#black faction: is mentioned

[i-bring-crack]

A HSR AU idea

Caelus and Stelle are a demon and human pair of siblings, both are very unique in their own way. Stelle is a demon that doesn't need to eat humans to survive and Caelus is a human that eats demons to gain their powers. The two have decided to join the Trailblazers, a group of stand alone demon investigators and sometimes hunters when things get serious.

March 7th: Another member of the Trailblazers that is looking for a demon who has all her memories, or so she thinks.

Dan Heng: A demon hiding as a human and choosing to make his living as one, but so far he still needs to drink blood every now and then. He doesn't remember much from his past life but he gets glimpses every now and then.

Himeko: A human investigator who looks around for more demons regarding their origin. She didn't have teaching in mind when she came to this field of study but so far her four students have learned many things from her.

Welt Yang: One of the so-called ‘Reformist demons’ who, unlike normal demons, completely rejects eating any kind of human tissue and blood. So far he has survived by eating animal flesh that has a lot of proteins related to that of human flesh.

Pom-Pom: Vengeful spirits come in many forms, and one of them is Pom-Pom. Although the only thing Pom-Pom seems vengeful about is cleaning everyone's mess after a fight.

[sun-marie]

Mild veilguard spoilers, but during Taash's quest my Rook (Lord of Fortune) mentioned how she "spent time as a tevinter galley slave" and I. don't know what they mean by that or how to feel about it being non-optional, as far as I can tell?

[hayw1res]

𖦹 ` 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧

𝅄 ; synopsis : von lycaon is a true gentleman, he would never act on his selfish desires on his master. that is until mating season rolls around…

𝅄 ; warnings : 18+ , knotting , mating press , mentions of breeding “pregnancy and pups” , p in v , unprotected sex , light predator x prey , slight dubcon but everything is consensual , animalistic urges , slight fluff at the end

𝅄 ; a/n : my first fic on this account, i do hope you enjoy! my requests are open of course. not proofread ; sorry for any errors!

NEW ERIDU, is home to many individuals and home to many different factions. One of those being Victoria Housekeeping . You found yourself at the mercy of those individuals from time to time, especially the ever so proper Von Lycaon. A gentleman through and through , who isn’t afraid of protecting his dear master from the depths of the hollows where you often find yourself after conducting research.

Now, you knew better not to get too involved in any of his personal business, but when he sent a sudden notice of absence it worried you. Why on earth would he need to leave? For how long? What was wrong with him? You had to know, as his close friend and well.. esteemed patron. That’s what lead you to meet at the place you knew would have your answers. Strangely enough, none of the girls were home either, not even Ms Alexandrina.

It sent a shiver down your spine as you crept through the empty halls, it was silent..eerie. It was almost perfect for their faction at least but even for them this seemed a little far fetched. A little too silent for your liking. You could hear the way your heel clicked and clacked against the concrete floor beneath you. It was dark, the sun set a while ago..the moon shined bright through one of the cracked windows, the cold hair caused your hairs to raise and goosebumps to form. Why was everything suddenly so much scarier?

You just needed to find Lycaon and deliver the basket of treats you made for him , to hopefully quell whatever illness he described in his latest message as to why he had to be distant for a while. You turned the corner, only a few feet away from the room of the wolf thiren when you heard a growling. It pierced through your ears as the only thing breaking the eerie silence, that and now your increased heartbeat. You gasp, It sounded like he was in pain.. you didnt want him to feel pain anymore! You were just here to help.

You pick up the pace almost speed walking to his door, it was locked. You turn the handle again and again, calling out to him to let you in! To let you cure his sickness. Oh how naive and ignorant you are. The wolf was no longer the pristine and well groomed man you usually met , but more an untamed beast of pure and undeniable lust. The door swung open, almost off its hinges as he towered above you. Did he get taller? His chest was exposed, his once clean attire was discarded in rags behind him. He panted , his fangs almost dripping in saliva as he looked at you like you were his meal.

You didnt know why your legs burned as you ran away from the beast, you didn’t even know why you were running to begin with. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you heard his heavy footsteps behind you, no less giving you a lead. You knew Lycaon could catch up to you if he truly wanted to. But this wasn’t Lycaon this was someone—something else. You blanked, which way did you come from? Where were you? You made the mistake of standing idle while an animal hunted you. His breathing was ragged in your ear as his clawed hand tightened around you waist yet he didnt hurt you, in fact it was the opposite.

