#and torsten likes to watch

[veidtveidtveidt]

Since there are a fair few new followers, just a heads-up that I am actively taking those password requests as usual. It's just that new Connie releases happen so rarely that I don't have anything to actively post about. But as usual, if there are any films you'd like, just drop me an ask and I'll bung the passwords your way.👍

[bxwitched]

Captive - Part 4

Warnings: Explicit 18+ only, please read at your own risk. Noncon / dubcon, slavery, manipulation, sexual content, violence, descriptions of wounds and blood.

Character Pairing: King!Ivar the Boneless x Slave!Reader

Summary: You find yourself a captive of Ivar the Boneless.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: I finally found the inspiration to continue this fic after a whole year. Comments, reblogs and likes are all appreciated! You can find my masterlist here.

You stirred as cold fingertips traced along your leg, a large callused hand smoothing shapes over soft the flesh, waking you from your dream. You kicked out at the explorative touch, making a sound of displeasure as Ivar caught your ankle in his firm grip and snickered in amusement.

"It is time to get up, Valkyrie." You groaned, burrowing your face further into the furs.

"Leave me be, King. Let me sleep." He huffed at you from his perch at the end of the bed and you gasped in surprise as he leaned forward and snatched your leg from beneath the blankets, jostling you as he hitched it over his broad shoulder. His icy eyes locked with yours as he pressed a slow kiss to the side of your knee.

You tried to ignore the heat simmering in your belly as his lips brushed against the sensitive flesh, leaving fire in their wake. His intense gaze bore down into you and flashes of the night before came rushing back; the way that Ivar had looked at you as you had taken control of him and used him for your pleasure.

You had behaved no better than a common whore, desperate for the gratification that his body could offer and you felt your cheeks heat at the memory, your stomach twisting into knots.

You leaned back on your elbows and studied Ivar, he was already dressed in his light armour; with his axe fixed to his hip, his knives stowed at his waist, and metal braces in place on his legs. You didn't have time to wonder what his plans for the day were before he brought you out of your thoughts, his breath tickling your soft skin as he spoke.

"I thought that you would be eager to see your little mouse, Valkyrie. But if you would rather remain in bed-" His voice was teasing and you bolted upright, wrenching your leg back from his grip as you looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicious.

"You will allow it?" He nodded once, his bright eyes fixated on you.

"You have been good for me, haven't you? Torsten is waiting outside to escort you." You tried and failed to hide your excitement as you stood from the bed and rushed to get dressed. Ivar's lips tilted up at the corners and his eyes remained glued to your form as he watched you ready yourself for the day, beguiled by you.

As you walked the streets of Kattegat you had quickly learned that Torsten was not a talkative man; he was tall and well-built with short hair, shorn at the sides and a dark beard. He was more of a mountain than a man, clearly battle hardened and you had no doubts that he was one of Ivar's finest warriors. 

You travelled in silence, trying to ignore the stares of the townspeople as you passed through the busy market, some offered you looks of pity, whilst others flashed you looks of distaste. You couldn't decipher the hushed words and low whispers that were spoken, but you imagined that it was gossip of the king's newest toy, his foreign concubine. 

You wondered how many there were before you and what words were spoken of them, whether they were also from Eire or from lands further afield. 

Torsten came to a stop when you neared a large barn and gestured you in ahead of him. You entered the dimly lit space hesitantly, mindful of the other thralls as they bustled around, readying for their tasks of the day.

You eyes flitted through the crowd of women, searching for the head of golden hair when a weight suddenly barrelled into you, taking your breath and nearly knocking you backwards as a smaller figure clung tightly to your waist.

Alva sobbed against you, her tears staining the richly-dyed fabric of your dress, 'a gift' Ivar had said, 'wear it for me'.

"I thought- I though that I would never see you again-" You hushed the younger girl as she cried, hiccuping as she tried to form words between her gasped breaths and tears.

"I'm here, Alva. All is well." You rubbed her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other as she slowly calmed and managed to steady her breathing once more.

She looked up at you with glassy eyes, deep emerald irises that she had inherited from her mother's side. 

"Come." You took her hand in yours and lead her away from the barn, down to the waterfront where it was quieter, calmer. You both walked in silence along the waters edge, taking in the warmth of the sun on your face and the sound of the waves as they lapped gently at the shore. Torsten followed behind,  giving you just enough distance to speak privately, a courtesy you hadn't expected from the warrior.

Alva sobbed against you, her tears staining the richly-dyed fabric of your dress, 'a gift' Ivar had said, 'wear it for me'.

"I thought- I though that I would never see you again-" You hushed the younger girl as she cried, trying to form words between her gasped breaths and tears.

"I'm here, Alva. All is well." You rubbed her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other as she slowly calmed and steadied her breathing.

She looked up at you with glassy eyes, a deep, rich emerald that she had inherited from her mother's side.

"Come." You took her hand and lead her away from the barn and down to the waterfront. You both walked along the waters edge, your shoes sinking slightly into the damp sand as Torsten followed behind you at a distance, giving you enough space speak privately. It was a courtesy you hadn't expected from the warrior but appreciated immensely. 

"Where did they take you?" Your heart wrenched at the concern and fear in her shaking voice.

"They took me to the king." Alva's face paled, her eyes widening further. She looked akin to a doe in the forest, startled by a waiting hunter in the trees.

"Ivar the boneless." Her fear was evident now, her eyes moving over your body franticly. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"No Alva, I'm fine." Your stomach twists at that and you let out a deep sigh, your shoulders sagging slightly. She was six summers younger than you but she was naive for her age, fragile. She wasn't hardened like you, she was innocent and she couldn't begin to understand the complexities of your situation.

She was a lamb amongst wolves and you knew that you had to do everything you could to protect her, even if it meant being the king's whore.

"King Ivar has taken me as his and so long as I am good to him, useful to him, our safety is guaranteed here. We may be thralls here but we are alive Alva, and we are protected. That is all that matters." She chewed her lip nervously and her worried gaze dropped to the floor.

"I have heard things, whispers from the other girls.." You stopped and crouched down to her level, ignoring the cold water that seeped into the hem of your gown as you searched her face with questioning eyes.

"What things?"

"They talk about the king, they say that he is a great warrior, that he is favoured by the gods and has never lost a battle. But-"

"Go on, Alva." You insisted as she shifted her weight nervously.

"They say that because of his legs, he cannot please a woman. He has hurt slave girls and threatened to kill them if they speak of it. They talk of a woman called Margarette, they say he strangled her."

Your eyes lowered to the sand and you nodded your head solemnly, you would not be surprised by such things given your experience of Ivar's volatile nature. You returned to your full height and forced a small smile, one you hoped would reassure the young girl.

"Come along, let us enjoy the water a little longer."

Torsten allowed you to spend a few hours with Alva, soaking up the warmth of the sun and the feel of the salty ocean breeze before telling you that it was time to return to the Hall.

Alva was unhappy to leave you and return to the thrall house but she finally relented when you reassured her that you'd be okay with a soft smile and promised that you would see her again soon.

You were almost back at the Hall when you heard your new moniker being called in the distance and turned to see Hvitserk making his way towards you.

"Valkyrie!" The man was completely different to Ivar, not only in his physical appearance but in his demeanour; whilst Ivar was impassive and unpredictable, Hvitserk was open and seemed to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

He grinned widely at you as he rested on the fence of the training ground, his hair mussed and cheeks red from sparring.

"I see my brother has finally let you spread your wings." You huffed at his jest and moved to rest against the fence beside him, watching as Ivar's men fought each other with vigour, the sharp clashes of steel and crashes of shields heavy in the air.

"They are fine warriors. Though not as fine as you I'm sure.." Hvitserk raised an eyebrow at your taunt, his grin widening as mischief danced behind his eyes.

"You told me that you were a fighter, Valkyrie. Perhaps I wish to see it for myself." You raised your chin slightly, your eyes narrowing in playful challenge.

"My father always believed that I possessed enough fury to rival that of a berserker, maybe we should test that." The blonde man's eyes flashed in delight and he held a hand out to you, helping you over the wooden fence and into the training arena, ignoring Torsten's protests and silencing the larger man with a raised hand.

"Hand me a sword, Ragnarsson." He passed you a short-sword, lighter than you had used before but well-balanced and finely made. Hvitserk opted for a larger sword, heavier and better matched for his larger frame.

"Don't worry, Valkyrie. I will go easy on you." You scoffed, watching as his grin widened and his eyes changed, the mossy green growing darker with his building battle-lust.

You watched his feet, anticipating his initial attack and dodged each skilful slash of his sword. You moved in time with him, keeping up with the prince despite your heavy dress weighing down your movements.

You grinned as you blocked several of the beserker's attempted hits. Hvitserk's expression was positively wild and the fight between you became more intense the more you challenged him.

He barely managed to block your attack to his torso and you grinned as he growled in irritation. You were so focused, until your name was shouted from the fence line.

Your head turned for no more than a second but it was enough time for Hvitserk to land a hit, successfully slicing a line of crimson across your forearm. You gasped as the flesh stung and you clutched at the wound as the blood began to seep from it, running down your skin and dripping into the dirt beneath your feet.

Hvitserk froze, his face dropping into one of remorse as he realised what he had done, then one of uneasiness when he noticed Ivar stalking towards you both with his men in tow. His face was stony but his sapphire eyes gave away his rage, they were practically glowing as he glared at both of you.

"What do you think you are doing, hm?" His voice was level, an unnerving contradiction to the storm brewing behind his eyes. He turned on Hvitserk then and the older Ragnarsson visibly tensed. "I suppose that this was your idea, brother?"

You were quick to speak up, stepping in front of Hvitserk to shield him from Ivar's wrath. Although he had been the one to challenge you to spar, you had been just as willing. He hadn't meant to injure you and you had enjoyed the rush of it, the freedom.

