sex couples walking hand in hand on the streets. This was the “Western dream” I had been chasing my whole life. Yet, something seemed off…

Over time, I started to notice a certain level of hostility from the locals when they found out I was Russian. That surprised me, especially given that Estonia had been part of the Soviet Union and still had a population that was about 30% Russian. Slowly, I came to realize the harsh reality—in the history books I studied at school, there was only one mention of Estonia: “1940—Estonia, Lithuania, and Latvia join the USSR.” One sentence in a history book, which meant nothing to me at the time, encapsulated this entire country’s national tragedy. They tolerated the remaining Russian population, but the deep-seated resentment was clear. However, they failed to understand one important thing—most of those Russians were also victims of the regime, just like the Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, Tatars, and countless others.

I vividly remember a moment when I was having a meeting with my new coworkers. After learning I was from Russia, one Estonian girl said, “My grandfather was repressed by Russians during Soviet times.”

“Mine too,” I replied, dumbfounded. She seemed confused. As I later found out, while our governments had their own agendas, their government had theirs. She was never taught that millions of ethnic Russians were also arrested alongside millions of national minorities.

This was something I had never anticipated. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t discriminated against because of my LGBT status, but because of my nationality.

I learned to live with it. I tried to adapt, not speaking Russian in public. Fortunately, my studies were in English, and my course was international, filled with people from all over the world—the U.S., Egypt, Germany, Nigeria, Latvia, Turkey… Honestly, the three years I spent studying film there were the best years of my life. Our professors were amazing, outgoing, incredibly creative, and they became our friends.

Yet, no one in my course, not even my closest friends, with whom I spent every day, knew that I was trans or the real reason I left Russia. They simply thought I was a biological male. After what I had been through in my own country, I still hesitated to share this part of myself, unsure of how they would react. It took a toll on my mental health, constantly coming up with stories to fill gaps in my history. Eventually, it became too much, and three years into our studies, I told everything to my four closest friends. They were surprised, to say the least, but endlessly supportive. I can’t even begin to describe how much I love them for that.

For my graduation film, I made a documentary—something I never imagined I would be interested in. Initially, I had ambitions to become a fiction director, but once I discovered that documentaries weren’t all just talking heads and British-accented voiceovers, I became captivated by them.

My graduation documentary was about my family—specifically, about my grandmother. My family, aside from my mother, still didn’t know I had transitioned. It had been four years at that point. I had a beard, a deep voice, and yet they still didn’t know. Every time I called them, I would try to make my voice sound more feminine (the story was that I got sick, lost my voice, and it permanently damaged my vocal cords). I love my family, and it’s precisely because I love them that I do this. I don’t want them to be ashamed or ostracized from their community. They live simple, rural lives. When my grandmother was born, Stalin was still alive. She had survived famine, unemployment, and disease, so she would never be able to understand this whole “transgender thing.”

The documentary did really good, with this idea, I got to attend pitching with BBC, Al Jazeera, CBC, Vice and many more industry giants. There were so many promises from big film festivals, so many opportunities. By the time I had graduated and was working a well-paid job, I was hoping to settle down in Estonia after four years of living there. Despite the country’s mixed reception towards me, I loved the place. It finally felt like home. A small, cozy home where I knew everything and everyone, with both personal and professional connections. I was learning Estonian, aiming to get citizenship, and dreaming of the future—the entire European Union would be open to me.

And then, on the 24th of February 2022, the war started. I can’t begin to describe what I felt—fear, grief, confusion. It’s too dark of a topic to delve into.

While I was scared and cried every day for my friends in Ukraine and my family on the Russian border, the war began to affect me directly, as a Russian living in the West. Deals I had with film festivals fell through because they didn’t want to seem like "Russia sympathizers" by screening a documentary directed by a Russian. The fact that my film was about the struggles of LGBT people in Russia, and clearly anti-regime, didn’t matter.

One of my friends was spat on while on the tram for speaking Russian to her mother on the phone. Another was refused entry to a thrift store because she was Russian. A close friend of mine, a well-known Russian-Estonian actor, was assaulted in a café while speaking Russian with his girlfriend. A man approached him, demanding that he kneel and beg for forgiveness for “starting the war in Ukraine.” When my friend, in perfect Estonian (he came from a mixed family with an Estonian father and Russian mother), reminded him of the Estonian constitution and its protection of freedoms, the man scoffed and said, “All Russians should have been deported from the very beginning.”