“Stay.” He finally spoke, his voice was almost unrecognizable as the rest of his appearance. His fur was unkept, his eyes were almost completely black as he stared down at you..but the small part of him was still there- that still wanted to protect you, his master. He knew exactly how to, he knew how to protect you from everyone else, everyone who wasn’t him—every other thiren or human out there who dared to claim you. No. He would do it first before them all.

Completely compromised, you’re almost forced in position with your face touching the hard cold floor and his hands forcibly tearing apart your garments. You squeal, you try and break free and tell Lycaon to calm down! Your pleads fall deaf to his ears, the only sense he can make out is your scent. Arousal, fear.. it was a deadly mix for a wolf, it made him crave you more. His hands were somehow soft against your plush skin, playing with the fat of your thighs as he forced your body in every position he could until he was satisfied. You couldn’t help but feel your core leak at the sight of him when you’re finally on your back. His cock was large and swelling, pulsing over your entrance as he tried to hold back every urge he could until he knew you were ready.

His long digits found way into your core, it stun as he dragged them in and out, you knew you needed more than this you needed him. “Ly—Lycaon” You’d call, forcing him to throw out every thought telling him to take his time. You needed him as he needed you, and who was he to deny his master their desire? He almost couldn’t resist when your walls clamped around his thick member, his saliva dripped down onto your exposed chest- coating your mounds with the liquid as his hand came up to massage it in. His pace began slowly, he still cared of course. You could feel everything, every thrust, every twitch—you could feel it all.

Gradually he sped up, he started to thrust at an unforgiving pace, his moans breathless and mixing with your downright pornographic voice, he never felt so much pleasure in his life—all that buildup truly meant something now that he can unload everything he had into you, yes, yes hed give you his all. He would fill you to the brim and get you nice and pregnant with his kin—with his pups. You could do that right?

“you-you will mother..mother my kin—wont you master?” He purred, his tongue lapping at your neck as he started to fuck you like an animal- like the beast he truly was. You could barely speak back, your brain was practically mush at this point. You could only cling to the little you could as your poor cunt got abused by his unforgiving pace. His knot began to swell against the base of his cock, you could feel it prodding at your entrance— no, you couldn’t take this! Not when you could barely take his cock. That didn’t matter to Lycaon though, you would take it whether you liked it or not. His hands came to your thighs yet again but this time to force them beside your head, your teary eyed fucked out face only urged him on.

“yes—yes! take my knot.. my beloved-! my master—please, please let me in..” He’d growl before biting down on your neck , you scream as you feel that familiar burst of energy shock through you- the slick from your cum and arousal created the perfect substance for his knot to slide inside of you..filing you to the brim with his cum. He licked at your neck as his tail wagged behind him furiously.. he finally found someone suitable for his kin.. for his love..for his desires to be fulfilled.

He couldn’t let you go now, not even long after he calmed down. In reality, he was terrified on seeing you now that he was in the right state of mind..what an idiot he was. “Master—I deeply apologize for my behavior. This is why I notified everyone about the full moon” His voice made you chuckle, of course.. the damn moon. “Master-?” He called again, afraid he may have broken you. You surely were “broken” at least that’s how your body felt.

“Lycaon”

“Yes Master-?”

“Carry me to bed”

“Of course..I am at your service”

[say-al0e]

Hope

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!

Summary: From the age of ten, your heart has belonged to Aemond Targaryen. As the factions of your family wage war, each fighting for the crown, all you want is to love the man you chose. | Ft. "You think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people?" Requested by @niamh11 Warnings: Targcest, doubt, war, death (mentioned), dragon fire, inaccurate Targaryen marriage rites, PinV, oral (f!receiving), Harrenhal, light drugging (nothing happens while drugged, just sleep; only briefly mentioned). Aemond and Reader are 20. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Targaryen Reader (Daemon's Daughter, Unspecified Mother - not Rhaenyra) Word Count: 11.5k (I don't know, I blacked out) HotD Taglist

For weeks, it felt as if every breath was filled with the scent of damp earth, the smoke of dragon fire, the copper tang of blood, or the char of wood and bone. Each was heavier than the last, harder to draw and less likely to fill your lungs, but you continued to fight to catch your breath with every moment that passed.