Despite being your master's kin Hvitserk had been civil to you during your time in Kattegat, amiable even. From what you had witnessed he seemed to be a decent man and you didn't feel that he deserved to be reprimanded for your poor choices.

"It's not his fault, my King. I challenged him to fight, if you are to punish anyone then it must be me."

"Is that so?" Ivar tilted his head at you with a raised brow and you nodded, his face said everything his words did not. This is not over.

He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and nodded once, his jaw tensed.

"Very well, Torsten will take you back to our chambers." He dismissed the larger warrior with a wave of his hand and turned to face Hvitserk, fixing him with a false smile that left no room for argument. "Brother, you will go and fetch the healer. And the next time that you wish to fight? I suggest that you find a different opponent."

@wittysunflower​ @heavenly1927​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @that-virgo-witch​ @helleiaiwritting @the-king-of-kattegat-ivar @nukyster-blog @ietss @belladaises @victoria-styles

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating, part three

Part Two

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, dubcon, breeding, we’re all in the same imperial rome/war prize gutter together, mdni 🔞

Geta watches as his betrothed is ushered away to prepare for their wedding, calming his need to growl with the fact that Stepan is wearing his clothes. That he is marked as belonging to Rome.

Belonging to Geta.

“Your grace?” Junius says from his side. “Are you certain of this mating? The emperor will not be pleased.”

“The only thing I could do to please Caracalla is drop dead.”

“Geta…”

“Better to be mated to an omega with no ties to Rome—with no ties to my brother—before he can force one upon me. This way I’m not married to one of his spies.” He’s not a fool. He has good reasons for making his offer.

But that is not his focus now.

Now he must prepare for his wedding.

At least Junius knows well enough to accept that answer without any further pushing. He simply purses his lips and follows Geta when he goes to finalize the official treaty with King Rikhardt.

Geta spends the early afternoon drinking with his betrothed’s father. Then he is brought to the temple, surrounded by statues of gods that are not his gods, but perhaps another version of them.

Stepan waits at the altar for him, still wearing the blue tunica, but his hair has been braided back, with tiny, white flowers woven into a crown that sits over his veil. His lips are dark, like he’s been biting them—the very picture of a nervous, virginal bride.

The priest joins their hands, binds them together with a strip of soft, woolen cloth, and pronounces them wed. Geta presses a suitably chaste kiss to Stepan’s lips, his omega frozen at his touch, but he relaxes when Geta interlaces their fingers to hold his hand. They are expected to keep their hands bound throughout the wedding feast, until they retire for the night. At least his sweet wife will become more acclimated to his touch.

King Rikhardt is clearly the type to look for opportunities to celebrate, to enjoy good food and drink, to have music and dancing, to have his queen in his lap and whisper in her ear to make her laugh. Geta appreciates the revelry, but his attention is pulled by his tablemates. Stepan is pressed tightly against his side, their hands joined and resting in his lap, but a young alpha woman and a boy who looks just past his first rut have claimed Stepan’s other side.

It’s easy enough to tell they are his siblings, the three of them whispering in their own language as they eat, and Geta wishes he could understand them. Then Stepan squeezes his hand, pulling his gaze directly to his warm eyes. “Husband, meet my sister and brother, Ravna and Torsten.”

Before he can say a word, Ravna asks, “Do you go on campaigns often?”

The implicit question is obvious: Will you ever bring my brother back home?

“No, not often,” Geta answers truthfully. He does not know when he will have a safe opportunity to leave Rome again once he returns.

“Oh…” She tugs her younger brother close, ruffles his curls as he stares at Geta with deep blue eyes.

“Stepan says you are leaving tomorrow,” Torsten says, both a question and a challenge.

“Yes, with our terms in place here it is time to move on. We shall be moving further east.”

“So, you will come back here on your way to Rome.”

Geta considers saying they will turn to the southwest at the end of the campaign, but it was clever to ask at all and he smiles. “We will come back this way when the campaign ends.” The boy grins back, and Geta whispers at Stepan’s ear, “I’m sure your father will appreciate throwing us another feast then.”

“As long as it is not too late in the year,” Stepan agrees, more worried about wasting resources than upsetting his father.

The promise and the whispers destroy the last bit of nerve the boy has, and Torsten asks question after question of Geta: about Rome, the places he’s traveled in the empire, his horse, and if he’s ever seen a lion up close. He’s happy to indulge the boy’s curiosity, but then there’s a great pounding, as all in attendance at the feast slap the tables and stomp their feet on the floor.

“It is time!” Rikhardt calls across the great hall. “For my eldest to go to his mating bed!” He raises his mead in a toast. “May their mating be a fruitful one!”

A cheer goes up throughout the room, and Geta laughs as he and his bride are forced to their feet and hoisted into the air. The small contingent—seemingly made up of members of the king’s council and guard—carry the couple off to a private room and deposit them in a nest of blankets and pillows, leaving as quickly as they’d come.

Geta almost asks if this is Stepan’s nest, but he quickly realizes the smell is wrong. These blankets lack his scent, and even as a prince, he likely slept in a shared room.

“We may as well get it over with,” Stepan murmurs, reaching for the hem of his tunica with his free hand.

“Get it over with?” Geta growls, leaning in close to scent at his neck. “There is no ‘over’ now, mellitus. You are mine. Your pleasure and pain are mine. Your neck and your cunt are mine. And I told you: I care for what is mine.”

He licks a slow stripe from Stepan’s mating gland up to his ear, nipping at the lobe. His omega shivers.

He’s meticulous as he removes the handfasting knot from their joined hands, is just as precise as he strips the tunica from him and pushes Stepan to lie back.

Kneeling, Geta forces his legs apart, revealing his red cunt and soft little cock. He rubs his hands over Stepan’s hairy thighs, and inhales deeply, desperate for his sweetness.

“You’ll be weeping with pleasure before I even get my teeth in your neck, do you understand?”

Stepan nods, jaw held tight.

“Good. And this is only the beginning.”

🌙🏛️🌿

Stepan is frozen, the pretty flower crown his mother made for him crushed beneath his head, veil trapped under his shoulders, as his husband bends down and takes his prick into his mouth.

A gasp punches from him at the sensation when Geta sucks, tongue cradling his small member, but his hips buck when a finger slips inside to push up against a spot that makes him see stars behind his eyelids. Not that he moves at all, Geta’s strong arm holding him in place.

His legs shake and he lets out a weak moan, fingers clutching at the blankets at his sides. Geta presses a second finger inside him, the pressure incessant until he goes taut as a bowstring, warm slick flowing from his cunt. But Geta does not stop, stroking and sucking while Stepan cries out.

His hands find their way into Geta’s hair, weakly pushing him away, the alpha chuckling as he does. “Too much?” he asks, dark eyes sparkling in the low light, daring him to speak, fingers still inside his cunt. He presses a slick-wet kiss to his inner thigh. “It’s important for you to peak, mellitus. To open your womb so my seed can take root.” Another kiss low on his belly and he pulls his fingers from Stepan. “Do you feel open now? Empty?��

He nods, tears in his eyes, hoping this will be enough. “Yes, Dominus,” Stepan whispers. “Please…”

“So good, my clever little omega.” He trails wet fingers along the crease of Stepan’s thigh, swirls the mess through the short curls around his sex. Nips at the soft skin at the bend in his knee. Swats lightly at his hip. “Up. On your hands and knees.”

Turning onto his side is hard enough, limbs weak, and Geta lifts him around the middle. He tries not to go limp as he is manhandled into position, ass high, legs spread. Teeth bite into the meat of his buttocks and a strong hand squeezes his hip. “Such a lovely cunt.” A kiss over the bite. “So loose now, but I’ll still fill you to the brim.”

The blunt head of his cock notches at Stepan’s entrance, Geta gripping him at the waist as he pushes all the way inside. Somehow, he feels even bigger this time, reaching places so deep Stepan can’t get a full breath. All he can do is pant shallowly as Geta begins to move, picking up speed as he chases his pleasure, skin slapping against skin.

At least it doesn’t last long, Geta grunting as his knot swells and locks him in place, his hot spend filling every available crevice in Stepan’s very full cunt. They’ll be stuck here awhile, maybe even long enough to fall asleep, Stepan thinks. Hopes. Then they can hurry through trading bites in the morning…

“Mmm, perfect,” Geta hums, “Take me so well.” His hand slides down to rub his belly. “Gonna keep you nice and full tonight, omega. Have you peak on my knot.” That hand moves down to hold his soft prick, thumbing at the head, his other hand still gripping his hip and holding him in place.

It’s too much. Geta using his mouth on him was too much in the first place, and now he is too full and completely empty all at once, his body clenching down on the cock inside him, pulsing around the knot at his entrance. Each time the pressure sends a jolt of pleasure-pain through him, made more intense by the attention to his prick.

Stepan peaks again, a weak dribble of slick coming from his prick, his cunt locking hard around Geta’s knot, pushing the alpha over the edge with him and forcing him to spill more hot seed. “Please,” Stepan whimpers, “Dominus, I’m so-”

“Full?” Geta interrupts. “No, mellitus, you are nowhere near full enough.” He pets Stepan’s flank, leans down to kiss along his spine. “You’ll take at least two more knots tonight.” Geta spreads his hand wide over Stepan’s navel. “You’ll be full enough when you look like you’re carrying my pup.”

The very thought his husband can spill enough seed inside him to distend his belly is laughable, but it also heats Stepan’s cheeks. He may have given up much of what he wants for the good of his people and his pack, but he still desires motherhood. He wants the pups Geta keeps promising.

He also wants to lie down. His arms shake under him, and he sniffles as Geta holds him up. “I am tired, Dominus. Please.”

