#and “THIS IS SOMETHING FAR GREATER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

[itsalwayslearning]

One thousand years. That was how long they said it had been since anyone had written about these sunken halls of igneous rock, hidden deep underground. The historian who had ventured here alone didn't expect to find anything much; just something - anything that could provide them the building blocks to help them uncover the secrets of the past. If they'd found nothing but the halls, that would have been fine. If they'd found some artefacts or records, as aged as they may be, that would be great. However, in the deepest room, walls of obsidian reflecting their torch light back as a shadow of itself, the historian found something far greater. They found a lingering soul.

A thousand years since anyone alive had been here. More, and you would have the day I first stepped foot in these halls, bound already by fate to remain for eternity. They asked me, so earnestly, what was the world like when I was alive? With eyes as innocent yet as seeking as a child, they pleaded with nothing much to offer except their limited experience. Knowledge of a way in. And out.

Over a thousand years ago, Destruction reigned. He had done so for centuries before, since the first tear in the sky appeared. We thought he would rule for centuries more until the sun faded to nothingness. Back in a time when soldiers were more plentiful than civilians, generals rode roughshod over fertile land, churning them into battlefields. Reasons for battles fell into distant memory, laid to rest with the bones who fell for a cause they once believed was righteous. Regardless, it became war for War's sake. Those who fell did not enrich the land, but were swallowed by it. Twisted and mangled, the land leeched the life from them, the very life they stole from it with blades and axes. Neither ended up more alive than the other.

Mages grasped and strangled the Radiance, the light of the world, and bent it to their will. With the excuse of "the pursuit of knowledge," they broke the light inside each other until only Dark remained. Arcane pursuit excused all manner of atrocities, rendered useless when no one was left amongst the ashes to make use of their knowledge; only onlookers who either feared Light more, or those whose curiosity would inevitably bring their own end.

Magic wielders were not the only ones overcome with Greed. As common folk starved and the idea of nothing grew closer, they scrambled and scratched and pinched and stole. Anything to avoid the idea of nothing, despite the fact they took from their fellows who would succumb to the very thing they feared. In that time, it did not matter. As long as One had something, there was no room for concern if others had nothing.

Power did not satisfy, no matter how much the people indulged. Always eating, never full. Always taking, never full. Always discovering, never learning. In a world made by Creation, Her ideals would would be her undoing.

Boundless creation was a problem that had always existed. A neverending tide approaching with more people, more problems, more suffering than a single world should take. In shame, She stepped away, leaving Destruction to right the balance, unaware it was the part of Her that was Him, the inevitable end to Creation, which set the events in motion. It was the part of Him that was Her, the little Creation he harboured, that kept the world suffering.

He had ruled for centuries. We believed he would rule for centuries more. From the state of the historian, I could tell it did not last. Hopeful. Horrified by the past, its acts so distant. There was something that gave them hope. "What about the gods?" They asked. "They couldn't have just stood by. They wouldn't."

They didn't, I reassured them. In the earliest of days, when souls were young and innocent, there were The Children. Kissed by Creation, they did not die. They did not falter in their ideals when faced with mortal dangers. That all changed with the Rise of Destruction. Facing their own corruption was Joy, Justice, Nature, and Knowledge. When He first rose into power, they tried to fight it. Joy brought Light where they could, standing by Justice's side to illuminate the righteous path. When She Who Knows fled, it all began to fall. The roots deep in the earth had already rotted, tainted by His touch. With a world harsh and unforgiving, there was no home for Joy. With a word and a curse, they were lost. As Justice lost his illumination, his targets became unclear. No colour, only black and white. There was still darkness to be culled, anything darker than the blinding light.

There were others, thought to be saviours as first. They stepped in, granted a Radiant aura people had only seen in the blessings from above. As above, so below, as the saying goes. Whether in plain sight or in the shadows, they were always here. They always would be, in one form or another.

Something to bring the young soul before me hope: there was always an end to Destruction. It was inevitable. Corruption would end or heal, fallen seas would rise again. The gods people knew became devoted to the good they craved to see. Gathered again, ideals one and the same, they turned their focus to the centre of our continent, where His throne stood tall as the day the magma spewed from the earth. Weapons drawn, Radiance gathered, the fight of generations followed.

The historian said they knew what happened next. Destruction fell but at a cost. In his fury, Justice was poised to strike the Elder God down in the name of his ideal, forgetting about his own safety. It would be his downfall. It was the sight of her Child being struck down that spurred Creation into action. A Light so bright, so strong, it drove Her counterpart deep within his own throne, smothered by the molten rock that spewed from its peak. As the heat fled with Her leaving, the dust cleared. Destruction was gone.

I had enlightened the historian. I held up my end of the deal. As they settled, trying to commit everything to memory, they relaxed. Occupied. Unaware.

I was not blessed with a kiss from Creation. I did not exude Radiance like Her Children, but I had been granted a gift. True insight into others minds, and how they turn. How they can be turned. The inevitable and the impossible were laid plain before me, the strings of fate to be pulled by me alone. The historian never asked how I came to be down here. I told them it was a sentence, in truth, but not entirely metaphorical. After all, who would They be if the Killer of Justice did not face God-made consequences? It was humorously mortal of them to seek revenge against the one who turned and corrupted them, too. It was the godly part of them that decided my fate, sealed by the seat of My Lord.

I had waited, knowing the day would come. People would forget their past. I would not. Through the centuries of servitude and the millennium of confinement, I held one thought. One faith. Things must end before they begin again. My time here must end, and I will raise Destruction, the natural balance to the world. The historian promised me a way out. I've waited a long while already, so I can wait a little longer, hidden in the back of my puppet's mind as I feel the sunlight on my face once again.

You have been imprisoned for so long that you have completely lost track of time. You are not even sure whether those who imprisoned you are still alive. When finally someone came to check on you they were surprised to find you, claiming that the dungeon has been unused for centuries.

[viperify]

Smutmas 2024 | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ʀᴏꜱɪᴇʀ ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

I Appreciate You.

Short summary: After some persuasion, Tom joins you for Christmas dinner. Only then he finds out your parents haven’t exactly treated you well and seizes the opportunity to show you what it means to be truly appreciated.

Warnings: nothing, just fluff (for now…)

A/N: I have entered a bad case of writing block halfway through this, so I cut it short. I AM SORRY. I’ll take a day or two off and write a pt 2☹️

wordcount: 1,6k

Tom and you have been friends for a while – or rather study accomplices, as he would call it. Though lately, you have grown closer. Oddly close, at least if you knew Riddle, who wasn’t one to interact with others unless it served a purpose. You have known that from the beginning, so it never really appeared to you why he would be different towards you exactly – but you weren’t going to complain about someone tutoring you after all – someone who was equally as smart as pretty.

“You forgot pearl dust.” he sighs in disappointment, not looking up as he fidgets with his quill. “Tom it’s been two hours, my head is a mess. Let’s take a break?”

