#ancestors armor

[halopedia]

Trivia Tuesday —Hellcats Origin

Did You Know that the Hellcat armor was designed by concept artist Kory Lynn Hubbel in conjunction with a fan as part of a charity contest? This fan, Andrew Thivyanathan, was also featured as character in-game who can be found working as a de-glasser on Meridian.

Andrew wanted Hellcat to be based on the armor worn by Ancestor warriors in Halo 4's terminals. This remains the in-universe explanation for the armor as well, with Hellcat being developed using ancient human technology collected by ONI.

[iceagebaby]

I think I can manage. As long as you've got my back, of course

for zine organised by @chunklet

[elgarabelas]

After such a long break from drawing anything i present u yet another wip :)

[heleizition]

im an itty bitty baby that caught a cold. pls tell me who dimiashe are. also im holding ur art so gently in my hands hgnnnnnn pretty pretty

oh noooooo get well soon !!!!!!!!! (i will get back to ur ask on my ocs also but im having a bad case of i have to think abt something else for a while bc im not happy with my ocs rn SEFJOFSEOJSEF)

dimiashe are dimitri & ashe from fire emblem three houses .

theres a timeskip in this game so this is dimitri before timeskip

and this is dimitri after timeskip (wet and pathetic beast)

this is ashe

his design doesnt change much after timeskip except that he's more bulky...

dimitri is the crown prince & ashe is an ex thief who ended up in the monastry in the same class as dimitri (and other cool people yay).

i don't even know what to tell u about them bc i played the game forever ago and idk what is my memory of them in canon and what is made up in my little head but they're a sort of rarepair anyway so . (as far as i know and i havent rly checked the fandom in a while) (its also hard bc im much more picky when it comes to fic that i used to be rip) THERES LITTLE CONTENT . anyway bonus point bc ashe is a short king and dimitri is huge. :)

[lovemails]

i thought i was soooo cool scoffing at the shounen manga stuff at 13

[dymeon1]

En🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿/Ru🇷🇺 Alexandra(Sasha for short) Lusignan in old armor, claims to be dragon-knight of well-known family which is now in decline.

In fact, Sasha's family wants to use said relationship to get wealth and status, so she was brought up as knight. Since childhood she interprets world around her as full of endless adventures, but as she has grown older, life plans of Sasha and family started to diverge. Sasha wants to become adventurer, but family wants her to get proper education and find her place in higher ranks. Both in childhood and adult age has unlimited imagination, distorting her perception of world(as well as the world in small scale within the setting), but she's able to differentiate reality and her fantasies. They help her coping with injustice of the world. Has bad social skills because of fantasies, but still tries to be a person with golden heart. If she feels sorry for something, she gets nervous about it Александра Лузиньян(или просто Саша) в старой броне, считает себя драконом-рыцарем из известной семьи, находящейся сейчас в упадке.

На самом деле семья Саши хочет получить статус и богатства за счет заявленного родства, и поэтому её растили как рыцаря. Она с детства видит мир вокруг себя полным бесконечных приключений, но в подростковом возрасте желания Саши и её семьи стали расходиться. Саша хочет отправиться в приключение, но семья хочет, чтобы она получила полноценное образование и вошла в высшие круг��.

Как в детстве, так и во взрослом возрасте обладает неудержимой фантазией, искажающей её восприятие мира(в силу сеттинга, ещё и сам мир в малом масштабе), однако способна различать реальность и её фантазии. Для неё это возможность бороться с несправедливостью мира.

Плохо социализируется из-за своих фантазий, но всё равно пытается быть человеком с добрым сердцем. Если чувствует себя виноватой, переживает из-за этого

[belghast]

AggroChat #458 - Muddied Waters

AggroChat #458 - Muddied Waters - This week we talk about in-game events, Star Citizen, Armored Core, Jedi Survivor, Alan Wake II, and some more Path of Exile topics.