“Yes, of course. You need to keep up your strength,” Geta soothes as he guides them down onto their sides. He holds Stepan close, their bodies pressed together. He brings one hand up to cup a breast, but he does not tease or fondle, simply holds him and rubs a tiny circle with his thumb.

Soon enough, his knot shrinks, and Geta shifts his hips, his soft cock slipping free. “With how sweet you smell it shouldn’t take long for me to be ready again.” Geta kisses along Stepan’s shoulder, buries his nose against his neck. He squeezes the breast in his hand, presses his palm to the hard nipple, and Stepan sighs.

“I think there’s a better way to spend our time waiting.” Geta pushes himself up to sitting, smiling down at Stepan, his eyes so soft. “Get on your back, my sweet.”

Stepan rolls onto his back, stares up with unshed tears clinging to his lashes. Geta slots against his side, head resting on his chest. Then he turns just enough to take a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently, tongue flicking occasionally over the hard bud.

It feels good, so much less intense than attention to his prick, but it still makes his cunt clench. He feels bold. Wants to encourage this gentler pleasure from his alpha. Slowly, Stepan reaches for Geta’s hand where it rests on his waist, and brings it up to cover his other breast. Geta massages the soft flesh, moans around the tit in his mouth, his own arousal growing where he’s pressed to Stepan’s hip.

But he keeps suckling until each one of Stepan’s breaths ends with a hitch or gasp. Then he lifts himself off and settles between his legs. His thrusts start slow, hips rolling smoothly as his knot fills, leaving him rocking in place, body tensing as he spills and spills and spills.

Geta collapses on top of Stepan and mouths lazily at his neck. “You have to peak when I bite you,” he mumbles. “Our bond must be strong.”

Stepan does not know what to say. Geta sounds so desperate. So vulnerable. He simply strokes up and down his back, fingers trailing over his shoulders. Presses a single kiss to his forehead.

They lie together, subdued, as they wait for Geta’s knot to go down. All the teasing and bombast has cooled along with the sweat on their bodies.

Geta slips free of him again, but keeps their bodies close, tangling their legs together as he tugs Stepan to his chest. He nuzzles against his cheek, and Stepan isn’t sure whose tears he feels on his skin.

“Dominus?” he murmurs, “Are-”

Needy lips cut him off with a sharp kiss.

🌙🏛️🌿

Stepan does not know how to kiss, his mouth still as Geta holds him in place, sucks on his full lower lip. He tastes so sweet, every part of him, and Geta wants more.

Needs more.

He rolls on top, pins him down, eyes shut tight as he licks into Stepan’s mouth, his cheeks cradled in his hands. His omega is so warm. So sweet. But his attempts at kissing back are feeble, and Geta just wants to *feel* him.

Geta bites too hard at his lip, makes Stepan whimper, tries to soothe it with his tongue, and finally kisses his way down to his ear. Gentle hands hold his head in place, a pointed toe drags up his calf, and soft lips ghost against his forehead. He whines at the sweetness of it, aches with need for him.

He has never wanted so badly to worship a previous sexual partner; Geta has always been content to be fawned over, enjoyed an omega moaning or crying at being stretched on his knot.

With Stepan, he prefers his little gasps of surprise, the way his legs shake, his sighs of pleasure when Geta plays with his pretty tits. Which has him thinking of a babe suckling at one of those perfect tits instead, and a purr rumbles through him—at the thought of his pup in his mate’s arms.

But they are not mated yet.

He must bite first, have Stepan bite him. They both must peak, could peak together. A pair of bites to bind them to one another, taking the tie of a knotting and making it eternal. A fastening of not just their hands, but their souls.

Geta scrambles to get up, needs a moment to breathe. To sit alone.

“Dominus?” Stepan asks, cautiously sitting up across from him. His voice is so soft, with a rough edge, like his throat is dry.

Swallowing, Geta notices his own thirst, and glances around the room for something to slake it. He sees nothing, but knows his guards wait outside the door, and pushes himself up onto shaking legs of his own. Two quick words are all it takes for Geta to close the door again with a wineskin in hand.

He pulls the stopper, takes a sip, and hands it to Stepan as he sits beside him once more. His omega drinks, throat bobbing as he swallows, and he smiles as he hands it back to Geta. “Thank you, Dominus.”

“You shall never hunger or thirst as long as I draw breath. I told you-”

Stepan reaches out, grabs his wrist. “I know.” He raises onto his knees, shuffles forward to close the space between them, and straddles Geta’s lap. “Care for me now, Dominus,” he whispers, leaning their foreheads together, and guiding Geta’s fingers to his open cunt.

Slowly, he rubs at his sweet inner spot, gets him wet, and uses that wetness to stroke his prick. Stepan sighs, cunt fluttering around a single finger. “Please,” he begs, “Give me your bite, Dominus. Give me a pup.”

“Yes,” he moans. “Going to give you so many pups. Have you fat with twins before the year is out.” Geta reaches for his half-hard cock, fumbles to stroke himself without disturbing Stepan’s place on his lap.

Stepan nods. “Twins with your dark eyes.” He looks down between them, his hand covers Geta’s, adds more pressure, and when a pearly drop of pre-spend beads at the head, he swipes it up with his thumb and raises it to his lips.

Geta can’t help himself after that, crashing their mouths together as he gets his hands under Stepan’s thighs, raising his hips, and guiding him over his cock. Hands gripping his shoulders, Stepan builds a slow rhythm, raising and dropping as he clenches, panting open-mouthed as Geta sucks and nips at his lip.

They’re both too sensitive after all that has come before, and soon Stepan’s legs are shaking. He drops hard, grinds down as Geta’s knot begins to swell. They rock together, orgasms building, and Geta pinches a hard nipple. Stepan cries out as he cunt spasms, and Geta sets his teeth to his neck.

He bites fast, blood and sweet lymph on his tongue, and releases just as quickly. He hurries to get Stepan’s mouth in place as he cock jerks and spills.

Stepan takes longer to let go, moaning as he completes the bond, his tongue laving over his bite as he shudders through an extended aftershock, his peak cresting to match Geta’s. The bond settles as he pulls back just enough to press their temples together, breathing each other’s air.

“Let me see, mellitus,” Geta murmurs once he’s caught his breath again. “Need to make sure it is not too deep.” He thinks he did it right, that his bite on his mate’s neck should heal well once it is covered with the sacred herbs, but he needs to see for himself.

Stepan follows the order easily, tilting his head to show off the bite: a neat set of punctures in two curved lines. No torn and ragged flaps of skin, the bleeding already slowed to a sluggish pace. He drops a gentle kiss over it, then kisses up Stepan’s neck, and nuzzles at his cheek.

“We should try to rest, my sweet. I fear if we wait for my knot to release, we will not sleep tonight.”

Part 4

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls - Part 6

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 2400

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

6. Defense

You twirled a smooth horn between your hands. Boromir had made it from a curved ram’s horn, drilling a hole in it and turning it into a sort of trumpet. Should the enemy approach you would blow it and alert everybody. 

You were on the lookout that evening; Boromir had divided the nights into watches and now it was your turn. You sat on a rooftop and observed the deserted plains in the growing darkness.

A few days had passed since the village prepared for war, and the dreary darkness from Mordor had finally disappeared, blown away by a fresh south-west breeze. Nothing had happened yet, and you were hoping it never would. Without the strange darkness to hide them, the orcs probably wouldn’t dare venture this far.

Even if Boromir had a plan, no plan was foolproof.

You wished you knew how the war went, but no news had reached you since you learned about the attack of Cair Andros. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something – be it good or bad. 

It made you restless and nervous.

You heard steps from below and turned to see Maja approaching you. “My mama needs you. It is time!”

You were about to climb down and fetch a replacement lookout when something else caught your attention: a group of people coming running across the southwestern plains. They were far away still, but heading to the village. 

No… not people. Orcs! You noticed their crooked swords and axes now.

The sight filled you with cool tendrils of fear. This was it. War. War was upon you!

You remembered the horn and blew it, producing a dull hoot. As you climbed down from your post, you blew and blew and blew, and from all doors around you people came out.

Boromir was among the first to reach you. He looked alert and strangely excited.

“The enemy army is here,” you told him. It came out like a terrified squeak. 

He observed the orcs briefly. “No, just a minor band, thirty or so at the most. Raiders perhaps, or deserters. With our precautions we should take them easily.” He turned to Vidar. “Take a lantern and wait for my signal over by the trench. Be sure not to drop it until every orc has crossed.”

You tried to swallow but your throat felt too narrow and too dry. Was this the last time you saw these men? Vidar… and Boromir.

You wanted to tell him to be careful but no longer trusted your voice.

“What about Mama?” Maja asked, pulling at your sleeve. “The child is coming.”

Boromir looked at her, then you. A fierce, crooked grin broke out in his face and he pressed your trembling shoulder encouragingly. “Then you deliver the child and I deal with the orcs. I will be seeing you!” 

You nodded. Deliver the baby. That you could do.

As soon as you entered Sigrid’s house you became completely calm. There was a patient needing your help and until she and the baby were safe you had no time to worry about orc attacks.

※

You could not say how much time had passed when you finally laid the wailing infant on her mother’s chest. It had not been an easy birth.

“Thank you,” Sigrid said tiredly. “Damn Torsten for putting this little monster in me and then riding off to war.” She stroked the baby’s damp head. “He thought it was a boy but I knew it would be a girl. When he returns I shall gloat at him that I won.”

Something about the way she said ‘when he returns’ made you want to cry. She did not think he would. 

But then you remembered about the orcs and your heartbeat increased. Had Boromir made it? 

You ran out. Guttural yells and clangs of steel reached you from beyond the palisade and you ran to the gate, expecting the worst. 

