#a broken bone heals twice as strong……….

[cricketsintheaudience]

i cant even finish my homework this end credit song from the lego batman movie is messing with my head

[hedwig394]

I'm Not Yours

Derek Hale x Sarah McCall

Timeline: In S2E4, when Derek is training his betas, one of them tries to kiss him.

Derek's POV -

Isaac barrels towards me with a vicious look on his face. I stare at him, unfazed. Like that can scare me. He leaps at me but I push him out of the way effortlessly. Sure, the momentum makes it difficult, but not difficult enough.

Erica jumps at me from above and I toss her to the ground. She's no better. In fact, she's worse. Isaac at least has the mind to know that he isn't the best, but Erica is full of overconfidence. It's going to get her in trouble someday.

Boyd looks at from above, and cringes as both the betas fall to the ground. I know their bones are broken, they must be. Guilt creeps up my spine, but I shove it down. If I'm to teach them how to protect themselves, then they must sustain a few injuries.

"Does anyone wanna try not being completely predictable?" I ask with a frown.

It is then that Erica jumps at me. But she doesn't try to attack. Instead, she wraps her legs around my waist and presses her lips to mine. Eyes widening in shock, I push her away immediately.

"Don't ever do that again," I say, fury churning through my body. My eyes flash red and I see fear in hers, but I don't care.

I don't want to be kissed by anyone who isn't Sarah.

"Why?" She asks, scared, "Because I'm a Beta?"

"No." I say, "Because I'm Not Yours." I make sure to wipe my lips, just in case her lipstick has left a mark.

Isaac groans from beside her, uninterested in what just happened. "Are we done? I got about a hundred bones that need a few hours to heal."

I bend down in front of him and break his finger, "A hundred and one."

Isaac looks at me in shock and pain, and I hiss at him. "You think I'm teaching you to fight? Huh? Look at me! I'm teaching you how to survive! So if you don't wanna die, I suggest you take this seriously."

I stalk away from them and rush to my loft after putting my jacket on. I had promised to meet Sarah there, and I don't wanna be late. I don't want to miss even a single minute I have with her. Her brother thinks that it's just him who has to do a lot just to see his girlfriend, but he's wrong.

I have to do twice as much just to catch a glimpse of Sarah.

She waits at me at the loft, her long hair flowing behind her because of the wind.

"Angel..." I say. It's one of the few nicknames I have for her, another main one being 'honey'. She turns around and looks at me. Joy fills her eyes and she rushes towards me, throwing her arms around me. She doesn't care that I smell like tar and dirt, doesn't care that the dirt is all over my clothes and face.

I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the scent of her sweet-smelling hair. I kiss her cheek and all the emotions I've bottled down almost spill out. No, I can't let that happen. I have to stay strong for her.

She steps back and looks at me with tearful eyes. I pull her towards me and kiss her deeply, savouring the flavour and taste of her soft lips. She opens her mouth and I slip my tongue inside, exploring her mouth. She tastes like the sweet fruit at the end of countless hardships.

Sarah tastes like mine. There's not a lot I can call mine, but Sarah is mine. And I'll be damned to let anyone hurt her or take her away from me.

And the moan she gives makes me wanna carry her inside and show her just that.

But I have to keep the lust in control since I'd rather talk to her and hold her in my arms in those few stolen moments we have together than have sex with her.

I draw my head to let her catch her breath. I can go on for longer, werewolf lungs and all. But she's human. My human.

I caress her cheek gently and press a kiss to her forehead. "I've missed you, my Angel."

"I've missed you too, Sourwolf." She sniffs.

"Come on," I say, "Let's go inside."

She slips her hand in mine and we walk inside the loft. Sarah beams at the simple arrangement of the place and looks at me. "I've missed coming here."

"I know, I'm sorry," I say ruefully. The loft has not been the same without her. After we got together officially, Sarah used to hang out at the loft frequently. At one point, she was living with me. Those were the best days of my life. Just being with her, inside her and spending time in her presence gave me more happiness than anything else.

But then Gerard Argent showed up along with his pack of Hunters. I turned Isaac and Erica, and Sarah's brother started to hate me. I don't care, Scott's a child. He'll understand the ways of the world after growing up.

But unknowingly, that caused a rift between me and Sarah. It was too unsafe for her to be with me, with hunters prowling around and an unknown beast to add to the list. I know how low Gerard can sink, he can threaten and hurt Sarah just to get to me.

I once had a thought of breaking up with her for her own safety, but she had said to me "I'll carve your heart out with a scalpel and keep it as a prized possession if you ever do that." And that had led to a passionate make-out session.

"Derek..." Sarah's voice makes me look at her. But she isn't looking at me, she's staring at my jacket. "Why do you smell like women's perfume?"

Aah, that is Erica's fault. "Oh, it's nothing. I was going to tell you." I begin casually, but she looks anything but casual. Sarah's glaring at me like she never has before, and I gulp. "Angel, believe me, it's not what you think."

"Then what is it?" She hisses viciously, and at that moment, I can't help but admire how strong and confident she looks.

Right, back to the point.

I explain everything to her, starting from training to the point where Erica kissed me, and at the end, Sarah looks like she could commit first-degree murder. "I pushed her away immediately," I say, desperation clawing at my insides. Will she believe me?

Sarah glares at me. Then, she looks at her feet with a sigh. "Do you like her, Derek?"

"No!" I exclaim, aghast. "Honey, she's my beta, and she's also underage. I don't like her. I don't like anyone but you."

She doesn't look at me. "It's fine, Derek. If you don't like me anymore. I get it. It's been a hard couple of months. And I understand if you wanna be with me. Maybe a werewolf will be better for you."

"Sarah," I ball my hand into a fist. "Look at me."

She doesn't budge, and I gently lift her chin up. Her warm, chocolate eyes meet my werewolf red. She looks a bit frightened, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her hard against me.

"Look at me, Angel." I growl, "You're the only one I like, the only one I want. So don't even think for a second that I'll look at anyone else the way I look at you."

"I'm sorry," She says and my eyes go back to the usual green. "It's been so hard recently, so I thought that you'd give up and...." She looks at me worriedly, "Start looking for someone else."

"Sarah," I say calmly, "It's been very hard, yes. But I'm not giving up on you. On us. It's you for me, Angel."

Sarah gives me a shaky smile, and I continue, "And as for Erica, I pushed her away immediately and warned her to not do that again. You know why?"

She looks at me expectantly and I kiss her softly. "Because I'm not hers, Angel. I'm yours."

Masterlist

[bibeagle]

The Lego Batman movie has a song that, if I'm not mistaken, plays on the credits. It's "I found you", and it's child Dick Grayson singing for Bruce. It's teeth-rotting wholesome and I'll prove this song fits ALL the batkids JUST with the chorus (and it'd be an incredible animatic):

"We were meant to be together"- Bruce being right there when Dick lost his parents, fate brought them together and formed the wonder duo.

"We've both been through some heavy weather"- Jason met Bruce by stealing the batmobile tires, little Jay has already been through a lot (and will go through the worst) and I don't even need to talk about Bruce. And yall know what happens regarding the Joker.

"It's all I've wanted for so long"- COME ONN this is literally Tim. He found out their secret IDs, he wanted to be robin and managed to do so, standing by Bruce's side when he knew he nedded it.

"A broken bone heals twice as strong"- Both Bruce and Damian were stiff and awkward in the beggining. Damian was so little and all that with Ra's and Talia happened and they both slowly healed together, still are.

"And I feel like we're the perfect team"- I'll admit I don't know much about the next kids as well as the first ones, but I'm sure Steph just- demanded Bruce to train her and they surprisingly turned out well, right?

"The greatest the world's ever seen"- Bruce and Cass being quiet and wearing all black and mixing perfectly with the shadows, please she's literally his daughter in every way asides from blood.

"And it proves that wishes do come true"- Again, sorry I don't know much, but Duke had fought together with all the robins before, right? Bruce had helped him and offered him to be his new protege. A new place beside Batman and unlike any other robin.

"'Cause you found me,"- Bruce taking them all in, one by one.

"And Batman, I found you."- All of them healing something inside Bruce, all of his kids there for him and making him turn into someone nothing like the person he was when he decided to become The Batman.

SHAFAFJHGAS COME ON IT'S PERFECT. It bothers me so much that I've only seen two or three videos regarding this song and whenever I see it, it's just Dick (don't get me wrong, I love him too much for my own good, but come on it fits so well). Someone, please please please make an animatic, draw this with the lyrics, a tiktok video, I don't know just please, anything, this is too perfect and I don't have the skills to recreate it💔

[sodalebooks07]

Why Katniss was always going to choose Peeta

Gale was never even a real option for Katniss, it was always going to be Peeta.

Gale was always *physically* there for her in the sense that he could hold her hand/hug her/hunt with her/take care of her family etc. which was confusing for her because 'why would she choose Peeta if Gale was literally right next to her?' But Peeta was always *emotionally* there for her, in the way that he understood her and knew how to comfort her versus Gale sometimes not realising there was more to healing than just Katniss's exterior healing like broken bones mending.

Katniss knew Gale for years, he was easy to love because she was familiar with him, she understood him, could read him like a book. It was the plain, simple fact of her being around him for so long.

She didn't agree with Gale's opinions or plans, and I don't mean the ones he threw about in the woods criticising the Capitol, but the ones where he could justify killing (murdering) innocent children. And I don't mean her disagreeing in like a casual, argumentative way, but she genuinely felt sick to her core at some of his ideals, found them horrific and him barbaric.

Peeta and her shared a traumatic experience, twice. They both went through the Games, and both survived, barely. And I know it could be argued that this could have confused them into being in love, but it really didn't. It wasn't the Games that made them fall for each other, we know Peeta liked Katniss way before them, but it was how Peeta helped Katniss to recover from them. It was the aftermath- the nights on the train- that fuelled their feelings.