Featuring: Ashgar, Belghast, Grace, Kodra, Tamrielo, and Thalen Hey Folks! This week we start off with a topic about in-game events, and how wildly different they can be between various games.  Specifically, this topic was inspired by the Star Citizen IAE 2953 event but we give into many different game events.  Ash gets around to playing Armored Core 6 and talks about how awful the intro to the…

[in-search-of-an-exit]

I’m so torn with the idea of Gilear having been cursed because on one hand it flies in the face of “he’s not cursed he’s just a guy” and “some people have to be normal”

But on the other hand I find it deeply amusing that in the world of spyre there is just so many concurrent dnd campaigns going on that having an ancestral curse is so normal and commonplace that the wild coincidence of the bad kids having three different unconnected connections to Ankarna can happen.

Like imagine being Gilear and finding out that the armor which created the curse that has haunted your family line for generations is owned by the guy your wife cheated on you with and your ancestor is trapped in your daughter’s classmate’s mother’s chest.

Both statements are true. He is just some guy and he’s cursed.

[asha-mage]

The costuming of each of Rand's ancestors is ALSO insane, each iteration of the cadin'sor a step forward towards the one we recognize on Janduin and the modern Aiel, and each reflecting the moment that ancestor lived in:

Charn has simple but well made work clothes that reflect his upbringing as someone form a culture that still practices agrarian farming in a sci fi utopia. It's simple brown that looks more rough and rustic standing in contrast to Miren's sleek white lab outfit, but still contains the hints of modern amenity: his over the shoulder cape, the buttons on his coat and shirt. This is someone who lives in a society where he could be wearing something more clearly modern, but deliberately choose something humble and simple.

Then you have Rhodric in a much sleeker and darker version: the rustic agrarian element has been traded for a straight lines. Everything is imminently practical, from the thick soled work boots, to the leather vest with it's own clip and zippers, to the trousers that allow for range of motion. Rhodric was living through a time of war and now apocalypse. Even his people, sworn to peace, have been altered by the realities of the world they live in, and what their role as servants to Aes Sedai, leaders in that war, demanded.

Centuries later, the cadin'sor has been entirely lost, and Jonai is in what we can recognize now as Tuatha'an style clothing, which makes sense since this is where the two cultures split. Gone are the sleek uniform lines Rhodric was wearing but the deliberate rustic vibe Charn had has not returned. Instead everything is clearly (and messily) hand made. Threads are hanging off a poncho that is clearly hard used. Everything is ill fitting- on Jonai and every one else in this scene. Adan's shirt hangs askew because it's to large while Sulwin's skirt drags in the skirt because it's to long. Their are all these efforts at bright colors and patterning- but their irregular and imperfect. The breaking is taking it's hold and exacting it's price.

Two generations later, Jonai's great grandson, Lewin and his fellows have something that that is first step towards modern Aiel cadin'sor. Everyone has adopted browns and grey, brighter color has been dramatically scaled back, and while stuff still isn't fitting great, it's fitting better. Practicality is back as the main focus, and we see sharp lines return as well. Lewin is the ancestor that most resembles Rhodric, because like with Rhodric he has had to make concessions in himself for the realities of a violent world. The veil appears for the first time, and the colors are now locked in: brown and grey, to match their desert environment.

Jumping forward centuries again to the pre-Clan Aiel, we get Mandein, a sept chief from right before the Aiel cultural identity starts to codify. He is wearing a leather cuirass over a simple linen shirt- the colors are consistent now. and everything is well fitted. The biggest difference is how his rank as a chief is conveyed: he is slathered status symbols, from his cloak, to his sea shell necklace, to his spear with special inlay- all things that demonstrate his singular importance in a society grappling with scarcity. Their is also no uniformity when we see the other sept chiefs during the meeting- everyone is styled differently, draped in different kinds of status symbols. The modern Aiel as a culture now exists, but a common cultural identity is still in the process of forming and getting locked in.