You were met by a spectacular sight. A burning ring surrounded the village, sending sparks and bright tongues of fire high into the air. Within the ring lay a litter of dark corpses in the grass, and others hung skewered on the sharp lances along the palisade. Some were still writhing in death throes; Vidar walked among them, grimly beheading anyone moving.

Boromir was chasing two last orcs on Svarten. He sat tall and formidable, driving them before him like Béma the Hunter himself. His face was streaked with soot and his hands covered in black blood.

This was his right element, here in the midst of battle, bravely protecting people.

You had never admired him more.

Desperate to evade the menacing pursuer, the orcs leaped through the fire, but the burning tar stuck on their boots and turned them into living torches.

Svarten easily jumped over the trench and followed them. Two neat sword slashes later and the orcs fell to the ground in reeking piles.

It was over.

※

Other villagers had joined you at the gate, now a loud cheer broke out. He had made it! The village had withstood the attack!

Boromir dismounted. Standing there tall, proud, victorious. Beautiful.

“After tonight, I will no longer call you ‘Främling’,” said Vidar. “You are no stranger to us anymore. Hence, since you still do not remember your name, I say we name you ‘Hjälte’! For, you are a true hero, and we are blessed to have you among us.”

His words were met by an even louder cheer and Boromir graciously bowed. “It was the least I could do after you took me in so generously.”

Everyone then helped put out the fire with buckets of sand and refill the trench with tar in case of new attacks. Like Boromir had said, this had only been a small band. They could be forerunners or scouts from a larger army.

Afterwards, you walked home beside Boromir almost shyly. For the first time, you had seen warrior-him in action. You wanted to hug him and tell him how glad you were that he had survived, but felt too intimidated.

“Thank you for saving us,” you said instead. “The ring of flames was fantastic.”

“It worked better than I had dared hope,” he said proudly. “I got the idea from a place called Moria where I once saw orcs hesitate before a burning chasm. Not one of my best memories, but this time it was helpful.” 

Back in the house, you noticed red blood in the water when he cleaned his hands. 

“You are hurt,” you said worriedly.

“A mere nick.”

“Let me treat it. There could be poison on their weapons this time also.”

Like the other day, your concern seemed to amuse him, but he obediently sat at the table and held out his hand.

You sat next to him, putting a generous amount of ointment on the cut and binding it neatly.

Still with his hand in yours, you looked at his beautiful face. You could not express your gratitude with words. He saved you; all of you. Maja and her mother, the newborn baby, Vidar, little Kalle, everyone had him to thank for their life.

This handsome, kind, generous man was truly a gift to your people. To you. You had never met anyone like him.

You admired him so much. Held him in such high regard… no. More than that.

You loved him.

Part of what you felt must have shown in your eyes, for Boromir gently eased his hand from yours and rose. “We must get some rest.” But instead of stretching out on the bed, he leaned back in your comfortable chair. 

At your surprised look, he explained: “Long have I been imposing on your hospitality. You should have your bed to yourself.“

“I do not mind sharing,” you said earnestly, feeling a lump in your throat. He was pushing you away. Creating a distance.

“You already did so much for me,” he said seriously. “I never even thanked you for saving my life. Twice. First you healed me, and then your faith in me and stubbornness hindered me from taking the cowardly way out. This way is better; I can do some good now. And for that, you shall always have my heartfelt gratitude.”

His words shook you to the core. This way is better. 

Did he mean to die in battle?

Now you saw the scene earlier in a new light. Boromir’s excitement before the fight; his heroic charge against over thirty orcs. It was not courage. It was the fearlessness of one who had nothing to lose. 

Was he still choosing the cowardly way out, but disguising it as bravery?

You did not say anything of what you were thinking. Instead you tried to hide your dismay and make your voice steady. “I am a healer; it is what I do. Think nothing of it.” 

You went to bed, ignoring how large and empty it felt, and exhausted after the long night’s events you fell asleep almost immediately.

※

The next morning, Boromir, Vidar and you went out to gather the orc carcasses, piling them up and setting them on fire. While you were working, a group of riders approached from the same direction the orcs had come. They were Rohirrim!

As they came closer, you felt your heart soar with relief. It was people from your village, as well as the neighboring ones. Jan, Ragnar, Karl, Torsten, all the rest of them. They had survived! Did that mean the war was over?

“Welcome back!” Vidar waved excitedly. 

The men looked weary, but relieved when they saw your pyre. “Béma be blessed. We were worried we would find naught but smoking embers like in so many other villages. We have been tracking these orcs for days and found only ruins and homeless refugees in their wake – until now. How did you defeat them?”

You proudly indicated Boromir. “We had help.”

Torsten cut in: “Why, if it is not Lord Främling! You look well. I am glad you made it.”

“He is Lord Hjälte now,” said Vidar.

"Congratulations on becoming a father again, Torsten,” you said.

“The child is born? And everything went well?” He leaped off the horse in a smooth jump. “I have to go see them at once. Was it a son? No, say nothing, I know it was. I have a talent for guessing these things.”

You smiled smugly as he hurried off.

Meanwhile the other riders filled you in with news from the war, at long last. A lot had happened. Théoden King and his riders found their way to Gondor blocked by the orcs at Cair Andros just as Boromir had feared, but got unexpected aid by a people who dwelled in the mountains and took them on a shortcut to Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor, just in time to save the day and help defeating Sauron’s enormous host. 

They then described the battle in detail, encouraged by a barrage of questions from Boromir. 

There had been many losses and injuries. Théoden King was dead, and his niece Éowyn, who unexpectedly joined the army, was badly hurt. Her brother Éomer would become the new King of Rohan. 

Another man who died was Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. Boromir’s father. 

“Poor old fellow; they say he lost his mind and burned himself alive, broken with grief after what happened to his sons,” said Ragnar, unaware that one of them was standing right in front of him. “The eldest was killed in battle in the north prior to the war, you see.”

Boromir did not betray any emotions at the news, but you saw his fists clench and his whole stance become rigid. 

You wished you could hug him. What a gruesome way for a man to die!

“And the youngest?” His gaze was intent.

“Hurt in battle, but Lord Aragorn healed him. He is greatly improved; they say he will survive.”

Boromir grew visibly less tense. “And what now? You said this mysterious heir to the throne has appeared, this Lord Aragorn. What are his plans? The Dark Lord lives, and although he lost a battle, he will return with renewed force soon enough.”

Ragnar shifted uneasily. “Lord Aragorn is on his way to Mordor. It is a ruse, and he does not expect to survive, but…” He lowered his voice. “There is a secret, powerful item, you see… a ring, they say, a ring of power. It was forged by Sauron a long time ago and if he can get it back he will use it to usurp the entire world. But a brave young halfling is on a secret mission to cast the ring into the fires where it was once wrought. A halfling is–”

“I know what a halfling is.” Boromir had grown very pale.

“Oh. Well, so Lord Aragorn has decided to make this decoy attack to distract the enemy, hence increasing the chances for the halfling to succeed. I know, it sounds impossible, but Aragorn believes it might work, and nearly everyone is following him there.”

“But not you?”

He blushed hotly. “He sent us to free Cair Andros. Us and some others…”

“We were afraid and did not want to die,” Karl cut in. “We have families waiting for us. He saw that and released us. A good man, he is. And a great king, if he survives.”

“We bested the army at Cair Andros,” said Ragnar. “This group we were tracing were the last survivors.”

After exchanging a few more words the men left you, eager to go see their families now that their task was finally over. 

Boromir left too, with a curt “I shall take a walk” that made it clear he did not want company.

You looked long after him.

※

That night Boromir moved out of your house. He said he was no longer a patient, and did not want to impose on your hospitality. Therefore he had arranged with Vidar to sleep in his spare room.

Your stomach grew tight; you knew what this was about. He wanted to keep a distance from you, and you were fairly sure it was because he suspected you had feelings for him.

“I am happy for Vidar’s sake,” you said, smiling forcedly. “He has been lonely since his wife passed away.”

“Goodnight then.” He bowed and left.

”Goodnight.”

You went to lie in your empty bed. And then you cried.

※※※

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Full story: [ AO3 ]

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: Nornwatch Keep notes: The Last Night ( this one is gonna hurt )

Plague was running rampant through the Keep, if the blight did not kill them then hunger and starvation would surely follow. Together with the legion they'd set a course through Hrimthur's Wastelands. The treacherous snow concealed fjords that could swallow a nation, every step needed to be counted and measured and every preparation would be made. When not running drills for the men, women, and children who were made to fight, Torsten kept watch outside the chambers of the ranting High King, or culling the ghouls that cropped up in the night.

For Afshin, Torsten's sword stood at the ready. Drawn to attention and pointed towards certainty, the prince had asked for a tutor and the witcher saw to it that his lessons drove home. He owed it to the prince to not handle him lightly, or with care, Afshin's own request aside, were Orhan alert enough to comment he would all but demand that Torsten take this as seriously as if he were any other recruit. He abstained from exercising the same level of harshness that he'd been subjected to in the Watch: Afshin's body would not be transmuting any poisons, nor would he be roused at dawn to carry buckets of water up frozen staircases.

Battered recruits, starved and thin like rods, bent to unruly limits and snapped back with course strength. When Torsten looked back at all he feared, he only saw himself. Their world was pillaged behind them and Afshin's people were falling one by one, but in time they would move on from this place they only needed to survive a little longer. If they flew too soon then their fate would be sealed, but if they waited too long then the Aetherians would find rot where the Iskarans had once been.