His gaze flicks from his quill to your eyes and stares at you briefly before speaking up. “I don’t take breaks. If you want me to keep being generous enough to help you, you do it my way.”

That’s how it goes every single time. You don’t argue against it – you just do what he says. The desperation to become better at Potions is greater than your ego after all and you have also come to notice it is better not to talk back to him. The last time you did, he wouldn’t even speak to you for two weeks after.

Tom clears his throat and you return your focus to the present. “It’s been an unnecessarily long time since you have started staring at me. Focus on your textbook.”

“Right, right! Sorry.” Your cheeks heat up and you repeat the brewing process from the beginning.

After what feels like an eternity, he is satisfied – as much as he could be. Tom obviously is never fully satisfied, always has something to criticize that you didn’t do right, something he says you would need to work on the next time you two meet to study.

There was always going to be a next time.

As you two pack up, you see house elves working on the Christmas decorations just outside the library, putting up a pine tree and some red and golden ornaments. It’s the Thursday before winter break, and you would soon go home to spend the time with your family. They have told you to bring a friend, though all of them have declined so far. You would just go alone. Until – well, you think about Tom.

“Uh, I actually have one more question.” You start, turning to face him. He raises his eyebrows expectantly signalling you to continue. “Soooo, I have been wanting to ask you whether you wanted to join me for Christmas dinner at home. My parents have asked me to bring someone along.”

“We aren’t friends. Besides that, I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

That’s exactly the answer you assumed he’d give, but you weren’t going to give up that easily. Your family has been talking about him often lately, about the Gaunt family, purebloods just like you. All the things they say you don’t understand anyway. It’s been like that since you were born, they always favoured your older brother over you. You have stopped arguing against it.

“Come on, Tom! It’s just a dinner, one evening. I know you don’t usually leave Hogwarts for Christmas break, I just wanted to give you the opportunity to meet my parents. They have been talking about you.”

He contemplates for a moment then. He is aware that his family, at least his mother’s side, has caught people’s attention. Apparently also the Rosiers’. Rosier family, part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. It would only be to his benefit to get to know them personally. And he hated admitting it, but lately - he has found himself strangely intrigued by you. A smart girl, who wouldn’t normally need his tutoring, not if he didn’t tell you to come back every week for another lesson.

“I suppose I will think about it. If I decide for it, I will join you at the train station.”

Your lips curl into a bright smile. “Thank you, Tommy! You are the best.”

He sighs. “How often have I told you to stop calling me that?”

“Sorry, sorry! I am just super excited to introduce you. They have been pestering me with questions about your mother’s family.”

You swear you see a slight spark in his eyes at the mention of his mother, though his usual stern expression returns just a second later. “Have a good evening.” he replies and leaves you behind at the library without saying another word.

-

There has not been a single sign of Tom when you board the train. Secretly you have hoped he would come and join you, though as soon as you leave the station you find yourself at peace with the fact you’d be going home alone for the break. The scenery shifts as you look out of the window, a thick layer of snow covering the otherwise green Scottish Highlands. You see deer scavenging for any grass they can find, scraping at the frozen ground with their hooves, the nearby hares’ white winter fur blending in perfectly with the scenery.

There aren’t too many students in your wagon, meaning you get to have a compartment all for yourself. Just like normally, your eyes grow tired, voices around you turning into a blur, and you fall asleep.

It wasn’t long until someone clearing their throat, taking a seat next to you woke you again. “So, what’s for dinner?” he asks, and you turn to face him.

Your face lights up at the sight of the person in front of you. “Tom! I am so happy you decided to come along!”

“I suppose it’s a welcome opportunity to connect with another renowned family.” he replies, and you nod, though slightly disappointed. “Of course.”

The rest of the journey, both of you don’t speak much. It’s a weird energy between you, something you don’t quite recognize. You are glad – as glad as you could be, knowing your family awaits you just outside – when the train arrives at your station. Both of you get off, and your mother’s and father’s faces light up at the sight of, not you, but Tom. They greet him first, ask him how the journey has been.

It’s only when you arrive at home that they ask you to help prepare dinner while Tom’s being shown around the manor. Even at dinner they won’t let him be and you wonder whether it was a good decision to bring him home with you.

In a moment of silence, your mother first looks at you, then at him. A smile forms on her face, something you only rarely get to see and you wonder what may be behind it.

“We are so glad you have decided to join us. Our daughter really couldn’t have chosen a better boyfriend.”

Oh.

You feel your heart drop in your chest at her words. They must have misunderstood the situation. Your cheeks heat up and you see Tom’s face changing into one of confusion.

Trying to save the evening, you quickly try to explain. “No it’s- we are not-“

“I am pleased to hear I am meeting your expectations.”

Tom’s words cut you off, and for a moment you aren’t sure whether you have heard him correctly. You blink a few times and shoot him a confused look, and he smiles at you.

Smiles.

You nod quickly, lowering your gaze onto the plate in front of you as you feel your cheeks heat up. For the rest of the evening, you don’t say much, even when you all gather around the Christmas tree. They ask questions about your relationship, which only Tom answers. He sits next to you and as the night progresses, his hand wanders up your lower back, snaking around your waist. You visibly shiver at his touch but decide to play along.

As soon as everyone has excused themselves to bed, you move away a little, escaping his grip. “Tom, I am sorry, they must have completely misunderstood.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.”

“No really I-“

“Sshhh.” he whispers, his face inching closer to yours then, capturing you in a tender kiss. His hand rests on the back of your head, softly pressing you against him. You inhale deeply as you break apart, your eyes trailing up from his lips to his eyes. It’s only the candles on the Christmas tree that shine a dim light on both of your forms, yet you are able to make out the changed look on his face.

“We shouldn’t.” you murmur, shaking your head.

“I see the way you look at me in the library. And you perfectly know why I want to keep meeting you. Yet both of us are too stubborn to admit it.”

Though you hate to admit it, he’s right.

“I just didn’t think you would like someone like me.”

Tom huffs. “You never acknowledge your worth, and I suspect that is what your parents have taught you. They don’t see your potential. They diminish your achievements. Why do you let them?” he asks, and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“I have stopped caring a long while ago. You know how it is.”

Tom doesn’t reply after that, though his hand continues running up and down your back soothingly. You stay like this for a while, until he slowly turns his head, facing you.

“I will show them what it means to appreciate you.”

His voice is low and controlled as his face is a mere inch away from yours, his breath warm on your skin.

“I will show you what it means to be appreciated.”

[maxx-the-queer]

The Siege at Weisshaupt is honestly one of the best missions of any Dragon Age game, let alone Veilguard.

The stakes are already high: kill an Archdemon and then kill Ghilan'nain.

Killing an Archdemon - the big bad at the end of Origins whose very presence means apocalypse and certain sacrifice - is just the first step to killing an even greater force.