The stench of war, now hanging heavily over the entirety of the realm, made itself at home in the fabric of your clothes, the strands of your hair, the very pores of your skin. It haunted you in your sleep, lingered just around every corner and refused to allow you a moment of peace. Despite your reluctance to fight, to watch the realm tear itself apart, it slowly consumed every piece of your life. But the stench, while maddening, meant that you were still alive.

For now, anyway.

Once, only a few short moons ago, towns and villages near the Kingsroad found themselves on the verge of prosperity. Their proximity afforded them the coin of travelers, of weary men wandering through the realm for one reason or another and sellswords looking for work - or, more often, debauchery. None were as large as Oldtown or King’s Landing, none quite as prosperous, but it was more than could be said for other villages. There was food to eat, coin to be earned, and fun to be had; just enough for the inhabitants to consider themselves lucky.

Unfortunately, their luck only extended so far.

The all-consuming threat of dragon fire often loomed over the realm. There were many who were raised to fear the ancient beasts - and rightfully so, for their not so distant ancestors perished in flames - but, for many, the threat seemed far off.

Until smoke filled the skies and the threat that once seemed so distant now swallowed them whole.

Blackened land surrounded you at every turn. Fields, once filled with crops, reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash; pastures, once teeming with livestock, a final resting place for cleaned bones; ponds, once a source of water for the bustling village, still bubbling as it boiled. Once great buildings were nothing more than rubble, mere pieces of stone marking where they once stood, and the streets were littered with bodies still smoking.

Though the sight was growing familiar, you could still feel the bile raise in the back of your throat as you stepped across cobblestone paths in search of any survivors. The beat of your heart echoed in your ears, hammering so hard inside your chest you worried it might crack a rib, and you struggled to even your breathing as you gripped your sword.

There was no need to guess who had lain waste to the lands, no need to question those who managed to flee, those who would spend the rest of their lives searching the skies in fear. It was obvious whose work this was and your father had little problem reminding you.

“I suppose your beloved did not deem this attack worth discussion upon your last meeting,” he sneered, toeing at a large piece of melted metal. “Tell me, what is it you see in him; his devotion to senseless violence or his shameless predilection for leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake? Your devotion to him is… baffling."

For a moment, it felt as if your heart stopped. While he had not spoken of him as anything other than a nuisance, a proverbial thorn in his side, since his refusal to allow you to marry, it was of little surprise to you that your father knew your heart still belonged to him. Most turned blind eyes - some willingly, with no desire to speak aloud your transgression; others simply allowed you to go unnoticed, expecting this behavior from the eldest child of the Rogue Prince - but you should have known there was nothing you could hide from him.

“I have loved him since we were children,” you reminded him, needlessly. “I cannot simply stop. As for what I see in him, I would say that I saw you, father,” you began, voice thick with emotion, “but something like this would require you to sully your own hands.” Despite the knot in your throat and the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, you carried on, hoping he couldn’t hear the shake of your voice. “Aemond’s crimes are his own. Yours are carried out by men who have the misfortune of trusting you.”

Daemon Targaryen had always been noted for his prowess in battle, his cunning, his silver tongue, his enjoyment of Flea Bottom. Rarely was he noted for his even temper or his devotion as a father. He loved you, and your siblings - of this you were almost certain - but you considered it evident when he chose to reach for you, hand clasped in a viselike grip on your throat, rather than his sword the moment the words left your lips.

“Mind your tongue,” he ordered, voice a low rasp as his violet eyes narrowed. “This,” he hissed, gesturing to the carnage you stood amidst, “is the work of a weak, pathetic little boy throwing a fucking tantrum. He wants war, he wants blood, he wants the crown; he knows nothing of the reality. He has chosen to burn his own kingdom for a chance to play king now that his drunken, usurper cunt of a brother has disappeared and were it not for Rhaenyra, for you, I would let him.” Daemon paused, his grip tightening on your throat - earning a sharp gasp, a desperate scrabble of your fingers, nails digging into his forearm - as his gaze burned into yours. “I once saw myself in Aemond,” he confessed, voice softening, “though there is one grand distinction. I would sacrifice the world for Rhaenyra, for our children, for you. Aemond will sacrifice you the moment you no longer serve his purpose."