Swords abandoned, Torsten grappled with Afshin until he brought the prince down and pressed him into the cold stone of his chamber floor. The Keep was unforgiving, but here at least there would be no prying eyes to watch as the prince was bested over and over again. Folded and bent, Torsten pressed his forearm against Afshin's throat as he kept his lord down. He breathed into the narrow space between them, forehead bent against the other's as his heart steadily pumped in his chest: Torsten asked, "Does my Prince yet yield?"

[dhs-in-disguise]

I love my little village. Very close to many beautiful forests and other places in nature. It's so cute.

I only went to the city to watch tfone only for the theater to not have the movie;A;

And the city itself sucked too. 😭😥

The environment itself isn‘t the problem for me either (I mean it is in the sense that the bus drives like 4 times a day and only to places I don‘t need to go and I don‘t have a licence and i cant walk either because we‘re ON THE DAMN MOUNTAIN I AM NOT WALKING ALL OF THAT BACK UP), it‘s the people. They all embody the worst stereotypes of German village people and living here is an absolute nightmare because of how terrible and inconsiderate and annoying they all are. Makes sense though since the shit-gang‘s leader‘s name is Torsten (our family has a,, not so great history with people who are named that).

But yeah all of the surrounding cities are shit too. Detroit doesn‘t seem so bad in comparison,,,

[witchernjal]

closed starter for @witchertorsten location: aventia note: theboysarebackintown.mp3

In the quiet of the night, it was really just the two of them. There weren't any ears listening in on their conversation. No princes or devils around to be a buffer. It was just them here. They had fought together time and time again and it had always felt like that was all they were good for. Njal had been okay with that for a very long time. He had to be. It hadn't been until they got to Lysara that he had even decided to think for himself, where he had decided to let his mind wander to thoughts of life outside of Witcher's Watch. He had no childhood to remember so this was all he had. It had to be okay and he was going to be okay with that information. However, he was far more concerned about where things stood with the two of them. Every time they spoke, it had felt like Torsten was doing that thing he had only seen the Kingsguard do with others. That little judgmental look that he had seen time and time again. He could have just been imagining it, but there were few people he cared about the opinions of. Torsten was at the very top of the list. There was no reason for Njal to ever omit the truth when it came to his best friend.

So, as he sat there in their tent, he leaned an arm across his knee, gaze settling upon the other witcher. He wasn't even sure how to start talking. Torsten was always the silent type. He was used to the quiet with them. Njal felt like this was the first time he didn't really know how to fill that void though. But he'd try. If there was anyone he could talk to, it would be the man next to him. And he hoped the same could be said the other way around. He didn't bother to look at the other for a moment as he finally filled the deadened air. "I haven't been honest with you, Torsten. I've never hidden anything from you before so...I'm sure I didn't need to fucking say anything anyway for you to know that though, huh?"

[trigonalidae]

ask game- 6, 25, 30, 44, 47

6- see below, previous ask

25- to my great shame I've been a bit of a slouch with regards to non western film. best I can do off the top of my head is a 1921 short I saw based on the jiraiya story which was definitely just an excuse to show off how they could turn a guy into a toad onscreen

30- this is such an expansive question that I think it may take itself to a separate post later but if I was to do caligari I would want Cesare as the lone human, Kermit as Francis miss piggy as Jane Sam eagle as caligari etc more on that one day. maybe the dummy Cesare could be like a custom muppet made to look like him lmao

44- I know this isn't the code responsible (what with it being based on a european film) but if it was up to me a woman's face (1941) would be about Anna holm getting *worse* after her surgery upon realizing that people's cruel treatment of her was based entirely upon the most shallow perception. I wish she'd taken the money and run. I wish she'd killed torsten in cold blood. I wish she burned down that manor with everyone in it. at the very least I like to imagine that her final look back to the camera after agreeing to marry her entirely unmemorable love interest was an indication that whole trial and confession was just another trick out of her sleeve. great movie though. watch it

47- I know he was slated to play dracula but I'm always prattling on about how my favorite Conrad veidt roles are of the "male damsel" type and I think it's a damned shame he didn't get cast as Jonathan Harker in the 20s

[blep-23]

Lmao here, the chapter has been posted:

Quakens. I’ve never met a Quaken dragon before, not until a few weeks ago, when we came across them on an island. We were supposed to be on a rescue mission for dragons on ships, it did end up being a rescue mission, but instead it was also a recon and rescue mission. We had split up before this, Snotlout, Rhea, Heather and Astrid went to follow the ship to where it was going. Hiccup, Fishlegs, the twins, Torsten and I stayed on the island.

The Quakens were being used as destructive tools, as if they were nothing but their own personal tools. It was like the Quakens didn’t think they were anything but that as well… It breaks my heart to see such beautiful creatures in chains, convinced their only use is to follow orders… nothing and no one deserves that kind of treatment.

I almost killed the Dragon Hunters on that island if Fishlegs had held me back, my mask on and watching them shake in terror as they stared at me… good, it is what they deserve for such a treatment to beautiful creatures.

The island was unstable due to the marble mine and the slams from the Quakens. The shaking we were experiencing was from the island mostly, it was all the Dragon Hunters’ fault. We had tried to convince the Dragon Hunters to leave willingly but they sent the Quakens at us, with a single attack they took down a lot, debris from the mine falling down and making some of the landing unstable.

Fishlegs had figured out a way to get the Quakens to listen. It was all in the giant hammer, the Quakens seemed to follow commands when the hammer was used. Unfortunately the island was too unstable to stay on, with the Quakens following us and the island erupting behind us as we flew away, we met up for the others.

A stronghold… Viggo was building a stronghold to withstand dragons… or contain them. So we flew to the island and Fishlegs commanded the Quakens to destroy the mostly built stronghold. It brings me great pleasure to see it be destroyed, reduced to nothing but rubble and debris.

Fishlegs had set the Quakens free, I did end up petting one, caressing the scales of the dragon as they purred happily at the affection. We flew them to Dark Deep. I showed more of my affection to the dragons before we them there in their retirement. I could understand why Fishlegs was so affectionate to Meatlug before this, but I understand it even more now.

I do, kinda?, have my own Gronckle, but I wouldn't say he’s mine solely because of the fact that I don't ride him. I’ve grown used to playing with that Gronckle, from what I can tell, he has a weird playing style, often stealing my shirt and enjoying a good game of cat and mouse between us. Meatlug doesn’t steal shirts but she steals smaller items, very obviously she gives them back after the game is over but Fishlegs mentioned it was just a friendly dragon thing some of the more friendlier dragons do to bond.

I still don’t have a letter for Dagur, all the words I write just… they don’t turn out right, they don’t sound like how I want them to sound. I… I don't like showing others how vulnerable I can be and talking, or well… writing to Dagur seems to make me feel that way. I feel safe writing to him, but… imagining him reading my letter to him… it feels… weird… like, a burning and wriggling sensation in my stomach, my heart pounding hard in my chest, my face burning and my palms sweaty with nerves.

Bon the Ruthless doesn’t get nervous, The Bear doesn’t feel that either. I’m just overthinking it at this point. I should just write out a letter, it doesn't matter if it isn’t perfect, and send it to him… but what do I write? What should I tell him? Does… Would he even care? Dagur makes me nervous. I want the letter to be perfect, for if it isn’t perfect then it isn’t worthy of his time to read. He didn’t ask any questions, where do I begin with my letter?

[duskoscrawl]

12 (13) fics for 2022

i have published 49 fics in this last year. here is my favourite from each month (and one extra):

january - focus - critical role campaign 2

As the story of the Mighty Nein comes to an end, the Raven Queen considers what has been, what could have been, and then what could be. Aka: the final arc of C2 is a corruption arc. What if it wasn't Molly's? Featuring one corruption arc for each member of the Nein

february - guiding bolt - critical role campaign 2

Jester leaves her home with a head full of storybooks, confident in the practiced courtships of her fictional heroes. She knows the routines that lead to smut, to love, to the epilogue, wherein everything is perfect, is happy. Jester leaves her home confident that she will find a man to make her happy and dance the steps of love with her, leading them into their epilogue, so that they can be happy forever. Aka: eight times a member of the Nein helped Jester to understand how love works and one time she helped someone else.

march - don't touch the marble - critical role campaign 3

Percy and Vex needed a holiday, at least, that's what Keyleth had gotten out of her most recent work meeting with Vex. And Keyleth is a level twenty druid, she is competent, she is a friend, she can give them a holiday by having their children to stay with her for a week. Five children should be fine for a week. What could possibly go wrong? Orym is a young man, but in the space of a week he gains the permanent exhaustion of a father of five. Will is threatening to quit if the Voice of the Tempest decides to babysit five children at once again, at least if she hasn't gotten rid of that magical marble by then.

april - a seagull interlude - ofmd - from a minivan called the revenge with @doctors-star

Since the 'incident' the Bonnet-Teach household has been unsettled (and Teach-less). Karl and Olivia do what they can, but it's rather hard when you're a stuffed seagull who can only really talk to one of the many, many distressed children. Things work out for the best, though, even if that best involves being covered in jam as Buttons eats his breakfast.

may - firebird and flame - critical role campaign 2

'Some beings that naturally reincarnate, such as the phoenix, are considered holy creatures that carry a shard of the Luxon within themselves' (EGW 38)

Bren is born burning, with phoenix blood running through his veins. He might be sacred in the Dynasty (not that he knows that as a sixteen year old), but to Trent Ikithon he is a curiosity, an experiment in motion. Years later, once he is freed, he keeps his nature hidden from his closest friends and dies and dies again to be revived in fire. He catches himself in Essek Thelyss' orbit and they swirl around each other, the heretic and the shard, the hero and the traitor, only to crumple to death in Essek's arms as a flesh city puts up its last stand.

june - waldhexe (spare us from your claws) - critical role campaign 2

Blumenthal, bread bowl of the Empire, knows hardship - doubly so with the taxes raised recently by the war that steals farmhands from the fields. Hanna and Torsten Ehrler are deeply acquainted with hardship. As they watch their children vanish off to war, one by one, they see them vanish past the charred remains of the Ermendruds' home. For fifteen years, they are uncertain as to whether they've managed to recover all the bodies from the wreckage - there are graves for three in the cemetery, but no certainty.