And then finally Janduin- post that cultural identity being codified for two thousand years. He and all the other Aiel warriors are uniform with a clear vision- and being influenced by aesthetic sensibilities that incorporate every step backwards through time. A curiass that seems heavily based on the vest of Rhodric and the others during the war period but with the clear underpinning of being real armor like what Mandein wore, a metal buckler strapped to his back right where the Aiel work hats used to hang during Charn's day, and of course, Lewin's veil but also his same basic silhouette and linens. The only one not represented here is Jonai- which makes sense since that is the lowest point in the Aiel's history, reduced to refugees being preyed upon without anything but their oath and each other to sustain them. Most strikingly to me is the complete absence of any status symbol- Janduin leads many many more people then Mandein but his spears are the same as his soldiers, and nothing marks him out as their leader even in the thick of combat...because such symbols are unnecessary. His right to lead, we know, is carved into his arm.

[accecakes]

Cod x Fallout NV! Mixing special interests!

Allow me to go on a tangent for a hot minute.

Exbrotherhood! Ghost: Simon has been part of the brotherhood for as long as he can remember. Having been abandoned as an infant on the steps of the Hidden Valley bunker. They took him in, becoming one of their most outstanding soldier with expertise in both weaponry and survival tactics. Simon would then be tranfered into their patrol team. Where he would collect data and become familiarized with the mojave landscape. Enough to expose himself to dangerous amounts of radiation. Which then turned him into a ghoul. He made his best attempt to keep his ghoulification hidden. However, word got around that they've been noticing a harshness in his voice and reluctant to change, shower, or eat in front of others. The overseer found out, making them take the ultimate decision of executing one of their own. In which he deemed "Putting him out of his misery." Simon completely shattered by his sentence. During his incarceration, he conjured the plan of faking his death on the day of his execution, in hopes of leaving the brotherhood and adopting the new identity he called "Ghost."

Boomer! Soap: John grew up on Nellis' air force base ever since his ancestors had left Vault 34 decades ago. Ever since Soap was introduced to heavy artillery and explosives, which is customary for residents part of the boomers. He discovered his natural talent of all things explosives, firing from long distances and calculating the necessary amount required for certain jobs. Soap volunteered to be part of their guard outpost. Anyone who would even look in the direction of the base would have been blast to kindgom come. They would receive all sorts of unwarranted visitors. A group that managed to catch his eye were the raiders who flaunted their makeshift armor. A part of Soap grew curious of their lifestyle and choice in wardrobe. After dark, he would secretly collect the scraps leftover from the explosions. Not much could have been recovered, but the pieces that did survive, he would wear and keep hidden in his bunker. Soap couldn't let the others know of his fascination. It would have been seen as fratinizing with the enemy.

[evilminji]

Okay, as I have mentioned, I'm Ace AF. And you know that plot line in kids cartoons where the alien or foreign Warrior Royalty just sort of *violently kicks down door in full armor* "We Will Marry."? I?? Always said:

"Sure!" (#OhThankFUCK!)

Like what do you mean "No"? The powerful, attractive, monarch that is very into you has travel a great distance JUST to marry you! Now you don't have to date! They seem nice! You can skip the whole "trying to find a life partner" awkwardness.

So, Sudden New Fiancee(tm) how we doing this? Blended customs? Two weddings? One in your peoples traditions, one in mine? Should we invite your family? Tell me more about yourself.

God, this solves just... SO MUCH for me? No having to make small talk. No "do they like me?" Or "am I reading the signs here right?" No failed dates! It's positively ideal! AND they announced why they were qualified, in a VERY impressive show of power and prestige, when they arrived! Good lineage AND accomplished!! Very nice.

Don't get why everyone's so upset.

Sure the "we leave at once" thing that usually follows would have to be discussed, but that's what you DO as spouses. Really guys, it's like you think I'm incapable of common sense here.

And you know who probably agrees with me? Damian Wayne.

Hell is other people, INDEED. You expect him to just... randomly go up to people and try Courting them? What do you MEAN it's "creepy" to compile portfolios on eligible individuals of worthy bloodlines? How ELSE is he supposed to know if they are worth attempting to talk too?!