Gale was the fuel to Katniss's fire, but Peeta could calm it. Gale and Katniss were both too similar, hot headed sometimes, could be a little impulsive, very strong minded. Whereas Peeta was very gentle, he could soothe Katniss, give her a sense of security and comfort.

Gale and Katniss had similar childhoods so automatically they felt drawn to one another, and I think it was difficult for Katniss to kind of separate herself from Gale because of that. Like, he understood that part of her, but in a way he never got how she was later on. He didn't want her to change from the girl in the woods. But she did change, and he couldn't accept that to some degree. Peeta might not have understood Katniss's childhood like Gale did, but he tried to. Gale never really openly talked about what it was like for Katniss in the Games. I think he assumed he knew what it was like just from watching it. And maybe that came from a good place- him not wanting to drag up bad memories (???)- but it wouldn't have hurt for him to help her open up about it.

Gale (whether unintentionally or not) blew up Prim. Ofc he didn't mean to, but he did. AND HE HAD NO REMORSE FOR THE BOMBS, JUST THE FACT THEY KILLED PRIM.

Peeta fell in love with her twice.

"You love me, real or not real?" "Real."

[hedgiwithapen]

Screams from across the hall for Caitlin Snow?

(can be read on it's own but also theoretically fits into Miles Through The Night, which I swear one of these years I'll get back to...)

Caitlin stared at the dull and pitted cement floor, trying to keep her breathing even. General Wade Eiling's steel-toed boots moved closer in her field of vision. She didn't glance up, and told herself that it was because she didn't want to see the look on his face and not because she was afraid of the promised slap if she did lift her eyes. She could tell he was looming.

"Well, if you're going to be stubborn," he told her. "Then I'll simply have to gather the information I require through alternative means." 

Her head shot up, long enough to see him adjust the radio he wore on his belt and glance at his watch. 

"Dr. Hadley, you can begin whenever you're ready."

Caitlin bit down hard on her lip, tasting blood. Be strong, she told herself as she braced to be struck, jabbed with a cattleprod, stabbed. Whatever he does--

Outside her door, the cement hallway echoed with an awful scream. Barry's scream. She'd heard it before, on the medbay cot in STAR Labs, over the coms when a metahuman got in a strike he wasn't ready for. A second howl of pain tore loose.

"Well?" Eiling asked.

"No," she whispered, trembling. Her fingernails cut perfect crescents into her palms, even cut short as they were. 

"You can stop this, Snow," Eiling said, sharp. "Dr. Hadley doesn't stop until I say so. He'll keep going until every one of the Flash's bones is broken, and then we can see how many break twice. Unless--" he paused, deliberately, and Caitlin heard another scream.  Another. Another. 

She dry heaved, shaking her head again, weakening.

Eiling saw it, too. he thumbed the button on his radio. This time, she heard the snap of a bone, Barry's scream that much louder. It echoed in her ears. 

What was the point of withholding information, stalling for a rescue, if they'd only get it anyways, worse?

"Stop," she said, cracking.  "Stop, I'll tell you. The Files, I can tell you how to get into them, where they are, everything, just stop this. Please."

Eiling checked his watch again, and clicked the radio. "Hadly."

"A success, Sir," the man--Caitlin wouldn't think of his as a doctor-- returned. under that clear voice Caitlin could hear the awful whimper of her friend in agony.

"Five minutes," Eiling commented. "Impressive."

Caitlin swallowed, and Eiling smirked down at her. That wasn't right. Even in good health, it took Barry over an hour to heal from a broken bone. Starved, cold, already injured--that couldn't be right. 

"Oh, Doctor Snow," Eiling tsked. "I wasn’t timing how long it took the Flash to heal. I was timing how long you took to break."

[gravitytrips]

Chapter 4: Interrogation

Scout and Medic were awoken but the halt of the truck. They had arrived. The door flew open. Men in uniforms pointed guns at the mercenaries, ordering them out of the cargo box.

Medic knew he couldn’t risk trying to escape. They were certainly outside of the range of the respawn machine, and while he and Scout were certainly very fast, bullets were faster. So, he complied.

Scout didn’t go down so easily. The logic part of his brain was no know for being all the strong. His mind told him to run. His legs itched to go. So he did. 

Medic didn’t have time to call out for him to stop. He could only watch as the butt of a soldier’s rifle connected with the back of Scout’s skull.

Scout lost consciousness immediately. 

Medic could easily tell that the boy was concussed.

“Scout!” Medic shouted as he rushed to his side. The doctor reached for the boy’s bleeding head, but the soldiers quickly grabbed and hauled him away.

Scout regained consciousness a few hours later with a headache from Hell. He groaned and tried to roll over, but he found that he could not move. When his eyes focused, Scout realized that he was sitting up, tied to a chair. 

The door clicked open.

Scout’s mind was still hazy, his reaction times slow. His head moved towards the door.

A tall man in a suit walked in.

“Greetings, mercenary. I trust that your trip here was….comfortable.”

Scout did not say anything.

The suited man grabbed Scout by the hair and yanked his head up.

“Good. Because it’s about to get so. Much. Worse.”

These words shook Scout’s foggy mind. A weak sob shuddered through his body.

The next hour was, as Scout would later report, the worst of his life. The suited man asked him many questions about his fellow mercenaries. What were their abilities? Weaknesses? Where would they hide? What weapons did they use? One moment the man was offering Scout deals, the next he was being hit with a metal pipe. Scout was not a sellout. He stayed silent to the deals. And for once, he did not cave to pain.

Medic had been pacing in his new cell.

Back and forth.

His mind was full of thoughts, but most were focused on the Scout. That had been a nasty blow to his head. Would they even let him heal the kid? And Lord knows what they were doing to him now.

The door opened. A soldier appeared.

“We do not have enough cells to accommodate all 18 of you mercenaries, so you and a few others will have to share.”

The soldier left, and another appeared, dragging the battered body of Scout behind him. Medic was frozen for a few moments, just watching as they dragged the beaten kid in and dropped him on the floor.

As soon as the door closed, Medic was immediately at Scout’s side.

The vitals were weak, but he was breathing, and his heartbeat was there.

Four broken teeth.

Several possibly broken bones.

Cracked ribs.

Broken nose.

Too many bruises and cuts to count.

Medic took off his lab coat and folded it into a long rectangle. Then, he wrapped the length of cloth around Scout’s torso.

Medic was suddenly angry. He was a doctor! He should be able to do more than make a lousy brace for Scouts ribs!

Scout’s eyes opened for the third time that day. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Every breath he took was like getting stabbed. Every part of his body was filled with a dull ache. Scout attempted to shift, and a sharp pain hit him like a dart to the lungs. He cried out in pain.

Medic’s attention was immediately brought back to the situation at hand.

“Stop moving. You are only hurting yourself.”

Scout didn’t have to be told twice. He lay still. 

Medic stood, walking over to the door. He knocked three times, and called out. 

A soldier slid open the window covering.

Scout could hear Medic talking quietly to the soldier. Scout’s heartbeat and breaths echoed in his ears. Pain coursed through his body.

Scout closed his eyes. He listened to his heartbeat and breathing. On the verge of sleep, Scout suddenly had a thought.

“Weird,” Scout thought, “the beating’s stopped.”

@aerowolf

[ikeromantic]

Strength

Ok, so this is for @ikemenlover but the ask has been eaten in my inbox. It's a good thing I copied it to my notes, huh? ^_^ Approx. 1400 words on the ask: Hey Can I have Fanfiction of Ieyasu tokugawa with MC who has a psycho stalker and hurts her very much and ieyasu taking care of injured MC?

Ieyasu followed the maid through the halls of Azuchi and into the chatelaine’s room. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful spring day, the windows were closed tight and she lay curled up on her futon beneath a blanket. The maid gestured silently, her face twisted with worry.

The warlord shooed her out and then knelt beside the bed. “Mai?”

She stirred, but only to pull the blanket over her head. “Leave me alone.”

“I would. But the maids are worried about you. They said you didn’t eat last night or today, and that you won’t get out of bed. So get up, and I’ll go away.”

“I will. Later.” She didn’t come out of the covers.

Ieyasu frowned. This wasn’t like her at all. Mai was cheerful. Annoyingly so. And full of energy, enough that he felt tired just talking to her. She always had a smile for him and a kind word. Always. Maybe she was really sick. “Now. I have to look you over and see if there’s something wrong.”

“I’m fine.” 

“Then come out.”

“No.”

Annoyance blossomed in Ieyasu. He had a thousand things to do, and he did not have time to coddle her. His real fear was buried somewhere under that justification, his fear that something was very wrong here. With one strong pull, he tore the blankets from her grip and tossed them away from the futon. 

Mai immediately turned away from him, but she could not hide the dried blood nor the stiff way her legs moved. “Dammit, Ieyasu! I don’t want you to look at me!” 

“Mai . . .” Ieyasu felt all the air knocked out of him. He fought back a wave of panic that made the room seem smaller and darker than it was. “You’re hurt,” he rasped, and forced himself to take a breath. 

“I said I’m fine.” He could tell she was crying now. 

“Stop being an idiot and let me look at you.”

She went still, and for a moment he thought she would ignore him, but she slowly sat up. Her breath hitched as if the motion pained her. When she looked at him, he saw why she’d hidden her face. Her lips were split, swollen, and bruised. One eye was so puffy that she couldn’t open it. And she was cradling her wrist. 

Ieyasu rocked back in shock. “What - what happened?”

“I fell.” The lie was so blatant that it hurt. 

Though he wanted to know more than anything, right now it was more important to treat her injuries. He could find out how they’d happened later. He knew there was no fall that did this. “Alright. Let me . . . let me see.”

He took out his ointments and bandages, first cleaning the wounds on her face and then carefully treating them. The tear on her lips might leave a scar, he thought. 

She winced at the sharp sting of the medicine as he worked. “Will that . . . make it go away faster?”

“It will, if I reapply it for you. Twice a day for the next week, at least.” He frowned at her, wishing she trusted him enough to be honest. Ieyasu moved to her hand. Several of her fingers were broken, the wrist sprained. Her nails were torn and bloodied as if she’d been fighting something. Or someone. 