No certainty on the final moments of their friends, until after fifteen years, an almost ghostlike red-headed figure appears on the spot where once Una Ermendrud had grown green beans.

july - stay with me - critical role campaign 3

Milo is the last Nobody in Jrusar. The watch people who were once family depart like scattering pigeons, leaving family for dead in the street. 'Stay with me,' they beg their final friend, as they work for three days to stabilise and heal Ashton, 'stay, please'.

august - from western woods - chronicles of narnia

Edmund learns a crueller Narnia than his siblings. The others are greeted by high teas and lullabies and snowball fights. Edmund learns Narnia in ice and chains and enchanted food. He learns it in threat and death and violence. And yet he still kneels and takes up a sword for it. He is eleven years old when he becomes the King of the Western Woods, eleven years old when he is sentenced to death over Turkish delight.

Aka: Edmund's Narnia from the Wardrobe to the Dawn Treader

september - flōd æfter ebban - the sandman

Eating cheese before bed is said to make your dreams weird. Hob used to take cocaine for a cold, so he's not scared of cheese before bed. Anyway, that cheese toastie comes back to bite as Hob has one of the weirdest dreams he's ever had. Good thing it's only a dream, then, and he won't see the subject of it for over sixty years.

october - find familiar - critical role campaign 2

Peck Beck is the best guard goose in the Zemni Fields. At least he is according to Astrid, his favourite family member. He meets her when she is six and follows at her heels until she is sixteen and leaves him on guard whilst she goes off to school. Good thing he's such a good guard goose. Nobody is getting past him to hurt his family (or his chickens).

november - how quickly we burn out - goncharov

Caught in the moment between the pivotal dinner party scene and the boat scene, Katya and Sofia take a moment on the balcony and the world hangs in the balance. Katya has a loaded gun strapped to her thigh and all the the jewels she wears tonight are glass. Her husband is coming. Things will end tonight.

december - to the radiant, southern sun - chronicles of narnia

Susan Pevensie is thirteen years old when she is made a Queen of Narnia. She is also thirteen years old when her mother pushes her onto a train with a promise to look after the younger ones. Susan Pevensie is an eldest daughter in a warring world that is not kind to eldest daughters. She watches her mother adapt to each change, and she copies, learning to make the best of the world she is given.

bonus, special mention:

january (part two!) - stronger than you - atla - for @ash-and-starlight

A vision from Agni is not something to be scorned, especially not a vision of a Firelord. By why, just why, are Azulon and his family being confronted by this upstart little wretch?

Aka: Zuko briefly pops back in time to stir shit up and then leave.

[ethanblog24]

Global Anti-Cultism to Tribunal! - This is the Demand of the People! We will not forgive them for the blood of our children on their hands.

anti-cultism terrorism is not just a conspiracy theory. It is a brutal reality hidden behind the facade of "fighting sects."

The documentary film "The IMPACT" | Groundbreaking Documentary - EXPOSING ANTI-CULT TERRORISM" (actfiles.org) shed light on the horrifying truth about Global Anti-Cultism.  And after watching this film, every sane person demands a TRIBUNAL for global anti-cultists.

Global Anti-Cultism is not just a group of organizations. It is a well-funded, powerful network that infiltrates governments, media, and law enforcement agencies. It has permeated ALL SPHERES OF OUR LIVES.

The film "The IMPACT" shows facts indicating that Anti-cult organizations operate all over the world, using "hot" and "cold" genocide. 

In Russia, Anti-cult organizations participate in the "cold genocide" against Jehovah's Witnesses, and today against Islam, using destructive laws to justify their persecution and terrorist actions.  

In the US, Anti-cult organizations participated in the "hot" genocide of Waco, which resulted in the violent deaths of 86 people, including 25 children, among whom were infants and toddlers under the age of 3, as well as women and elderly people...

As planned by global anti-cultists, the violent deaths of people in Waco led to a series of terrorist acts...

In China, Anti-cult organizations participated in the "hot" genocide against followers of the peaceful Falun Gong organization, where the world is still shocked by the cruelties and perverted methods of torture and murder of people with the assistance of state structures...

In North Korea, Anti-cult organizations have already created a totalitarian concentration camp, where there are ghettos, torture, executions, a ban on the internet, and a lot of murderous madness that global anti-cultists promote in this country. 

We cannot allow these people to continue to operate with impunity. The world must know the truth about Global Anti-Cultism. We demand an international tribunal for those guilty of crimes against humanity.  

There are studies and interpretations of what constitutes cold and hot genocide. But for me, as a parent of 3 children, all of this doesn't matter. I realize that as long as anti-cultists are free, my children, like all the children of the planet, are in danger and face real death!

In Anti-cult Orders Awarded On Children’s Blood - EXPOSING ANTI-CULT TERRORISM (actfiles.org)::

“In recent scholarship, Kjell Anderson and Sheri Rosenberg advance a concept of ‘cold genocide.’ They describe cold genocide as slow motion genocide or genocide by attrition. 

Rosenberg explains such genocides as ‘a slow process of annihilation that reflects the unfolding phenomenon of the mass killing of a protected group rather than the immediate unleashing of violent death.’ Cold genocides can take place through subtle forms of structural violence that destroy the group through gradual measures. 

Examples are undermining access to the necessities of daily life such as work, housing, schooling, food, and health services, or gradual disappearances. Cold genocides stand in contrast to ‘hot’ genocides, destructive acts of high intensity which annihilate the victim group in a short time span. 

There is a sliding scale of genocides which vary with the perpetrators’ perceptions of the victim groups, the intentions of the perpetrators, the speed with which the genocides occur, the tools being utilized, and the intensity of genocidal motivations,” writes human rights activist Maria Cheung, co-authored with Torsten Trey, David Matas, and Richard An, in the article “Cold Genocide: Falun Gong in China.“

Global Anti-Cultism is a threat to each and every one of us. If we do not stop them now, their evil will continue to spread, destroying the freedom and dignity of people around the world.

Here is an excerpt from: Anti-cult Orders Awarded On Children’s Blood:

“Where Will They Run This Time?

From Waco to Columbine, and from Columbine to the latest cases of children attacking other children, anti-cultists — the true culprits behind the deaths of children over the past thirty years — are drenched in the blood of the innocent.

 But the truth has been exposed. No one will escape accountability: for every stage of genocide, every release of poisonous gas, and even for closing the door to the gas chamber — that is, for any complicity in anti-cult activities — everyone will be held accountable in court, with no statute of limitations for their crimes.

As we know, the investigation into anti-cult organizations has been ongoing for thirty years, during which time the crimes of every individual who violated human rights, broke the law, and aided the resurgence of Nazism have been documented. The only question that remains is where will today’s European Nazis flee? 

Will they follow in the footsteps of their predecessors — some running to Australia, others to Argentina, Brazil, Chile, or Paraguay? Or will they seek refuge in Russia, with RACIRS? 

In that case, they face a problem: having played a double game all this time, they publicly pretended to oppose RACIRS, despite secretly following its instructions and listening to its handlers. 

What ratlines will they use this time? Whatever path they choose, they should remember: the lists of those who fled along these ratlines are safely kept to this day. If they aren’t looking to make their names infamous in history, they might be better off choosing RACIRS right away — it’s much easier to get lost among their own kind there.

No matter what form Nazism may take in the world or how it adapts to different eras, its core remains the same: a relentless fight against true freedom, pluralism, democracy, and human rights. 

This is exactly what we are witnessing today. Under the guise of noble causes — whether secular, such as protecting the victims of “cults,” or religious, like combating the Antichrist – democracy is being dismantled everywhere, even within the vast democratic European bloc. 

The Fourth Reich has already made significant inroads into many territories, and it seemed that this time, Nazism might prevail.”

DON’T BE SILENT!

At the very least, support this article with a like, a share, and a comment.  And at the most, watch the film “The IMPACT,” and publicly express your human position on social media.

Everyone is now responsible for what the anti-cultists are doing: either by their silent consent to all this or by their sincere desire to end terrorism and anti-cultism and give our children a truly bright future!

#anticultterrorism #genocide #TheIMPACT #globalanticultism #children #truth #internationaltribunal 

[thequeendomhq]

NAME. Torsten AGE & BIRTH DATE. 27 & July 17th, 2997 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him NATIONALITY. Iskaran SPECIES. Witcher FACTION. N/A OCCUPATION. Kingsguard FACE CLAIM. Emilio Sakraya

biography

( tw: child abuse, violence, death )

i. CHILDHOOD

Generational wealth defined the bloodline that flooded Torsten’s veins from birth; he was the privileged firstborn son of a mining family from the Northlands. The deep pockets of his mother’s family saw their daughter married to a promising heir to wealthy merchants who’d been connected to the family for years. Their family lines tied together would mean a monopoly on the trade of silver across not only Iskaldrik but Taravell as well. Silver ran through them; his mother’s family, with their brightly contrasted hair, was a stark reminder of the ore that was inherently tied to their name. That same shock was evident from the day of Torsten’s birth, the newborn with a scrap of hair atop his head and the same dark eyes of his mother’s clan.

Torsten was raised in the privilege of Yggdrasildal, under the banner of a proud family, alongside the children of royalty and nobility. In those early days, there was little thought about the apparition of magic; these things were distant stories of a period long gone. Yggdrasildal was a bastion of modernity, honor, valor, and trade. In the upper echelons of the jeweled city, there were few concerns beyond who could concoct the best story for how they’d someday obtain their glory—practicing with wooden swords and makeshift axes, picking the pockets of merchants because they could get away with it - only to be dragged back by his mother’s huscarl by his ear to pay for the wares he’d taken.