Ghilan'nain - an Ancient Elven Goddess blighted beyond recognition, whose unchecked ambition unleashed great horrors upon the world - is the real threat to face or else the Darkspawn Army will be the least of Thedas' worries.

The leader of the Grey Wardens, the only mortal force who have thus far been able to protect Thedas from utter annihilation, categorically refuses to face reality. Rook only has a ragtag team of half a dozen guys from all over to face an entire Darkspawn army with.

It's exactly as terrifying and daunting as it sounds, and neither task is something anyone treats with any amount of levity. Everyone is confident in their abilities to perform their task and get Lucanis to the right place to finish this contract, but there's no playfulness or divine certainty about their success.

Rook, whose only game plan is "get in and win by any means necessary," is then immediately confronted with the reality of their situation as absolutely everything goes wrong.

The Eluvian isn't where they thought it would be, the Grey Wardens are overwhelmed by Ghilan'nain's forces, and just to add to the sheer horror - there's a young child running through this battlefield of Darkspawn in search of her father and she will not listen to your pleas for her to get to safety.

All of that happens in the first ten minutes of the mission, mind you. This isn't even including the fact that Ghilan'nain appears as a damn spectral cloud face - which Lucanis rightfully points out is who he has to kill and "how am I supposed to kill a damn cloud?!"

Rook runs through the fortress, makes it to the East Battlements and hears the sounding of a horn begging for reinforcements, only to realise that they're the only ones coming and everything is falling apart, but they have no choice but to keep going.

Retreats are called, everywhere Rook goes is the wrong way, the forces are overwhelming beyond measure, and this battle is no longer about killing but surviving, because they're cornered like prey by horrors beyond comprehension.

When all of a sudden, the world's bravest little girl rushes in like a hero and guides them through impossible odds to somewhere with some semblance of safety. She's the only reason they haven't succumbed to death already and despite the waves upon waves of Hurlocks, Spikers, and Ogres - she finds her father.

Thanks to Mila, there's a moment of reprieve. Rook gets a chance to breathe. The Veilguard regroups, replans their approach. Distract Ghilan'nain with the dagger, trap her Archdemon in a dragon trap, and kill it to render her mortal. With time to breathe comes time to doubt, to fear.

A Warden has to die to kill the Archdemon. Davrin knows this, and is ready to go. But is Rook? What if they can't do this? What if this is how they die? Can they even spare the time to think about it?

Regardless, they fight through to the dragon trap. The Archdemon approaches as Rook all but dangles the dagger within reach. She takes the bait and sends her Archdemon forth, it seems all too easy - like putting cheese out for the mice.

The Archdemon is trapped. Davrin says his goodbyes, but the First Warden surges forward insistently. He plans to end this according to tradition. He'll die with dignity, he's not asking for your permission to do what all wardens must. He steps forward. Sword in hand, ready to end the Blight.

Ghilan'nain will not be so easily beat. She will not play by the rules they're used to, and the First Warden does not get to die a hero. She seizes him in her grasp, sucks the life out of him to empower Razikale, and changes the game once more. Her Archdemon is unlike any seen in history, and there's no time to revel in it because it's do or die and Rook cannot afford to die yet.

Every blow brings it closer to death, and therefore Ghilan'nain herself as she becomes more and more desperate. One snakelike head becomes two, becomes three, with blight everywhere - the time is at hand.

Davrin is the only one left who can kill the Archdemon, his death is inevitable, and he's ready to go as he sinks his sword in for the final blow.

Except, if there's one thing this seige should have taught them all, it was this: the rules have changed. Davrin is still standing, and he doesn't have time to think about why, because Ghilan'nain is mortal and the time to strike is now.

Rook tosses the Lyrium Dagger to Lucanis. He surges up, wings of Spite propelling him up to kill a goddess like she's any other target, because it's all that he came here to do.

And then, he misses.

With everything at stake, and everything to lose... Lucanis Dellamorte misses.

They don't have time to try again. If they stay, everyone dies. And so, the Veilguard flees through the Eluvian and back into the Lighthouse. It was a victory, but at what cost?

Nothing is how it's supposed to be. Weisshaupt is fallen. The Wardens are scattered. Razikale is dead, Ghilan'nain is mortal. And yet...

It wasn't enough.

[completeoveranalysis]

[7]

I- 

APPARENTLY THERE IS ANOTHER THING. Now Clow Reed has traded his life as a price to pay for Syaoran’s. 

WHICH IS ALL VERY WELL AND GOOD BUT MY GOD HE IS SKATING BY ON A TECHNICALITY THERE. More Cardcaptor Sakura spoilers in this post.

Like YES ok he isn’t alive but he didn’t ‘die’ in the traditional sense, and there are two half Clow Reeds walking around alive right this very moment, BUT apparently that is still enough of a price! HE, the original, the Full Clow Reed Experience, is still "current status: not alive", so that looks like it’s enough of a price. 

I suppose his magic itself is also listed as a very significant part of the exchange here too, which neatly ties back into Cardcaptor Sakura yet again. There it was Running Out and this would add another reason why that's the situation they're dealing with (beyond him being dead, which is apparently not enough); he had traded the rest of it away, for Tsubasa Syaoran, so there was none left to keep everything going. Or like, there's something about Eriol in that as well, I can't remember. Eriol inherited the REST of Clow's power, but not as much of it by far, on purpose, so I guess all the missing magic was traded away.

But EVEN SO it feels like an entire universe shift inside my mind here, where we are rewriting the entire reasoning behind Clow Reed’s death into the very fabric of Tsubasa as if it was that way all along. Like, goodness, when was Cardcaptor Sakura? When did that air for my country - the year 2000? That’s over twenty years of a fact living inside my brain before redesigning the entire truth behind it now in 2024. 

Though let’s be real part of that is my fault for reading this so slowly. But still.

I was about to move on but I just also want to go back to Yuuko and add that Yuuko is paving the way for Sakura on two fronts - or switching herself out for two different Sakuras. Her spot in Existence, in the Revived-From-The-Verge-Of-Death-and-In-Between-Reality Zone was given to Super Sakura, which was originally framed as if that was the end of Yuuko already. But now we find out that WHILE that space went to Super Sakura, Yuuko kind of still exists in the world of dreams - but now she’s formally trading her life away for our clone Sakura’s life, so she can continue living once again. 

Oh and the romance of it all. Yuuko and Clow Reed being a tragic couple who couldn’t have the life together that they had in mind, passing their spots in life on to another doomed couple who now CAN have a life together. Yuuko and Clow being hyper powerful beings, willingly trading places with broken clones who didn’t naturally exist in the first place, so that they can be together and fix everything else in their stead. 

Yuuko and Clow (mostly just Clow) breaking the universe, and then passing the torch onto the couple who will fix it instead. 