And it seemed like the government shared his beliefs. First, my residence permit was terminated due to my Russian citizenship. When I applied for a worker visa instead, I was handed a notice saying, “You are denied an Estonian visa for the reason of posing a danger to international relations, inner security, and the health of the Estonian population.” It felt like they thought I was carrying some sort of “Putin virus.” And this happened right after my documentary had been featured in the national competition at a local film festival, where I was representing Estonia...

It was the 27th of December 2022. I was given three days to leave the country—to sort out everything from the past four years, my entire life there.

It was then that I fully realized how fragile safety and belonging can be when they rest on the whims of politics and nationality. The dream I had spent years building crumbled in days. I was lost. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t return to Russia—especially not after making such a personal documentary. The new laws there equated "LGBT movement" with extremist organizations. It wasn’t even safe for me to visit a doctor as a trans person. If they supported the regime, they could easily report me to the police, and I’d be arrested simply for having the body I have. Worse, I could be sent to the war—ironically, I was still marked as a biological male in Russian military records.

With no options left, I packed a tiny suitcase with essential items, left the rest of my belongings with friends, and bought a one-way ticket to Serbia—one of the few countries that still had visa-free entry for Russians. After the war began and the regime tightened its grip, Serbia had become a haven for hundreds of thousands of young Russians fleeing.

I met the new year of 2023 alone, in a strange country, watching fireworks from the balcony of a tractor driver named Stefan, who had rented me his Airbnb in the Belgrade suburbs.

Serbia turned out to be a completely different world compared to my experience in Estonia. I was still hesitant to reveal that I was Russian, but to my surprise, when I did, people mostly hugged me and invited me for a glass of rakija. Serbia has a long history with Russia—we were “brother nations,” and the Russian Empire had helped Serbia a lot in the past. That sentiment carried into how the locals saw Russians. Now, with so many of us in trouble and seeking refuge, they welcomed us with open arms.

The country itself wasn’t prosperous; it reminded me of the Russia of my childhood—shabby, torn apart, politically charged. I loved the people, and they seemed to love me back, but I knew I couldn’t stay. There were still many conservatives, and when I asked a bartender at a local underground gay bar about the situation for LGBT people, he laughed and said in broken English, “Like Russia, but small better.”

My plan was to apply for a German freelancer visa—I was making some money from video editing and color grading on the side, and I had a solid portfolio. I knew political asylum wasn’t an option. When the war began, I had tried to apply for asylum in Estonia, only to be told, “Have you been stabbed for being trans in Russia? No? Then call us back when you are.”

In Serbia, Russians were allowed a 30-day visa-free entry, so I joined what fellow expats called a “visa-run.” Every 30 days, someone would drive a packed minivan to the Bosnian border. We’d cross, stay in Bosnia for 15 minutes, smoke, and listen to stories of fellow Russians who had escaped. Then we’d return to Serbia, and our stay would reset. The local police knew about it and didn’t care—nothing illegal about it. I remember one time when we arrived during the border patrol’s lunch break. A young lady leaned out of the control booth, sandwich in hand, and asked, “Visa run?” When we nodded, she smiled and said she’d finish her tea before stamping our passports.

I lived like this for a year and a half in Serbia. It was nearly impossible to find a job without knowing Serbian, so I picked up small freelance editing gigs. Meanwhile, I was on a long waiting list for a German visa. Serbia had become a temporary stop for many Russians, especially LGBT people, trying to find a way into the EU.

However, after what I experienced in Estonia, my rose-colored glasses were off. I no longer viewed the West as a utopia. Every country has its problems, and there’s no true freedom anywhere in the world. Sadly, I had to learn this the hard way.

Throughout that year in Serbia, not much happened. I was extremely depressed and isolated, unsure of where my life was headed. So, I turned to what comforted me most—movies. I fell back into Star Trek. There’s something about its retro-futurism that helped me cope—I could lose myself either in the future or the past and forget about the present. I also started drawing again. I used to draw when I was a teenager and active in fandoms, but it had never really worked out for me. I still remember the first time I posted my art online—the first comment I got was a bunch of crying-laughing emojis.

Drawing helped me escape. Even while I was posting K/S smut, there were times when I had no money for food and was late on rent, all while my hometown was being bombed almost daily by Ukrainian forces. Immersing myself in the fandom helped me cope with the harshness of reality.

I had almost resigned myself to the idea that I would never be able to enter the West again. But then, one fateful day, I received the email I’d been waiting for—I was asked to pick up my visa. I cried and laughed; I couldn’t believe it.

The move to Germany was difficult. It’s a huge bureaucratic country, but I made it. My story isn’t finished yet—I’m still waiting for my residence permit, and God, I hope I get it. I know a bit of German, and I feel safe here, so I hope to settle down for good. For now, I work on my small business and draw K/S fan art on the side, finding solace in the creative space I’ve carved for myself. I’ve spent years running, surviving, and rebuilding. Where fate will take me next—I can’t be sure. But I know that whatever comes, I’ll face it as I always have—one step ahead, always moving forward.