“What about my hand? I have to be able to sew.” She looked as if she might cry again. 

Ieyasu gently stroked her forearm, the only part he was sure he could touch without hurting her. “You will. I wish you’d come to me right away though. This will hurt more, now that they’ve had time to sit like this. The bones out of place.” 

It took a moment to pull them straight, and then to bind them so that they could heal. “I’ve had to do this several times. For Masamune, after a fight.” He glanced up at her face and saw fear there. 

“I just . . . I fell. On my hand.” 

“Mai. I’ve seen a lot of injuries. These aren’t the kind you get from falling.” He took her other hand and examined it. No broken bones, just some scrapes on her knuckles, and torn nails. He began to bandage them as well. 

“Ieyasu. I can’t. I can’t say anything else. Or-”

“Or what? Mai, you have to tell me.” His eyes blazed with the intensity of his feeling, though his expression changed little. Something in his chest shifted, aching in an unexpected way as she met his gaze.

Her next words were so quiet that he almost couldn’t hear them. “He’ll hurt someone else.”

“He?” An irrational rage shot through Ieyasu. Irrational because it had no direction. He still didn’t know who had done this or why. “Who?”

“I . . . I don’t know his name.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought he was nice, at first. He helped me carry my shopping bags. But then he - he -” She started to tremble as if her body would rather shake itself apart than to continue.

Ieyasu carefully pulled her into an embrace. He held onto her as if she were made of the most precious, fragile porcelain, afraid he might crack her delicate exterior. 

She clung to him, and the tears came. Great, heaving sobs that tore from her as if the act of crying itself hurt. Words came too, in that undammed flow. At first he could make no sense of them, but eventually the story came clear.

This man she’d met knew all kinds of things about her. Where she lived, who she associated with, what she ate and drank. He’d been watching her for weeks at least. And then made his move. 

“H-he told me he hated . . . he hated that I could smile,” she cried. “Th-that he would hurt mmme until . . . until . . .” 

Ieyasu gently stroked her back, letting himself express the emotions he was not ready to voice. He cared for her so much. Too much to see her like this. “Why,” he asked, when she finally quieted, “why didn’t you tell us? Me or Nobunaga? Anyone in Azuchi?”

“He said -” Mai took a long, slow breath, calming herself. “He said he would kill a servant if he even thought I told someone. I - I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. And, and now . . .” Her voice disappeared in another wave of helpless tears.

“I promise you, he is not going to hurt anyone.” Ieyasu wasn’t sure how to keep that promise, but he couldn’t let Mai sound so broken and hopeless. He would have to speak with Nobunaga. Somehow, they would keep everyone safe until this man was caught. And they would catch him. One way or another.

After taking a few minutes to get her tears back under control, she nodded. “I - I believe you.” 

“Good.” He settled her gently back into the futon. “I am going to send for some food and while you eat, you are going to tell me everything about this man. What he looks like. Where you saw him. What did he wear. Every detail.” Ieyasu’s voice was cool, calm and collected as always. But anger simmered just below the surface. Anyone who could hurt a woman like this - much less one as sweet and naive as Mai . . .

“And when you are better, I am going to teach you some things. To make sure this never happens again,” Ieyasu added. 

Mai gave an uncertain nod. “I don’t know if I can. I’m not very strong or fast.”

A remembered shame boiled in Ieyasu’s gut as he remembered his own helplessness and fear. He’d been a child then, and Mai was a grown woman, but it was the same feeling. The same problem. In this world, you had to grow hard and strong. Cruelty would not pass you by just because you were sweet. Beautiful. 

“You can. If you are strong enough to learn.”

“I. . . I think I am. With you as my teacher.” 

When her fingers curled around Ieyasu’s hand, he felt his heart lurch in his chest. A sudden, erratic pounding like a deer bounding across an open field, full of wildness. He pulled his hand back. “I’ll send for food. And get something to write on.”

This would not be easy. Catching her stalker. Training her to defend herself. But Ieyasu would not fail. He had to be strong. She needed him. And, in the echoes of his fierce heartbeat, he knew he needed her.

[thequeendomhq]

“He favours his right knee.” “He’ll favour the other one next.”

Raven hair pulled tight behind her, Astrid's fingers threaded one piece over another as the long, Iskaran braid began to take shape at the crown of Gunnhild’s head.

At sixteen she didn’t respect many. Her father never treated her like a child, he ran the cisterns, the criminal underworld of Yggdrasildal, and Gunnhild had started out as a thief. Then she was a thug. 

Astrid didn’t have Gunnhild’s respect, at least not at first. Five years ago the woman had only seen twenty-three summers, a flavour of the month, but she’d been kept around where others fell away. Sharp, observant, and keen to make a name for herself, Gunnhild understood that some people had to work with what they’d been given.

“I envy you.” “You’re welcome to take my place.” “So young. So powerful. Your father raised you well.” “My father wanted a son.” Gunnhild smiled as Astrid finished and stood to run her hand against the smooth, shaved scope at the side of her head.  “Your father wants a great many things.”

“And he usually gets them.” Gunnhild eyed her reflection in the polished steel plastered to the wet brick of the cistern. She saw a girl who’d broken so many bones that they had no choice but to heal twice as strong. A woman who’d been standing a foot above those her own age since she was only ten years old. 

“I’ve never known you to walk away from a fight.” “Who’s walking away?” Gunnhild asked as she caught Astrid's gaze in the reflection of the makeshift mirror. 

“You know what I mean.” “But you know not what you ask.” It was sharp, as was Gunnhild’s nature. A forked tongue that was too crude for flyting, one that only stilled under her father’s harsh gaze. “Winning isn’t everything.”

Astrid was silent because she did not need to speak, Gunnhild could hear her thoughts echoing within her own well enough.

“Feel your braid, Hilda.”

Thrown to the floor of the ring, Gunnhild’s body protested as she tasted iron across the tarmac of her tongue. 

“Kill the bitch!” “Rip her fucking eyes out!”

Men always craved violence, but women were not so different. Gunnhild the brute had been to most of their doors at some point. Flanked by men twice her age and half her size sent by the girl’s father to collect a debt that was owed. It was a common saying that you could not get blood from a stone, but Gunnhild had a way about her. When the lives of children or spouses were threatened, it was a marvel what they could come up with.

“Get up!” “Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild get up!” “Fight!”

The crowd hated and favoured her, their wages split, but she’d spent a year earning her reputation here. Sigurd bet against her, Gunnhild the dutiful daughter, heir of rats.

When next Gunnhild looked the crack she felt along her jaw reverberated through her frame. She did not see stars, but an explosion of lights and sounds as the full weight of her body twisted upon itself before she once more hit the ground, hard.

A bleary-eyed stare lifted her gaze through the throng of grubby ankles and torn hems. Gunnhild could hear the abuse, the laughter that reverberated from the bellies of bloated, drunk men, and through the shadows she saw a pair of violet eyes watching her. A tail flicked through the shadows, back and forth.

Gunnhild stood and turned. She avoided the next strike with deft ease, instead of flesh the man that was more meat than a person brought his fist through the open air - broken only by the tail of her braid.

He was three decades her senior, harder, stronger, and carved from the same Iskaran stone as her. Gunnhild was faster, sharper, leaner, and far smarter. Before he’d recovered from the recoil of his stumble, she’d struck him four times over his rib cage, and under her knuckles came the deft feeling of cracking and popping. 

The underground fighter turned to swing at her but Gunnhild was light on her feet, incensed by adrenaline and blood like a berserker driven mad, she subverted his swing, and then another before she followed up with one that sent blood spewing from his nostrils. 

His nose flattened clean across his face, painting him like an overgrown elephant. Red-faced and enraged, Gunnhild heard the women within the crowd cheer her name and smirked as she moved in.

Bone cracked under the weight of her fist and the crowd roared around her.

Grown men pulled out their hair, but they didn’t earn her sympathy, those who did not cheer were the ones foolish enough to bet against her.

“Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild!”

They thrust her fist into the air and Gunnhild’s smile was bright and broken. She took in the reverie, but it faltered when she met her father’s eyes. She’d cost him a fortune tonight.

Sigurd had been telling Gunnhild her worth for an age, but she never expected that her value would ever fall to disposable. Not when she’d worked so hard

“Victory again, Hilda.”

Her father’s man was equal part cruel and vicious, his henchmen just as merciless. They left her for dead, a notice to one of the local witchers that they’d found a witch in the cisterns.

Witcher. Kingsguard. First.

“Is this all that you can do?” Gunnhild paced in easy, intentional movements, a great axe hung carelessly at her side - its hilt held just a breath above the stone. “Is this all that you’re capable of?” For all the fear that the witchers imposed, it began with The First; she was not known for her kindness, kindness was easily misconstrued and when it was between witchers and the rest of the Iskarans there could be no room for error. 

She knew better than most how precarious their position was, and how quickly the winds could change. 

Gunnhild looked down at the wiry limbed child, watched as their veins pulsed and throbbed - poison protested its way toward their heart and she steeled herself once more for this moment. 

“Did you really come all this way, just to die?” Her axe lifted the thin-faced progeny and studied the clarity and the vitriol behind their eyes. “You must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.”

She stood and watched as their body stilled, listened as their heart stopped, and then Gunnhild released a breath she did not know she was holding when it started again. 

Forty years a witcher and Gunnhild had outlasted those of her graduating class by a decade now. She could feel the poison ebb at her veins but by now this discomfort was a familiar burn. Some said Gunnhild was too stubborn to die, that her life could not be spent until she’d twisted a cruel finger into every affair across the Kingdom. Her Mad High King had appointed her two decades ago, and for twenty years she’d curated the generations of witchers to come.

From the top of Witcher’s Watch, she saw the mountain descend from the sky, and felt the heat as it scorched the land with arcana that only the oldest of stories whispered about.

Beneath her the watch was evacuating, they’d need time to take their children and their secrets into Valkyrie’s Reat, time that Gunnhild would have to buy for them.