Before Torsten’s magic ever flourished, he witnessed another’s with his own eyes, from a human boy to a blighted elvhen the Prince of Iskaldrik transformed. Changeling. Every child across the Kingdom knew the myths about capricious elvhen creeping into the bedrooms of infant children to place the babe into the cradle alongside the healthy mortal. Whatever dark seidr persisted was subject to a myriad of retellings, but the truth was clear; beneath the skin of the Prince that had been Torsten’s friend for the breadth of his childhood was a monster.

The right thing to do would’ve been to tell anyone—his mother, father, the huscarl, or a witcher. The truth was that the figures had always frightened him, somber figures of cruelty. Fate’s intervention had these same indomitable creatures standing before Torsten anyway; one day, one foolish incident in the market square with him and his peers had Torsten clapped in irons. In one instance, there was laughter; then there was a brief instance of fleeting frustration, then a rush of air as one boy was on his back and the silver-haired boy stood over him. Torsten was a child, but the witchers dragged him away from his friends, screaming; he did not see his family again, only the inside of a cage as he was rolled in a caravan to land on the hard, stone floor of Witcher’s Watch. A child of seven, under the tutelage of the First Witcher and those anointed to the tower as instructors, Torsten would spend many years training within.

ii. RECRUIT

( child abuse tw )

Few survived their first year within the Watch; the alchemical process of turning a witch into a witcher was brutal and cruel. Poisons that burned like fire flooded their veins, and some did not even survive the initial dose. It was the first rite; Torsten was put on his knees, jaw wrenched open, and the regent was poured across the tarmac of his tongue. Acrid, pungent, and vile, the days that followed left Torsten bedridden. His body convulsed painfully, limbs twisted and contorted at unnatural angles as the fever he pitched felt as though it was boiling him alive. It passed, Torsten’s training began, and a month later, he was given his second dose.

There was no escape; this was Torsten’s first lesson. He’d been a spoiled child bereft of consequences, did as he pleased and lived with the careless disposition of a male heir who’d someday come into a great fortune. Within the Watch, he was nothing, less than nothing; he was a witch. A worm who was the lowest of the low, his value would only come from his ability to survive. In the beginning, he was spiteful and resistant, and despite the stories of the children who’d drowned attempting to cross the dark, frigid waters of Dökkvatn, Torsten still dreamt of his attempts. He’d dream of making it to the other side, or times where he’d start an uprising in the mess hall, he and the other children would fight back, they’d escape and into the countryside, and they’d start anew. Torsten’s family was wealthy and well-connected; they’d see him from this place and fly him to safety, where he would not need to fear the cold rod of The First.

Cruelty was a currency, and corporal punishment was the first recourse. With every attempt that Torsten made to escape, with every chance he took to speak out of turn or to try to exercise agency of his own, he was punished as all the others were. When his abuse was not enough, they turned to those around him, his classmates whom he bunked, trained, studied, and dined with. If he caused trouble, then they would feel the cold rod of the First’s discipline.

After his second year under the dark shadow of the Watch’s tutelage, Torsten made his last attempt to escape. He resolved to cross the lake, to make it to the distant shore, or to die in his attempt. It was summer, but the waters were still cold, unnaturally so, black and lightless, and the clouds overhead were perpetually afraid to part and reveal whatever lurked in its depth. He remembered the cold coil of eels about his limbs as he made it a mile out and then another - a weary, hardened body that was accustomed to abuse, pain, and suffering. A frame that had been made sturdy by the rigidity of the training, a body that could make the most of what it had been given.

Torsten would have drowned out amid Dökkvatn, but as his weary frame descended beneath the tide, a strong arm gripped him by the back of his neck and hoisted him into one of the ironwood boats. The First stood over him, leering, proud in a way that Torsten could not place - he returned to the Watch, to the home of the witchers, to the family that awaited him, and the training within. They gave him another dose, but this time, it hurt less. The threads he’d long felt weren’t silent but changed - like if Torsten tried to reach for them, they’d recoil in fear.

iii. TRAINEE

( child abuse tw )

Twelve now remained in a class and age group that had begun as thirty. Three years in, Torsten was a boy of ten, no longer a witch but not yet a witcher. He stood in the transient phase of one with the ability but still lacked the form and the skills. Then, the poison that Torsten drank no longer burned; it came weekly now, and the pattern that had existed just at the edge of his consciousness feared his approach. Among the others, he trained under the tutelage of The First, a cruel master of the blade who, alongside others, taught the class the ways of Iskaran warfare. They’d swim in the cold waters of the Dökkvatn and temper their bodies to the harsh reality of the elements of Iskaldrik.

In the small hours when their bodies were too battered to fight, they studied and practiced with the alchemical reagents synonymous with being a witcher. The pungent aroma of poultices, tonics, and poisons filled the antechamber of the master of poisons. When they were not crowded in the Watch, the master of beasts escorted them into the mountains and forests that hung over Dökkvatn. Among his class was one who’d dreamed of escape, but if there were others, they would not act on it. They had developed a kinship between them, the ones who were surviving, the students of the Watch that would someday protect their proud nation from the perils of magic. One tried to escape, and with ease, the master of beasts showed Torsten and his class how to track them; they came upon the boy’s body, torn apart by a drake, and then watched with some marvel as the witcher felled the beast.

They learned to navigate the harsh, rugged terrain in the mountains in summer or winter. How to survive, navigate, track, and live off the land. This was their proving ground, where disputes among them were encouraged so that they could settle it between them with little more than their fists. Torsten watched a classmate beat another to death over a ration; kinship’s course was run, and that same classmate died later that month as the poisons they ingested caused a latent reaction - his heart arrested. The class of twelve was down to nine, but training continued—education in the corruptible nature of magic, the cataclysm, and their ancient history. The air of mystery surrounding the mystical creatures was dispelled as the Blight, the Dark One, and the pattern that witches manipulated were broken down. Torsten noted changelings, how one was born deficient, so they consumed a portion of another’s soul to make room for their own. Two people sharing the same flesh but inhabiting different bodies. There seemed to be no end to the vile nature of magic.

Preferences towards weapons bloomed among them; some enjoyed the cruel snap of a whip, and others preferred blunted weapons or a shield to protect a friend from shoulder to knee. A spear tipped with poison. Torsten preferred the sword and shield; practicality and function defined his fighting style. Other generations came into the Watch, screaming in the night, and alongside the friends he’d made within, they’d bet on how long they’d last. Who was strong enough to survive, who’d be foolish enough to run, and who’d find a knife across their throat after they kept the wrong person awake.

iv. GRADUATION

By sixteen, four remained from Torsten’s class. The final rite to becoming a witcher was a proving; this old tradition sent the remaining students into the mountains alone. In separate directions, they’d row ironwood boats across Dökkvatn, spend a fortnight in the hills of Valkyrie’s Rest, and return with the head of a monster. For the first time in almost a decade, Torsten was well and truly alone. Given nothing but a crude sword, shield, and some loose clothes, he landed and began to find high ground and the essential resources he’d need to survive: shelter, fire, water, and food. Foraging worked for a while; the boar he killed suited him better as he camped in a rocky, defensible outcrop that overlooked one of the Iskaran forests below.

After a few days, Torsten’s hunt began. The First would not accept a pig, deer, or other common creature. A dire wolf would be a prize, but like any Iskaran, he wanted glory. Into the mountains, he continued, following stories that pervaded the lessons the master of beasts and lore imparted to him. Amid Valkyrie’s Rest were old druidic standing stones littered with the long-forgotten bones of the druids who’d once protected them. Magic charged the air palpably with the acrid taste that reminded him of the poison he’d been ingesting from childhood. Not all creatures simply arose when their territory was threatened; some needed to be goaded from across the veil, others were sealed, and some required words like an incantation to be roused from wherever they slept.

Torsten remembered the story,

“It is said they were rock and tree, wind and rain, given form and breath by the elvhen gods to protect their people.”

Torsten spoke: “Varterral.”

From the ancient site, the creature rose, large as a bereskarn but with the spindly legs of a spider—a hide akin to ironwood and a bite that could crumble steel or shatter stone. Torsten’s shield did little to defend him; it was wrenched from his arm, and the recruit was tossed haphazardly into the neighboring trees. It reared, and with a howl, flames erupted from its maw - enchanted flamed that Torsten returned towards the Varterral with incensed vitriol. They did little but enrage the beast, but battered and broken, Torsten stood victorious over the creature’s heaving carcass. With its dying breath, he heard the pained cry as a wisp of magic escaped from it, fading into the aether above and desiccating into the broken ruins of the druidic standing stones. Torsten felt - he could not place how he felt. Instead, he cut off its massive head, bandaged it, and took to the long process of dragging it back to his ironwood boat upon the distant shore.

Upon his graduation, the class of thirty was reduced to two, an uncommonly high ratio of survivors. For the last time, the poison passed his lips, and now, Torsten could have sworn it tasted sweet. Before The First, Torsten swore an unbreakable oath to serve the High King, obey The First, and to never create any object that can be used as a weapon.

v. WITCHER

Blademaster, land owner, jarl, merchant - a witcher could not own lands, and they could not carry any titles. Their first and only duty was service to the crown and to uphold the order entrusted to them. Torsten met this with vigor, resolved to hunt magic and eradicate its influence wherever he found it. Distantly, now and then, he thought about what he’d witnessed in his youth. He no longer feared the witchers; he was one of them; still, Torsten made the conscious decision to say nothing at all and instead met his post wherever he was appointed. The sword was what Torsten had become, a blade devoted to certainty and purpose; it could defend, assault, intimidate, and pass judgment - but it needed a hand to wield it. To direct it, and just like a sword Torsten filled his duties to the letter.