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

Opal Plumstead by Jacqueline Wilson

Opal Plumstead might be plain, but she has always been fiercely intelligent. Yet her scholarship and dreams of university are snatched away when her father is sent to prison, and fourteen-year-old Opal must start work at the Fairy Glen sweet factory to support her family. She struggles to get along with her other workers, who think she’s snobby and stuck up. But Opal idolises Mrs Roberts, the factory’s beautiful, dignified owner. The best thing about Mrs Roberts? She’s a suffragette! Opal’s world is opened to Mrs Pankhurst, and the fight to give women the right to vote. And when Opal meets Morgan, Mrs Roberts’ handsome son, and heir to Fairy Glen- she believes she’s found her soulmate. But the First World War is about to begin, and will change Opal's life for ever.

The Lost Conspiracy by Frances Hardinge

On an island of sandy beaches, dense jungles, and slumbering volcanoes, colonists seek to apply archaic laws to a new land, bounty hunters stalk the living for the ashes of their funerary pyres, and a smiling tribe is despised by all as traitorous murderers. It is here, in the midst of ancient tensions and new calamity, that two sisters are caught in a deadly web of deceits.

Arilou is proclaimed a beautiful prophetess one of the island's precious oracles: a Lost. Hathin, her junior, is her nearly invisible attendant. But neither Arilou nor Hathin is exactly what she seems, and they live a lie that is carefully constructed and jealously guarded.

When the sisters are unknowingly drawn into a sinister, island-wide conspiracy, quiet, unobtrusive Hathin must journey beyond all she has ever known of her world and of herself in a desperate attempt to save them both. As the stakes mount and falsehoods unravel, she discovers that the only thing more dangerous than the secret she hides is the truth she must uncover.

The Ballad of Lucy Whipple by Karen Cushman

California doesn't suit Lucy Whipple—not the name, not the place. But moving out West to Lucky Diggins, California, was her mama's dream-come-true. And now her brother, Butte, and sisters, Prairie and Sierra, seem to be Westerners at heart, too. For Lucy, Lucky Diggins is hardly a town at all—just a bunch of ramshackle tents and tobacco-spitting miners. Even the gold her mama claimed was just lying around in the fields isn't panning out. Worst of all, there's no lending library! Dag diggety! So Lucy vows to be plain miserable until she can hightail it back East where she belongs. But Lucy California Morning Whipple may be in for a surprise--because home is a lot closer than she thinks...

Mister Max by Cynthia Voigt

Max Starling's theatrical father likes to say that at twelve a boy is independent. He also likes to boast (about his acting skills, his wife's acting skills, a fortune only his family knows is metaphorical), but more than anything he likes to have adventures. Max Starling's equally theatrical mother is not a boaster but she enjoys a good adventure as much as her husband. When these two disappear, what can sort-of-theatrical Max and his not-at-all theatrical grandmother do? They have to wait to find out something, anything, and to worry, and, in Max's case, to figure out how to earn a living at the same time as he maintains his independence.

MacDonald Hall by Gordon Korman

Bruno and Boots are always in trouble. So the Headmaster, aka "The Fish" decides it would be best to separate them. Bruno must now room with ghoulish Elmer Dimsdale, plus his plants, goldfish, and ants. And Boots is stuck with nerdy, preppy, paranoid George Wexford-Smyth III.

Of course, this means war. Because Bruno and Boots are determined to get their old room back, no matter what it takes.

And the skunk is only the beginning....

The Candy Shop War by Brandon Mull

What if there were a place where you could get magical candy? Moon rocks that made you feel weightless. Jawbreakers that made you unbreakable. Or candy that gave animals temporary human intelligence and communication skills. (Imagine what your pet would say!) Four young friends, Nate, Summer, Trevor, and Pigeon, are befriended by Belinda White, the owner of a new candy shop on Main Street. However, the gray-haired, grandmotherly Mrs. White is not an ordinary candy maker. Her confections have magical side effects. Purposefully, she invites the kids on a special mission to retrieve a hidden talisman under Mt. Diablo Elementary School. However, Mrs. White is not the only magician in town in search of the ancient artifact rumored to be a fountain of youth. She is aware that Mr. Stott, the not-so-ordinary ice cream truck driver, has a few tricks of his own.