Her braid was woven at the top of her head like a crown, but as she sheathed herself in antimagic it fell to sweep the ground behind her. Gunnhild’s face was lined and scarred; she foresaw her Kingdoms fate, but her duty was to her people - and the Iskarans who spat at her name. Iskaldrik, this broken, beautiful, stubborn land of ego and violence would fall to something far worse. She saw its face as it scorched the earth and left nothing but waste. Ichorous shadows like ink whipped about her, the natural weaves of the world seemed to protest as the air itself bent around her.

She stepped onto these threads and took flight, sustained by means of rejection. Against the shadow, a stark line of Silverlight took shape as a mithril bow formed, arrows of shadow and mithril enveloped its shaft before they pierced the sky. Antimagic erupted against the mountain and an invisible field rippled around it - shielded, she fired again and again.

A handprint burned over her heart, though Gunnhild paid it no mind. 

She envisioned a white flame and passed her fears to it as they floated through her consciousness.

She flew, and she fired. 

From the mountain bastion, a ray of prismatic flames fired toward Gunnhild, engulfing her. The shadow of her ascent was blotted out as the blast struck through and erupted against the ground below, but as quickly as it had blotted out the inky shadow of her antimagic, the ray erupted from its center and split the sky apart in a blinding array of light. Her bow fell toward the ground but a great-axe had landed in her palm instead, with a two-handed swing Gunnhild roared, heaving it at the Aetherian's mountain barrier before she cracked its great mithril blade against a field of seven colours and watched as the barrier shattered.

Its defense brought to ruin, Gunnhild remained smoldering, she prepared to charge, but from thin air itself, three suddenly appeared and descended upon her: a man with hair like the sun, a woman wrapped in gilded armor, and a third with gray hair the colour of churning sea foam.

The grayed Aetherian raised a hand, smiled, and then the sky erupted once more.

I shall not fear.

THE BARRIER

A cold fog swept over the people that morning, most were awake already, charged and ready at the barrier. They knew that once the Olympians began it would only be a matter of time before the Aetherians descended to pick their bones clean. 

At the Olympians’s order, elements bore down upon the barrier to strip it away layer by layer. Frost against fire, fire against frost, air against lightning. The prismatic force was a myriad of complexities, each field of the prism needed to be taken down simultaneously and yet one at a time as well. As quickly as they could tear through, it sealed itself shut again, as they were the Olympians would not manage it on their own. 

The witchers of Iskaldrik stepped forward, and the words of their First echoed in their mind: fear is the mind-killer. 

They sheathed themselves in antimagic, transforming as they rushed the barrier and carved into it with their mithril weapons. Cloaked in ichorous shadows, the force of the barrier closed down upon them. Flames washed over them, cold sunk into their nerves, acid ate away at their skin, and poison twisted away at their insides while lightning coursed through their bodies. Visions of horror flooded their minds in a blinding array as each of them gradually began to turn to stone. 

Their King was gone, their purpose was their nation, united, and with the aid of the Olympians, they cracked open the barrier as it rippled with a flood of arcana that cascaded across the surface in an array. If the Aetherians did not know where they were previously, then they would certainly be upon them shortly. The prismatic barrier sat on the shoulders of the witchers, the force of it tearing through them little by little. 

Iskarans rushed through, and the refugees passed under the mantle of the array while Aetherians poured down from the sky. A rain of prismatic flames washed across the Lostlands and one by one the witchers holding the field either collapsed or were pulled away. The barrier closed bit by bit until the last of it resealed into place and the pursuing Aetherians were trapped within, staring through the prismatic array at the Lysarans and Iskarans standing shoulder to shoulder. 

Despite their condition, none of the witchers died. Their petrification eroded away from the barrier, their sight returned, and with time their wounds were healed.

For the Iskarans, what more could be said?

What could they say after two long months on the road? Sequestered with the blight, starved, and raided by darkspawn. They'd watched their children turn into ghouls and felt the bracing hands of the witchers holding them back as their fiendish offspring were cut down and buried.

They'd been marched through wretched storms and unbearable cold and barely held their grip in the jarring tundra of the Wastelands and the treacherous peaks of Ymir's most Northern Spine. They'd come face to face with Aetherians, and battle dragons, and still trudged through a swampish hell only to face what should have been an insurmountable challenge.

They had lost their homes, their families, and their livelihoods.

For a moment there was nothing but shock and uncertainty, then a choice of glee seemed to erupt. A chorus of an old song passed over stubborn Iskaran songs as the Queen of Haven swept open the doors and bid the nation welcome among her wolves.

A pack that would grow with those who wished to join her, and a border nation that suddenly doubled in size overnight.

Too many Iskarans were taken the night of the Nornwatch attack, but six returned, each carrying scars both seen and unseen. Over the hearts of five, a handprint had appeared. It didn’t take long for word to spread, among the elves one of the elvhen said it first: Hrimthur’s Heart. From there another adage began to follow: The Daughters of Manetheren and The Heroes of the Wastelands. 

Their triumph over the abomination, Munin, spread like wildfire. Munin became the face of the darkspawn, a name that the Iskarans could attribute to all their woes concerning the blight. A skaldic young witch limped about Haven and spread the tale of their valor; inflating some aspects and deflating others. These brave stories spread from the Iskarans, through Haven, and across Lysara like a wildfire.

A Princess missing her eye stood now among the legionnaires, abandoning status in pursuit of a greater good. Aetherians had taken Iskaldrik, but she’d gazed upon Isengrim’s Embrace and knew that if left unchecked, the blight would see to it that there would be no Iskaldrik to return to.

A Steady blade had watched the princess cut off a dragon's head and took a knee. All her life she'd been Iskaran, she'd served a King, but she swore herself to the woman who she hoped would someday return to Iskaldrik as Queen.

A Shield for a Jarl was left touched by magic; the Iskaran woman knew nothing of witchcraft but now an unknown amount of years in wisdom sat idle across her mind. Lifetimes lived through the distorted lens of an altered fate, her task became siphoning the parts of her that were true and what was better left abandoned.

A Stationary woodcutter from the Iskaran Ironwood, signatures draped in a red riding cloak, had been kissed by the moon. An amulet of Aetherite was worth enough to purchase a fleet of ships ten times over, but what it gave her was so much more. Where it had come from and what it meant remained obscured by the fog of the blight, a fog she stepped toward. A wolf among the legionnaires draped in a cloak of red over armor of black.

A Path of shadows draped in raven feathers obscured her identity now. She drifted into the peripherals and faded into the background. Darkness had laid its hand upon her, and while she’d given little and told less, most never so much as learned her name.

A Gaze had turned toward the future and the horrors that she’d been made to endure. Orphaned urchin from the grimy streets, an Iskaran weapon meant to defend her nation. When the Legion of the Dead extended its hand, she stepped toward her Joining and set her eyes upon carving out the rot that settled around her Kingdom.

A Temperance of a sixth did not carry the mark, not a daughter of Manetheren, but a scientist. One who’d fallen through the veil but had turned away from uncovering more and chose safety instead. Wounded and battered, she would piece together the past in the hope of stitching what remained of their future. One who would fail far more than she’d succeed. 

A Sword missing an arm carrying the rank of Kingsguard bore the mark of Hrimthur's Heart, engraved by the storm giant, Orum - though to what end, he could not yet say. He rallied those under his charge in the absence of The First and at the unwavering side of the Iskaran Heir; a sword to lead the witchers to their noble, Iskaran purpose - to someday hunt and kill the magi of Aetheron.

A Hero known as The Errant Knight began to spread like wildfire. From the bowels of a plagued, abandoned outpost, a slayer of blademasters and defectors from the Legion of the Dead had been cut down. He carried one of her swords, one a heron-marked blade wielded by a Crusader of the Light, his story would spread and in so would inspire others to walk the warrior’s path - not knowing the dark secret he harbored. 

A Devout legionnaire wielding the weight of the bloodied arts of an Olympian or Ceres pulled countless from the brink of death. For months she’d worked to the bone, setting limbs and minds alike. Toiling day and night among Iskarans who’d have sooner spat at a witch than accepted her aid. What she knew better than most was what she’d known from her formative years: there was only one battle that mattered, the battle between good and evil. Life and death.

An Heir who now carried the ring of his father, wielding with it a power that as of yet ran unchecked. A prince who would someday be King, a man who carried a dark secret and an even darker burden - because now his people were looking toward him for hope. He was the face that they would pin their desire to return to the nation that was taken from them, and it would be his name they would remember should he fail. 

An Oathsworn man who’d never thought to hold the mantle of leadership, but with every legionnaire above him cut down, there were few other choices. Should they make it through the barrier, then he’d stand as the Lysaran Field Officer, and march the new burgeoning Legionnaires to reclaim and rebuild Caer Glas Keep of the Silverlands. 

A Runner had finally reached his destination, a woodcutter from the Iskaran South, a boy and his dog who'd lost everything along the way to find the family he'd known but never met. A home within a home, a life within a life, his purpose still yet undefined but one who'd carved out runes and seen a Storm Giant with his own eyes, living to tell the tale.

A Hand that was the voice of The High King watched as the man he’d sworn himself to, the man he’d betrayed, and the man he’d watched return from the brink of death, slip away. A maddening uncertainty addled the warrior famed as the Raven Feeder, once Orhan’s voice when he stood in the hall of Arethusa Mordecai, it was he who spoke on behalf of the Iskaran people. 

One by one the people of Iskaldrik were vetted, the crimes in their nation were of no consequence to the Lysarans, and the supernaturals hidden among them were thoroughly searched for any connection to Aetheron, or the Blight. Within Haven, Queen Aurea gave the Iskarans everything they needed: food, lodging, and healing when necessary with the understanding that they remained by her good graces and they could continue to do so so long as her law was respected.