And add in how involved they were in the process too! Knowing that they would trade their lives away to help these two, and then doing everything they could to help them actually get here in the end. Clow giving up his entire life to go and raise Sakura as long as he could, and Yuuko watching over and helping Syaoran and Sakura on their journey as much as possible, let alone - OH. WAIT. Clow Reed in the Clow Kingdom raising Sakura and Syaoran, while Yuuko helps raise Watanuki, yet another accidental clone person who only came into being because of mistakes they made.

The symmetry of that is wonderful. 

And even like, the framing of Yuuko’s position as the audience understands it. At the start of the story it seems like Yuuko is mostly neutral, if sympathetic, and over time it seems like she’s working towards a greater goal of saving the universe and so it suits her to watch over them. But SURPRISE she and Clow have been deeply involved in raising and supporting these two (or three) from the very beginning of their lives, working heavily behind the scenes to make deals and push people in directions that would eventually spiral around and help them get here - so that Clow and Yuuko could trade their lives away to give Sakura and Syaoran both another chance at life. 

Like OH the secret parents who stepped up and guided these kids when they had no-one else. These kids who weren’t technically born and weren’t originally meant to exist, and Clow and Yuuko stepping in and becoming the parental figures who give up absolutely everything to make sure it turns out ok for them in the end. I just really enjoy that.

[mooishbeam]

ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎『♡』 Ode to Rue

♡ featuring: pianist!sunday x reader

♡ synopsis: In the dazzling Penacony Grand Theatre, a fallen angel known for his haunting performances captivates you with his music.

♡ wc: 3.3k+

♡ tags: slight angst but mostly fluff, sunday pianist, canon-divergent

notes: I highly recommend you listen to La Solitude during the piano scene. It was my inspiration for the fanfic. its been a while so im a little rusty, pls forgive me :( thank you all! art by snifflesmp4 on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

song link (Spotify): La Solitude

The Penacony Grand Theatre hangs like a thoughtless prayer in the deep expanse of dark and starlight. Gossamer hangs from the bronze halo, tethering the theatre to the sparkling planet it threatens to ascend from. It is just as outstanding, however, covered in stained glass and benevolent sculptures, with a pair of angel wings that rise above the domed roof.  

Seeing it up close, you can barely pick up your slacked jaw. Nothing like you’ve seen before, an attraction that stands as the centerpiece of Golden Hour and commands the attention of all who encounter it. You’re reluctant to tear your eyes from the telescope, enraptured by its elegance. Still, residents walk by as though it were the dim alleyways of the Fading Echoes. The muffled voice behind you utters something you don’t quite register. Dainty layers of your cream petticoat brush against the unusually slick concrete, and you push your knees together as you squat to match the angle of the telescope. You can hardly contain your excitement.  

Because today would be the day you witness the renowned pianist in action.  

The rumors carried itself back to Belobog. You seldom cared for gossip, or the dwindling appeal to venture away from your warm manor into the bitter cold. But even the maids began to wonder.  

The talebearer tended to the kitchen as she spoke. A nameless angel, who must have descended from heaven, had been driven to madness by a catastrophe so devastating he could not prevail against it. Caught in the midst of a dying planet, he turned to music to expel the torture wracking his shattered mind. She claimed to have seen it, the room of the pianist. Walls etched with forgone prayer, a rushed and messy verbal overflow. There were said to be crosses methodically placed around those prayers, with sickening, glowering eyes that seemed to judge your every waking move. Music sheets haphazardly scattered with compositions he’d never finish, scores that could never be.  

Penacony, the planet of festivities, home to the Charmony festival. It made your eyes roll to indulge in such frivolous matters. On either end, you had no one to accompany you, and so you never attended. But the prospect of witnessing his madness in action piqued your interest, and ever since you’d been calling the theatre, hopeful for a reservation.  

The angel was unpredictable, though, sometimes choosing to cancel at the minute of his expected arrival. He was not without criticism, some enraged at his pure disregard towards the audience. After each show, he disappeared behind the curtain and left without a trace. Others said he appeared to loathe the very thought of being onstage. It made you all the more interested. To have such varying perceptions meant he had a gift far greater. To hear his genius was the highest privilege.  

A gentle chorus whispers from the hypnotic depths of the arena. “My lady.” You turn your head to face the voice, yet your eyes remain glued to the lens, as if the music will cease to exist should you avert your gaze.  

“The show will start soon.”  

You’ve taken your plush seat front row, beyond the crimson portiere and into the theatre. The seats are occupied by impatient, rather loud elite. Pocket watches and monocles, ridiculous top hats that earned a soft snort under your breath. Their attire wasn’t made for a place such as this, but you couldn’t say much yourself. It is more akin to a house of prayer than an outlet simply for singing. Decorative columns with lavish scripture rose to the ceiling where they came together at the corners to form the shape of a sun. Your eyes trail up, to the embossed medallion art of flying doves chasing the never-ending cycle of day. In the middle, an opulent chandelier dangles thousands of twinkling diamonds and dimly lit wax candles.  

“Marvelous” you gasp, panning to the stage before you. Rows of long, bronze organ pipes line the back wall, framing the massive stage. A divine glow peaks from behind the curtain, spearing slivers of warm, glimmering light.  

This space is incomparable to any opera house you’ve attended in Belobog. You feel unworthy to speak above a whisper. It’s almost sacred, crawling with benevolent structures and hymns you couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to decipher—meant to find you instead.  

You’re restless with anticipation bouncing around in your churning stomach. Its halls play a generic tune as more are seated. A million questions run through your mind. Who was he? Were the rumors true? What horrors did he see? Who was his teacher? You weren’t afforded the smallest of glimpses. Even the gaudy posters promoting the show didn’t show his face, choosing to represent him with a pair of angel wings. He must’ve declined a photo shoot. A pianist…who hated the piano? Or maybe it was the lack of tact, or genuine appreciation for the music. The pictures that received more attention for the scarcity of the show than for the soul of the symphony.  

You’re fiddling with your gown when suddenly the lights fizzle out, leaving only the meager glow of the chandelier above. Hitches, then nothing. A silent audience in the wake of a brighter stage. It reflects in your eyes, an unshakable longing reaching just behind the curtain. The same pit you felt, at the foot of a frosted cathedral on your last shred of hope; the deadly hands of a loving Aeon.  

The tableau, adorned in gold trimmings and tassels, begins to waver, and your breath tugs like molten iron in your chest. It begins to scale upwards into the cornice board, offering sight to the set.  

A simple, black piano with a stool to match takes center stage. You hear an audible sigh. A snicker. You wait, glossy eyed, infatuated by the sight. It’s truly barebones, no ball peonies or accompanying ensemble. Everything he needs awaits him. Everything he has exists on that stage.  

The spotlight casts onto the piano, spurring dust particles.  

The right curtain moves slightly. If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t have noticed the hooded angel come into view. It’s eerily quiet as the audience is hushed quickly in his presence. A few vague murmurs here and there, but nothing more. Hardly the footsteps of the angel, stepping in airy, elegant movements across the stage. Had you closed your eyes, it’d be lost to the background.  