Beacon Street Girls by Annie Bryant

Charlotte Ramsey is the new girl again. After causing the biggest cafeteria blunder in history, Charlotte's assigned lunch partners-the very stylish Katani, irrepressible Avery, and super-friendly Maeve-can't wait to dump her. Can it get any worse? Absolutely! Nobody is talking, and Katani wants out of the group. What a mess! Can the girls become true friends or will they remain worst enemies forever?

Rose by Holly Webb

The grand residence of the famous alchemist, Mr Fountain, is a world away from the dark orphanage Rose has left behind. For the house is positively overflowing with sparkling magic—she can feel it. And it’s not long before Rose realises that maybe, just maybe, she has a little bit of magic in her, too. . . .

A Traveler in Time by Alison Uttley

This unusual novel is set in rural Derbyshire in the old manor house, Thackers, where the Babington family and their servant, Cicely Taberner, lived when Elizabeth I was Queen of England. The descendants of the Taberners have farmed the land through the centuries, and to the Taberners of the present day comes Penelope, their great-niece, a sensitive, imaginative girl, who is aware of other layers of time. With her awakened vision she sees people of the past move in their daily tasks among those of the present, and behind the contented life of the household of Cicely and Barnabas Taberner she finds the old tragedy of Anthony Babington and his plot to save Mary, Queen of Scots, being re-enacted. The farm kitchen where Penelope sits with her great-aunt and great-uncle is the home of those others who once lived there. Their desires and fears, their courage and strength enter the girl's mind; their voices float up from the garden and she is caught up into their life. Time is annihilated, and she lives in the closing years of the sixteenth century remembering little of her modern life, until she returns from her traveling in time bearing the anxieties and dreams of the other world. The life of two widely separated times in history - the Elizabethan and the present - goes on simultaneously, each invisible to the other. And only Penelope can pierce the veil, sharing the tumultuous experiences of the Babington family three hundred years ago.

The Deptford Mice by Robin Jarvis

 In the sewers of Deptford, there lurks a dark presence that fills the tunnels with fear. The rats worship it in the blackness and name it "Jupiter, Lord of All." Into this twilight realm wanders a small and frightened mouse-the unwitting trigger of a chain of events that hurtles the Deptford mice into a world of heroic adventure and terror.

[open-hearth-rpg]

Campaign Playbooks: Great RPG Mechanics #RPGMechanics: Week Six

I’m getting ready tonight to do the first session of Girl By Moonlight. It’s a Forged in the Dark game with a wide premise– ranging from Magical Girl to Paprika to Evangelion-inspired stories. We’re doing On a Sea of Stars, the one most influenced by mecha, teens, and tragedy. Girl By Moonlight is one of two recent systems which take Forged in the Dark’s Crew mechanics and change them into a tool to redefine the game collaboratively. 

The other one, and the one I’ve already run, is Vergence. This is a FitD game heavily influenced by the Chronicles of Amber. It mixes things up in some interesting ways. For example, it has a trio of factions rather than the binary two courts of Zelanzy’s original novels. That smart move offers players a more complex web of interactions. In particular I dig that each faction has its own set of playbooks highlighting their themes. 

Vergence also takes a nod from the earlier Amber RPG (which I’ve also run). In that game you had two modes of play: a standard campaign and a Throne War. The latter had its own set of special rules, aimed at playing out a tighter series or even a one-shot with different play goals. Vergence also allows for several different modes of play, each with a strong sense of structure and purpose: 

The Dark Conspiracy: An unknown enemy has chosen to act directly and violently against the PCs and all they hold dear.

The Expedition: The PCs are part of a journey of exploration to a forbidden world.

The Game of Houses: The PCs undertake a series of missions to support a chosen Vergence faction.

The Masked Ball: The PCs will attend a Royal Masked Ball and try to accomplish various goals without ruining their reputations.

The Pursuit: The PCs are chasing a vile enemy through the Umbra. What happens if they catch up?

The Siege: The PCs are trapped in a city under siege. They must fight, escape, or go over to the other side.

The different campaign frames have distinct usual lengths. For example if you want a one-shot, you would do The Pursuit. For a longer campaign (4-10) sessions, you might pick Masked Ball, Expedition, or Seige. If you’re looking for an ongoing, episodic campaign you would pick Game of Houses. 

Each of these campaigns, called Challenges,  has its own playbook, the equivalent of the crew book from Blades. Each challenge offers guidance for setting up relationships, possible starting upgrades, and choices of special abilities. They also have a set of unique milestones and other details. There’s some overlap between the Challenges but they feel nicely distinct. It does a great job of setting expectations right away. In our play-through we dug the mechanic, but wanted a little more. 

