#before the rune of death was plucked out)

[swallowtail-ageha]

Melina as the geq save me melina as the geq

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

You know what I love? Flavour text on my items!

So here's some BG3 flavour text I found for Aylin's, Isobel's, and Ketheric's items, many of which are not lootable in-game - and some of which the characters themselves aren't seen wearing. I've had this lying around for a while, but now the toolset has given me a simple way to pluck out some neat "loot" visuals to go with the words. I'm going to list their names as they appear in the files, as well as include the non-unique descriptions some of them have (when they simply inherited from the template of another item of an appropriate type).

Aylin

Nightsong's Armour

Nightsong's armour is evocative of her personality - prickly, hardy, and about as agreeable as a clenched fist.

Nightsong Helmet

The Dame's resentment and anger toward Ketheric cannot be overstated. Still, her dreams rove sweeter corners, beyond the cruel hardwood floors of vengeance, the rooms of pain and discipline. Hers is a complex house, a house of the heart.

Nightsong Boots

Scratched in places, scorched in others, and worn thin at the heel, these boots bear the indelible marks of experience. (Metallic Boots default text)

Nightsong Gloves

Made from steel hammered thin, these gauntlets are a fine investment for any warrior. (Metallic Gloves default text)

Isobel

Moon Devotion Robe

A memory from her childhood: a warm bed. Through the cracked window, she could see the moonlight cupping the plums in the tree as if in silver hands. The name of the goddess Selûne came to her, and never left.

Isobel's Boots

Isobel's boots are haphazardly repaired, and have a humble snug fit for the wearer, snug as strong faith in the chest of a religious devotee.

Jhannyl's Gloves

(Left image is Isobel's actual visible gloves which don't have a "loot" equivalent, right is the visual for the ones that she actually has in her inventory)

Divine runes accentuate the finger pads. While not a religious sect, the Harpers do not demand the occlusion of religion in their members.

Isobel Headwear

She prayed for words and received silence. She prayed for intimacy and slept alone. She prayed for fruit and ate charcoal. She prayed for death and wanted to live. Then she grew older, and received things she'd wanted. Still she prayed.

Isobel's Circlet

Provides its wearer a touch of elegance but no additional protection. (Circlet default text)

Ketheric

Reaper's Embrace

Heavy steel bones and teeth enclose the armour's chest and neck like a grotesque exoskeleton that both swallows and protects the wearer.

Ketheric Circlet

Grants the wearer an austere presence, but no magical benefit. (Circlet default text)

Ketheric Circlet B

In his youth, Ketheric Thorm has the same puzzled, ever-curious brow belonging to any kid. Lamentable, that the brow this circlet adorned warped with tragedy and a sick determination over time.

Ketheric's Boots

Scratched in places, scorched in others, and worn thin at the heel, these boots bear the indelible marks of experience. (Metallic Boots default text)

Ketheric's Gloves

Not linked to any description and no "loot" visual I could find, but they're neat and have more little skeletons on them, so here they are.

Ketheric Cloak

Woven of heavy wool, this cloak is solid of make if somewhat stiff to wear. (Cloak default text)

Ketheric's Shield

In the theatre of dreams, Ketheric killed his wife every night. That wasn't how things happened... but always upon waking, he would glare into the dark, long-faced and solemn, and he would think: 'I keep you alive with my memories, beloved. I kill you with what I've become.'

Ketheric's Warhammer

This hammer's weight is centred on enchanted obsidian at the base of the head. Some nights before bed, Ketheric would sneak a whey-faced glance at the hammer, and think about the stone, and wonder what unknown facet of his heart bore his weight.

[daechwitatamic]

Of Ruin: Chapter 11

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! ����

//

Section Warnings: language, tense situations with dangerous vampires, kissing, the precarious presence of fangs lol wc: 4.7k

You’ve never seen transportation like that which will take you to Scores’ territory, the region called Lucrotio. From the outside, it seems like a longer version of a carriage, pulled by a dozen amarisca, all pawing the ground and tossing their manes as they wait to run. Inside seems more like a luxury train car - thick drapes around the windows, plush carpeting, comfortable chairs that seem like they could have been plucked out of a sitting room.

There’s no one on board yet when Satuel and Dansoo accompany you and Namjoon inside.

“Where should we sit?” you ask.

“Wherever you’re comfortable,” Satuel tells you.

You and Namjoon settle into two seats with a small, round table between them. As Satuel and Dansoo settle in - one in the rear and one in the front of the coach - Namjoon begins to quietly go over with you what he’ll be looking for in the archives.

Despite the early hour, the sun not yet peaking over the horizon, the bruise-colored sky still littered with stars, you listen attentively. It boils down to the end-of-life intention you’d found in the curse; death magic is technically an elemental magic, and Namjoon is optimistic he’ll be able to find something useful, some clues to how to combat this thread of intention without having to end anyone’s life.

You both fall into silence when Prince Taehyung climbs inside the coach, followed by three of his personal guards, and the young Infracti he’d introduced to you as his best friend, Jimin.

“You’re still here, I see,” Jimin greets you, something mischievous in his glinting smile. “Well done.”

“So it seems,” you say tightly.

Should you trust Prince Taehyung’s best friend? Probably. Should you trust his hand-picked guard? Probably yes to that, too. But you can’t help feel on edge as the coach shudders into motion.

It’s silent in the coach at first. Namjoon seems to be done explaining his research theories with you, and you both look out the window at Infracticus passing by. The last time you passed through, in a smaller carriage, had been in the dead of night as they’d smuggled you in.

Curious, that the prince has no qualms bringing you along today, in plain sight of the Scores. You make a mental note to ask about it later, when you’re not surrounded by Infracti you don’t know at all.

You watch the sky turn from nearly black to violet, finally settling into a periwinkle as the sun rises high enough above the distant treeline to be visible from your window.

The landscape takes your breath away. You watch it rapturously, trying to drink in every stream, every knoll, every flowering field. You want to commit it all to memory; you want to forget that eventually you will have to leave it behind.

After some time, you feel the weight of eyes on you, and you sit back. You meet Prince Taehyung’s gaze in his reflection in the window. You hold his gaze that way, feeling bolder than ever before - maybe because to everyone else, you could still be staring out the window. Maybe because you aren’t looking directly at him - like the sun, it’s too strong that way.

Whatever it is that emboldens you, it doesn’t matter. You hold his gaze and wonder what you see in it. Ever since your last attempt to cure him, the attempt that almost took you out with it, something seems to have shifted between you. The looks you share are heavier, weighty meaning behind each small touch, each exchange of words hiding truer meaning like flower petals slipped between books pages, pressed and saved for later.

Each time you’d come up against these kinds of thoughts, you’d stopped yourself, told yourself it couldn’t mean anything, couldn’t amount to anything.

And yet.

Perhaps you ought to let Prince Taehyung speak for himself. Perhaps you both ought to speak freely, for the first time since meeting.

Something about him watching you through the reflection feels intimate, and you warm under his gaze. You wish you were alone with him. You wish you could ask him to take you to his private stable, maybe even back to his little hideaway island. Somewhere you could ask him what that look means. Somewhere you could ask him if you’re crazy for wondering.

You’re not and you can’t, so you keep your eyes on the window in silence, until at some point your eyelids grow heavy and you lapse into fitful sleep.

It’s Namjoon who wakes you, shaking your knee.

“We’re at the archives,” he says quietly as you slide your eyes open, casting a look around the coach to see what’s happening. The building outside is tall, so tall that you can’t see the top of it from your side of the coach.

You catch Namjoon’s sleeve as he stands. “Are you sure you’re okay going without me?” you ask quietly. You know that everyone else can still hear you, since they’re all Infracti, but you try to be quiet anyway, to give the semblance of privacy if nothing else. “I’ll go with you, you know. Just tell me.”

The smile he gives you is warm and understanding. He knows what you’re offering, what you’re willing to give up, and his smile tells you it’s appreciated.

“Satuel and Dansoo are staying with me,” he says. “I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. You’re keeping him safe - who’s keeping you safe?”

“I think it’s gonna be a kind of mutual thing,” you say lightly. But, probably, it’s kind of true.

He gives you a long look. “Be careful,” he says finally, before following your two guards out of the coach and into the street.

You expect the coach to rumble back into motion, and you look around in confusion when it doesn’t.

Prince Taehyung has risen, stretching lithely like a cat. Then, wordlessly, he picks up two bundles of fabric and tosses one to you. Surprised, you fumble to catch it, causing the ball to unravel in your hands, revealing one of the hooded cloaks that you’ve worn a few times in your stay here.

You look at him in confusion.

“You and I are going on foot,” he tells you, swishing the cloak around his back and tugging the hood up and over his head, obscuring his dark curls. “The guards will follow at a bit of a distance. The coach will gather too much attention - I don’t want to be recognized on our way there.”

“Where are we going?” you ask, mostly just curious, as you don your own cloak, pulling the hood up and over your forehead.

“A tavern,” he tells you, shooting you a sideways smile.

“A tavern?” you echo as you follow him out into the street. Beneath your feet, the road is cobblestone, the buildings around you thatched like you’ve stepped into feudal Europe instead of an Infracti city. “Are we going to drink?”

He doesn’t respond to this, instead starting to head down the alley beside the archives building that Namjoon must be inside. You follow at a clip, burning with curiosity. The guards fall back, but Jimin - in his own cloak - brings up the rear.

“I might,” Jimin quips, and Prince Taehyung turns to shoot him a dark look over his shoulder.

“No, we’re not,” Prince Taehyung says firmly. “And you shouldn’t either. We’re going to meet someone.”

“Who?” you ask. You can’t help it - you hate being left in the dark, hate finding everything out as it happens.

Prince Taehyung sighs, turning back to look where he’s going. He leads across another cobblestone street and down another narrow alley. You don’t see another soul as you walk. Above you, white clouds float lazily through the purple sky, and you can hear what sounds like bird calls.

“We’re meeting with Seokjin,” Prince Taehyung says tightly, as if that means anything to you. Needless to say, it does not.

“If the wars had gone differently,” Jimin says, suddenly at your elbow, his voice quiet, “Seokjin would have been prince. He’s the Taehyung of the Scores, essentially.”