He’s burdened by a navy hood, draped across the expanse of his laden shoulders. You can’t remove your eyes from the hovering blessing bobbing behind his head between movements. Black gloves embellished with gold and silver rings arranged so they wouldn’t clink. He walked with professionalism unexpected of just a pianist. The cloak seldom flared by his stride, though when it did, you caught the dark patterns of his boots, a garter taught on his thigh. The faintest strands of grayish blue peak from under the hood, soft and silky.  

One foot after the other, silent and orderly—comfortable with being invisible.  

As expected, he doesn’t regard the crowd. He smooths his cloak under his thighs and takes his seat in front of the piano. The minute details surrounding him worked with intent. A calculated click to his side releases a book with intricate detail, similar to his halo, with an eye on the back cover. A songbook? Notes? You can’t tell. However, the moment he places it on the rack, it fans open on its own. The front cover slams against the piano, and you’re stunned to see the pages flicking wildly, a mild radiance on the edges. The sound of paper fills the air. Then it stops.  

He brings his slender fingers to his hood, and in one fell swoop, the fabric slips away.  

The empyrean feathers of once cowered wings unfurl at the taste of newfound space. Broad, downy wings extend like a stretch, as if preparing to fly. The canary-colored spotlight enacts a seraphic air onto the pianist. Half of his face is lost to obscurity, but you still study his perfect ivory skin, drawn to subtle pinkish hues near his eyes and downturned lips. His hair spills over his shoulders, meeting with fluffy wings now comfortable on his sides. He wore an expression both content and lost, a soul far removed from the scene before it.  

Suchlike a painting you think. Whether it be the growing swell in your heart or unforeseen heat, his presence itself was breathtaking. You’ve seen art reminiscent of this in the Everwinter City Museum, oil paintings of angels in effortless beauty. Divinity just out of reach.  

His long lashes flutter for a second, and you watch his chest heave deep before expelling an extended breath. You hold yours.  

His eyes close. The audience goes deafeningly silent.  

He starts. Near machine with zero hesitation, a graceful melody waltzes to the keys summoned by lissome hands. Sweet, airy in tune as it graces the walls of the opera house.  

It evokes a childlike dream. Carefree summers, a vacation with no winter, planets with no struggle. You marvel the way his wrists roll over the keys. Refined, fluid, but commanding. Deserving of honor. His expression never changes, but his eyes—stirring with vibrance, like he was coaxing notes from the harmony itself. Captured by song, weaving a tapestry of forgotten memories.  

Still, there’s a harsh end to them, a teetering peak that keeps you on edge. Pads confidently moving under the swift turns of the music. The piano seems to come alive on its own, unbroken as the emotion pours from his veins to the object. Each high point, a reminder of a dream's eventual death, a memory lost to the throes of time.  

Suddenly, the deep clashing of the piano raises the hairs on your skin. He slams with graceful power, a note that should be out of place. It sends shivers up your spine.  

Your mind is heavy. You feel it in every sense of the melody. In the crooks of your walls, buried in the cracks where no one could see it but you. You saw him, filling your world and becoming of nothing. The knot that crumpled in your throat at the gravestones of your family, or the corners of the home you became accustomed to as you isolated yourself from the world. The tears you rarely shed for the sake of your family name, only allowing them to fall when a blizzard hammered against the windows loud enough to subdue your wails. Desperate for the kind words of anyone who’d spare a glance. You’ve tasted it countless times. A pitiful, bitter drink.  

Inexplainable, profound sorrow.  

He’s faced it, too. His wings appear stiff, flared and fire-scorn. Taut with the tension in his fingers. Alone and forgotten, dancing across the piano with such aloofness, shouldering the weight of the notes. A pause in between, and you shifted to the edge of your seat unconsciously. His fingers were methodical, searching for an answer he hadn’t fully discovered, finding belonging on the notes. This was his signature way of scribbling. There was no fated wall or room of eyes, nor the frantic manifestos of a madman. The piano was his journal—seeking meaning in the music.  

You aren’t sure what draws you to him. If it’s the chaos of his song, the unnerving focus, breathing in the melody for a second time. Wrapping himself in a sound of pure calamity, and somehow looking beatific and at peace, as if whatever he’d given up on was already somewhere underwater, out of reach and destined to drown.  

You understood now, why the audience was the most insignificant part of the performance. He played for no one. It was a a prayer to the choir, the last crumbling wish of a fallen angel.  

The crescendos landed harsh, unfinished, dying brutally in your ears. Tortured overtones ran soft, unexpected and fleeting before another crash. War across the keys, fighting a battle he wouldn’t win. On the piano there was bloodshed. And in this moment, he shares that war with you. Your eyes swelled before you could notice, splitting goosebumps across your skin.  

He throws his head back, letting his wings droop as he plays. Trailing his digits from the highest octave to the lowest, slowly closing his eyes once again. His posture reads of a Greek tragedy—falling from the sky, allowing fate to capture him or embrace the awaiting darkness. Was there anything left for an angel forsaken by an Aeon? Who could the fallen turn to for comfort?  

There’s a pit in your stomach.  

He throws both hands on the keys for the final crest, a booming sound sending vibrations through the floor. A dreams end.  

Then it’s quiet.  

His head returns to its rightful place, hanging low past his shoulders. Poised hands slump away from the piano, and the book closes to mimic.  

Hood coming up over his head in the aftermath, and he slumped away from the piano.  

He takes the book and tucks it back on his side. He stands, and the audience erupts into cheers. He flinches at the sudden noise. Pulling his hood over his head, he uses his fluffy wings to shield his face. Whistling, praises, and pleads for an encore can be heard from the whole interior. You barely hear it, muffled to the chatter around you.  

Because you’re sobbing. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision, resemblant to a small child with a scraped knee. In this noise, no one can hear you cry. It didn’t matter anymore, reputation or not. You needed to cry.  

But you swear you see it; a single tear trailing down his cheek, below his pouty lips, dropping with a shimmer. It couldn’t be a trick of the light. You find yourself staring past his wings. His eyes were Baltic amber, spiced honey with warm hints of midnight brilliance. Your heart skipped a beat.  

He steps away from the spotlight and exits just as fast, to the tragic dismay of an applauding crowd. 

He was but a stranger. Gone as he was, gone as you knew he’d be, your mind rejected it. A ridiculous impulse tests your restless legs, pushing you up out of your seat.  

You needed to know something, anything about him.  

His name.  

You’re on your feet quick, barely picking up your dress as you skip steps towards the hallway. The gem encrusted hair pin securing your updo slips to the floor when you whip your head towards the back exit. You don’t bother to go back for it. A hairpin was replaceable; this is a once in a lifetime opening.  