A single glance around the village, around the dozen other villages you’d flown through on your patrols - on your search for Aemond, for Vhagar, for any sign of an impending Green attack - confirmed that your father spoke the truth. The Aemond you loved was long gone, replaced by a man desperately clawing for the power that now seemed well within his grasp, but you were your father’s daughter.

Dragon rider since ten, skilled with a sword, intelligent, comely gifted with a mind for strategy - it was oft whispered that you were a mirror of Daemon Targaryen. The best, and some of the worst, parts of your father were passed directly to you. And, unfortunately, that included his predilection to stubbornly listen to the thrum of your heart rather than reason.

“You act as if you have the right to shame anyone, as if you have not sacrificed many and more in the name of getting what you want,” you reminded him, nails sinking into his skin and drawing blood. The rasp of your voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried through the hauntingly empty ruins as you searched his face for any hint of understanding. When you found none, you pleaded, “What would you have me do, father? Tell me, please.”

“Return to Harrenhal,” he commanded, releasing his grip on your throat, gaze never once leaving yours. “I will join you on the morrow.” For a moment, you stood toe to toe - jaw working as you contemplated speaking, wondering if you could push words past the sudden dryness of your mouth - before Daemon turned. “That is a command. Go.”

Without sparing you a second glance, Daemon stalked across the field to mount Caraxes before beginning his ascent.

Rather than immediately following the harsh command, one he would almost certainly apologize for in his own way - with an embrace, most likely, or a tale of his youth - you allowed yourself a moment. With little regard for your armor, for your sword, you sank to your knees and pressed your palms into the scorched earth and reflected on how exactly you found yourself with an aching heart.

For much of your life, your heart beat for Aemond Targaryen.

As the eldest daughter of the Rogue Prince, Lords and knights from all parts of the realm - princes from Dorne and the Free Cities - all vied for your hand, once upon a time. With every tourney or feast you attended, you were inundated with glances and introductions. Each conversation included boasts of riches and land, of family titles and pedigrees. Daemon found it intoxicating, waiting for the perfect proposal to be made, while it all mattered none to you.

The idea of marriage was one you disliked, but one you knew would become reality sooner rather than later. As a Targaryen, there were but two possibilities: your marriage would serve as a political alliance, your husband chosen for the connections he could bring the crown, the resources his house could provide; or you would marry another Targaryen, a member of your own house who could ensure your name and bloodline carried on.

Neither was appealing but a political marriage always seemed the most likely option as you viewed it as the only way your father could win favor with his brother. It was an eventuality you were prepared for as your brothers were young, and betrothed, while you knew little and less of your cousins.

Visits to the Red Keep were few and far between, only possible when your father and uncle found themselves in good spirits - or at such odds that a conversation was necessary - and even less frequent upon your father’s marriage to Rhaenyra. Alicent Hightower’s children mattered little to you at first, their existence often forgotten as you followed your father from this exile to that, but everything changed the moment Aemond claimed Vhagar.

Funerals - too many of which you’d witnessed in such a short existence - never sat well with you. They served as a reminder that while House Targaryen sat high atop the Iron Throne and soared through the skies on the backs of ancient beasts, none could escape the Stranger’s eventual embrace.

Mortality felt too heavy a thought for one so young but it was the ever present reality.

On a day that felt so heavy, so sobering, you were surprised to find any joy at all. There was so much anger, so much tension, so much sadness, that you wondered how anyone would carry on at all. But somewhere, amidst the depths of despair, you stood in awe of the timid boy who once had trouble looking you in the eye as he mounted the oldest and fiercest dragon you knew.

Aemond’s joy was almost palpable that night. His relief at having claimed a dragon - the dragon - set you at ease, thrilled you almost more than claiming your own dragon, and you watched happily as he circled Driftmark. Vhagar carried him around the island and their cries, his of triumph, carried on the wind. It filled your chest with a warmth you’d never known, a joy that felt almost suffocating. The sight of him, fearless and finally free of the cruel teasing of his brother and yours, endeared him to you in a way you never bothered to examine.

Upon his return, a split second after his feet hit the sand and your eyes met, you pulled him into your arms. With one embrace, you saw a future, a life of love - of joy, of dragon rides and quiet evenings - and you hoped he might feel the same.