Girl By Moonlight provides that more– with the different campaign structures at the heart of play. Each of the four series presented has a distinct “series playbook” set up quite differently from one another. For example On a Sea of Stars has both the Flagship the characters are travelling on and the mecha, Engines, they are using as a the campaigns framework. I especially like how asymmetrical these playbooks are. They feel like pieces from distinct and different games. They’re a great tool to shape play.

It would be interesting to see more games offer these kinds of tools– in combination with a CATS document. For example, I love the campaign frames from Thirsty Sword Lesbians, probably more than I dig TSL itself. It would be really interesting to have some richer worksheets and choices which could be made to add to the collaboration and mechanically vary play. There’s a little bit of that in the recent Codex of Worlds for Monster of the Week.

[untoldreader]

Shadows of Betrayal

Melinda May x Reader

Chapter 2

The chill in the air sends a shiver down my spine as I walk alone through the dimly lit streets. Anxiety tightens its grip on my heart, a premonition of the darkness that looms ahead. Little do I know that fate has chosen this night to forever alter the course of my life.

A sudden noise startles me, and before I can react, a cloth is pressed against my mouth. The world swirls into a haze of confusion as darkness claims my consciousness.

When I awaken, disoriented and groggy, the surroundings are unfamiliar. Cold metal presses against my back, and the acrid smell of dampness fills the air. Panic surges through my veins like a wild river, realizing that I have become a prisoner in a place unknown.

A voice cuts through the silence, its tone laced with malice. "Welcome to your new reality, my dear. You are now a guest of Hydra."

Hydra—an organization synonymous with malevolence and destruction. Images of their sinister deeds flash through my mind, tales of manipulation and control that have plagued the world. How did I become entangled in their web?

Days turn into weeks as I find myself subjected to grueling training sessions designed to break my spirit and mold me into a weapon of their choosing. They strip away my identity, reducing me to a mere pawn in their twisted game. The cruelty of my captors knows no bounds, their methods calculated to inflict both physical and psychological pain.

But amidst the darkness, a glimmer of resistance flickers within me. The memory of who I once was, the strength and resilience that defined me, refuses to be extinguished. I vow to fight, to reclaim my freedom, even if it means playing the part of a compliant captive.

As time stretches on, I become adept at concealing my true intentions, disguising my growing resolve beneath a facade of compliance. I observe my captors, studying their weaknesses, searching for an opportunity to strike back. The knowledge that I am not alone in this struggle fuels my determination. There are others, like me, trapped within Hydra's clutches. Together, we form a fragile alliance, sharing whispered stories of hope and survival in the dead of night.

In the shadows, we plan our escape, meticulously laying the groundwork for our liberation. We know the risks, the dangers that lie ahead, but the thirst for freedom outweighs the fear that threatens to consume us.

And so, as the night of our daring escape finally arrives, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what lies ahead. It's a moment of reckoning, where the strength of my spirit will be tested against the might of Hydra.

As we slip through the labyrinthine corridors, avoiding the watchful eyes of our captors, each step carries the weight of our collective determination. The taste of freedom is within reach, and we refuse to let it slip away.

But Hydra's grip is tenacious, their reach extending far and wide. The path to our liberation is fraught with peril and sacrifice. We navigate treacherous obstacles, engage in fierce battles, and endure unimaginable hardships. Our bodies ache, and our spirits waver, but the flame of hope burns bright within us, guiding us through the darkest of nights.

And so, with hearts aflame and a burning desire for justice, we press forward, fueling our resolve with the memories of all we have lost. For we are no longer mere captives; we have become warriors, united in our quest to dismantle the very organization that sought to break us.

The journey ahead is arduous, and the shadows of betrayal linger. But together, we stand, ready to defy the forces that sought to extinguish our light. United by our shared purpose, we march forward, prepared to face whatever challenges may come our way, determined to reclaim the lives that were stolen from us.

≈========================≈

May's Masterlist Next >

[suzannahnatters]

I Re-Read Tolkien's "Lay of Leithian" For the First Time in Like 15 Years And It's Still My Favourite Poem In the Whole Wide World: Selected Ravings

CANTO I mostly scene setting, but it's so fun to get more worldbuilding details on Doriath. Also this poetry is just gorgeous

CANTO II thou shalt to the moonless mists of hell descend and seek thy Eilinel AUGH

A bunch of details are different in this early version (Gorlim seeking out the Enemy, and being taken to Morgoth not Sauron) but the one that gets me most is Gorlim sneaking away from the phantom without making himself known because he doesn't want her to be hurt T_T