Something in your stomach turns to ice, and you will your feet to keep following the prince. “Is that… safe?”

Jimin shoots you a look that seems to say, you already know the answer to that. Out loud, he says, “Why do you think Taehyung wanted his little witch to stay close? The Scores don’t have as much natural magical ability - you should be able to send them running, if it comes to that.”

You wish you had half of his confidence in you.

“It won’t come to that,” Taehyung assures you, without turning.

The tavern blends in with the stone buildings around it. You only know you’ve arrived when Prince Taehyung stops walking and grasps the doorknob. You look up and see a hanging sign above the door, touting no name but a picture of beer steins.

You wonder if they even serve beer here - could you order a lager, or just type O?

Prince Taehyung pauses, his hand lingering on the door, and faces you. “Your presence will draw some attention,” he warns you. “Don’t look at anyone until we’re at our table. I promise - Jimin and I won’t let anyone touch you.”

You nod, suddenly too nervous to speak. As soon as you’re through the door, you feel his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in tight against his firm frame. Jimin sidles up to your other side, effectively flanking you.

The noise hits you first; as your eyes adjust you see that the tavern is packed with people wall to wall. The noise of conversation, glasses clinking, vague musical noises in the background - it all washes together into a dull roar.

It’s dark inside, and the Infracti with you leave their hoods up so you do as well. It’s true that the Infracti at the tables you pass notice you - either they smell you, or they hear your human heart pounding - but as soon as they see the arm around your shoulders they seem to lose interest; you’re not an easy target if they have to fight for you.

Guiding you through the crowd, Taehyung leads you to a table, and the closer you get, you suddenly realize there are two Infracti seated there; it was like they were rendered invisible until you got close enough - or until they decided to reveal themselves.

The two men at the table are beautiful, with glistening black eyes and dark hair, flawless skin, and wolfish smiles. The broader of the two leans back in his seat when he notices you. He looks quickly to the prince, that wolfish smile turning suddenly sharper.

“You didn’t say it was B-Y-O,” he says, one side of his mouth curling up in mirth. “Jungkook and I would have brought a snack, too.”

“Watch yourself,” Taehyung snaps, eyes narrowing. You notice he’s let them go black - outside, they’d looked human, deep and brown. The only time you’ve seen them like this, in their natural state, was when he was under the effects of the curse. You shudder, and the Infracti watching you - Seokjin, you assume - smiles even wider at this.

Beside you, Jimin lifts his chin just slightly. “I wouldn’t try snacking on this one,” he warns, his sweet voice coming out cool and unbothered. “She put a hole in the palace walls last time someone tried.”

Seokjin raises a brow, clearly still amused with himself, but curious.

Prince Taehyung opts not to explain who you are or what you’re there for. You stay silent, hoping the hood creates enough shadow to really obscure your face. Let them wonder about you. Let them wonder what you can do.

“So,” Seokjin says finally. “I suppose you asked me here to talk about the fires.”

Brave of him, you think, or maybe stupid, to just say it like that. But, to your surprise, Taehyung shakes his head no, and sits in one of the empty chairs around the table. Jimin follows, so you do, too.

“Not quite,” Prince Taehyung says, something resigned in his voice. “Though I certainly didn’t appreciate that.”

Seokjin and Jungkook just watch him, wait him out, faces impassive.

Taehyung sighs, pushes his hood back just a bit, enough that his face is visible. He looks around the table imploringly. “I’m not here on the crown’s business,” he admits. “I’m here as your friend.”

Seokjin stares him down, but after a tense moment, he seems to break, his shoulders losing some of their tightness.

“My friend,” he muses. “What could my friend Taehyung want to talk to me about?”

You watch as the prince casts a look around the room. When he determines that no one is paying your table any attention and that the noise level is high enough to cover this conversation well, he says, “It’s about my father. About what your family, and the Cleaves, have accused him of.”

“We didn’t accuse your father,” the slighter Infracti, Jungkook, points out petulantly. “We accused you - all of you. The Runes, at large.”

Seokjin waves a hand at him, effectively silencing him. He eyes Taehyung with clear interest, as if this conversation is going nowhere near where he’d thought it would, but he’s pleased with the twist.

“Come to deny it?” Seokjin asks lightly, but it doesn’t seem like he means it.

“On the contrary.”

Taehyung is always a vision, unearthly beautiful, striking and intense. But when he levels a look at Seokjin, eyes flashing, jaw jutting slightly in determination, something goes through you like lightning.

Taehyung shakes his head, once, tightly, black curls swinging above his brow. “I’m here to discuss what we should do about it.”

—

Seokjin folds his arms over his chest, looks sideways at Jungkook. They seem to have a silent conversation, at the end of which Seokjin’s frown deepens. He looks at Taehyung seriously, then glances at you and Jimin, as if you include you in his displeasure.

“Since you’re here as my friend,” he says, a touch of sneer on the word, “then consider it a kindness between friends when I tell you that I don’t trust you.”

Your heart sinks, but if Taehyung is disappointed, he doesn’t show it.

“I wouldn’t either, in your position,” Taehyung admits.

Seokjin shakes his head. “Your father won’t hand over control of the kingdom, not now, when things are already fragile.”

“Then help me make them less fragile,” Taehyung says intently, leaning forward. “Back down. Call off the Scores. Get the court families back in line.”

Seokjin’s eyebrows shoot up, quick as a flash, and beside him Jungkook lets out an indignant breath of a laugh.

“Even if I fully believed you,” Seokjin says slowly, as if explaining a complicated concept to a child, “even if I thought Taehyung will be true to his word, even if I thought you had a solid plan for after - which, I don’t - none of that is up to me. I can’t call anyone off.”

“You can,” Jimin says, palms flat on the sticky tavern table. “You can and you know it; maybe not officially, but we all know how much sway you have. Your people will do as you say - they’ll do as you do.”

“So you want me to say what, exactly?” Seokjin tilts his head to the side. “That there’s a plan to overth-”

“That isn’t the plan,” Taehyung bites out, and Seokjin stops mid-word, the first sign of deference he’s shown this whole time. “The transfer will be willing, you just have to trust me to handle that part. What I need you to say is, perhaps, don’t attack the palace, or even maybe tonight your family should attend dinner at court.”

Jungkook leans in, shoulder to shoulder with Jimin. “Let’s say we do,” he says, eyes glinting. “Then what?”

“Transfer of power,” Taehyung says, much more quietly, his lips barely moving. “Then, justice. Change.”

Seokjin purses his lips. “Those are big promises, Taehyung. I’m not sure I can really cash them in when all is said and done.”

“My father will see justice,” Taehyung says, his deep voice firm and cool.

“And then?”

“And then we’ll build something better.”

“That’s the part I find hardest to believe.”

“What’s the alternative?” Taehyung demands, frustrated. “The Scores stay powerless? Or worse, another thousand years of war, fighting for the throne? We know how that story goes - someone will win, someone will rule… until another family tires of it, and the cycle begins again. If we do this my way… it never happens like that again.”

Seokjin lets out a deep breath, but it seems to indicate that he’s listening, that he’s considering, even if he isn’t fully convinced. He turns to you, which is so surprising that you barely register the question he levels at you.

“What about you, venefici?” he asks, and it both startles and pleases you that he’s clocked you as a magic-wielder without being told. “What do you think about His Majesty’s plan?”

He asks it with a bite, a bit sarcastically, but you press your lips together, considering.

You look at Taehyung, who looks back at you impassively. He hadn’t talked to you about his plan before now. It is as new to you as it is to the Scores at the table.

“I believe him - I believe that he’ll try,” you answer, your eyes still on the prince. You’re not sure what you expect to see - gratitude, maybe - but his face remains as unreadable as stone. You remember the day that Taehyung brought you to his little island, had talked to you about his guilt and grief after the curse had led him to violence. “I believe that he’ll seek justice. And I believe that he’ll try to create a better way forward.”

“Try,” Seokjin echoes. His arms are still crossed over his chest defensively. “Do you think he can succeed?”

You’re not sure why he’s asking you - someone from the human world, the person at the table with the least experience with Infracticus and the ancient politics.

You meet his gaze anyway, and tell the truth. “Not alone,” you say, trying to emulate the even way you’ve seen Taehyung speak when he’s making a tricky argument. “That’s why we need you - now, and after.”

Everyone is quiet for a long time. Seokjin and Jungkook exchange another look, another silent conversation. Taehyung and Jimin do the same. You watch Taehyung, only Taehyung. Your magic can feel his, has gotten acquainted with it, and you can feel it thrumming, telling of his nervousness.

Finally, Seokjin purses his full lips. “I’ve known you a long time,” he says finally. “I know you mean well - I know you want what you say you want. I’m just not confident we’ll see it through. I’ll do what I can on my end, and if the power transfers to you… let’s talk again.”

“When the crown passes to me,” Taehyung says, something dark simmering behind his words, “I’ll send for you.”

You’re not sure how they communicated that this little meeting is over, but everyone but you rises to stand, so you hurry in suit.

“As an act of good faith I’ll tell you,” Seokjin says, and then leans very close to Taehyung’s still-hooded head, “don’t take the main road home tonight.”

Outside, the sun has slipped towards the treeline, indicating late afternoon. Seokjin and Jungkook vanish - solidifying your theory that they can control their visibility, and Taehyung and Jimin lead you swiftly around a corner and into a dim alley, their hoods still drawn.

Immediately, they begin to gameplan a new way home.

“We should send the coach back the way we came,” Taehyung reasons. “They’ll see it go that way, they’ll be prepared to attack and won’t watch the back roads as closely.”

Jimin nods seriously. “Send me with one of the guards,” he says. “If we’re stopped, they’ll find no one that they’re interested in. I’m sure we won’t have to fight.”

Your stomach twists as you understand the plan. You’re hardly close with Jimin, but you’re immediately nervous for him. And for yourself.

“And the rest of us?” you can’t help but ask.

Jimin and Taehyung look at each other seriously.

“I’ll send you with two,” Taehyung says decisively. “Then we can send back Satuel, Dansoo, and the human in a carriage on the western bank. We’ll take the two remaining guards and take a carriage up the eastern side a bit later.”