It was fitting, you supposed, for the love story you always wished for to be marked by fire and blood.

The first and only time you hoped that you might marry for love while fulfilling your duty to your house ended in bloodshed. Though you were both but ten years old, you learned an important lesson; hope is not meant for a Targaryen.

Driftmark, in hindsight, began it all - the start of your love story, the seeds of ruin that would someday fell it - but you were nothing, if not stubborn. 

Despite the events of that night, despite your father marrying Rhaenyra and the boys becoming your brothers, Aemond knew you shouldered no blame. Though he wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, he was satisfied; an eye for Vhagar, of all dragons, was a worthwhile price to pay, that much he confided in the first of many letters you shared.

The letters were flowed easily and, though most contained trivial thoughts that mattered little to anyone but the pair of you, they meant the world to you. For the first time in a long time, you felt content - happy, even. 

As you grew older, you understood little and less of the rift between your family. Your relationship with Aemond was easy, almost effortless, but everything else seemed so needlessly complicated. There were apologies owed and egos too fragile to repent for past sins; a simple problem with an even simpler solution. However, it seemed as if all were too self-involved to see the simplicity.

Viserys, with his ailing health and reputation as peacetime king, wanted nothing more than for peace amongst his own family.

For all the harsh words and bitter distance, for all the sleepless nights and long fights, for all the accusations and moments of mistrust, Viserys and Daemon truly loved one another. There was nothing, in the end, that could destroy their relationship.

That was why, you supposed, when Viserys suggested it and you insisted, Daemon agreed to send you to ward in King’s Landing.

The gesture was one, both you and Viserys insisted, meant to unite your families. Your willingness to step into a proverbial viper’s den, however, did little to ease the tension that grew so thick you feared it may someday choke you.

In hindsight, you knew the damage was already done. The groundwork for the coming war, the brewing discontent and deep mistrust, was laid long before you entered the picture. Perhaps it was naivety, or a brotherly desire to make up for past mistakes, that lead Viserys to believe the decision would invoke fondness between the halves of your families - or perhaps less bloodshed when the reckoning finally arrived - but a Dreamer he was not.

Most believed disaster loomed over the Red Keep but none could have predicted just how horrifying it would be.

Upon your arrival to the Red Keep, you were reminded of how long it had been since you wandered its halls. Little of your childhood was spent there, visits grew fewer and farther between, but very little remained of image your mind conjured. There was no warmth, no cheer, no comfort. Though autumn had scarcely begun, the bitter cold of winter already enveloped the Keep and its inhabitants.

Viserys himself hailed your arrival as a cause for celebration. Helaena, too, found joy in your presence as you served as her closest friend and confidante. Aegon, now eight-and-ten, all but ignored your presence, as did his mother. And the one you missed the most seemed most outwardly indifferent to your presence.

Aemond spoke less than he did as a child, his words carefully measured, though his confidence had grown with him. He carried himself in a manner befitting a prince, with set shoulders and a keen violet eye scanning his surroundings at every turn. And while his brother spent his days deep in his cups or between the thighs of paid women, Aemond’s days were spent honing his abilities. He trained with Cole in the yard, studied with the maesters in the library, and listened intently to every conversation he could catch regarding matters of the realm.

Though you spoke often through raven, the comfort did not quickly or easily extend to face-to-face interactions.

Despite the initial tension that arrived with you from Dragonstone, Aemond graced you with his presence more often than not. He sat with you in the library, body occupying the seat beside yours despite a handful of empty chairs scattered about the room, and went flying with you as often as you wished. At mealtimes, he sat at your side - his violet eye trained on you, observing but rarely speaking more than a handful of words - and walked the gardens with you after breaking your fast.

There were moments of bitterness, bouts of anger where your tempers flared - particularly in the beginning, and often because of one sibling or another - and more moments spent hurling cruel words at one another.

But with every moon that passed, you settled into a life far different than any you could’ve imagined. And with every moment spent by Aemond’s side, you knew it was love - real and true - you’d found all those years ago. Love lightened your spirit, brought you a warmth and a comfort you never knew existed, and joy found you despite the chill of the Red Keep. Aemond was the one you wanted and, delighted, you learned he felt the same.

Yet, neither of you forgot that hope was more dangerous a beast than any dragon.