LOTR Orcs are cockneys. Lay of Leithian Orcs have clearly been to university

CANTO III OH HERE'S WHY LUTHIEN HAS SLEEP MAGIC!!!!! Because her mother Melian was associated with Lorien in Valinor, the Vala of dreams and visions, who in Line 439 of the Lay Tolkien calls "the Lord of Sleep"

Okay this is amazing: There after but an hour, him seems, he finds her where she lies and dreams, pale Melian with her dark hair upon a bed of leaves. Beware! There slumber and a sleep is twined! He touched her tresses and his mind was drowned in the forgetful deep, and dark the years rolled o'er his sleep MESS WITH THE ENCHANTRESS AT YOUR PERIL

And now his heart was healed and slain With a new life and with new pain

They enchant each other T_T when he calls "Tinuviel!" there's magic in it

CANTO IV the deathless in his dying shared feels faintly redolent of the Gospel

CANTO V TEXTILE MAGIC Rapunzel joins the list of stories Tolkien looked at, sniffed, and said "I can do better"

CANTO VI We find out why Sauron (here, Thu) is called The Necromancer:

In glamoury that necromancer held his hosts of phantoms and of wandering ghosts, of misbegotten or spell-wronged monsters that about him thronged, working his bidding dark and vile: the werewolves of the Wizard's Isle.

CANTO VII I love SO MUCH the fact that in this version what gives them away to Sauron is the fact that they won't blaspheme the gods and declare Morgoth the king of all earthly kings

CANTO VIII I think it's super important to note that this begins with an absolutely gorgeous passage describing the Bestest Boi, and also there's this beautiful beautiful little Sir Orfeo reference that lives in my head rent free:

Hark! afar in Nargothrond, far over Sirion and beyond, there are dim cries and horns blowing, and barking hounds through the trees going.

Lúthien's meeting with Huan:

Huan alone that she ever met she never in enchantment set nor bound with spells. RIP to you Beren

CANTO IX this whole canto is unbeLIEVably epic, possibly my favourite in the whole Lay, but my favourite part is Sauron hearing the song from the bridge and saying

A! little Lúthien! What brought the foolish fly to web unsought? ee hee hee hee

CANTO X Tolkien just really wants you to know that these guys are Beyond It:

Thereafter never hound was whelped would follow horn of Celegorm or Curufin.

It's interesting that Tolkien at this stage had Beren telling Lúthien to stay in Doriath waiting for his return specifically because Sauron had informed him that Morgoth was keen to capture her. It's like he realised that with all of Lúthien's evident capabilities he needed to give Beren a convincing reason to leave her behind lol

CANTO XI Lúthien catching Beren in the middle of his dramatic farewell will never not crack me up but in this version she tells him off for not putting his trust in her might so weak and then when he asks where's the hound he left to guard her she tells him how much wiser and kinder Huan is than him at which point Beren demands to know why she doesn't just marry the dog

The description of them putting on the werewolf and vampire disguises, and their journey to the gates of Thangorodrim, is fanTAStically creepy and epic and also, I'm surprised to note, HIGHLY reminiscent of the hobbits' trek into Mordor.

CANTO XII this bit about how Carcharoth has not yet come

disastrous, ravening, from the gates of Angband

has STRONG Voluspa echoes -

Loud bays Garm before Gaping-Hel; the bond shall be broken, the Wolf run free

CANTO XIII I love these descriptions of Angband (even Morgoth has tree themed decor) and I love EVEN MORE the fact that when Lúthien flies into the hall a Dark Lord, all his Balrogs and a ton of werewolves suddenly feel the Valar walking over their graves -

A nameless doubt, a shapeless fear had entered in their caverns drear, and grew, and towered above them cowed, hearing in heart the trumpets loud of gods forgotten.

She stood revealed in hell. (chewing glass)

CANTO XIV (fragment) I am going to haunt Tolkien in the afterlife for leaving it off here.

[kyriefae]

The Web Planet was an incredible story.

Long live The Light! 🔆 ...but not the evil one ofc; boo hiss!

As more of an aside before I get started, I fear the spark of magic that opened the door to stories like this one being performed the way they were in their time is gone. Not only because of graphics or budget...but can you just imagine how much of an uproar it would cause if we said let's go back to doing stage performance science fiction! Like full blown, all on a set, all choreographed as if for a live studio audience?

How "cheap" people would say it looks?

I appreciate the overtly campy stories we still get in the modern era even more watching older ones like this.

Makes me think of that teetering line between the harm of nostalgia & the joy it carries.