You gather that you’re included in the we, that you’ll be staying with Taehyung.

Jimin nods curtly, then clasps one of Taehyung’s hands in a firm handshake, leaning in close in some semblance of a quick hug. He gives you a quick nod and peels off back to the road the tavern sat on. As he leaves, one of the three guards who had ridden in with you appears out of nowhere to tail him.

“Come,” Taehyung says, holding a hand out for you to take. “We’ll go commandeer a carriage.”

As you often find, here in Infracticus, you just have to trust him, and you follow him deeper down the alley. You walk through town this way, hoods up, ducking into alleys, until you emerge on the far side, near a lazy stream. You can see, further upstream, a few water wheels turning slowly with the water’s movement.

Taehyung leads you to a stable, where a carriage sits on the cobblestones, two deep green amarisca already hitched to the front. Apparently, one of Taehyung’s guards beat you here and put in the request.

Taehyung helps you into the carriage and closes the door, untying the woven curtains and tugging them to cover the windows. You hadn’t seen a single employee of the stable, and your stomach twists with nerves again.

Taehyung removes his hood, but leaves the cloak on, so you do the same.

“One of my guards went to tell Dansoo and Satuel what happened,” Taehyung explains quietly, turning to face you. “So, we can’t leave until he returns.”

You nod in understanding. “I’m sorry that didn’t go as well as you’d planned,” you say, thinking of Seokjin’s cold expression as he’d heard Taehyung’s ideas.

To your surprise, Taehyung cracks a smile. “Are you kidding?” he asks. “I expected him to try to fight me - that’s why I brought you to put up your walls. That went way better than I’d hoped.”

You must look bewildered, because he laughs a bit at your expression.

“Infracticus has always been ruled the same way, even when different families had power, thousands and thousands of years ago,” he explains. “I didn’t expect anyone to trust my plan immediately. But I think he’ll come around - the fact that he’s willing to hear me out is huge.”

“Well,” you say slowly, “good, then. I’m glad. It’s a good plan, Maiesti. I want to help you make it happen.”

“You already have,” he says seriously. He reaches across the plush carriage seat and takes your hand, his touch cool and soothing. “I wanted to thank you. For today - for supporting me in there - but also, for this whole time.”

You feel your face heat, and you look away, watching your hand, small in his, instead of his face. “Of course,” you demure. “I’m just doing my job.”

You expect this statement to act as a splash of cold water, to deter Taehyung from the intense way his eyes - human again, now that he’s in the carriage with you - roam your face. It doesn’t; he pushes on.

“You continue to surprise me,” he admits. “Even when I think I’ve seen the true measure of you - you surprise me again and again.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. It just slips out.

He smiles, head shaking a little. “Your talent shocks me,” he says, “but it’s more than that. Your bravery - your unwillingness to back down. You’ve faced so many frightening things, I keep expecting each one to be the one that sends you packing, back to your home. But you never go. You stare down each new threat, and you dare it to try you. I’m amazed every time.”

You try to smile, embarrassed. “People say brave and foolish are two sides of the same coin.”

He shakes his head. “I’m foolish. You’re… incredible.”

His eyes are on you, and you bite your bottom lip, looking up at him through your lashes. This is an Infracti, a powerful one, a magic-wielder like you; this is a ruler, a crown prince of a land you don’t belong to; this is a man so beautiful and charming that you feel dumpy and awkward in his presence. And somehow, he is looking at you with something akin to admiration.

“What you’re doing… what you’re trying to do… is very brave, too,” you whisper.

“It’s selfish of me,” he says, voice also near a whisper, although you’re quite alone here, “but I really want you to be here, to help me see it through.”

God.

Is that an actual invitation to stay?

He shifts closer, just slightly, and your body mimics his. He’s still holding your hand, you realize.

“You’d make a hell of a Queen,” he murmurs, leaning closer. Your eyes fall to his mouth, finding the little freckle on the edge of his beautiful, bottom lip.

Could you kiss him? What would it be like - to have his lips on yours?

“I think I might like that,” you whisper back, raising your eyes back to his and leaning to fill the space between you.

His mouth on yours is cool and tentative, gentle. You lean closer, pressing your mouth more firmly against his, trying - already - to have more of him. He smiles against your mouth, lips quirking, and then he kisses you again, more insistently, dropping his hold on your hand to rest a chilly palm against your cheek instead.

You’d wondered if kissing someone with fangs would be different, or challenging, but he must have them tucked away, because when he licks into your mouth they aren’t there at all. His fingers twitch where they rest near your jaw as you bunch his white shirt in your fist, trying to pull yourself closer as you open for him.

He shifts, leaning up and over you, sending you laying back against the carriage door behind you, your head finding the window with a dull thud. Neither of you cares, kissing more frantically now, hungry, mouths moving together as you taste him, as you pull him over top of you.

He holds himself up over you, one arm snaking under your back to pull your torso flush against his as he devours your mouth. You clutch at his upper back, half to help hold yourself up, half to feel the muscles move there as he shifts. His spare hand caresses your waist, then slowly explores its way up, skating over your ribs, climbing higher and higher.

He breaks the kiss, both of you panting heavily, and then he attaches his mouth to the warm skin of your neck, tongue laving as he traces a path, chasing your pulse. You close your eyes and whine, low, the feeling of him washing over you like a rising tide.

And then, something sharp, tracing a line up your throat so lightly that it tickles. Your eyes fly open, your hands tighten on his back, your body suddenly screaming with adrenaline. Those are his fangs teasing your carotid artery.

“I won’t,” he promises, ragged, sounding half-broken. He nuzzles his nose against the spot, breathing deeply. “I won’t, but god,” he gasps, before placing a closed-mouth kiss against the same place. Your pulse thunders, but you loosen your grip on his shoulders.

He pulls himself away from the temptation, presses a hard, lingering kiss to your lips again, and then sits back, breathing heavily. You sit up, too, readjusting and trying to get yourself under control.

He smiles at you sideways, shy and playful, as he tugs his shirt back into place from its rumpled state.

“Like I said,” he teases. “Brave.”

“Like I said,” you shoot back, but your heart is singing singing singing and you’re sure he can hear it. “Foolish.”

<- Prev | Next ->

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEY DID THE THING!!!!!!!!!!!!! lots more to come!! thanks for reading!!

[liminalpebble]

Between the Lines, Chapter 2

Masterlist

Summary: The exchange of concubines amongst the noble houses of Asgard is nothing new to the royal family, however, it is to Asgard's solitary younger prince. Since Loki had always openly declared the tradition barbaric and loathsome, he shocks the court to its core when he changes his mind.

The trickster had yet another surprise in store when he selected you, a librarian from a noble house to occupy his bed.

You're stunned, intimidated, even afraid, of the sly second prince, but you know as well as anyone that to deny a royal decree is to court death.

And so you go, only to find that this mysterious man is not at all what you expected.

Pairing: Femme reader x Loki Pre-Thor 1 AU

CW: Allusions to sexual slavery dubcon/noncon within the society. Power imbalance. Eventual smut with questionable consent. Minors DNI.

AN: This will be a multi-parter but not a particularly long one, so if I leave you hanging between chapters, I promise it won't be particularly long before it all comes together.

Chapter 2

“Come. It will be a long night, and we have so much to learn.”

He takes your hand firmly, but delicately, as if leading you to a ballroom for a waltz. The tenderness of it catches you off guard. You expected to be yanked over to his bed and ravished, left with bruises, and disposed of. That's what everyone told you to expect.

Instead, he guides you through lavish double doors to what appears to be his personal library. You crane your neck up, straining to see the top of the high, dark shelves and rolling ladders, all intricately carved with braided motifs, interwoven with mysterious runes and imagery. You have the dizzying sense that this room is centuries older than you, possibly even older than the god beside you. A stained glass skylight (a mandala of daggers) drenches the large parlor with eerie, icy moonlight. It tangles with the warm glow of the candles below in swirls of subtle blue and gold.

Loki feels his heart thaw ever so slightly at your glowing innocent wonder; the pure love and reverence in your eyes for those tomes, for the history of beings telling each other stories and truths, fantastical or factual...of people reading to know they are not alone. People, like you and him, who so often felt alone, who felt the painful singularity of your existence like a needle through the heart.

He smiles with furtive satisfaction. Oh yes. He has done very well to pluck this librarian from her life, like a flower from a secret garden of rarities. He watches as you walked in small uncertain steps, trance-like, towards the nearest shelves, raising your hand to graze the spines as you read them. Suddenly, you remember your situation, and turn to your prince asking, “I'm sorry. May I touch them?”

He chuckles, and sweeps his hands out from where he had them clasped behind his back; palms out in an open, gracious, gesture. “Of course. What good is a library, after all, if no one uses it?”

You nod, feeling a shy smile peek out from behind your nerves. He watches, radiant with longing. Those luminous eyes follow your careful fingers, brushing the spines so lovingly...the same way he ached for you to stroke along the iron pillar of his own, smelting him sweetly into something softer.

He swallows, blinks the thought away, and dons his inscrutable mask again.

“Would you like something more comfortable?”

“More...more comfortable?”

“Well, yes. As absolutely ravishing as you look in that gown, I don't imagine it's very pleasant to wear.”

The way his deep voice dripped like honey around that “r” sends a liquid, sugary, excitement coursing through your veins. An emotion you didn't yet have a name or category for; something teetering between fear and arousal.

He leaves the room in quick steps, returning with a robe of lush green velvet, placing it gently into your hands.

Loki gives a dangerous smile and a charming wink. “And don't worry, darling. I'll avert my eyes.”

He does as he says, turning his broad back to you. The prince leans against the door frame feigning a relaxed indifference that he couldn't feel further from.

It takes some time to free yourself of all the panels and boning of the intricate dress. You wonder how something so revealing could actually have so many layers. You curse under your breath as you fiddle with a latch for the fifth time, then sigh with relief as it finally gives way.

He...snickers. The terrifying tactician, master of blades and battle, the ambitious dark prince of Asgard snickers at you and you can't help but snicker back. It was funny. You probably would have laughed harder if you weren't still stiff and stifled by fear.