Hope abandoned you both as you sought permission to marry. Though Viserys was overjoyed, thrilled by the prospect of uniting the family through the joining of your hands, there were few others who shared his enthusiasm. The factions of your family agreed on little as of late but Alicent and Daemon found themselves in agreement at long last; both would sooner see their children miserable, alone or trapped in loveless marriages, than allow them to marry.

It seemed as if everyone, save Viserys, shared the sentiment. And, as you gathered for what would - unbeknownst to you all - become the last supper, none were shy about sharing it.

Piece by piece, the future you foolishly allowed yourself to imagine shattered into shards that pierced your heart deeper and deeper. With every argument against your betrothal, with every sharp word uttered and eventual punch thrown, you felt the fate you desperately hoped to avoid closing in on you. And as your family disappeared from the Red Keep, eager to return to Dragonstone - with a parting command that you begin preparing to join them - you took to the skies to ruminate.

Naively, perhaps, you imagined you could have won them over.

There were a thousand arguments to be made in support of your marriage to Aemond, the least of which was the love you shared. Though Daemon mistrusted his nephew, he would’ve seen reason - someday, perhaps - that Aemond loved you, that he would never cause you harm. Though your brothers disliked Aemond, the result of childhood animosity fed to you all by adults, you could have shown them how happy Aemond made you. And though Rhaenyra found herself wary, she knew your marriage would provide stability and comfort to Alicent upon her ascension.

If only Viserys had lived just a while longer.

Viserys’ death had long been a matter of when. In the immediate aftermath, you found yourself wondering how things might have changed had Rhaenyra remained at the Keep - if he’d died sooner rather than later, if she’d been the one to share his final moments. But there was little time to dwell when you suddenly found yourself considered an enemy to the crown.

One moment, you were lingering in the Dragonpit - Aemond’s hand on your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours as he assured you there was nothing that could keep you apart - and the next, members of the Kingsguard were dragging you through the Keep to lock you in your room.

For several long hours, there was no explanation. Aemond was kept from you, sent from the Keep in search of his brother, and you were kept under strict guard. Despite the silence, you knew with great certainty that Viserys was dead and your stomach churned with fear of what was to come. And despite yourself, you held desperately to the hope that the great houses would remember their oaths to uphold Rhaenyra as the rightful heir.

Abandon all hope, should you wish to survive.

None knew what Otto Hightower intended to do with you - for it was, most certainly, he who masterminded Aegon’s ascension and he who planted the seeds of mistrust in you as a suitable match for his grandson - but you considered yourself blessed to escape that fate, nonetheless.

A knight of the Kingsguard facilitated your escape, granted you and Rhaenys the freedom necessary to flee King’s Landing. Rhaenys herself facilitated the liberation of your dragons, neither of whom you intended to leave without. And in the blink of an eye, every aspect of your life changed. War was nigh, closer than ever before, and though you escaped the Red Keep, hope held you prisoner.

For a blissful moment, little of your relationship with Aemond changed.

There were ravens - messages written in High Valyrian, now of greater significance than ever before - and meetings arranged in secluded woods. There were longing glances exchanged, fleeting touches and soft kisses, embraces you once refused out of some sense of propriety. Words of love were whispered and promises, bound to be broken, were made. There was even a dream, only spoken under cover of darkness, of finding a septon to marry you in a desperate bid to end the war before it began in earnest. But the storm itself had only just begun.

The question was never when, nor if, blood would be drawn; it was always who would draw it. Most feared it would be Daemon, or perhaps Aegon - both quick to anger, to act, desperate to prove themselves. But it was of little surprise to anyone, save you, that it was Aemond who began the Dance.

Whispers filled the land and the halls of Dragonstone echoed with the title that chipped at the already shattered pieces of your heart; Aemond One-Eye became Aemond the Kinslayer. 

Most believed it was a deliberate act, retribution for the eye Lucerys stole as a boy. Others, an act of provocation to draw Rhaenyra out of hiding. Regardless of motive, nearly all found themselves in agreement that Aemond committed the most grievous sin. Though it was a compelling argument, one you found yourself struggling to deny when Jacaerys confronted you, you hoped it was not true.

Aemond longed for an apology, an acknowledgement that he was wronged. That much you knew to be true. But he was not a murderer, not one to cut down a child in cold blood.