Overall, those who were not native to Lysara were sequestered within the lupine city for a month's time. One by one the Agents combed through every detail and made note of anyone of interest: changelings, vuldaks, cambions, devils, thieves, potential darkfriends and so much more. As was their nature, they revealed this only to their Sitters, and to those who were deemed necessary.

The prismatic field remained, no one could enter or exit, but it remained abundantly clear that

ooc info:

This concludes Troupe 1: Journey to our Queendom. Thank you all so much for coming along on this, it has meant the world to me.

The Iskarans are in Haven, in the game it'll be about a month, but IC you're welcome to have them interacting and playing outside of the city.

The Agents of Minerva uncovered the secrets of most of the Iskaran refugees, they know their history - bloody and all. These aren't witches you can easily hide things from.

EVERYONE receives DM Inspiration on their next quest for either surviving and thriving in all the horror I put them through, their campaign actions, or their in-character actions. Additionally, each of these characters in the troupe is awarded 2,000 gp to spend on whatever they wish ( Call it a gift from a charitable wing of the Vanguard of the Light ).

A reminder that the wrap-up posts are due next Friday!

Congratulations on completing the tutorial, The Game has officially begun :)

[bookwyrminspiration]

a broken bone(r) heals twice as strong

hello @thegreatlibraryfangirl, I was your gifter! (put together by the lovely @gay-otlc). I don't know you very well and I'm new to the series, so I kept it classy and simple when combining your whump/smut prompts--I hope you enjoy, because drawing this was delightfully fun and a new challenge for me (I hate back muscles now), also happy new year :)

[rosanna-writer]

a simple name, and everything has changed

Summary: we said hello and your eyes look like coming home, Rhys POV chapters Or: Rhys's slow realization that he's mated to Prythian's most chaotic human (and how much he loves her for it) Warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault Word Count: ~3k

I decided to pull together some of my notes on what's going through Rhys's head and write a few Rhys POV chapters of we said hello and your eyes look like coming home! This is his POV of chapter six: this mad, mad love makes you coming running, which is his reunion with Feyre Under the Mountain.

Read on AO3, or you can find it under the cut.

The bond shifted as Feyre woke up. She was too tired to shield, each stab of pain from her broken ribs shooting across the thread tying us together. My own hand flew to my chest. Thank the Cauldron this hadn't happened until I'd finished enough rounds in Amarantha's bedroom that she was sleeping like the dead. A small mercy, but at least it went quicker now that I knew what she liked.

Even with her head swimming, Feyre was assessing her injuries and scrambling to her feet, like a prizefighter gearing up for a second round. All tenacity, which wouldn't be infuriating if she weren't hellbent on putting herself in danger. I winnowed to her cell.

At the sight of her covered in bruises, I couldn't hold back a snarl. She shouldn't have come down here—humans were so easy to hurt. "What the hell are you doing here, Feyre?" I said.

"I wasn't going to leave you down here to rot," she said. Her voice was strong, as if she hadn't just been unsteady on her feet a few seconds ago.

There was another bolt of pain from her broken nose, and I tamped down on the instinct to summon up a scrap of magic to heal every last injury. Everything in me was screaming to just winnow her back to Velaris, consequences be damned.

"You were supposed to be safe. If nothing else, that was the one thing—"

Yet again, she dug her heels in, cutting me off. "Who did you kill, Rhys?"

"A human woman about your size," I forced myself to say. I'd killed for her, and she had a right to know, even if it made me a monster in her eyes. "I mangled her corpse so it was unrecognizable, glamoured it to smell like you, and left it for Tamlin to find. Amarantha was delighted I'd sent him a clear message to think twice about breaking the curse. I didn't want anyone to come looking for you."

At first, she said nothing. The swelling and broken bones made her expression hard to read, but if I wasn't mistaken, she was thoughtful, not horrorstruck. I didn't understand it.

"What you're telling me is that you felt strongly enough about me to kill on my behalf after one night, but you didn't think I'd come back for you?"

That wasn't the point. I wasn't the point. All of this was to keep her safe, and for some reason I couldn't fathom, she was determined to get herself killed. Despite my best efforts, I was likely going to watch my mate die in front of me, sooner rather than later. Just the thought of it had darkness leaking from me.

"You have no idea how relieved I was when you got to Ve— When you got home. All of this was worth it if you were safe. But now you're not."

"You clearly think you're worthless, so If it makes you feel better, tell yourself I'm doing this for all of Prythian instead," she snapped, blue-grey eyes flashing. I stilled. "I can't go back now, so help instead of lecturing me."

For a moment, I said nothing, just blinked in surprise. I hadn't known what to expect coming down to her cell, but not for her to be upset with me. A horrible new possibility bloomed in the back of my mind—that she'd seen Velaris and discovered that somehow I hadn't protected my people as well as I'd thought and that she rightfully considered me a failure.

"Did you think I haven't been helping you this whole time?" I said, sounding pathetic even to my own ears. "Tamlin gave her your name, not me. While those faeries were beating you, I broke into their minds and ensured they didn't leave any permanent damage. It was the best I could do without them realizing I was in their heads. There were too many of them for me to also get into yours and take away your pain. I'm…sorry it wasn't enough."

She sighed and leaned back against the wall, the fire gone from her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was small. "Thank you for all of it. I didn't— It's not that— I just…needed to know that you're in my corner. That's enough. You're enough."

I didn't understand Feyre—and odds were, I'd never get the chance to—but I was suddenly very certain that someone important had abandoned her. Maybe more than once.

One day, I'd kill whoever had done that to her.

But now, we had a task at hand, and I needed her to know I was on her side and always would be. I'd do everything I could for her, even if Under the Mountain, that wasn't much.

"May I?" I said, reaching a hand towards her face.

She nodded, and I swept my thumb along the small patch of unblemished skin on her cheek. For the first time in weeks, I was touching my mate.

The crackle of electricity along the bond told me she was thinking along the same lines.

Fifty years Under the Mountain made it a wonder to touch someone I wanted to touch. It didn't matter that it was nothing more than the pad of my thumb brushing her cheek, the feeling was intoxicating. I'd never wanted to put my hands all over someone like this.

And I could feel that she wanted it, too.

"I can't heal everything without arousing suspicion, but I won't let a crooked nose mar the most beautiful face in Prythian," I said, sounding more like the person I'd been before that bitch had trapped me here.

For a moment, Feyre looked too stunned to speak, which was ridiculous. It wasn't as if I'd been lying when I'd called her beautiful. "Are you flirting with me? Now?" she said, her voice seeming to rise several octaves.

I shrugged. "If not now, when?" She seemed to accept that answer. And the flirting had felt good—and probably kept us both somewhat sane—but I couldn't keep ignoring her obvious injuries. "I have to set it in place first. It will hurt," I added.

"Just do it. I won't scream," she said with a defiant lift of her chin.

By the Cauldron, if you dropped this woman in the middle of the Blood Rite, she'd make it to the top of Ramiel with no killing magic, just sheer stubbornness alone. I'd known plenty of human warriors, but they didn't hold a candle to Feyre. And she was my mate.

"So stoic. Are you sure I'm on the only Illyrian here?"

But she just looked at me expectantly—even a bit impatiently, if I was being honest—and I wanted to laugh. Nothing stopped her. With a bittersweet twinge of pride, I thought about how easily she must have slotted herself in with Cassian and Azriel.

True to her word, Feyre was silent as I pushed her nose back into place and reached for the scrap of magic I was still allowed, thanking the Mother that it was sufficient to heal Feyre's nose. Her grey-blue eyes just held mine through all of it.

"Thanks."

Once her pain abated, I could breathe easier. I kissed the tip of her nose and moved closer, her scent drawing me in. Or at least, the scent of the glamour hiding the bond. I drank it in anyway, resting my forehead against hers. That lavender and pear scent had haunted my dreams for years now, and it had kept me from breaking.

More clear-headed, I straightened up after a few moments. Amarantha wouldn't be asleep forever. "We need to plan while I have time with you."

"How did you manage to get down here for so long anyway?" Feyre said, immediately wincing. But at least this time, the movement in her face didn't send more pain lancing across the bond.

"I tired her out," I said, forcing a smile. Feyre still looked horrified, and I refused to burden her with this. I made a gesture to indicate it was no big deal and hoped she believed me.

Feyre started to pace. I leaned against the wall and watched her for a moment, just appreciating the view. I'd heard her describe me as feline in her thoughts often enough, but I don't think she really understood that in this cell, she was the one who moved like a caged tiger.

She didn't hesitate to get to the heart of the matter. "There's nothing stopping them from attacking me again, is there?"

"Whatever I'd have to subject you to in order to get you out of this cell might be worse," I said. It was an unpleasant truth, but there was no use in talking around it. "I may be able to spare you pain, but not humiliation."

"What are you thinking?"

"I can keep you with me if I treat you as a toy to taunt Tamlin with. Dress you up, degrade you in front of your so-called beloved, and make it clear to everyone else that I don't share."

I wished I had more to offer her, but I'd been turning this over in my mind for hours and hadn't come up with something better. I half-expected her to snap at me again, just for suggesting it. I wouldn't blame her for it.

She didn't, though, just shrugged and said, "There are worse fates."

I was glad she hadn't panicked, but it still seemed horribly insufficient. I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. "The trouble is, it may cause complications when we all get out of here."

"Complications?"

I was obvious enough to me, but maybe not to her. Since Calanmai, I'd been dreaming of what a future for us could look like when we got out of here but perhaps….perhaps she didn't want that, too. I reminded myself that she hadn't known about mating bonds until a few weeks ago. Feyre hadn't grown up thinking she could have a mate one day, and now she'd permanently accepted one without realizing what was happening.

If she didn't want anything to do with me, I understood completely. She deserved better. She deserved choices.

"A human will have enough trouble being respected as Lady of the Night Court, if…you want that," I said, hating how uncertain I sounded. I caught the look on her face that told me she'd noticed, and now wasn't the time to talk about it. I pushed ahead before she could interrupt. "Parading you like that in front of everyone here will make it worse, even after revealing it's a ruse."