Finally, you shed the last of the layers. The gown falls around you like dead leaves, as you swaddle yourself in the verdant drape of his robe, reviving ever-so-slightly.

You take a deep inhale (your first since this stressful day began). The fabric holds his fragrance; earthy, snow-laden pine trees on the darkest night of the year, sharp clean mint, and something dark and hypnotic you can't place, like an ancient poisonous flower. It lulls you into a cool comfort, stills your breath, and soothes your chafed skin. You wonder if his touch would feel like this, but even better, and the thought makes the blood rush to your cheeks.

“Better?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Yes. Much. Thank you, Sire.”

As you tie the gold cord, you observe the shelves in front of you: Cummings, Eliot, Shakespeare, Milton, Whitman, and Blake...Midgardian literature. Forbidden Midgardian literature.

You turn and say, “You have Midgardian books?”

“Yes,” he answers, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought they were forbidden.”

He drifts closer, gradually dominating your space. As his shadow envelops you, he say, “Indeed they are for ordinary citizens. Not for a prince of the realms.”

You nod and feel your face grow hot with embarrassment. Of course. Silly question.

“But,” he purrs with a lilt of mischief, “that does beg the question...how are you familiar with them?”

You fidget, suddenly feeling that the oversized robe is overwhelming your naked body beneath it as it swallows you whole.

“I am...was...a royal librarian and archivist. We have special dispensations.”

“Ah. Yesss.” he says with a sneaky hiss. It's not the whole truth and he knows it, but he decides to play with his food a bit longer before going in for the kill. He loves to bite, but he much prefers to kiss beforehand; lips before tongue, tongue before teeth, taking his careful time to taste.

His broad hand slides around your waist. The other arm gestures to the expanse of shelves. He leans down, nose and lips nuzzling ever-so-slightly into your hairline as he whispers, “please, select a book, darling. Whatever your heart desires. I want you to read to me.”

@mischief2sarawr @mischiefmaker615 @litaloni @ladyofthestayingpower @gigglingtiggerv2 @smolvenger @lokischambermaid @sweetsigyn @alexakeyloveloki @loz-3 @jennyggggrrr @goblingirlsarah @lokisgoodgirl @coldnique @icytrickster17 @loopsisloops @muddyorbs @sailorholly @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @unlucky-number-13 @thedistractedagglomeration @thenerdyoldersister @mochie85 @peaches1958 @acidcasualties @mischief-dream

[miquella-everywhere]

Elden Ring Theory: Miquella's plan for the Elden Ring

Soooo, through Ranni, Miquella gifts us the Spirit Caller Bell along with three Wolves at the beginning of the game

And at the end in the Sanctum of Farum Azula we see this mysterious statue of a girl(?) surrounded by three wolves

So, clearly there is some sort of connection there, or at least something that Miquella is aware of and potentially hinting at us to figure out.

But then there is also that vibrant depiction of the Elden Ring up there as opposed to the Elden Ring that we are familiar with.

Now adding in my own speculation and looking at these two different Elden Rings; I would say that the one on the top is the Elden Ring in it's Primordial form, meanwhile the one on the bottom is its current form and the reason it looks this way is because when the Greater Will(including every other God who held power) took control, it plucked away Runes and Aspects of Reality(such as death) in order to create an Order that it preferred so it could gain control over the world.

And now, taking cut content into consideration for a second, Miquella is heavily associated with Abundance ie the Rune of Abundance and the Twinblade of Decay of Abundance.

Perhaps one of Miquella's objectives is to restore the Elden Ring back to its primordial form, back to before the Gods ripped it apart for their own purposes, back to when it was pure and whole. 🤔

[beesmygod]

alright, i dont know if this timeline/GAME THEORY works totally so im presenting it for peer review:

-marika, having been evidently driven to ascend to godhood to protect what remained of her people from the hornsent, plucks out and seals away the rune of death from the elden ring. she plans to suffer no more death or loss.

-this begins a cycle of stagnation the greater will struggles against. the process of removing the rune and mending its former location results in the creation of/transformation into radagon (as his ryne is present where the rune of death SHOULD be in the ring). its strange and complicated.

-radagon meets renalla, marries her, has kids. marika and godfrey are still together until things get scary. godfrey runs out of things to fight and kill, marika starts to resist the greater will. THIS BEGINS MARIKA'S GRAND GAMBIT

-marika, perhaps influenced by renalla and her kids who also question the greater will's influence, sends away godfrey and his men, now called tarnished, by removing their grace from their eyes and tells them to go, fight, and die in lands untouched by the greater will. eventually, when she needs to, she will return the guidance of grace to them and revive the dead. godfrey is no longer elden lord. radagon is recalled to serve as elden lord and leaves renalla utterly heartbroken.

-the greater will retaliates in a way directly designed to twist the knife. to restore the rune of death to the elden ring and end the stagnation, the greater will wants to targets marika's only publicly accepted son, godwyn the golden, to become the prince of death.

-however, ranni's meddling, due to her balking in horror at the idea of becoming a vassal of the greater will like marika and fury at what happened to her mother, results in godwyn's death totally getting fucked up and the new rune of death splitting in half, making it unusable. marika conspired to kill her son with ranni and provided her with the sliver of the rune of death used in his murder and the assassins. but its not clear how much of this was marika herself and how much was the greater will acting THROUGH marika.

-in a fit of grief at having lost what little of her family she had remaining and realizing the extent of her lack of agency, marika shatters the elden ring before the greater will crucifies her to a shard of it.

-whatever remains of marika returns the guidance of grace taken from the tarnished in the hopes that one of them will finally kill her and end the greater will's influence over the world and herself

-???

-profit

[thirtiethelement]

asking you about your in-depth trans ranni theory

Oh, THANK you, I'm always happy to infodump about that blue nerd.

Okay, so, before getting into the core of why I think trans Ranni is textually supported, let's go over some of the in-universe history with her:

In the setting, there's a force called Destined Death. It is the natural law of mortality, dictating that everything must eventually come to an end. However, when Queen Marika and her Golden Order came into power, she managed to somehow pluck that law out of the Elden Ring (a massive rune outlining how the world functions at a basic level), hiding it away and effectively banishing death. This allowed for people to live indefinitely by being reborn from the Erdtree when they otherwise would have died.

Marika, along with three of the demigod children of her Golden Lineage (Miquella, Malenia, and Ranni) was an Empyrean - an individual with the potential to channel the power of an Outer God, like Marika and the Greater Will. When Ranni was young, her mother, Rennala, took her to a cloistered spot in Liurnia where she had some sort of communion with another Outer God: the Dark Moon. And she was vibing with it! Whatever ideology it expressed to her, and whatever power it provided, she ended up wanting to work with it. Only one issue: The Outer Will had a vested interest in not being displaced from its position of power.

The Outer Will made its power known not only through deifying Marika and maintaining the Golden Order, but also by sending a number of creatures in service to act as its enforcers: The Two Fingers. Despite how ridiculous they look, they're apparently incredibly dangerous and just about immortal, which makes the fact that each Empyrean is shackled to one to force them to toe the line all the more difficult. Somehow, the presence of one of these linked Two Fingers influences the destiny of an Empyrean, preventing them from supplanting the Golden Order. But Ranni, being clever, figured out a loophole.

Ranni, through some means, found out that the Two Fingers' power over her actions was somehow bound to her body. To sever that link, she chose to do the unthinkable: Working with a group of co-conspirators that included at least her brother Rykard, Ranni arranged for the thievery of Destined Death, and committed ritual suicide in a fashion that managed to kill her body without killing her soul - which, incidentally, did kick off the entire horrific state the world of Elden Ring is currently in, but she was being a girlboss, so it's okay.

The evidence I can point to for her being transgender starts here. To still interact with the world after killing her own body, Ranni chose to let her soul inhabit a finely-made doll instead. It seems as though this may be why she kept Preceptor Seluvis around despite how utterly untrustworthy he is; for better or worse, he's a brilliant magician when it comes to the magic and maintenance behind the doll constructs Liurnia is known for. However, Ranni DIDN'T choose to have the doll made in her own former image, which was presumably well within her capabilities given the in-depth planning that went into her stealing and using Destined Death in the first place. Instead, she had it made to resemble a witch, Renna, who had taught her at some point in the past. In fact, during her first meeting with the player, she outright INTRODUCES herself as Renna, keeping her true identity close to her chest in the face of an unknown variable.

So, that explains it, right? She chose not to look like her old body because she wished to live in hiding, open and shut. But this is where small details start to get interesting. Ranni the Witch is called out by name by Morgott during his pre-fight cutscene, in which he looks across the various thrones in Leyndell abandoned by the other demigods. Radahn and Rykard's thrones are both much, much smaller than the forms we find them in during the course of the game - but oddly enough, RANNI'S is sized for the Renna doll she inhabits, a body that's outright shorter than the player character. We can find her original corpse at the top of Liurnia's divine tower, and she's just as huge as one might expect of a demigod.

This implies that, between the Night of the Black Knives when she performed her ritual and the Shattering, when the demigods went to war with one another over who got to take control of the Elden Ring, Ranni showed up to court with her fellow demigods in her doll body. This would completely defeat the purpose of trying to hide her identity from those who could pose a threat to her. In addition, Ranni shows that she can either extend her consciousness to other bodies, or inhabit other dolls entirely; during the latter part of her questline, you find her inhabiting a miniature version of her doll body, suggesting that she may be fully capable of switching to a different form if she was so inclined.

As a result, my suggestion is that Ranni wasn't just abandoning her original flesh because it was linked to the Two Fingers. If that was the case, she likely would have just stuck to that original body's form when choosing a replacement body to inhabit. It's not like there's some sort of overriding tactical, strategic, or even just physical benefit to the Renna doll, either; Ranni clearly LIKES to feel tall, judging by the stack of books she sits on in her tower to stay above eye level with the player character when they visit. In addition, while there's plenty of portraits and statues of the other demigods how they appeared pre-Shattering (save for the Omen brothers, for obvious reasons), Ranni's image is conspicuous for its absence throughout the entire game.