There are BILLIONS of humans on this gods forsaken rock, Richard! Is he supposed to just GUESS? Gamble and hope for LUCK? This is a MARRIAGE not a "best friends club"!

Then? Danny showes up.

Gotham heard her baby talking. Heard her KING being harassed by clearly plotting Observants and power hungry ghosts MANY times his age. Connected some dots. Formed themselves a new OTP.

Danny says "Fuck It". Worst he can say is No. According to Gotham, he is neither Shy not the meek obedient sort. Is in fact, VERY stabby. So if he's not interested he'll no doubt be BRUTALLY clear about that.

So? Danny gets Fright Knight. Go get him a horse. Someone fetch Cujo some armor. He's been told the guy like weapons and animals.

TIME TO BE IMPRESSIVE.

He goes FULL Regalia. Armor of solid night sky. Cape of frost and stardust. Crown like crack in reality itself, through which the cosmos gleam and shift. He gets a horse from the far frozen. They're wooly and carnivorous. Gets THE most impressive sword he can find to wear.

It's gonna be a gift, since he doesn't need it.

He does the whole "rend the skies open" thing. Fan fair and knights. Every title he's ever been given, no matter how embarrassing he find them in reality. And announces his intentions. Declares that ONLY Damian Wayne, aka. Robin, is WORTHY to Marry Him. And (in the traditional Ghost proposal of "either accept or tell me to fuck off" /w violence) Demands Damian accept his offer of Marriage.

Right there.

IN THE WATCHTOWER.

In front of EVERYBODY. And yes, ESPECIALLY the Bats. Who are making glitching, vaguely threatening DEMONIC NOISES. Because? You... you THREATEN the BABY? Death. Ten thousand years DEATH.

People are :O ing and backing away from the visible heatwave of unadulterated FURY being put off by Batman. Danny is nano-second from every bone his ANCESTORS had being reduced to a fine paste.

Then? Damian consider him... considers the sword being thrust in his direction, still held aloft in a steady and armored hand... contemplates those titles for a second...

And goes: "Acceptable. Very well, but I have demands."

N..... Nani the FUCK? Says local Bat-Dad. No??? You are NOT GETTING MARRIED.

Try to stop him. He very obviously IS, according to Damian, the man brought him a kick ass sword and has a giant green dog. Is the king of an ENTIRE REALITY. Yes, he realizes he probably COULD do better... but frankly? This one's cute. But if it upset you so... extended engagement. There. Happy?

NO! Because the JLA Dark are LOSING THEIR SHIT. Damian is still UNDERAGE. We don't even know how OLD this being is! NO MARRIAGE.

Damian is unimpressed. A whole six months? That he's likely already LIVED thanks to various timeloops, temporal shenanigans, and reality warping bits of fuckery? You're reaching.

Just? Marriage Meet Cute.

@hdgnj @ailithnight @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe

[koipudding]

jing yuan, who loves when you’re wearing his clothes, and you return them to him. it’s so domestic and simple but he craves it. (gn reader, not a serious drabble.) reader is characterized as smaller than jy, interpret as you wish.

wc: 470

The clothes smell like you, of course. The laundry detergent you bought, your shampoo and the little scent beads you like to put in the washing machine. He doesn’t mind the musk that lingers on his old shirts after you clean the whole house, no of course not. Jing Yuan adores smelling your musk, lotion and conditioner melding together and melting into his shirt.

You go out to buy new scent beads every other month, a tiny little jar of them. Jing Yuan swears to anyone who listens that you’re doing this on purpose. Mixing your shampoo and lotion to match with the scent beads, changing the fabric softener to mess with his head (and laundry). He laments this to Fu Xuan, Qingzu, and Yanqing, who all beg you to stick to one routine before the General loses his sanity (of course, everyone groans and ignores him. they’ve had enough of his marital escapades, and they just tell him to marry you again if he’s this smitten. Thus, after a decade of marriage, Jing Yuan has rewritten his vows.) He likes these little variances in his routine, the little harmless surprise that keeps him on his toes.