I digress from the 'what if' games to say what I came here to say about The Web Planet: it dives bravely into the world of absurdism and science fiction and I greatly appreciate the production team for choosing to make such an esoteric story! We don't get a history of Earth from the perspective of Britain or a future of Earth taken over by Daleks, instead we get a genuine attempt to play with the genre and be creative about what may exist out there in this wide and expansive universe.

I celebrate stories like this because they're inspired from a place of whimsy. No matter the quality of the costumes; astigmatism-like camera effect, or fumbled lines by the lead performer...were not in our own galaxy and we're encouraged to play along and go for a ride.

A full-on psychedelic ride.

Additionally so, it's clear Ian, Barbara, and Vicki can barely count on The Doctor to protect them at this stage in his travels...adding verisimilitude to their life-threatening moments.

As for the Doctor, he's a madman who lost his box. So he lies on impulse to trick a voice in the sky who communicates with him through a drop down 'hair-dryer' {in Hartnell's words}. Further placing everyone he knows in danger.

Love the dichotomy of this original iteration compared to our modern understanding of the character. The retcons that have followed regarding previous lives with less morally upstanding behavior and time lord society being malicious and manipulative, the First Doctor being so...careless of others is not so alien anymore.

The heart of it all, Hartnell chose to make this man alien in his demeanor and what The Web Planet highlights most are the lives of everyone else around the Doctor making exceptional choices in spite of the chaos. The Doctor simply receives all the credit in the end...that cheeky, maniacal bastard! 😅

Bonus silly points for Hartnell saying "explortation" instead of exploration as the captions would have you believe above.

Like, how many takes did they do before just saying whatever we need to get this episode out! 🤭

Final take on this episode: Barbara. I just love her so much!

She is so knowledgeable. So patient. So witty. When she's talking to Vicki and Vicki calls aspirin medieval? Her response was so teacher-like. So professionally backhanded while being compassionate enough to still offer this smug child aid. Like yes, I look up to your example Babs.

She is also a lot of fun to watch while the gold bracelet she'd received from the creepy arsonist Nero in the previous story was being used to control her movements. She hammed that silly stage direction right up.

And she was the hero of this particular story. Get it girl! 🎉🥰 History teacher for the win!

Classic Who is such a journey, y'all. I'll avoid delving into the cringe I experience on a relatively frequent basis when Hartnell speaks to young ladies (shuddering at all the excessive shoulder and face touching).

Erhem--I mean...

Huzzah for Vrestin & Friends!! The Light prevailed!

...all thanks to The Doctor. 🫠

[cosmicpuzzle]

Saturn Transit 2023 for all Signs - Vedic

Saturn moves to Aquarius on Jan 17th, 2023 and will stay there until March 29, 2025. This transit will bring several technological changes in the world. Last time we had the World wide web, Internet, Amazon etc. This time, there could be advancement in fields like machine learning, robots, space technology, digital currency and economic recession

Let us see the effects on each sign. You can apply either to Moon or Ascendant or both. Sometimes it works for Moon sign and other times to ascendant.

Aries : Saturn moves to 11th house. Good time for changing jobs, getting a promotion long due, lot of gains in coming years, you may gain through stocks, insurance. You may cut off unfulfilling friendships now. Your health could be down. So take care.

Taurus : Saturn moves to 10th house. Your employer or boss may change. You may shift to other department in the office. Marriage could happen for those waiting as Saturn aspect 7th house. Those trying for foreign journeys may experience delays.

Gemini : Saturn moves to 9th house. You may move to a foreign country. You may return from foreign country. You may start higher education or PhD. You may have differences with mentors, father, bosses, elders and grandparents. You may feel unlucky at times. Your relation with friends and elder sibling may be restricted.

Cancer : Saturn moves to 8th house. You may face issues with in laws family especially females. Couples may face issues in intimacy. Joint assets, taxes, inheritance could pose challenges. You may have less desire for sex now. You could experience cutback in income. Must be careful with stocks, investments.

Leo : Saturn moves to 7th house. You may tie the know during this period. You may meet your partner who may be elder. Business partnerships may be formed or they may break if it has been bad for sometime now. Take care of mother's health and your own mental health. Travel to foreign places.

Virgo : Saturn moves to 6th house. Good time for work and career. Work will be rewarding and satisfactory. You can buy or construct home now. You will face less problems now. Travel to other country may be restricted. Health should improve and will be good.

Libra : Saturn moves to 5th house. You may have children now if you have been trying for long. Long term investments may prove fruitful but don't do new investments. You may have difficulty with grown up children or they may move away now for work studies. Marriage could be delayed.

Scorpio : Saturn moves to 4th house. You may change cities or residences. You may feel bit gloomy and pessimistic now. Cheer up. You may buy property or construct home now. Health would be testing. Career may feel like stagnation.