Ranni has enough incidental bits and pieces scattered around the game to suggest that she had deep personal reasons to inhabit her current form, reasons which go well beyond practicality. And honestly, the fact that signs point to the rest of her family being outright supportive of her (Rykard, who has portraits of the rest of his family, conspicuously leaving her out despite the implication that they were close, the fact that her throne is sized for the doll, etc.) is really heartwarming in an otherwise bleak setting if you choose to make this sort of reading.

Anyway thank you for allowing me to infodump about my blue nerdy-ass wife

[aurheatum]

and from your face i shall be hidden.

welcome present (?) for @divinecrest (it's okay. runes already taken the psychic damage. for everyone else warnings for: death obv. grief! badly dealt with grief! body horror based on the chest cavity/heart. the usual mix of consummate lying and religious fervor rhea is known for.)

The fire should anger her more, even if it does not surprise her.

The fire should anger her more, even if it does not surprise her.

She had seen Jeralt’s face when she first forced the babe upon him; the horror as he looked her in the eyes and followed her final order all the same (“take it”).

She hadn’t told him to leave, but he had all the same. Jeralt had made his choice then, and Rhea, turning back to cradle Sitri in her arms, had made hers.

They tell her that the funeral preparations can be made without her, if that is what she wishes. Rhea says nothing. Tells them she is the archbishop and that she will oversee things as she always has. No one contradicts her.

All of the monastery agrees that one tragedy has seemed to follow another with Sitri succumbing to her frailty and now her husband nowhere to be seen. They really had thought of Jeralt as one of them, after all – but those raised outside the church, well, what can one truly expect?

Rhea wants to force them all to stop talking. Stop talking as if they ever knew anything of Sitri. As if they have the right to mourn a soul such as hers. 

She purchases a casket, instead; similar to the ones of the Four Saints it is inlaid with smaller, but no less resplendent gold pleated crests of Seiros on each of its four corners. Rhea has prepared the body for this, repaired the damage again and again just for this moment where she can send Sitri onward into the tapestry of time. 

(Most of the other vessels she had burned under the stars. Each had a shining light named after them now).

She carries her to the Holy Tomb herself, ready to call upon one of her knights to carry the casket out when she is finished but Sitri swaddled against her chest fails to leave her arms

“You cannot,” Rhea pleads before the ghosts of the ten elites and her hundreds of siblings, “you cannot go now. Do not leave me here alone, please!”

(The Church of Seiros says that everything – plant, human, animal has a soul but Rhea has never seen one. This does not mean she does not believe.)

She decides then that she will not send Sitri off into the stars, or lay her here with so many who died in torment; neither will she give Sitri to the ground as if she were just another thing to be broken down by the ravages of age. Rhea will see her perfect, and whole.

The casket goes into the ground a day later but Sitri stays in Abyss.

There were plants that only ever grew in the dark of Abyss – weeds, really, that neither Rhea or Seteth could stop from growing in the cracks of the shadow library but Sitri, enchanted by the faint light they gave off, had loved.

She had loved so much.

Rhea magicks her a field of pampas grass to lay in, grown from the Immaculate One’s blood; it is simple enough to restrain the growth of the field to a single chamber in the underground for unlike the weeds Sitri so loved the grass does not take to the damp and the dark.

It is simple too to place a piece of her own crest stone within the empty cavity of Sitri’s chest; as Rhea has done it many times before (some children of man did not take to her Nabatean blood and so in order to promote the healing of their bodies she had needed to give them something which the Seiros crest could respond to).

She’s done it so many times now, dug her claws into her own heart just to chip away at it for flakes she thinks she could do it in her sleep.

For Sitri she does more. Bringing her regular infusions of blood alongside offerings of freshly plucked lilies and valerian blooms, she arranges them neatly around the palate where she lays and she speaks with her.

She talks to her of how work has piled up again, and what she would not give to have Seteth help her with redoing the library (“you never met, but I think you would have gotten along well”). She tells her with a smile when Seteth returns alongside his sister, and adds with a frown she is not sure how long this time they will stay.

One evening she walks down from her chambers to Sitri’s place in abyss and informs her that the winds of fate have seen fit to bring her children back to Garreg Mach.

“We have needed a military arts professor,” Rhea admits, with some embarrassment, “and Jeralt never could take to that kind of instruction, you know.”

Rhea pauses and admits: “they’ve taken to it very well, though; and the bonds forged with the students, well, it makes me wonder…”

Rhea does not continues the train of thought, merely puts a hand  to Sitri’s face and brushes a strand of hair from her eyes.

“That kindness… I am sure it can only come from you.”

[inthelittefrost]

This is lack of judgment or loj for short! basicly jimmy is taken from the watchers  and everyone thinks he died :) https://archiveofourown.org/works/46915633

It started quite slowly. Lewis never quite put the dots together. First, Martyn returned without his brother claiming Jimmy was right behind him. Then the next morning, netty broke down in tears. slowly one by one, everyone started to realize that Jimmy is gone. Dead. Killed in action. 

The police station offered to fund his funeral on the condition that those who know about Jimmy's death sign an NDA. Matytn refused. 

 A few weeks later, Netty couldn't get ahold of her brother. So Lewis, Spiff, Netty, and Marytn went out to go investigate it. And sure enough, Stampy's lovely farm was gone. Almost looked like it was plucked out of time.

Netty sobbed over the loss of her last remaining family member. After all, her parents died during “vacation” in Evo. It was all piling up on her. No one blamed her when she convinced Martyn to let her put a tracking spell on him. Not a major one. No no not like that. Just a small proof of life. Granted that did nothing when she disappeared two years later. No one blamed her for that either. Well, Martyn did a bit. Just a tad. He mostly was upset she didn't take him with her.

It took Marytn a week to confess that there were gods who want him dead and they might have killed Jimmy. So Lewis does what he does best. Protection runes embroidered in Martyn's clothes, the defense about the Jafa factory got turned up to a ten. Someone sleeps in the room next to Martyn in case he has a nightmare.

Off course that doesn't help when 4 years after Jimmy’s, Lewis finds Marytn nearly spitting his throat with an axe with spell books scattered around the room. Shit is that Ephraim’s guide to killing gods? Lewis swore that book disappeared

“What the hell are you doing?” Lewis screams. Fuck they should really have called that therapist. Is it too late to call one for him now?

“This isn't what it looks like!” Marytn yells at him.

“Then what the hell are you doing?” Lewis screams back 

“Trying to summon a god,” Marytn yells back.

“Dude you going to end up killing yourself with how dull that axe is. Give it to me.” Lewis said. Maryth only clings to it more. Maryth should know a dull axe is more dangerous than a sharpened one. Along with the risk of rust

“...what are you going to do with it?” Marytn asks somehow climbing to the axe even harder.

“I'm going to sharpen it so you don’t kill yourself while you're summoning this god. Get with the program Martyn.” Lew responds

Slowly Martyn hands the axe to Lewis. Just as he thought. Way too dull plus it's enchanted. That won't work well with summoning a god. If anything it's just going to work like bug spray. Lewis gestures for Marytn to walk with him. Honestly, it's a shock that Marytn hasn't noticed this yet. Did he just not notice the large shipments of pig blood? It is so quiet walking down the stars that Lewis could hear a pin drop. 

After a very awkward moment, they reach the grindstone. “You ever used one of these?” Lewis asks

Marytn hums “My use of magic normally has more chanting in it than blood.” 

“Well, what god are you summoning?” Lewis asks, expecting the answer to be a god of lost souls or a god of brothers. Something along those lines

“The Red King” Martyn casualty repays. Lewis stops sharpening the axe and just stares at him. What now? Is Martyn fucking insane? 

“You've met Jimmy right?” Marytn asks. Lewis has never met Jimmy before. Normally when Martyn and them hang out, Lewis pays for a babysitter Jimmy to go tour the Jaffa factory. “Wherever Jimmy goes, fights follow. I know he's still alive. I'm hoping he starts a war. A massive one. One so large, that the gods are forced to bear witness.” 

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

For Kane's shrine: Matching blades, their hilts are simple, lacking ornate carvings. They are made with only what they need. Only what could be found in the wastes. One is new and clean, the other stained with its first kill. Still sharp. Still strong. A pedant made of obsidian and bloodstone. Thorns of both stones spider around the vial at its core, before splaying out in unfinished wings. They are vines, they are nerves and sinew. The glass vial is full of deep crimson, the blood of the offeror. A gift of devotion. Of sacrifice. Preserved for all time. Last, a page of runes, hand written. Old knowledge with no purpose, no meaning, but a taste of old magic. A reverence for the unknown, and the long death of the Gods who came before.

If my Muse was a Deity, what Offerings Would you Leave at Their Shrine?

Clinking of heels cease at the scene laid before him, the sands of the Wastes scuffing under his boots. Crimson eyes narrow, a threat and an evaluation. His helmet is held at his side; he is returning from an excursion, no, an expulsion, an exorcism.

There is fresh blood on his blades, dripping fresh on the dirt, just as there is on the offerings set upon a slab of obsidian and thorn. It is not a shrine he made, but made for him, made from someone who believed they knew him.

...Their accuracy is quite impressive. Armor that ends in clawed points plucks the pendant from the bunch, holds it up to the red sun that sends it shimmering between his thumb and forefinger. It... is pretty.

He allows it to settle in his palm before closing his fist around it, squeezing until he feels the glass and gems crunch under the pressure. The remains drip like liquid to the Grounds of his Province, eaten whole. A beautiful offering, one that would be committed to memory. He has no need for such frivolous items, even if they are made with him in mind.

The God of the Wasteland's eyes drift to the paper, ancient and old. It is magic he feels, and he is far more delicate in picking it up; his clawed hands are not used, the item hovering over his open palm. Thorns rise, encircle the paper like a birdcage, kept safe. It too is swallowed by the earth, but not destroyed.

It is archived.

Finally, the blades. They are ripped from the stone, unharmed. He turns them over in his grasp, keen eyes scrolling over the craftsmanship. They are made with the intent to kill. Have been used to do so. They are... of very good make, truthfully. He'll keep them. Use them, as they were intended.