(He swears it's just because you picked it out. You know it's because it reminds him that there's finally a home for him to return to.)

"I'm back, do you know what the others said during the meeting, they were planning on handing off more paperwork, but I insisted mimi and you would--" He stops in his tracks. This must be unfair. Divine Punishment? Did he anger Lan? his ancestors?

Jing Yuan sees you wearing nothing but some socks, his shorts and t-shirt (both of which hang off of your smaller frame). He runs over, pace quickening.

You yelp quietly, backing away before he pounces onto you, bearing all of his weight onto you. He can't help it, you're so cute wearing his outfit, doing laundry and making dinner.

“You smell so good.” he buries his face into your neck, inhaling the sun on your skin, lotion he bought for you, and the conditioner you've taken from his stash.

“And you smell icky.” You push him off gently, but his arms only tighten. He just got back from work, and he reeks of sweat. But you can’t ignore how your heart races whenever he gets up to these antics, and you can’t help but indulge in his whims. 

This is a regular habit. He barely removes his armor before running to you, and clings to you like a sullen child, asking about dinner and how his darling and mimi have been. You can only sigh and pat his head while he recharges in your lap (or, in Yanqing’s words: naps.) 

"thank you, for everything," He whispers into your ear, "You're doing great, sweetheart."

a/n: I was talking to a coworker abt how the only thing that brings me joy now is a 2d man (jy) and buying new scent beads/laundry scent boosters or sample perfume. then I had this idea. also that ending bit :,) sending good vibes to all with my first fic of the new yr!

[novaursa]

The Dragon and The Wolf

- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.

- Pairing: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)

- Word count: 3 681

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.

The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.

Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.

From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.

You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.

Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.

The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.

Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.

"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."

Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."

His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."

Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.

"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."

There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.

"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."

There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.

“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”

He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.

As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.

The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.

You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.

Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.

"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."

There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.

You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."

Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.

One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."

The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.

"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"

The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.

You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."

Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.

"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."

A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.

You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.

There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.

You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."

With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.

You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.

Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.

As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.

But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.

A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.

The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.

Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.

You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.

When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.

As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"

Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."

You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."

Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."

Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."

His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.

"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.

Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."

You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.

Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."

Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."

The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.

[heliza24]

Porter is absolutely trying to guide Fig into switching her paladin oath and warlock contract to the unnamed god of rage. Thank god Siobhan at least clocked the giant connection this episode. Ancestor oath? Ancestors who probably also worshipped the forgotten god? Ok sir. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.

The real answer for Fig, by the way, is not that she’s dedicated to Kristen or doubt or Cassandra or rebellion or rage. She’s dedicated to friendship, which is its own kind of contract and oath.

I think the IH finally noticed that random students having a deeply angry reaction to them is not a bit and may be mystery connected. The fact that Quincy started exhibiting rage after Fabian used Fig’s bardic also feels significant to me. I still think the curse is connected to wrath as much as pride, which also has its own hellish set of armor.

Brennan and Ally improvising as Buddy and Kristen was so good. The way that Brennan captured a kind of fundamentalist rejection of responsibility and Ally let Kristen’s anger and religious trauma shine through. It was really impressive. And I keep turning over the connection of unnamed god is associated with rage and summer- Sol is the god of the sun- Buddy lets Sol get angry for him. I don’t understand the connection yet but it’s there somehow.

Did everyone forget that learning how to plane shift into gems was literally a huge plot point of sophomore year? Where the hell is Ayda when you need her?

Lou made me laugh SO hard this episode with Fabian’s failed attempts at flirting with Mazey and his choice of poop punishment. Truly unhinged in the best way.

Baron in the preview for next week! I can’t wait.

This season is so good. I just love the way the themes are suffused through the mechanics (stress leads to rage) and the mystery and the role play. The pacing of the way clues are rolling out feels just right. Just *chefs kiss* all around.