Pushing the exit, a fit of cold graces your shoulders. You forgot your coat in the theatre. It may be cold, but it’s not Belobog. You keep running around the end of the building, skirts picking up in the wind, a cool breeze biting your tear-stained cheeks. You stop in your tracks.  

A small boy with a head full of hair looks up at the man with a halo. You watch as the black gloves you studied carefully hand a stack of coins to the child. He flashes a gapped tooth smile, and the hand interlaces through his hair, ruffling it.  

You approach steadily. You’re clammy now. Struck with the chance, you can't formulate a string of words to save your life. The conversation shifts into focus.  

“Run along, now. It’s getting late” he says. That glacé, somber cadence stops you in your tracks. A voice befitting for an angel. The sentences elude you. You’d forgotten what you came to say. Aeon's help you.  

The child skips away, and you’re trained on him until your eyes snap back to the man now observing you. His eyes. On you.  

“Oh…um, sorry…” You can’t maintain the gaze imparted onto you. It’s much more intense without hundreds of eyes doing the same, even with his face somewhat obscured.  

“My apologies miss, was I too loud?” He asks with a courteous hand to his heart, tender voice sticking to your brain like thick pools of honey.  

You shake your head wildly “Ah, no! I’m sorry,” you hesitate, unsure if you should divulge your recent attendance. Granted, you understood how weird it may come across to search for the performer post-show, but it was too late for you to retreat. “I was just at your performance.”  

“Ah…” He pans to the floor, lashes fluttering underneath the street lamp. This version of the pianist is unsure, a confidence reserved for the stage. Then he regards you for a second, unmoving. “Was it enjoyable?”  

Enjoyable…that wasn’t it. It was suffering, a beautiful torture for those who’ve survived hell. You have to physically bite back to words, and yet they pour out of you.  

“It was lonely” you blurt, rubbing your arm to soothe your awkward disposition.  

His eyes widen briefly. You watch his flushed lips part and close. He felt human again. He, too, could be lost for words. When he doesn’t speak, you continue.  

“I am also…”  

“…going through things.” His earrings dangle in the wind, and you feel like a fool right about now for wasting his time. You manage to look everywhere but his face. Two studs on his left wing and lustrous curls meeting around his neck near a thorny choker. Such beauty should be forbidden.  

“The only way to go is forward. I hope you will do the same” he lilts. You gaze into his eyes.  

“Have you uncovered…what you’re searching for?”  

He pauses a long while, wind picking up in the space between you. You aren’t sure if he recognizes that he’s touching his book cover. “Not yet. There is a long journey ahead of me, lined with plenty more mistakes. But I’ve been given a second chance. I will do what I’ve set out to do.”  

It’s an answer enough for you. You nod, leading into a half-curtsy. He interrupts, “May I ask you…is there something you found within my music?”  

You aren’t sure. It could’ve been nothing at all. Or maybe the winter snow was worth treading, if it met unlatching from those hopeless shackles. “I don’t know. I think I’d have to find it within myself first.”  

His eyes crinkle and his lips curve into a cloying smile. The gentle undertones in his face burn rosy tonight, resembling a blooming carnation. “That’s a great answer.”  

Heat creeps upon your ears, and you look away, a slight crack in your throat. “I’m assuming you won’t play again, then? Since, your journey…”  

“Yes. That is correct.”  

Sad but not surprised, you’re grateful for this opportunity alone. “Alright, then”, you clasp your hands together, “May the Aeon’s guide you to safe planets and safer skies.”  

“You, as well” he smiles. You toy with your fingers, ashamed to ask for extra beyond this.  

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind?”  

“Sunday.” An odd name. So odd you believe it to be a lie. Nevertheless, you accept it.  

“Okay. Goodbye, Sunday.” You return a grin before turning on your heels.  

“Goodbye.”  

You’re walking back, but footsteps are coming towards you. When you look, a royal blue tweed restricts your eyesight. It binds you, heavy and warm to stave off the chill. Sunday puts the cloak over your body. He’s inches away from you, securing the tie near your neck. The light peaks behind his halo, streaks of gold aside the night kissing his delicate features. You feel his breath on your frosted nose, hot despite the air. He smells of salt and sugary pudding. Thankfully, the weather prevents your blush from being too obvious.  

“And do be careful tonight. It’s rather cold…” his voice trails off, waiting for you to catch the hint.  

“Oh! I-it’s (Y/N).”  

“It’s rather cold, (Y/N)” he puts an emphasis on your name. Each syllable, smooth and undeniably gratifying from his lips. He pulls the hood over, a finger ghosting against your cheek as he retreats. “Sweet dreams.”  

He leaves this time, never looking back.  

The ill-fitted garment about your shoulders. Heavy on your heart like a stone. You breathe into it. Salt and toffee pudding. Something blooms in its barren embrace.  

Pleasant, snug and all encompassing. Yet bittersweet. A final farewell to no destination.  

A hug. A hug is what it was.

[katyspersonal]

There are plenty of evidences for many of these 🤔 Messmer IS a Demigod, not Demigod-adjascent like Godfrey or GEQ whatever, so it's fair to assume he was born after her ascension! And Radagon is a byproduct of her ascension! He also has red hair..

At the same time, Rykard is blond whereas being specifically Radagon's son, so Messmer could have had red locks without Radagon participating... Marika's alters genes are just odd! Meanwhile, Messmer's soldiers use the same stomp and roar attacks associated with Godfrey and he has Knights using Crucible Aspects which, again, links to Godfrey's Knights. A talisman depicting Godfrey is also found in Shadow's Keep! Messmer was certainly a product of the time before Radagon became relevant the way he is later 🤔 However, we're discussing biological parenting, Godfrey could've still been just a father figure But what Messmer and Godfrey REALLY share in common is having no ass gfgfhfjj

But the source of red locks to begin with is ALSO the curse of Fire Giants, even with Radagon, and Messmer is connected to it on multiple points! His flames curse his Fire Knights with red hair (with only Queelign being spared... so far) same as how Fire Monks and Arghanthy got red locks from Flame of Ruin, his Furnace Golems feature visage of Fell God by version of Hornsent and function on burnt sacrifices similarly to how Fire Giant summons Fell God by burning part of his body, and like Fell God Messmer is deformed and one-eyed!

The thing about Messmer though is:

If he was born with a single cursed eye that prevented Grace residing in him, that might have made him vulnerable for the powers that exist outside of Golden Light associated with Greater Will! Greater Will has a lightness Abyss at the center of itself (check Ymir's hat), and Base Serpent comes from lightless Abyss too! Messmer could've been born without the one thing preventing Base Serpent from manifesting. @sermessmer also has an interpretation that Greater Will itself had Marika birth Messmer as Base Serpent because it craved to remove the "bad" aspects of existence that contradict life and light and hoped Marika as new God could figure how to get rid of Base Serpent and I think this works too!