His Province's web vibrates with the steps of a stranger, the one who made this altar. He walks with purpose, with muted fury. Only a fool would dare enter the territory of the God of Destruction. At the base of his tower, a lone woman is waiting, her hands bloody. Kane's gaze is a threat, an assessment, the swords in his hands. She will be killed by her own offerings if she is not careful enough.

"...If you left those there, you must believe your plight is more important than those who came and met their end before you." He presses the end of one of her gifts to her throat, its tip swallowing the slightest drop of blood.

"Persuade me."

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Day 20: Truth Serum

@febuwhump prompt: Truth Serum

Fandom: Iron Kingdoms Characters: OC Rosa DiMerrion, OC Obavnik Varril Set in the 'Winterweb' AU: After reclaiming Llael from the dead, political tensions in Khador run high Word Count: ~775 Click here to read on AO3

Synopsis: Varril enlists former assassin Rosa's help with his plans for a coup of the Greylords Covenant, but mistrust runs deep between them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How does this… persuasion elixir work?”

Varril was pacing, hands clasped behind his back. He was rod-straight, staring ahead with his usual perpetual frown. Rosa knew he was trying not to appear too interested in her work.

“It puts people into a suggestible state,” she told him, without taking her attention from the precise task of decanting the liquid from its warmed flask into individual vials. “They won’t suffer any spontaneous compulsion to spill their guts to you… but if you ask the right questions, they’ll be more loose-lipped with their answers.”

He stopped by the desk, reaching out a gloved hand to lift one of the vials and inspect it. “How is it delivered?”

“Ingestible or injectable, take your pick.”

“I rather think she’d notice if I was sticking holes in her.”

“Not if you do it right.”

Varril looked at her, at her hooded eyes and satisfied half-smile. He leaned down, holding the vial in front of her face to force her to look at him.

“Don’t get any ideas.”

 She met his gaze unflinchingly, barely concealed rebellion simmering behind her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she drawled, plucking the vial from his fingers and placing it back in the rack.

He straightened and returned to pacing, feet carrying him to the tall windows and the view out over the city. Smoke belched from the industrial district, coal furnaces burning day and night as innumerable workshops churned out the machinery of the Khadoran war machine. In the courtyard below a group of acolytes were run through training drills, arcane runes glowing softly in the watery afternoon light.

“Can it be detected?”

She snorted derisively. “A lesser alchemist’s concoction, maybe. My formula is odourless, tasteless. As long as you can administer it undetected, there should be nothing to raise suspicion.”

“Please,” he countered with an icy smile. “You may have been raised for subterfuge, but treachery is not unknown to me. Ingestible is fine. I am capable of this simple task.”

Rosa stoppered each of the slim vials in turn, then sealed the ends with wax. “It will be eight hours until the elixir reaches full potency,” she said, leaning back and stretching. “So don’t use it before then.” Then, with a sly smile, “I should also warn you that effectiveness rapidly diminishes once mixed with food or drink. She’ll have to consume the dose within an hour for maximum effect.”

Varril turned and scowled at her. “You tell me this now?”

She didn’t even try to hide her smugness. “Direct introduction to the bloodstream will always be the most effective method.”

He surged forwards, hands slamming to the edge of the desk. Ice brittled at his fingertips.

“I don’t trust you.”

With feigned nonchalance she leaned back, inspecting her chemical-stained nails rather than looking at him. “I don’t blame you. But then, what reason do I have to betray you now?”

Varril grit his teeth, biting out the next words. “You have long been vocal about your resentment of my actions.”

She shot him an acid glance. “I spent many years living on time borrowed from your clock, knowing my death was only stayed by my usefulness to you.” For a moment she paused, rolling the next words in her mouth before testing them aloud. “I hold no love for you, Varril,” she said. “But I like her even less. Despite all you’ve put me through, I’ll take the devil I know.”

Her lips curved in an almost sentimental smile. Varril took a deep breath, clawing his fingers against the desk before releasing it and clasping his hands behind his back once more.

“I must go. I am expected.”

Rosa lifted one of the vials and waved it before him. “Eight hours ‘til maximum potency.”

“Let us hope I can stall her that long.”

He took the dose of persuasion elixir, secreting it inside his Greylord cloak. With a curt bow, he gestured for Rosa to precede him from the room.

Rosa stood, moving gracefully to the coat rack and retrieving her faded trench coat, throwing it loosely round her shoulders. She lingered for a moment, flicking imaginary lint from the bare patch where her insignia used to be.

“Do you need me for anything else?”

Varril stopped alongside her, looking down at her seriously. Rosa tilted her face to him, her expression a mask of innocent concern.

“I will see you in not less than eight hours,” he said softly, with a humourless smile.

Rosa’s smile in return was mischievous. “Very well,” she said, stepping from his office into the hallway. “And Varril?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Don’t mix up your drinks.”

[bookshelfdreams]

Thoughts on Stede reading The Hobbit (bonus: to the crew)?

Wish you a cool evening!

i'm gonna sue you for damages that's what i'm thinking

how dare you put this concept in my head

just imagine!! Everyone is captivated from the very first second. Pete pretends to think it's dumb - "What even is a hobbit", he mutters under his breath. What is a hobbit? Stede reads. I suppose Hobbits need some description nowadays. Pete is stunned into silence (and he too has loved it from the very first moment, actually, though he wouldn't admit it under threat of death).

Stede does all the voices. His Bilbo is closest to his own voice, polite and chipper, but passive aggression always at the ready, like a hidden knife. His Gandalf speaks with gravitas, deep in his chest (Ed likes that a lot). All of the dwarves are introduced with their own voices, from excited, youthful, near (but not quite) identical Fili and Kili, to gravely Balin, voice rough and heavy with age.

The first song Stede tries to avoid. He reads up to But the dwarves only started to sing and skips right to and everything was cleaned and put away safe as quick as lightning, but then Frenchie wonders out loud.

"What kinds of songs do dwarves sing, do you suppose?", he asks no one in particular.

"Must be bloody", Pete says.

"It's about dishwashing", Olu says dryly.

Ed leans over Stede's shoulder. "You could have just read it, mate", he says and Stede has never felt more betrayed. "It's right here!"

"What?" Frenchie shoots upright. "Read it then!"

Stede, who doesn't mind reciting poetry but is mortified by the thought of singing in front of an audience, knows resistance is futile. He gives a deep sigh.

Chip the glass and crack the plates, he starts, voice as flat as possible. Doesn't even take to the end of the second line for Wee John to start tapping out a rhythm against the deck with his palm. Frenchie has his lute in hand, plucking out a simple melody.

"Start again", he says and is already humming along. He gets Stede to read through the whole poem twice, and then he's got it.

Chip the glass and crack the plates, and it's bouncy, catchy, a bit like a shanty. A simple melody to keep hands working steady in the same rhythm. The Swede is adding a beautiful harmony.

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! So carefully, carefully with the plates!, they all shout as one, grinning.

"Can we sing it one more time?", Fang asks.

They don't finish the chapter that evening.

The next morning, Stede approaches Frenchie and Wee John somewhat secretly. "There's another song right after the one from yesterday", he tells them, "in case you want to. You know. Not that you have to, of course."

Frenchie is delighted. The Swede is quickly recruited.

The Song of the Lonely Mountain may or may not bring tears to the eyes of a hardened pirate or two, you have no proof.

Everyone is intrigued by the map. Of course Stede has an edition with a nice big map folded up in the back of the book; they carefully take it out and put it on deck so everyone can see it. "What's that?" Ed asks and points at the runes.

"Wait and we will find out", Stede answers, and already knows he will tell Ed later, when the rest of the crew can't hear it, should he still want to know.

The dwarves get caught by trolls and Jim is distraught. "Don't go there one by one, you morons!" they yell, and Olu has to hold their hand discreetly until Gandalf shows up to save the day. Roach has some sympathy for the poor trolls, who have been subsisting on nothing but mutton, but draws a line at squashing the dwarves to eat them later without removing the guts first.

They make it to Rivendell and there is another improv song. Stede maybe hums along. Off key. But he's hardly the only one with no great singing voice.

The mystery of the runes is lifted.

"Moon letters?"

"Oh so it was invisible this whole time!"

Everyone is delighted to have known a secret before the characters did.

The Misty Mountains rise up under our heroes's feet. Far, far away in the West, where things were blue and faint, Bilbo knew there lay his own country of safe and comfortable things, and his little hobbit-hole, Stede reads. It stirs something in Ed, and even though this chapter has an even bigger adventure than the trolls (AND a song! A song that Roach will be heard singing under his breath for days, Clash, crash! Crush, smash! Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs!, and Lucius is not avoiding him, thank you very much)

Even though there is plenty else going on, that line still sticks in Ed's head. "Do you miss home, sometimes?" he asks Stede as they lay down for the night.

"Oh my love", Stede says, wrapped up in Ed's arms, with Ed's head pillowed on his chest, "I am home."

They meet Gollum next.

What has roots as nobody sees / Is taller than trees / Up, up it goes / And yet, never grows?

"A cathedral, obviously", Wee John shouts, before Stede can read on.

"Shut up, they don't have cathedrals", Pete says. "Do they?"

"Tall building, anyway", Frenchie backs Wee John up.

"Could be something else", the Swede muses.

"Like what?"

"No he's right", Roach says, "Building is too easy. It's um. A hot air balloon? No roots, it goes up but doesn't grow, does it?"

That earns him a round of impressed nods and agreeing hums. The actual answer - Mountain, I suppose! - is widely seen as anticlimactic.

Stede hisses and croaks as he speaks with Gollum's voice and that placates the crew somewhat. It must have a competition with us, my preciouss, he reads and dredges the sounds out of the back of his throat, speaks with his tongue between his teeth until he truly sounds like a creature that lives in dark, cold waters, eats raw fish and hasn't talked to anyone in centuries.

Every riddle is followed by debates and every member of the crew offers up their own best riddles for the others to solve. It takes three evenings to get through the chapter. It's just as well; Stede fears Gollum's voice might tear his throat to ribbons. It's worth it though.

They make it out of the goblin labyrinths eventually. They meet Beorn and giant eagles and an elven king. They fight wargs, and spiders, and spend a night adrift in a river, clinging to a barrel.