[areyoudreaminof]

Beyond the Plains of Scythia

I was so honored and lucky to win this commission for @jassaweek! it was such a privilege to get to work with xo.hkka to create this masterpiece. She is such a kind and wonderful person and an incredible artist.

Jurian and Vassa have defeated Koschei, broken the curse, and now have the whole world ahead of them.

For my own fics, I took a lot of inspiration from the golden age of Mongolia, which you can see here in Vassa's outfit and the vast plains of Scythia. Thank you to Hikka and @jassaweek!

Please make sure to check out xo.hikka on instagram! And enjoy the little piece I wrote to go with this masterpiece!

Vassa felt the last vestiges of sunlight hit her face, relishing in the warmth and the stillness of her body. Never again would she take for granted the golden hour of sunset. With the horses far behind her, she looked out into the sea of grass. Hills rolled softly as sea waves and the fire in the sky stretched on forever. That fire reflected upon her hair, but it no longer burned her alive, no longer shredded her body. The trek from the lake and the surrounding forests took too long. Vassa felt suffocated by the trees as they crossed through mountains and gorges, past the fallen wall. But she held her head high as she led her army back across the border and into Scythia. 

Her mother had told her of the ancestors defeating the Fae armies as a child. How they raised the capital from a slave pit. Vassa’s ancestors rode wild horses to freedom on these hills, and Vassa swore she could hear the horde of nomads in the wind as she rode. She was free again, free from her curse, and the chains of the death god. She spoke her own language again, her Scythian tunic felt like armor against her chest, and Vassa felt like she could breathe again. 

Calloused fingers threaded through hers, tugging her close with the wind. 

“When you told me you called it seagrass, you really meant it,” Jurian said, “What was the word again? In Scythian.”

“Tanaap,” Vassa replied, “It’s the word for steppe, not sea.” She smiled as she watched the light dance along the angles of his face. He stood as tall as a king, but he refused that title. They had been arguing about it for days, and Jurian had convinced her army that he would only be her consort. No doubt he’d convince the entire capital and court within days of their arrival. 

He had not left her side the entire journey. He held her through her night terrors, helped her breathe when she felt like the forest would suffocate her, and he cried with her as they crossed the border. Jurian gasped the first time he saw the steppe, and Vassa could not bring herself to think of the walls he had suffered behind for so long.

“I can see why the humans settled here.” he murmured, his face softening, “Possibility without the fear of eternity. No wall could ever stand here.” 

“And no wall ever will,” Vassa promised, pulling him close. 

Jurian was quiet for a moment as the sun slunk behind the hills, and the sky began to bleed purple. Behind them, the stirrings of camp and the whinny of horses broke the silence. 

“If-” Jurian began, taking a deep breath, “Will your people accept me? After everything I’ve done?” He turned toward her then, his brown eyes filled with worry. 

“You mean, after saving me and leading my army to free me? After killing a death god and stopping Beron Vanserra and the queens?” Vassa cupped his face gently, “They will, they have. After everything you’ve done, you can come home and rest. With me.” She pulled him down, capturing his lips with a sigh. Vassa kissed her General as the sun set, feeling only his lips and his arms wrapped around her. She felt her heart flutter against her chest, but she could not feel her bones breaking with transformation, could not feel the lashing of flames on her back. Vassa only felt the future, now stretched before them like the sea of grass they stood on. 

“Take me home, my queen.”

[belghast]

AggroChat #447 - Giant Robot Souls

AggroChat #447 - Giant Robot Souls - This week we talk about Path of Exile, Guild Wars 2 Expansion, Pseudoregalia, Banished Vault, and Armored Core 6

Featuring: Ammosart, Ashgar, Belghast, Grace, Kodra, Tamrielo, and Thalen This week we start off the show with some continued Path of Exile Trials of the Ancestor league discussion.  From there we talk briefly about the new Guild Wars 2 expansion.  Tam has spent some time playing Pseudoregalia and has thoughts about that, which leads into a discussion about our impressions of game generations…