Then there is also the fact that Empyreans have genderbents installed (or have androgynous bodies like Malenia or Ranni), so there could've been gay sex with Gloam-Eyed Queen that did result in birth! Melina is somehow connected with GEQ's Destined Death and said to bear visions of fire like Messmer, and GEQ is connected with snakes as evidenced by Godskin Nobles having snake tail and Apostles having weapon with serpentine motif! Snake was also viewed as traitor of the Erdtree since Godfrey's Duelists, so, after war on Fire Giants but before Messmer was banished, so maybe the Snake traitor refers to Marika's conflict with GEQ?

And there is also an option that Messmer was not born Demigod but promoted to such by virtue of relation? The "Rune of Life" that is now Marika's has been the part of Elden Ring ever since Ancient Dragons, LONG before her ascension, she simply made it her symbol when she became a God! Maybe something fell on Messmer too by that effect, only, it was the power that opposes Grace's for some reason?

(I personally feel like it is a combination of things: Marika gets cursed during war with Fire Giants but it transmits to Radagon as manifestation of her order, that results in Messmer being born cursed but Godfrey was his bio father and assumed he got cucked at first gfhgj, being born without Grace results in Base Serpent torturing him)

[cosmosrebellion]

Seeing the contrast of Optimus as the inspiring military leader and how he is when something far greater than the war threatens the universe is so good! Maybe it's not the best choice, but it's clearly the culmination of all the stress and trauma he endured so far. He wants the fighting to end so they can deal with something greater.

Also, Scorponok is feeling himself like never before in that splash page.

[birbliophile]

I think there’s definitely a possibility that Envy being a bad fighter wasn’t super conscious on Arakawa’s part and falls a bit into the “shapeshifting is kind of OP but authors have a hard time making the most of it” phenomena, but thinking about it it does seem to line up a bit with Envy’s established character.

Envy’s primary modus operandi is deception, turning into humans in order to manipulate emotions and revel in the suffering they can cause through that specific technique. Envy likes playing with their food, always showing a satisfied smirk when their victims realize they’ve been duped. They consider themselves the perfect spy—and they are! It’s something they’re good at and they clearly enjoy it, so part of it is likely that they just don’t think of their abilities as a weapon, more a tool for espionage. I mean heck, they stab the armor brothers with a sword at Lab 5!! A SWORD!! Not shapeshifting a blade, a regular SWORD!! Envy has more than enough mass to just physically CRUSH things into submission! But they don’t seem to think about it.

So it seems for Envy, their shifting forms are only for sneaking around. They turn into a horse not for the kick strength, but to blend in with the forest. They designate ONLY their Leviathan form as the big guns, and only bring it out when they can’t use deception to get out of a situation.

It could also be that Envy’s mass does prevent them from being as effective a fighter. I think that’s the reason they don’t morph birds—they’re too heavy to fly!! Even if they’re in humanoid form, they still need a lot of strength just to move, so maybe that makes them far less coordinated and precise in their movements as Lust. In Leviathan form they make up for that with greater surface area, which means instead of just punching (requiring that they can HIT the target) they can just bulldoze through enemies. But Leviathan Envy definitely isn’t as good a fighter or tactical thinker than their siblings, and seems to not be as durable as Sloth.

On a more philosophical level, Envy is the personification of wanting what others have. Perhaps them shapeshifting humans to manipulate loved ones most often is also an indication that they secretly desire a love that they’ll never have, or acceptance as a person. Or maybe as the personification of jealousy, Envy is blinded to the true potential of their own unique gifts and powers and fixates on what others can do that they can’t, resenting them for it despite being incredibly powerful in their own right.

Ok so like...I was thinking about where Lust would fall on a power scale of all the characters and it occurred to me that Envy is...not good at fighting.

Envy relies primarily on trickery and shapeshifting, but they're really outclassed by some of the better fighters (Lan Fan for instance) and also seems to underutilize the potential of shapeshifting? "Oh noes I'm losing better go leviathan mode" but like

morph a bear. lion. heck they've morphed a horse in the manga and I know that could do some serious damage by itself! And Envy's used shapeshifting in battle before - they turned their arm into a snake to choke Ling for instance.

Anyway has anyone imagined Mustang vs Bear Envy because now I can't get it out of my head

[stump-salsa]

This one image of papyrus is really interesting to Me.

[skyshipper]

HAPPY STAR WARS DAY! MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU

[impossible-rat-babies]

vierapril day 26--weapon

"and failing that, i'll have my trusty warrior of light box the ears of all concerned."

[group-dynamic]

Bartender: Hey, man, how's it going?

Me: Yeah, you know, it's good. Just thinking about how Gil Galad's kingship was haunted by Elrond. Like his first great failure after being crowned when he'd barely come of age was showing up too late to stop the destruction of Sirion. How he probably felt a deep personal responsibility to find Elwing's missing boys at least but couldn't even do that. Like, I know he probably got redirected by Cirdan toward all those refugees and stuff, but he probably really wanted a win, especially because he was kinda orphaned by then himself and knew how cruel fate was to the sons of greater destiny. Like all his family who'd been king before him died, like, horrifically? And then when Elrond returns all fine and he comes to Lindon and he's chosen the fate of the elves, Gil Galad's physically haunted by him again. See, but this time he chooses to be haunted by Elrond. Because I think he wants to fix what he sees as his first great failure by restoring a bright future for this kid which was robbed from him when Sirion fell--and it's probably like he wants better for him than what he got, too, because he got this kingship in exile thrust upon him when all he was doing was hanging out with Cirdan making ships or something with the other non-combatants and refugees like he and his mother who were fleeing war and violence and he was like fourth in line to the throne so he probably found out in one fell swoop that all his family's dead and oh, you're king and your destiny's out of your hands. So he's like, I'll make Elrond herald and give him all the experience and guidance on this leadership stuff I never got while also giving him better control of what kind of future he has. Then--get this--he never even marries or has kids and when his reign is coming to an end. . . Which, by the way, he probably foresaw his own death which is fucked-- because he gives Elrond his ring before the war of the last alliance, metaphorically making him his heir and also giving him the opportunity to shape his future. . .Yeah, yeah, cause Elrond wouldn't have been considered suitable to be a lord or a king or anything after he was raised by wolves the sons of Feanor. So when Gil made him herald it was like helping him gain political experience and any status he lost. So anyway, then Gil Galad dies, but in some ways he's spent a greater part of his life dedicated to the act of restoring Elrond to the path he should have been on in an alternate reality where he was raised as Earendil and Elwing's son and like correcting that first failure--but also changing Elrond's fate because Elrond has the ring, like, he literally has Gil Galad's legacy and power in his hands, something he wouldn't have had (or needed?) before. But he decides he won't be king. He'll use that power to guard the place that fulfills the legacies of both him and Gil Galad. He's rebuilt the home he lost, something Gil Galad was trying to give him, and then he makes it a place for all the orphans and the wounded and the refugees--like he even fosters a bunch of future orphan kings and like--

Bartender: Like the ending of Hamilton?