It's a fantastic story. The dragon is terrifying; the hoard everything any of them have ever dreamed of. The attack on Laketown, and finally the Battle of Five armies, has more than one of them hold tightly onto someone's hand.

Opinions on the ending are divided.

"How can he just go home?", Frenchie says, offended. "After everything they've been through together!"

"He misses it", Olu says. "Must be nice, I think. To know there's a home for you to return to."

"Bullshit", Jim says, shifting inconspicuously, so they're sitting just a tiny bit closer to him. "Home can be anywhere. Home is where your - y'know." They do not blush.

"But Thorin died", Lucius says. "It wouldn't be the same without him, would it? Maybe he needs to go back so he isn't always reminded of him."

"That's so deep, babe."

"Thanks babe."

Stede reads the last poem and nobody tries to sing.

It's quiet when he finishes. Wee John sniffles, but only a little.

Luckily, there's that whole business with the auction and Bilbo being declared dead so they end on a high note.

The next evening, Stede tries to bring a different book, but nobody will hear it.

"Read it again!"

Stede protests, but only a little.

"C'me on", Ed says, "they love it. Please?"

Really, there never was a choice.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.

[elegantwoes]

“It is better than the songs,” she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.

Our precious cinammon roll is enjoying herself (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm,” she whispered to Jeyne. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. ... The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of the Redwynes, burgundy on blue. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason’s son. Six Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Perwyn, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well

Look at Sansa showing off her skils in history and heraldy.

Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Even Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.

GRRM subtly reminding the readers that Sansa has a certain inner strength that is rivalled by few.

The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor’s second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly ... His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer’s day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one

This is clearly a foreshadowing for the Mountain Clansmen interrupting the Winged Knight's Tourney and blood spilling into the Gates of the Moon.

She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad

I remember in the early years of being part of the ASOIAF fandom and frequently going on the forum site Westeros.org. This scene was often used to proof that Sansa was a sociopath. Which is weird, because first of she admonishes herself for her lack of reaction and in the end she's still saddened by Ser Hugh's death. Secondly, anyone with a brain can see this scene establishes that Sansa, like her brother Bran, can keep her composure in the face of death.

Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful .... To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.” Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off.

It should be noted that while Sansa initially was taken by Ser Loras beautiful looks, what made her fall for him was the romantic courtly gesture of him giving her a red rose and unofficially declaring her Queen of Love and Beauty. Meaning in order to capture Sansa's heart you have to shower her with romantic gestures. Interestingly enough, the pedophilic characters who Sansa is often shipped with (*coughs* cujo come again *coughs*) don't show any sign of being romantic enough to court Sansa in the way she wants to be courted. The oone who does fit this description is our sour patch kid Jon Snow. Now he knows how to court a lady. Your ugly pedophile fave can never compare to him (✿◡‿◡).

“You must be one of her daughters,” he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. “You have the Tully look.” “I’m Sansa Stark,” she said, ill at ease. The man wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord, but she did not know him. “I have not had the honor, my lord.” Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. “Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king’s small council.” “Your mother was my queen of beauty once,” the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. “You have her hair.” His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away.

What I would like to know is WHY ON EARTH IS SEPTA MORDANE SITTING IDLY BY AS THIS CREEP IS TOUCHING SANSA. This old woman has one job and she can't even do it right. ╰(艹皿艹 )

Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sat beside his queen. When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her right, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the awful thing had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him. At first she thought she hated him for what they’d done to Lady, but after Sansa had wept her eyes dry, she told herself that it had not been Joffrey’s doing, not truly. The queen had done it; she was the one to hate, her and Arya. Nothing bad would have happened except for Arya.

imagine reading this part and not seeing how Sansa is desperately trying to convince herself that Joffrey isn't who she thinks he is and even then she barely convinces herself by the looks of the next passage:

She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate. He wore a deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion’s heads, and around his brow a slim coronet made of gold and sapphires. His hair was as bright as the metal. Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again and send her weeping from the table.

Sansa shows signs of having the battered woman syndrome. Did the fandom notice this? Did they even care about Sansa and the horrible situation is in? Of course they don't. They are too busy hating on her. This is why I fucking hate a certain section of this fandom when they speak on the so called dangers of Sansa being the ideal westerosi noble lady. When you can't understand the great nuance to why Sansa made that choice during the Trident incident and why she chose to forgive both Cersei and Joffrey then you should keep your mouth shut and never ever talk about Sansa.

And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. He talked to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining Moon Boy’s japes. Sansa was so captivated that she quite forgot all her courtesies and ignored Septa Mordane, seated to her left

Notice how only after Joffrey love bombs her that Sansa finally decides to forgive him and thinks that what happened at the Trident was only a fluke. Once again does the fandom notice? Of course not. They are too busy sucking off the fan favorite characters and don't bother to understand the nuance to Sansa's chapters, especially her AGOT chapters.

“Do you need an escort back to the castle?” “No,” Sansa began. She looked for Septa Mordane, and was startled to find her with her head on the table, snoring soft and ladylike snores. “I mean to say … yes, thank you, that would be most kind. I am tired, and the way is so dark. I should be glad for some protection.”

I swear this woman is the WORST SEPTA IN PLANETOS.

Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit ... Suddenly terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane’s shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it.

Sansa is clearly terrified by Cujo come again and yet some people have convinced themselves that this is a grand romance.

Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. “You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she made herself say. Sandor Clegane snarled at her. “Spare me your empty little compliments, girl … and your ser’s. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?” “Yes,” Sansa whispered, trembling. “He was …” “Gallant?” the Hound finished. He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” “That’s unkind.” Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. “You’re frightening me. I want to go now.”

Sansa tries to start a conversation out of politeness and this nasty man has to derride her for this. He goes on to mock her skills and even when she makes a clever comment he still denigrates her despite knowing full well that her courtesies is something she should be fucking proud of. God this man is so hateful. He can't accept anything being good and kind. Everyone needs to be as equally miserable as him. (* ￣︿￣).

Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. “There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look.”

This is the second older man that touches Sansa's face without her consent, but sure tell me how cujo come again, is so much better than Pedofinger and the King of Incels.

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him.

Despite the fact that cujo come again has been so rude to her, had every intention to break her spirit and her ideals, Sansa rises above it, and shows us her unyielding side. 'He was no true knight.' And she's right. Even if the insitution of knighthood is corrupt that doesn't mean chivalry isn't worth upholding. In fact it's especially in face of adversity that you should stay true to the knightly ideals. Cujo come again take note from Sansa Stark.

The Hound caught her by the arm and leaned close. “The things I told you tonight,” he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. “If you ever tell Joffrey … your sister, your father … any of them …” “I won’t,” Sansa whispered. “I promise.” It was not enough. “If you ever tell anyone,” he finished, “I’ll kill you.

In case you guys didn't know, threatening to kill someone is a great way to start off a romance. /s

Next chapter our reluctant detective: Ned Stark.

[miquella-everywhere]

So I actually have so many questions about Rennalas Amber Egg cause lorewise this thing confuses the heck out of me

Like Radagon gifted it to her after the divorce and it apparently has a Great Rune inside of it, and that's what I have an issue with...

So you're telling me that Radagon gave Rennala a shard of the Elden Ring as a divorce gift???? That raises so many questions like what?

Like yeah he's Marika, he's technically God so he can do this I guess, but from a common folk perspective that would be so strange.

Radagon plucked out a Great Rune, which apparently can be done even before the Shattering, and stuck it inside an egg and gave it to his ex-wife and he was just... Allowed to do this???? From everyone else's perspective Radagon was just a Champion. Even Muriel says that it was strange that Radagon was chosen to be Second Elden Lord, so being a Champion wasn't all that it seems. And the fact that he was able to essentially give away a Great Rune is just so confusing. You think that that would cause more of a stir than Radagon marrying Marika despite being just a Champion.

But does this mean that Marika approved of Radagon giving away a great Rune???? Just like she plucked away the Rune of Destined Death, Radagon was given approval to take away the Rune of the Unborn????

In that case does that mean that there was an ulterior motive to getting rid of the Unborn Rune 🤔 There's some item descriptions that say that fertility and procreation isn't really much of a priority in the Lands Between anymore, so I wonder if maybe the removal of the Great Rune of the Unborn may have contributed to that decline as well? 🤔🤔🤔🤔

I am so confused lol

[swampgallows]

further notes on syl🅱anas (first part here)

7. FINALLY we are talking about sylvanas’ suicide!!!!! 

so , as it turns out, i was fucking right about the val’kyr showing sylvanas the maw AND her fate if she sides with the jailer, since they belong to him; he literally calls them “my val’kyr”. it is confirmed that the jailer himself is the one who keeps her from her afterlife or oblivion. upon being tortured, she cries out (”ENOUGH!!” in typical warcraft fashion) the jailer “plucks” her from the torture, tells her about the maw, and lets her in on his plan. so i was also right that “sylvanas is foisted into the very non-consensual position of 'choose death and suffer for eternity or come back to life and Lead Your People™'", except now there is the added element of her “choosing” to side with the jailer. (side note: the jailer tells her that there is no free will except for this exact moment because she is between life and death, or mortality and an afterlife, rather, so she can either make her First Real Choice of joining him, or she can refuse, where only torment awaits her. cool ‘choice’ zovaal.

either way, sylvanas’ suicide is the moment where she makes her deal with the jailer, which puts us post-wrath and pre-cataclysm. it would have been ultra super sick if varimathras, before starting the coup (or perhaps upon starting it) had also clued her in to the master plan. but i guess since the dreadlords ultimately were on a higher echelon than where sylvanas ended up being i suppose it makes sense that—if he knew about the jailer at all—varimathras kept his mouth shut.

also this part is just literally insane:

“The mourneblade my brother designed was an object of immense power. Frostmourne was a harvester of souls, imbued with an insatiable hunger. A hunger I sought to use for my own ends.” “Wh-what…how?” “Though I did not design the blade, the runes forged into its metal could be made to answer to my will.” His words continued to hammer at her, striking her psyche with agonizing blows. “I used secret allies [dreadlords!!!] to guide the sword and the helm it was forged with along a path of my choosing. First into the inept hands of the Burning Legion, convincing the demons that it was a weapon they could wield. The instruments of Domination were to anchor the power of Death to your world of Azeroth. But the blade and helm found their way to Ner’zhul, a weak-willed orc whose mind was as broken as the world he shattered. He sought to bind himself to the body of his pupil, Arthas Menethil, yet it was the young prince who won that battle. So I sought to use this new Lich King to herald my coming, but his selfish desire for conquest made him defiant.”