Obviously frustrated, she just paced faster. It was an effort not to push past her shields and read her thoughts on the matter. She could tell me herself, no matter how curious I was.

Then abruptly she froze and said, "What about my maidenhead?"

Cold horror gripped me. The thought hadn't crossed my mind before, but I'd been foolish not to have seen it. Cauldron boil and fry me, Feyre was so young.

"Your maidenhead? Cauldron Feyre, on Calanmai, did I—"

"You didn't. And before you ask, Tamlin didn't either," she said, voice flat. That was strange—I hadn't been thinking of Tamlin at all. "But no one else needs to know that if you can ensure Tamlin and Lucien won't expose the lie. Tell everyone you intend to make an event of taking my virginity. It would give you a reason to make sure no one touches me and still leave me down here."

Brilliant. She was utterly brilliant, and I could have kissed her right then and there. Stubborn and strategic.

"Now there's an idea," I said, pressing my fingers together under my chin. The rest of the plan formed in my mind easily, the pieces coming together. "It would work, if only for a short while. They'll question why I haven't just done it if it drags on too long, but I'll take whatever time we can get. I'll ward the cell and have someone trusted bring a change of clothes and body paint for when Amarantha drags you out for housework."

Her smile could only be described as mischievous. If I wasn't mistaken, by some miracle, she was flirting back. "And of course you'll have to come down here frequently to ensure the paint is still intact."

"It would be far too important a task to delegate," I purred in that way I knew she liked.

Feyre gave me one more smile then resumed her pacing; I was beginning to suspect she never sat still. "And the riddle? Has she given it any consideration?" she said, all business again.

"Not yet, and before you ask, we've all been barred from helping you solve it or telling you the first task. I have her ear, and I'll keep pushing her to make plans that play to your strengths."

She nodded, and I shared everything I could think of that might give her some small advantage Under the Mountain. I couldn't arm her with weapons, just information. It was better than nothing. As I deposited the information in her head, I was careful not to push deeper into her mind accidentally. She deserved privacy.

We had a tentative plan in place, and I doubted Amarantha would stay asleep much longer. Swallowing my disgust, I brushed against her mental shields just briefly enough to reassure myself she was still asleep without alerting her.

I turned my attention back to Feyre quickly. "I don't have to go right this moment, but soon."

She nodded, not quite able to maintain that same stoicism from before. We were both suddenly very aware that I'd have to leave her here in this cell. The thought of it was already ripping me apart.

Feyre was impossible to leave. But if I had to force myself to do it, at least I'd leave her with something.

"Feyre, do you mind if I…Could— Could you please come here and take a seat?" I said.

She eyed me curiously but did as I said, sitting down on the pallet of hay that had been left for her. I knelt behind her, and she kept watching me over her shoulder. The confusion was still written all over her face, as if she had no idea that she was the only one in the world I'd ever willingly get on my knees for.

"That bruise towards the top of your ribs is going to make it uncomfortable to lift your arm, at least for another day or two," I said, sliding the tie off the end of her braid.

As gently as I could, I ran my fingers through her golden brown hair, smoothing out the tangles but mostly just savoring the feel of the strands against my fingers. Given the opportunity, I'd card my fingers through her hair for hours.

But we didn't have hours, so I started to braid. It had been centuries since I'd done this for anyone—Mor had been the first, when she'd insisted I learn because she didn't have any female friends in the Court of Nightmares, then my sister when she'd been a youngling, and eventually even Cassian when his hair had been longer and we'd been bored to tears in the war-camps and desperate for a laugh. And now Feyre.

"I won't be there if you wake up and vomit tonight, so consider this my way of holding your hair back for you," I said softly. I'd felt her nightmares, watched through the bond as she'd emptied her stomach into the toilet, and spent too many nights wishing I could be there for her.

It wasn't enough, but she needed to know she wasn't alone.

I tied off the end of her braid, and she turned to face me so we we sitting knee to knee "Thank you," she said. "And you have a lifeline, too, you know. Use it."

She tugged on the bond, and I nodded, unable to talk about this. It was something I couldn't bear to burden her with, not when she was looking at me so sadly. I was feeling horribly insufficient again. I'd done something for her, I realized, but maybe there was more she needed to hear me say.

"Don't think I'm not still upset with you, but while we can speak face-to-face, I should say that you were brilliant in that throne room. It was a clever bit of bargaining. And I know you were training before, but that much tenacity can't be taught. It's an innate gift."

She smiled. I memorized the sight of it because I'd made her smile. At least I was good for something.

"That's the nicest way anyone's called me stubborn," she said.

Somehow, I was smiling, too. Under the Mountain, a real smile felt like an impossibility. But Feyre had made it happen.

She stood and held her hand out to me, as if she was ready to lead me out from this place. I took it and got to my feet, desperate to follow her.

"Stay safe," she whispered, ridiculous as it was when she'd just thrown herself into the line of fire in that throne room.

"You too," I said.

I wanted to kiss her goodbye, but my eyes landed on the swelling in her lips. Even the slightest pressure against that might hurt, and I wouldn't risk causing her pain.

And besides, Feyre Archeron was the Queen of Night. A beating and a cell didn't change that, and she deserved to be treated like it. And I was still a High Lord of Prythian, even Under the Mountain. I bent at the waist and kissed the back of her hand, then winnowed away.

Before summoning Nuala and Cerridwen, I took a moment to breathe. On the other end of the bond, Feyre—brilliant, brave, unstoppable Feyre—was already thinking about makeshift weapons.

We were going to get out of here.

[biitchcakes]

A B I L I T I E S .

S U P E R H U M A N ⸺

S T R E N G T H . she's able to lift around 7 imperial tons.

S P E E D . nothing too special, but she can move faster than a peak athlete if she really books it.

S T A M I N A . able to fight at her fiercest for hours on end, her musculature doesn't fatigue as fast as a normal human's ( though she can still get occasional cramps ! )

F L E X I B I L I T Y . same goes here with the muscles, means she's extra limber, double so that of your average joe; her muscles are also twice as strong.

D U R A B I L I T Y . not invulnerable, but the gal has been hit by the Hulk and lived to tell the tale yk. not only that, but she has fallen from a few stories too high before and just walked away scraped and bruised.

A G I L I T Y &&. R E F L E X E S. she's just built different.

H E A R I N G . not only can she hear from great distances and even through steel walls themselves at times, but she's also able to hear virtually any frequency as well.

W A L L - C R A W L I N G .

She's able to do this through electrostatic attraction, capable of adhering to most surfaces, as well as carry a considerable amount of weight all the while.

R E G E N E R A T I V E H E A L I N G F A C T O R .

Due to her time in the stasis tank, Jessica developed a healing factor. Weakened over time due to various times she's lost and regained her powers, it still works well enough to get her by, but she's also able to be left with marks after fights, bones are capable of being broken.

This has also granted her E X T E N D E D L O N G E V I T Y, greatly slowing her aging while increasing her lifespan.

V E N O M B L A S T S .

Her body possess something known as bio-electricity, and she's able to fire this out from any limb ( it even sometimes makes her eyes glow and spark when she's hella pissed ). She's capable of controlling the intensity of her bursts, ranging anywhere from a tiny little tingling zap to a shock powerful enough to kill a man ⸺ as though he'd just been struck by lightning.

More on them in a post HERE !

P H E R O M O N E S .

Depending on one's sexuality, Jess is able to secrete a powerful pheromone that either elicits intense feelings of attraction, or repulsion so strong you start to hate her. Whoever she uses it on would have to potentially be attracted to her ( just anyone who is attracted to women ) for it to work the first way.

C O N T A M I N A N T I M M U N I T Y .

Her body's capable of rapidly metabolising all forms of toxins, poisons, and / or drugs ⸺ after an initial exposure, anyway. Due to not only this, but the dangerous levels of radiation present at Mt. Wundagore where she grew up, and then set to cook in stasis for decades ⸺ she's immune to radiation.

S K I L L S .

P R I V A T E I N V E S T I G A T O R . from having her own firm in California, to Madripoor and eventually New York, Jess has been an incredibly talented P.I. for many years.

S P Y . extensively trained in espionage, covert operations and stealth.

A C R O B A T . olympic-level gymnast abilities.

M A S T E R M I X E D M A R T I A L A R T I S T . having trained in both armed and unarmed combat under the Taskmaster, her tactics integrate seven different styles of martial arts.

M U L T I L I N G U A L . fluent in several languages including Spanish, French, Japanese, Russian, Portuguese, Korean, and German.

S U I T .

posting these so we can experience the discovery of her current suit with her :

slicey stabby wings !!

[myinky-cloak]

13 Books

What’s up readers?! How about a little show and tell? Answer these 13 questions, tag 13 lucky readers and if you’re feeling extra bookish add a shelfie! Let’s Go!

Not tagged by @softest-punk but I saw it on their page and decided to get involved.

1) The Last book I read:

Just finished Tana French’s “Broken Harbour”. I LOVE Tana French, particularly her Dublin Murder Squad series. I wasn’t very satisfied with the ending. It required too much suspended disbelief for me. Too many characters descending into madness at the same time very conveniently. But it was interesting to consider how many issues we cause for ourselves by attempting to be someone we think we should be.    

2) A book I recommend:

Not to be basic Tumblr bitch but Neil Gaiman’s “The Ocean at The End of The Lane”. The way he can articulate the terrible things that happen in childhood, how we deal with them, how we carry the memories, and the effect they have on us for the rest of our lives left me shaken and breathless. ”You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.” I wish I didn’t need this reminder but I do, so thank you, Neil.

Plus, I find it fascinating to see the difference between people who can intimately relate to it and those for whom it is just a story.

3) A book that I couldn’t put down:

Stephen King “The Waste Lands” The third book of The Dark Tower series. A book series that started out so promising and ended with me throwing the final book against the wall in disgust and cursing Mr. King to high heavens. For all the issues the final books in the series had “The Waste Lands” was an absolute masterpiece. I remember reading it on a train to work and nearly missing my spot because I needed to find out what happens next.   