Me: *mumbling into my empty glass* Yeah, exactly like the ending of Hamilton.

[depvotee]

Okey, I'm going to say this:

I think some of you, only consume Elden Ring (and all souls like) through video essays, lore videos and theories of the game, which mind you nothing inherently wrong with liking the game and consuming it that way, the problem comes when you take these YouTuber's word as gospel when they we're just proposing a theory instead of going ahead and analysing the lore by yourself and coming up with you own conclusions, that's always been the way of these games, everyone sees everything differently and although there's *some* wide spread theories, that doesn't make then canon, so, the moment when something that you don't like/is part of your personal headcanon happens, y'all lose your minds.

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

I hate ship wars so much because, not only are they a ludicrous reason to abuse each other over in online spaces, the arguments only ever seem to tear down queer readings of a text for the sake of personal interpretations of a relationship (even if that relationship is also queer).

So you just have people arguing back and forth with each other over why their particular queer reading is the one true legitimate or canon or 'healthy' (please save me from that word, I want to pluck it from the world and tear it to shreds) queer reading and all others are wrong, dirty, sinful, a fetish... (you see what I'm doing here right?).

I hate ship wars. I hate how puritanical, antiqueer, and misogynistic they always somehow manage to become in the name of championing a queer relationship.

[dicethrow]

Gale did his very best to haggle over the bracelet, but he quickly realised the situation was stacked against him. With it still clasped around Astarion’s wrist, it was clear to the vendor—and likely anyone passing by—that he was already emotionally invested. There was no upper hand to be gained here, no tactical leverage in the art of negotiation. In the end, Gale parted with a hefty sum of gold, his coin purse significantly lighter.

And yet, he didn’t regret it.

The bracelet, gaudy and extravagant as it was, had already cemented itself as more than just a trinket. It was a symbol of something far greater. It marked the moment Astarion had wanted him—not for his magic, nor his wealth, nor for anything he could offer—but for who he was. Gale had spent so much of his life longing to be seen in that way, and the realisation softened his gaze as he watched Astarion drift between stalls.

How easily the rogue had stolen his heart. Gale would have given it willingly—beating and bloodied if need be—if only to let Astarion hold a heartbeat once more.

Duty, however, was rarely sentimental. The group had their next course of action to prepare, and the chaos of Baldur’s Gate demanded its fair share of provisions. Once they returned to the Elfsong, Gale spent an inordinate amount of time debating the finer points of crushing garlic with the chef. His cooking efforts were, in his opinion, prematurely dismissed when he was kicked from the kitchen. Clearly, his culinary talents were neither wanted nor needed.

He retreated upstairs to their shared room, grateful for a moment of solitude. The others had descended to supper, but Astarion was nowhere to be found among them. Gale assumed the vampire had retreated upstairs already. Still, he hesitated to disturb him, taking the time instead to tidy his part of the room. Books were stacked neatly, robes were folded—though his eyes occasionally flicked toward the door. He told himself it was simple curiosity.

When Astarion finally appeared, Gale failed to hide the warmth that spread across his face. The smile came unbidden, natural, like muscle memory.

"I must say," he began, glancing pointedly at the bracelet, "you’d look wonderful in a potato sack, but this…" his fingers gestured delicately toward the extravagant piece of jewellery, "…this is quite the statement."

He knew they were alone now, the faint sounds of the tavern muffled beneath their floorboards. The isolation brought with it both anticipation and uncertainty. Gale wasn’t sure how to navigate this new terrain between them, how to approach the shift in their relationship without overstepping. He hesitated, the weight of his words caught between his natural eloquence and his cautious heart.

"I… quite like the statement, I mean to say," he added, the subtle implication hanging. His gaze lingered, searching Astarion’s face for any sign of how to proceed.

Astarion could feel that smile against his lips and it made one of his own spread against Gale's. How sickeningly, terribly quaint the venture for supplies had become. Astarion might have called it disgustingly sentimental only it feels so good he doesn't want to taint the moment with his trauma-born cynicism.

He has to remind himself he's allowed something nice. After everything he's been through, after everything he's done to keep himself from turning into that monster who made him, he deserves something nice.

Breath hitched and he let out an annoyed grumble when the shopkeep interrupted an otherwise blissful moment. He snapped his head 'round to glare at the merchant, much like he did with Annah, though this certainly isn't an act.

Although a smirk spread on his lips and he turned to look back at Gale, pulling back just a bit as he brought his hand up that had the bracelet wrapped around his wrist. It was gawdy, it was over-the-top, and probably more expensive than was necessary, but... he did like how it sparkled...

"Well, you do owe me, Galey." Astarion says with a purring tease, slipping his finger along the wizard's jawline to under his chin before leaning in to press a quick, pecking kiss against his lips. He then slowly slipped away, hand lingering on Gale's chest.

"You take care of this," he said, shaking his wrist with the bracelet with a grin, "and I'll collect the rest of the supplies. I'm sure the others are wondering what's keeping us..."

He was anxious to return to the inn, perhaps find out just how real that kiss with Gale truly was.

Once the supplies were collected and the bracelet negotiated and begrudgingly paid for, it took little time to return to their rooms at the inn. Supplies were handed out and stored appropriately, and it seemed like there was a lingering unspoken thing hovering between him and Gale the entire time.

Astarion was nervous. He'd never felt this way about someone before, and even now had a hard time finding what his feelings were meaning. He knew what he wanted, but... would Gale want it in return? He'd been denied once... what if it wasn't just the orb that had kept the wizard at arm's length?

Shoving away such despairing thoughts, Astarion made his way over to Gale, the others all otherwise occupied and paying them little attention.

"You know..." he said, holding out the wrist which still held the bracelet as he looked it over, tiling his head back and forth. "It really is quite the statement piece, isn't it?"

Stupid thing to say, he was certain, but he doesn't really know how to approach this. He just wants to snatch the wizard up and explore that kiss, but he isn't too certain on how Gale would feel about that.

How real was that kiss in the market?

[beebfreeb]

hiii ive never interacted w you other than rbing sometimes but i just wanted to let you know that theres something ab the wir takeover of your blog ive genuinely loved. like i watched you get into it and then it just slowly took over your blog as you made it your own n like what youre posting now is almost in the territory of unrecognizable from the source material and i just think thats fun :) youre taking the world and characters from the movie and twisting it and adding onto it n idk, its special to me. its your wreck it ralph now. its filling the good sequel shaped space in my heart but way more creative n out there than disney would ever create

I'm glad you're having fun! A lot of people have unfollowed me LOL. I am easily delighted by characters made for a specific purpose and their relationships to that. I like playing toys with the setting and characters because there is a lot of questions that are never explored due to the scope of the movie.

What if the arcade had a GameCube in it for hosting Super Smash Bros. tournaments?