“i was trying to be the good guy but the burning legion was dumb and ner’zhul was weak and arthas was just such a selfish big meany. pwease let me make it up to you sylvanas”. this is when she returns to “life”. the book literally says she has “nothing to lose”, so i was right again when i said:

[the jailer is] breaking sylvanas’ spirit to redirect her vengeance on Capital D Death rather than arthas himself. basically everything sylvanas does while “alive” in azeroth pales in comparison to the eternal suffering and torment that awaits her if she is to die. so she has literally nothing to lose and can only gain by at least keeping herself alive as long as possible, no matter what wild shit she gets up to, it cant be as bad as the maw.

8. OF COURSE SYLVANAS’ FIRST THOUGHT IS “CAN I GO VISIT MY DEAD LOVED ONES???” BUT APPARENTLY THIS IS THE REAL REASON THE REAL REAL REASON SHE ALLIES WITH THE JAILER: we don’t get to see our loved ones in the afterlife! the jailer tells sylvanas that arbiter that they have in place automatically sorts the souls into their afterlives—this we knew, but by “automatically” he means like FLIPPANTLY. because it’s essentially a robot it just deduces what the most “logical” (????) afterlife is for that person to end up in but does so individually, not taking into account shit like “hey i want to be with my family when i die”. because it’s a robot, so it doesnt have any feelings or any experience with love, hate, etc. it just looks at every soul completely detached from anything else and sorts it. so they take sylvanas to some kind of fucked up eel creature that spared her loved one of suffering and ended up in an afterlife that was blissful but... WITHOUT HER EEL HUSBAND??? HE WENT SOMEWHERE ELSE??? (ALSO APPARENTLY THE EEL HAS TO BE STRAIGHT???) this is MINDBLOWING like why the fuck was this NEVER ADDRESSED THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE EXPANSION??? this should have been said out loud like AT LEAST ONCE. fucking DEVOS should have said it in the bastion cinematic. that adds a WAY different tinge to “you need to erase your memories to ferry souls without judgment” because it also takes into account like “hey, stop missing these people, because you will literally never have a chance to see them again, even though this is supposed to be a place of respite”.  HOWEVER i think this is all part of the jailer’s big scam considering he’s sucking up all the anima so that the afterlives cant go see each other or hang out in places like oribos again, so i think the whole thing is wrong. but oh my GOD this gives sylvanas an ACTUAL REASON TO BELIEVE THE JAILER. THE AFTERLIFE IS UNFAIR. this is such an easy story to tell and they just... didnt tell it. like at all. he also tells her that everything is predetermined and that there’s no actual free will but that’s a whole other can of worms i dont feel like reiterating

9. jesus christ this reads like a crossover fanfiction. not golden’s fault just a testament to how alien the entire concept of the jailer and the pantheon and cultures of the shadowlands is so alien and jarring compared to the rest of the franchise. this is less of a book and more “list of things we didnt get a chance to explain in the xpac”

10. sylvanas went crazy because she’s had shadowlands disease since cataclysm. oh my god. apparently also (according to sylvanas) all of the undead are incapable of feelings like love or passion (or “true heartbreak”), only devotion and rage and self-pity. doesnt stop her from waxing poetic for a full chapter about how she wanted to give nathanos a hot new bod. so much of this book is just a summary of previous books. like i get it but. it’s taxing

11. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS PSYCHOSEXUAL OBSESSION SYLVANAS HAS WITH HER LITTLE BROTHER??? AND IS PROJECTING ONTO ANDUIN??? 

Anduin continued speaking, young face so earnest and sincere, hair like newly minted gold—and there was a certain warmth in his tone that reminded her of—

Comprehension slammed into her like something physical.

There’s my Lady Moon! And there’s my Little Lord Sun!

How could she not have noticed this before? She had seen the prince many times in Pandaria, but at a distance. At this moment, though, there was no denying the connection.

It was not so much the physical resemblance, though that was not inconsiderable, but his voice. His inherent gentleness. A kindliness that had been lacking in nearly everyone else she had ever met.

Every time thoughts of Lirath sprang to her mind, Sylvanas had pushed them back; sometimes reluctantly, sometimes angrily, but always firmly. But she could not tear her thoughts from him, not now, not when it was as if the ghost she had longed to encounter in Eversong had taken a physical form right here, in the midst of a war council.

A war council. This boy was as unlike his father as could be  Just as Lirath was unlike our mother…

HELLO??? CAN I PLEASE GET A WAFFLE???? what in GODS NAME???? AT LEAST ANDUIN CALLS HER OUT ON IT BUT WHAT THE FUCK

EDIT: i said in the first part that I didnt think they would address this, and what i meant was not the comparison itself (sylvanas eventually does realize it, and anduin calls her out on it) but the NATURE of her attachment. the sheer obsessive, if not possessive, depth of her fixation on specifically her younger brother. it would be one thing if the focus was more on how sylvanas felt responsible for lirath’s death, but it is NOT depicted in that way the majority of the time. the fact that sylvanas has so many repeated flashbacks of her brother at his birth stinks less of guilt and more of possession. it is only barely touched on in the epilogue—the very final sentences of the book—that sylvanas used her brother’s memory as an anchor point of her mortality, but my concern is more with the way she treated him in life, that even as a living older sister she regarded him as an idealized concept that existed to unconditionally love her rather than as his own person (to a point that borders on... well i’ll just say not necessarily appropriate for a sibling relationship, in my opinion). then to glom that onto anduin... i think the author intended for this to be sentimental, something-something repressed trauma, but it ultmately just gave me the heebie-jeebies.

12. The Arbiter was in fact injured by the corrupted world soul of Argus. according ot mal’ganis, the nathrezim (working for denathrius of course) hid out in the burning legion to “stoke sargeras’ fear of the void”, so that the demons would go to war with it. and sargeras got pissed waiting for his demons to rez out of the nether and was convinced that he could make an engine to rez them faster using a world soul infused with Death magic, which ended up being Argus. so when argus’ world soul, marked with death magic, was sent to the shadowlands, the arbiter had a “does not computer” moment and fucked up, hence everything being sent to the maw. this is also what i assumed about “all forsaken go to hell” long before shadowlands was even an xpac; if they have the touch of scourge, they are Forsaken by the light and therefore denied an afterlife. it’s not exactly canon, but this whole “anything with the touch of the maw on it gets auto-filtered to return there” corroborates my theory. 

13. sylvanas confirmed to no longer give a shit about the forsaken come bfa and never did beyond having their unending loyalty. as a forsaken main, i coulda told you that lmfao. but tumblr stans had other ideas i guess

14. i have lost count of how many times the phrase “in the end” has been used. i’d wager it’s about as many plays as the song on that anon’s itunes. the “inclined her head” final count was 12. other “featured phrases” include “somehow” “for a moment” “and yet”. looks like she’s graduated beyond “let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding” (possibly because sylvanas doesn’t breathe) but still remains in the realm of “before she knew what was happening” every single sentence is like “In the end she somehow, for just a moment, in some way, inclined her head, and yet, suddenly, in a  way she could not quite understand, in its own way...” SAY THE SENTENCE. SAY IT.

15. epilogue. she is looking for nathanos. he is still lost. sylvanas is now “not serving the jailer” but still “in service of the maw.” lmao get owned

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JESUS CHRIST IM JUST GLAD IM DONE WITHT HIS BOOK HEEYY NOWW  HEY NOW NOW SING THIS CORROSION TO ME 

this is hands down the worst warcraft book i have ever had to slog through. worse than war crimes. worse than twilight of the aspects. not entirely golden’s fault cause she didnt write the shadowlands storyline but she couldve used an editor and she REALLY didnt have to do that shit to lirath and andy. good LORD

[thequeenyautja]

So this is just one bit of worldbuilding I did last year to explain the relationship the Run'Kngyr Yautja clan has with the color Red. Up in the Godscrest (the wintery mountain range the Run'Kngyr live in), there's a massive, ancient tree called the Palm of Pa'ya.

In that mountain range, the most prevalent type of trees have white bark (when they're alive & healthy), with dark red leaves and bright red blossoms. The Palm of Pa'ya is the oldest of these trees, and is said to be the progenitor of the entire mountain forest.

The clan's legend goes that this tree was planted by the goddess Pa'ya herself, the first seed in a barren winter wasteland, and that it was from this tree that all life in the Godscrest sprouted. But before Pa'ya could do this, she had to do battle with Cetanu, the god of Death. The Godscrest was his territory, and he never allowed life to sprout there, until Pa'ya challenged him. When she defeated him, she took his skull and perched it on the highest peaks of the mountains, so he could watch her as she made herself at home in his mountains.

She plucked out his Red eyes, and sliced one open, so that its fluids could fill the gouges their claws and weapons had made in the mountains during battle, forming life-giving rivers. With his other eye, she embedded a seed inside of it, and planted it deep in the frozen earth.

From that seed, the Palm of Pa'ya grew, its bark as white as Pa'ya's skin, with red leaves and flowers, the color of Cetanu's eye. Death transformed into life. So the Run'Kngyr look at the color Red the way humans might look at the color Green.

Overall, it represents triumph over death, and considering the climate they live in, surrounded by hazards and natural dangers, the Run'Kngyr are quite literally surrounded by the threat of death, but continue to endure and thrive.

As for why the tree looks so dead now, that's a whole other legend I'll talk about another time! But in regards to the red banners hanging from its branches, every new Matriarch climbs the tree with a red banner that has white runes painted or sewn onto them. Each rune represents a promise, desire, a name, a god, or event/story that is important to a new Matriarch. It's a kind of prayer banner that not only represents the Matriarch herself, but what she and the Run'Kngyr hope to gain from her reign during her initiation ritual.