4) A book I’ve read twice (or more):

One book?? Right. Stephen King’s “Salem’s Lot”. It absolutely terrified me when I read it as a teenager. I loved the feeling of small town America invaded by the supernatural which he writes so well. Plus, vampires!  I have a habit of re-reading it every time I go home, don’t really know why. I probably should get around to reading it in English at some point. 

Sometimes I re-read books by accident. I consume so much crime fiction that occasionally I will pick up a book from the library and happily read it with no recollection of the plot only to be told by GoodReads I’ve read it years ago.

5) A book on my TBR:

I am beginning to think this list was made by someone who isn’t a reader. One book? I guess it has to be R.F.Kuang “Babel”. I really want to read it. It's like The Secret History but in Oxford! I know I will enjoy it but I only have it on Kindle. I prefer reading long books in their physical form but the library copy is in hardback so it’s cumbersome to carry around. Thus it stays on my TBR.

First world problems of a bookworm.

6) A book I’ve put down:

Dan Brown “Angels and Demons”. I knew about his reputation when I picked it up, but I wanted something mindless to read and thought it would be fine. Reader, it wasn’t fine. Terrible, terrible writing. I couldn’t deal. Turns out I do have standards even for my trash reads.

7) A book on my wish list:

Stephanie Foo “What My Bones Know: A memoir of healing from complex trauma” I’ve read so many books on trauma and complex trauma both for my degree and for personal understanding. Surprising no one most of them are written by men. I’m very excited to read female perspective on it, plus she talks about generational trauma which is such an incredibly fascinating topic. 

8) A favorite book from childhood:

Alexander Dumas “The Three Musketeers”. I was obsessed with this book. OBSESSED. I’ve read it so many times I could recite pages of it. It introduced me to my first problematic fictional crush Athos, starting my love affair with all the sad tortured blorbos which going strong till this day. I named my dog Count de la Fere after him. I wanted to be a musketeer so bad. Still kind of do.  

9) A book you would give to a friend:

It does slightly depend on a friend but Amor Towles “A Gentleman in Moscow”. I was so blown away when I read it. I gave copies to my friends. I talked to everyone about it: friends, people on the internet, strangers in bookshops or on public transport (In London! Imagine the horror!) One of my friends refuses to read the last chapter till this day because she does not want the story to end. This is probably my proudest book gifting achievement.  

10) A book of poetry or lyrics that you own

The OG problematic bae Lord Byron Selected Works. It’s a second hand school library's copy from 1950’s full of underlinings and scribbled notes. I love seeing evidence of other people engaging with writing and thinking about words. 

Such a problematic person. Such a great poet. 

11) A nonfiction book you own:

Cindy Crab “Things That Help: Healing our lives through Feminism, Anarchism, Punk & Adventure”. I found this book in the feminist bookshop in Brighton when things weren’t going so great for me for the umptheen time and it was like pouring healing salve on my soul. It’s not a book in a traditional sense but a collection of self-published zines collected into a little tome. It destroyed my very conservative idea of what a book is and how “professional” it should look that I did not realise I held until that moment. Most importantly, it reminded me there are other ways of being in the world that a conventional way of living.    

12) What are you currently reading:

Teo van den Broeke “The Closet”. It’s a memoir of a fashion journalist who tells of growing up, coming out and figuring out himself through clothes that were important to him. It’s written in an easy, conversational style. As someone whose wardrobe consists of jeans, leggings and t-shirts I find it so interesting to peek into fashionista’s world.   

13) What are you planning on reading next?

Isabella Hammad “Enter Ghost”. It is a book set in Palestine about staging Hamlet and possibly also a queer love story. What more could you want from a book? Cannot wait to start this one!! 

[angrenwen]

"Uli told each of us, when we came, that what we needed would come to us. He had been a farmer, and he found plants growing wild that he could tame. When Albina came, she found all the herbs she needed for her work of healing, and flax plants growing by the river that she could turn into linen thread. When Franz came, he found game trails and plenty of animals he could hunt – though he never, ever, took more than they needed. My greatest skill was in spinning and weaving and knitting wool, so shortly after I came, a little herd of sheep wandered into the village by ones and twos. None were strong, each seeming as weak and ill-used as we people had been. Albina’s son was old enough then to act as a shepherd, and Nikolaus found an open area in the heart of the forest that he swore had never been there before. The sheep grazed there, and every thin and sickly beast quickly grew fat and healthy, their wool so thick that there might have been twice as many of them, when the wool was piled up after the shearing.

We had no contact with outsiders. Our village was our secret – we had all come fleeing something, and none of us wanted to be found. But whenever a new house grew, we prepared a welcome. We didn’t know what power crafted our refuge, but those who it chose to join us we accepted without question.

There were nine houses when we found the old village. Albina’s daughter Rike, in her teens now, had been hunting mushrooms and wandered further than she meant to. She came running back as pale as a ghost, crying out that there were ruins, and bones, so many bones. The younger and stronger of us went to see, leaving the little ones with Uli and Seigward and Grete.

“This isn’t like our village.” Helmut was a carpenter, driven to flight after killing a landlord. He was a big, strong man, and we believed him when he said he hadn’t meant to kill the man. A punch from those huge hands, from a gentle man unused to fighting, could easily kill by accident. Now he crouched beside the broken remains of a wall, examining it carefully. “This was built, by human hands. An ordinary village. But it’s old. It takes a long time for good wood to rot like this.”

“So the sheep didn’t come from here?” Nikolaus was young, had arrived when he was still in his teens. He had never told us what he was fleeing, but his haunted eyes told us he hadn’t forgotten. We didn’t press, but comforted him as best we could.

“No, this is an old place.”

“There are bones,” Rike insisted, clutching at Nikolaus’s arm. “Come and see.”

There were bones. Many bones. A whole village had died here. Some of the bones lay inside the ruins of the houses. Some were gathered around the well, in the center of the village. Others lay where they had fallen, scattered around the village.

“Was it plague?” Helmut turned to Albina. “Is it safe to be here?”

“I think so. I have known plague to linger for a time, when all are dead, but never for so long as this. But we shouldn’t drink from the well.” Albina knelt to examine one of the skeletons. “This is… strange.”

“It is.” Franz knelt beside her. Franz was courting Albina, in a leisurely way. In the world outside, he had been a gambler, and brought himself to ruin. Here in our village, where money and games of chance did not exist, he was freed of his compulsion and able to rebuild his life. “I’ve found a body or two, in the woods. They’re not like this. They get… untidy,” he said, glancing at Rike and choosing his words carefully. “Animals, and… so on. These are lying so perfectly in place that we can see how the person reached out towards the well. No animal or bird has ever disturbed these bones. Even plants… see, here, they grow around, but not one of them has even pushed a finger bone out of place.”

We looked, and every body was the same. A few were a little disarranged – they seemed to have been lying on a bed, and rolled a little apart when the bed collapsed under them. But all the others lay untouched. Even moss did not grow on those poor bones.

We left everything as we found it, except for a little piece of rotted wood that Helmut brought back to show the others. “It is old… very old. It has been here since long before any of us came,” he said soberly. “Even Uli. I would guess at least forty years, probably more.”

“It has been eight summers since I came, I think, or perhaps nine.” Uli’s beard was greying now, and he stroked it thoughtfully. “Yes, nine… Rike was only six when she came, is that right, Albina?”

Albina nodded. “Yes, Rike was six and Karl was three.”

I looked at the tall boy and girl – we had all gathered by our well to talk, as was our custom – and at my own Erhard, four years old now and playing with a wooden toy Helmut had made for him. The memory of the little bones we had seen, many of them huddled close to the larger bones of mothers or fathers, made my throat tighten. “What could have happened to them? Albina, do you think it was disease?”

“It could have been. Some lying in their homes, and others scattered – it would have been something that came on quickly or the ones who died in their beds would have been buried, I think.” Albina was spinning linen thread while she talked, which she said soothed her nerves. “But it might be that they were attacked. Slaughter would look that way, too. Some cowering in their homes, others trying to fight or flee.”

“Should we bury them?” I asked slowly. “Poor souls, lying there for so long… it seems to me that we owe them a burial, at least.”

Uli looked up at the large tree that hung over the well. That single tree stood over the heart of our village, so tall that it was visible even over the tops of the other trees, and guided us home if we were lost. “I think,” he said slowly, laying his hand on the tree, “that the forest must decide this. We would like to lay the dead to rest. Please give us some sort of sign, so that we may know if that is what you wish.”

The next day, when we went back to the ruined village, a great trench had opened in the ground, a grave large enough for all. It took us several days to move all the bones, carefully, gathering every bone of a skeleton together, wrapping them carefully in cloth and laying the bundle in the shared grave. The skeletons that we found together, that had clung to each other in death, we placed together in the grave too. We said what prayers we knew over them, and when the trench closed itself overnight, Rike and Albina planted flowers and herbs on the place.

I was the one who found the tree, outside the village. It was a giant of a tree, and had a great hollow inside it, large enough for a small woman to stand inside. On a small flat stone inside, a figure stood. It was made of stone, and it might have been carven, but I didn’t think so. It had something of the same crooked, organic quality as our houses, a squat and sexless form clad in what looked like leaves, its broad face expressionless.

Well, it had been expressionless. Now great streaks of slime and moss marked its cheeks like the tracks of tears, giving it a sorrowful aspect. That might have been from water dripping on it… but I didn’t think so.  This had been their god, I thought. A forest god, clothed in leaves, personified in the same grey stone that was common here. And some terrible sickness had come to this forest village, or bandits, or war, and it had been left alone. How long had it mourned, protecting its dead villagers from disturbance as the bodies rotted to bleached bones, keeping men and animals and birds and even plants from touching them?