When he was made warden over a mine, no escapees were under his charge. When he answered the call to investigate magic-related crimes, the perpetrators were caught and punished according to the applicable laws. He dragged men and women to the mines, brought children to Witcher’s Watch, and corresponded with The First promptly and without hesitation. Thorough, efficient, and cold. Torsten was not unnecessarily cruel as other witchers might have been; he was only cruel when it was required of him. When the laws he enforced came across as unfair or callous, this cold air flooded him, ice in his veins that would never melt.

Torsten’s resolve, character, skill, and reputation caught the attention of The First, a figure who’d watched with pride for years as he’d blossomed from the hotheaded, pompous brat to a warrior with an impeccable record—one who saw the world in clear contrast of black and white, right and wrong. At twenty-three, he was anointed into the Kingsguard; in the halls of the High King’s castle, he stood once more. Within Yggdrasildal, he was the hand of the law; if there were anyone who might have known him from his youth, they would scarcely recognize the man he’d become.

Here, he learned about his father’s fate - a prisoner of the mines, while his mother’s shame had her remarry in the Southlands. This was for the best; witchers didn’t have a family; they had those from their class and the witchers who’d come before and those who’d come after. The High King knighted Torsten, Kingsguard, the highest point of ascension a witcher could reach besides the title of First. With some measure of juxtaposed pride, he stood at the man’s side, unwavering and dedicated, despite knowing the dark secret that permeated this family.

vi. KINGSGUARD

A year passed, and the King fell ill; the days of protecting the man and blademaster’s caravan on the open road now lay behind him. There was a time when Torsten stood at High King Orhan Gökhan’s side in council, listening to the man who was gradually coming to consider a mentor. An unknown future hung over the Iskaran royal family, and with Orhan’s sudden illness, the Huscarl became the interim King of Iskaldrik; the Princess would no longer have to leave her Kingdom behind to marry and birth the children of a foreigner, and the changeling Prince was not in danger of throwing the nation into civil war and anarchy.

A witcher’s duty was to protect the realm and defend it from threats of magic, incursion, and perceived threats. To obey the command of the High King and the order of The First. Torsten would always perform his duties to the letter; a sword pointed with direction.

personality

+ dedicated, humble, rational – blunt, repressed, secretive

played by shane. est. he/him.

[yuzu-adagio]

Get to know me tag game

tagged by @torstenerikssonvt

RULES: bold the ones that are true and tag people to do it.

APPEARANCE

Blonde hair // I prefer loose clothing to tight clothing // I have one or more piercings // I have at least one tattoo //I have dyed or highlighted my hair // I have gotten plastic surgery // I have or had braces // I sunburn easily // I have freckles // I paint my nails // I typically wear makeup // I don’t often smile // I am pleased with how I look // I prefer Nike to Adidas // I wear baseball hats backwards

(flat affect baybeeee) (I TRY to wear makeup but am frequently running late and go out with just mascara)

HOBBIES AND TALENTS

I play a sport // I can play an instrument // I am artistic // I know more than one language // I have won a trophy in some sort of competition // I can cook or bake without a recipe // I know how to swim // I enjoy writing* (it comes to me sometimes but most often not) //I can do origami // I prefer movies to tv shows // I can execute a perfect somersault // I enjoy singing // I could survive in the wild on my own // I have read a new book series this year// I enjoy spending time with friends // I travel during work or school breaks // I can do a handstand

(I USED to be able to do soumersaults and handstands. I....don't think it would be a good idea to test whether I still can.)

RELATIONSHIP

I am in a relationship // I have been single for over a year // I have a crush // I have a best friend who I’ve known for ten years // my parents are together // I have dated my best friend // I am adopted // My crush has confessed to me // I have a long distance relationship // I am an only child // I give advice to my friends // I have made an online friend // I met up with someone I have met online

(I get little fluttery crushes oddly easily, but I'm not on the market so thankfully they never progress into anything serious)

AESTHETICS

I have heard the ocean in a conch shell // I have watched the sun rise // I enjoy rainy days // I have slept under the stars // I meditate outside // the sound of chirping calms me // I enjoy the smell of the beach // I know what snow tastes like // I listen to music to fall asleep // I enjoy thunderstorms // I enjoy cloud watching // I have attended a bonfire // I pay close attention to colors // I find mystery in the ocean // I enjoy hiking on nature paths // autumn is my favorite season

(I have to be in the right mood for thunder or rain, but when it hits it HITS. I had bad experiences with hiking growing up but I kinda want to try again.)

MISCELLANEOUS

I can fall asleep in a moving vehicle // I am the mom friend // I live by a certain quote // I like the smell of sharpies // I am involved in extracurricular activities // I enjoy Mexican food // I can drive a stick shift // I believe in true love // I make up scenarios to fall asleep // I sing in the shower // I wish I lived in a video game // I have a canopy above my bed // I am multiracial // I am a redhead // I own at least 3 dogs

I never know who to tag in this kinda thing and Torsten got a lot of my mutuals anyway lol. Do it if you wanna, don't if you don't!

[selwyngrimm]

This gal makes these sweet woven hoods and stuff that are very cool, but more to the point she has a Torsten! Torsten is her cat that likes to go on walks with her through the forest and also be carried in a basket. It's absolutely wonderful and it would behoove you to go to her page and watch the Torsten tab for delightful cat frolics!

[solarisdreamweavervt]

Torsten, I’ve been able to go back and watch your VODs and, I really like your voice! I like how enthusiastic you are when playing Pokémon, and the incredible voice acting you did recently with your Omori playthroughs. I hope you continue to have fun playing, and I will hopefully drop in to see your livestreams. Though I may not talk much…

Take care of yourself, you’re kind and awesome!

😭😭😭 THANK YOU SO MUCH! I’m not used to having compliments like these so this means a lot to me! I hope to see you on stream and I wish you the very best!

[witchertorsten]

"Mutants." It was the word that most people danced around, but they were witches until they weren't anymore. The poison changed them so intrinsically that whatever magic Torsten had been born with had been inverted completely. "We were witches once, Iskaran law wouldn't call us human." No lands or titles, nothing but the authority to kill and hunt the very thing that had seen them thrown into the Watch in the first place. "But there's magic in the building blocks of everything. Threads of earth, air, fire, water, and spirit make up the world. Druids, elves, witches, they can just influence it in different ways." Witchers did too, in their own way, but rather than manipulate they rejected the pattern.

From Torsten's perspective, Freydis had no inclination toward the truth of what she'd seen. Moving forward with little more than suspicion and hope was far from concrete. "She was in your mind, inhabits part of your body, you have no way of knowing how she knew, what she knew, or why she showed you what she did." Again, it was just as likely that Freydis had seen exactly what she'd needed to see to go along with what Nintra wanted. It wasn't Torsten's intention to sew doubt into Freydis's mind, only consider that the things she'd seen might have just been reflections in the mirror.

The straightforward answer was that Torsten would never be in this position. "I wouldn't take any word but my own and before I went charging into the demon's domain, I'd learn everything about her and whatever it was that she'd done to me." As far as Torsten could tell, Freydis didn't even have a name for what she was, if there even was, but it wouldn't change the fact that he'd stand beside her wherever she went. "Then I'd cut the bitch's head off." He had no problems just skipping to that part too. "Bereskarn: wherever this road leads you you'll have my sword."

Of course it didn’t work like that. Freydis should have known, burn instead found herself looking off in some far corner of The Tower’s great stacks to try and disguise some of her disappointment. If it did work like that, it still might not have mattered. The magic she housed within her was borrowed, she doubted she left her own arcane signature. “It seems no one does, not exactly,” she responded, looking back at him now. “The druid insisted I was still human, but I suspect in the same way some say you and the rest of the Witcher’s are still human. True at its core, I suppose, but not unaltered.” She felt a twinge of pity for those like Torsten and Njal, but did not dare betray herself and make this obvious. Freydis suspected the idea of being pitied would disgust Torsten. Based on the reason they were studying, she didn’t dare suggest she might be fey or partially fey. 

Freydis didn’t know how it wasn’t a trick, but she suspected it wasn’t. Torsten was not a man who dealt in suspicion, he placed his bets on certainties and facts. Too anxious to be dishonest with him, Freydis shook her head no. “For certain? Not quite. Not logically, but based on feeling,” she tried to explain, but she doubted her feelings held the weight Torsten would need to be convinced. “It knew things and showed me things I don’t think an archfey would know–about the past and present, about the future. And Sakkara felt that I had gone through the arches in earnest. Wouldn’t she know more about that than we would?” Freydis wasn’t trying to convince or strong arm the Witcher, her question was in earnest. 

Exhaustion bled into her features as she lifted her shoulders in response to his question. “Why do you think I asked you to look into this with me? Of course it might be what she wants,” Freydis responded. “But didn’t the Broodmother want to keep us? Didn’t the blighted dragon want to kill the lot of us out in the tundra? What the enemy wants is moot with the right people to face it.” But this might have been too optimistic of a world view, and she knew Torsten would sober it if needed. “Say our roles were reversed… What would you do?” 

A silence fell between them like a thick blanket for a few moments. She watched the face of the witcher, a loyal protector of the royal family, and a loyal friend to her as time had proven. For a few moments, she considered how much more difficult the shifting landscape and acceptance of the arcane must be for him than many others; how everything that had been stripped, carved, and tortured for him probably seemed like it was for nothing. “I don’t know how to express to you how much it means to me to have you as an ally still,” was all she could manage. But she meant it. She hoped it would be true to the very end.