Sagittarius : Saturn moves to 3rd house. You may start new business ventures or change places or jobs. There is fresh air in your life. Long travels may be restricted and getting pregnant could be difficult. You may have issues with siblings.

Capricorn: Saturn moves to 2nd house. You may get married or start your own family. You could have children coming and thus more expenses in life. You may feel financial crunch now. Don't buy lot of things now. Good time to invest in real estate. Relation with family mother could be testing.

Aquarius: Saturn moves to 1st house. You may feel lonely and without support now. You may have weak vitality. You may lose body weight. You may feel work pressure now. You may have trouble with office mates, spouse etc. Marriage could delay or happen suddenly.

Pisces : Saturn moves to 12th house. Similar to Aquarius. You may isolate yourself. You may travel to new places, foreign countries. You may have sleep issues now. You may have problems with feet. You may become reclusive. You may feel stuck in some situation for 2 years-may be a job, relationship that's restraining you.

Book your Saturn Transit 2023 reading where I also use other exclusive techniques - DM Here.

[dragonagitator]

"Dragon Age Studies" draft syllabus

I think it would be fun if a bunch of us (re)played, (re)read, (re)watched, and discussed the Dragon Age games, books, graphic novels, and shows as a cohort leading up to the release of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, like how Dracula Daily created a Tumblr-wide book club.

Below is my proposed order and estimates for how long it should take the average person to complete each installment. My estimates assume 325 words/page for novels, 250 words/minute for reading speed, 1 page/minute for graphic novels, and the upper end of playtime ranges per Google (because anyone dedicated enough to join the cohort is likely to be a completionist).

Dates to be announced once we get a firm release date for DA4. The schedule will spread the content out proportionally so there's a relatively consistent time commitment per week. The final version of the syllabus will break the games up into specific main quests or DLCs for each week, since each game takes most people more than a week to complete. There will also be links to YouTube "movies" of the games and to short summaries of the novels for people who fall behind or who can't invest enough time to replay and reread everything.

Please review and let me know if you think anything should be adjusted and why, thanks!

Novel: The Stolen Throne ~8 hours to complete (364 pages, estimated 116k words)

Novel: The Calling ~10 hours to complete (447 pages, estimated 145k words)

Game: Dragon Age: Origins & all DLC ~90 hours to complete

Web short stories: Dragon Age II companions prequels <1 hour to complete (7 short stories, ~7k words total)

Game: Dragon Age II & all DLC ~60 hours to complete

Web series: Redemption <1 hour to complete (total runtime 51 minutes)

Novel: Hard in Hightown ~2 hours to complete (72 pages, estimated 23k words)

Graphic novel: The Silent Grove 1-2 hours to complete (80 pages)

Graphic novel: Those Who Speak 1-2 hours to complete (72 pages)

Graphic novel: Until We Sleep 1-2 hours to complete (72 pages)

Novel: Asunder ~8 hours to complete (374 pages, estimated 122k words)

Novel: The Masked Empire ~8 hours to complete (382 pages, estimated 124k words)

Novel: The Last Flight ~7 hours to complete (304 pages, estimated 99k words)

Film: Dawn of the Seeker 1.5 hours to complete (runtime 90 minutes)

Book: The World of Thedas Vol. 1 ~3 hours to complete (185 pages with lots of illustrations)

Web short stories: Dragon Age Inquisition prequels ~1 hour to complete (3 short stories, ~13.5k words total)

Game: Dragon Age Inquisition & all DLC ~150 hours to complete

Book: The World of Thedas Vol. 2 ~5 hours to complete (314 pages with lots of illustrations)

Book: The Art of Dragon Age Inquisition ~3 hours to complete (184 pages, mostly illustrations)

Graphic novel: Magekiller ~2 hours to complete (120 pages)

Graphic novel: Knight Errant ~2 hours to complete (112 pages)

Graphic novel: Deception 1-2 hours to complete (72 pages)

TV Series: Absolution 3 hours to complete (total runtime 180 minutes)

Graphic novel: Blue Wraith 1-2 hours to complete (72 pages)

Short story collection: Tevinter Nights ~11 hours to complete (490 pages, estimated 159k words)

Graphic novel: The Missing 1-2 hours to complete (84 pages)

Web short stories: Dragon Age: The Veilguard prequels <1 hour to complete (7 short stories, ~5k words)

Deliberately excluded due to being out-of-print/offline/etc:

Dragon Age comics by IDW / Orson Scott Card

Dragon Age Journeys

Dragon Age Legends

Dragon Age Inquisition Multiplayer

Dragon Age: The Last Court