And then it had grown a strange little house out of the ground, and guided a despairing man to it. I was certain of it, standing there and gazing at the little statue, as if it was imparting the knowledge directly into my mind in some way. It had been so alone for so long, and then it had chosen to welcome us, the lost and hopeless, into little houses clumsily grown from its own earth and stone and trees. It had given us a home, and when we had earned its trust, or when it felt ready, it had guided Rike to the village it had kept hidden for so long. It had let me find it – for we all knew by now that the forest could hide things from us, or reveal them, as it chose.

I took up the little statue, and it was warm in my hands, though the day was cool. When we returned to our village, I carried it in my arms like a child.

The ruined village is almost gone now, but the mound over the bones blooms every summer, and a stone at its base is inscribed with words. “Here lie the dead of a forgotten village, forever mourned by the forest.” A few months ago I found a little girl, ragged and half-starved, sleeping there among the flowers. She lives with me now, a sister to Erhard, and she is beginning to smile again. The forest god stands in a small shrine by the well, under the spreading shade of the great tree. The streaks of its tears have faded, and it seems to smile as it watches over us. There are twelve houses now, and goats have come to live among the sheep. Someday, perhaps, our children will seek the outside world that was so unkind to us. But for now, we live in a forest that cares for us as we care for it, and we are content. We have no intention of leaving it, and it does not let anyone find us here."

Text: The houses grew straight out of the ground. Their crooked doors had been formed by the earth itself. 

[apenitentialprayer]

Stone Age Strife

Pernicious beliefs that Neanderthals were prone to violence have persisted; however, unambiguous evidence of assaults is rare. There is quite a high rate of head injuries, but in almost all cases it is uncertain how they were inflicted. Medical research shows that blows from fighting tend to either be facial or land above the level of the ears. And since 90 percent of perpetrators will be right-handed, they're almost always on the left side [evidence has shown Neanderthals had handedness like H. sapiens]. Among various head injuries at the Sima de los Huesos, one individual stands out, having been struck twice with the same object from different angles. That's hard to explain accidentally, but the weapon could've been a hoof rather than a handaxe. The sheer size of Shanidar 1's massive injury means he was either battered by something enormous or struck many times. [...] Out of thousands of fossils, there are only two strong cases for Neanderthal-on-Neanderthal assault. One is another Shanidar adult whose chest was stabbed so deeply the wound slashed across two ribs; yet they survived. The ribs healed and, remarkably, grew around part of the weapon that remained inside. Based on the shape of the gap, this would match a lithic flake or point; nonetheless, it's just possible a terrible accident rather than intent was the cause. Perhaps during the last frantic seconds of a hunt, a spear thrust brought down not the beast but a fellow hunter. The final example, however, is really 'beyond reasonable doubt'. In the late 1960s partial remains of a Neanderthal [...] were excavated at La Roche-à-Pierrot near Saint-Cèsaire, south-west France. Probably a woman, 3D reconstruction of her skull revealed that what seemed at first to be a warped fragment edge was actually part of an appalling wound over 7cm (2.7in.) long. It was located right at the top of the skull, and in forensic terms closely resembles injuries from sharp, straight-edged objects. This mystery object struck the Saint-Cèsaire woman's head —either from in front or behind— so violently her scalp ruptured and bone beneath shattered. Yet again, however, traces of healing show that even such violent trauma was survived. [...] Moreover, comparing early H. sapiens sites is informative. The site of Mladeč, Czech Republic, produced remains of at least nine people dating around 36 ka, just a few millennia after the last known Neanderthals. [...] In addition to a broken arm, a single male skull known as Mladeč 1 bore three injuries, very likely from assault. Farther east and a few thousand years later, at Sunghir, Russia, there's even a cut-and-dried H. sapiens murder case. The throat of a richly buried adult skeleton had been violently gashed, very probably fatally. [...] On balance, we may actually come out as more violent than Neanderthals, because nowhere is there evidence they killed youngsters. That's not the case at the early H. sapiens site of Balzi Rossi, north-west Italy, where a child very probably perished after being stabbed or shot in the back. A stone tool fragment was still lodged in one vertebra, and while it's possibly some kind of horrific accident, the weight points towards social conflict. Such aggression in our own species, even between hunter-gatherers, is certainly well documented, and clearly accelerated over the past 40,000 years. In contrast, we see no such phenomenon through the hundreds of millennia Neanderthals existed.

Dr. Rebecca Wragg Sykes (Kindred: Neanderthal Life, Love, Death, and Art, pages 79-80, 80, 81-82)

[nobuverse]

Weaknesses and Abilities ( Vampire/ Vampire the Masquerade - Nobukatsu)

Species Weakness: Ghoul

Mortals that regularly consume the blood of Vampires are often referred to as 'Ghouls'. They gain the ability to stop aging, self-healing abilities, as well as a small portion of the original vampire's powers. While they are not prone to certain weaknesses of their masters universally - such as sunlight or fire - they are entirely dependent on receiving blood at least once a month from them. They are often used as servants and an easy source of blood to their masters, as they will otherwise lose all its benefits, along with their immortality ( Withdrawal is said to be a very painful process, which can often result in death. ) While the type of skills they gain is usually fairly dependent on the blood they are given, Nobukatsu has lived as a ghoul for so long that he has a developed a set of powers unique from that of Nobunaga's. ( Although he still inherits a small part of her skills ) He will never, however, come close to reaching the true power of the Kindred of old.

Clan Weakness: Brujah

Nobukatsu does inherit some of Nobunaga's class weakness as a result of her linage. As a result, he feels emotions twice as strongly as any normal human would. This can lead him to being rather irrational or impulsive.

He does not have a particularly violent temper like many of the clan - but does hold the usual distrust towards authority.

Potence ( Rank 1 )

Lethal Body: Despite his skinny frame, Nobukatsu can generate force capable of tearing skin and breaking bones in any mortal.

Celerity ( Rank 2 )

Cat's Grace: He cannot lose his balance. An outside force would have to physically knock him off his feet. Fleetness: His hand and eye coordination is excellent. He can run faster than even other vampires not trained in this skill.

Fortitude ( Rank 4 )

Unswayable Mind: Nobukatsu is particularly strong willed, leaving him resistant against any attempt at manipulation or intimidation

Toughness: He is far more resistant to damage, in addition to sharing the universal strength of a Ghoul's regeneration when it comes to healing. He can take a great amount of punishment before he is incapacitated, including the ability to mend broken limbs - the extent of how much he is able to taken being dependent on the last time he's fed from Nobunaga.

Fortify the Inner Facade: Nobukatsu is able to detect and resist any ability to read into or otherwise control his mind. The ability of other vampires ( or other supernatural beings ) to toy with his mind is greatly handicapped, and often impossible.

Draught of Endurance: Nobukatsu's own blood can serve as a vessel for his powers of fortitude and self healing - giving him the ability to aid others through drinking his blood.

Ghoul Specific Ability: Blood Empathy

As Nobukatsu shares an usually strong bond with his master, their blood allows them to remain connected at all times. He does not have any power of telepathy; but he can sense whenever she is in danger and needs of him.

[alrikhart]

Light washed the darkness from his mind, though the closer Alrik drew to it, the longer his shadow became. The warmth of the sun and reprieve washed across him for the first time in an age, and the trickle of truth punctured the reality of this concocted dreamscape. He remembered now - this mine was not his end, but rather where he'd been broken before he'd been mended into something new. Alrik's bones shattered so they could heal twice as strong.

Murderer. Killer. Murderer. Assassin. Killer. Killer. Killer. Alrik stood upon the bones of every person he'd cut down along the way. The miner with the shattered skull, those who'd tried their hand at the madman who whispered to himself over his pickaxe. The witcher, his guard, the green-blooded, and those whose coins rattled in Alrik's purse.

Tension bubbled under his skin; he was without any weapons to speak of, but cold resolve washed from the witch as he looked towards the man that Alrik had perceived to be some sort of deity. There were few lessons in magic within Isaldrik that Alrik had not learned himself, there were stories from those who traveled the seas, but the truth of the mystical world was reserved for those who hunted through it. Ignorance bred fear and fear bred a desire for simplicity; chains of command.

Alessia remained at the periphery of his mind, not forgotten, but momentarily understood that she was safe. He would know if she had died. "I have heard of the pacts between men and Gods; if you're here to collect, I am not for sale."

He was there when Iskaldrik ignored the call. A friendship destroyed, and for what? Fharzai had too many concerns to investigate at the time. Queen Damodred stated their silence spoke volumes, and as her ambassador, he had to accept her ruling. Fharzai said he would focus on his duties and turn his mind from Iskaldrik. For a time he did, but his spirit still wandered west from time to time.

The strife beyond Hrimthur's Pass was distinct from what his spirit encountered across Lysara, and though he never dove deep enough to fully understand the scope of their lives, he knew darkness and how to usher it away from even the most battered minds. Feelings of anguish, stress, and fear always cumulated into the worst nightmares. Fharzai knew there was little healing to be done from so far away, but at the very least he could destroy the shadows of the place where his spirit was called.

He wandered from mind to mind, fracturing nightmares with a single touch. Fharzai let the light into their minds and could only hope it would find its way to their hearts. It was a gift, one that would sustain itself through the rest of their sleep, and one he intended to share with as many as he could. There wasn't time to peer past the wall of terrors each mind had, his purpose was to shatter the darkness and move on. It was a feat so simple Fharzai didn't even bother to count or learn much about the individuals he helped. In fact, this one was no different to him at first.

"Hello, traveler," he responds with curiosity. Reactions to nightmares abruptly ending varied, but he hadn't experienced one like this in ... ever. The man carried such concern for this Alessia that it stayed with him even in sleep. The tension in his body and readiness to fight were apparent, drawing Fharzai's eyebrows closer together in concern. "I have no way of knowing where she is, but I can make a promise." Without pushing further into his subconscious, Fharzai had no way of knowing who she was and what she meant to the man, and frankly, this brief exchange was already more of an entanglement than intended. But he was there to do what he could, and if destroying the nightmare wasn't enough to ease the other then he'd take the extra step. "If she lives close to your heart, then I can find her. She can see the sun too because I will it. So enjoy, you have nothing to run from for now."