Three long months of piecemeal battles followed Lucerys death - Visenya’s death - and, despite the damage done and the fear beginning to grip the realm, there was little to be done to keep you away from Aemond. You continuously found one another, seeking solace where you knew it was guaranteed, and he swore Lucerys’ death was a tragic mistake. He apologized, sincerely, and you believed him.

Love, perhaps, was more dangerous than hope for it could make even the sharpest eye blind.

As you glanced around the village, reduced to nothing - to ash, to rubble, to ruin - you wondered if it was love that blinded you involuntarily or a choice made to protect what remained of your fragile heart.

Every sign that Aemond had changed, that he was no longer the boy you fell in love with but a man grown into a stranger, was there. And as you stood, limbs trembling as you realized an inn had become a graveyard, you wondered if he’d ever been the man you believed him to be.

Perhaps it was hope, a desperate desire for a fairytale you long ago accepted you would never have, or perhaps it was naivety that blinded you. While others saw a waking nightmare, a terror to behold, you saw a man in desperate need of comfort. While others saw a threat, you saw a man who needed a gentle hand to guide him to the light. While others saw a raging storm, threatening to spring forth and destroy everything in its path, you found yourself trapped directly in the ruinous calm of the eye.

Aemond was, you truly believed, good. Somewhere beneath the facade he wore, the bravado that kept his shoulders straight and his lips narrowed into a thin line, was a delicate countenance you’d witnessed. But as you gathered yourself, scrubbed at your cheeks with the hem of your sleeve and swiped ash from your gloved hands on the fabric of your coat, you wondered just how deeply it was buried.

Village after village had been burned, thousands of innocents killed in cold blood, and to what end? There was no question who torched the villages, not pretending the offense was committed at Rhaenyra’s command.

All knew it was Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed Prince - Kinslayer, attempted Kingslayer - who singlehandedly destroyed them all.

Death and destruction marked his path, nothing left for you to find other than rubble and ash. It made you sick, turned your stomach and left an acidic burn in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t help wondering why.

As you mounted your dragon to return to Harrenhal, body present but mind far away, little made sense to you. Aegon was gone, still missing after weeks of searching; Alicent and Otto, for all their determination, would never see the realm reduced to ash; and Criston Cole would rather fight, march on with a host of men and a strategy rather than torch villages with little rhyme or reason. There was no plausible explanation for the campaign, no reasonable excuse for the destruction you found awaiting you at every turn.

All that remained was the truth; each and every village burned was a choice Aemond made.

The realization that every heinous act you’d stumbled across in your search for Aemond and Vhagar - for Aegon, for Criston Cole, for a Green army you began to imagine would never materialize - was his froze the very blood in your veins. It made each beat of your heart more painful than the last, each a little too fast and hard enough you feared your ribs might crack, and you fought bitter tears as you flew toward Harrenhal.

Only weeks ago, Aemond pleaded with you. He urged you to abandon your family and give yourself to him - your hand, your body, your dragon - and join his cause, not his brother’s. It was heartfelt, soft, emotional, convincing. He promised that you would rule as his queen, that your family would be forgiven and peace would return to the realm, if you would simply give in to him. And for a long moment, you considered his plea. So strongly did you consider accepting, you gathered your things and crossed through the dilapidated corridors of Harrenhal with every intention of taking flight and joining him.

In fact, you made it to the gate before the little voice in your head gave you pause.

Alys found you in the courtyard, bag tossed to the ground and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, sat before the Weirwood tree. With a few soft words, she reminded you of your place - of your family, of your fight - and lead you to bed before Daemon could find you.

Briefly, as you soared through the cool, late afternoon air, you wondered if the destruction was your fault. Perhaps your rejection ignited the flame of his temper and sent him on a rampage. But you believed you knew him too well to entertain that train of thought for longer than a moment. Aemond had proven himself to be volatile, dangerous, but there had to be a reason for the destruction he rained.

Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you and much and more to do with his own campaign for the crown - a campaign none knew existed until the power he so desired fell straight into his hands.

There was little time to dwell on Aemond’s aspirations, however, as the great ruins of Harrenhal entered your sight.

Resting in a field, not far from the charred remnants of the castle, was Vhagar. She slept, unbothered, by the beating wings of your own dragon - a scent she recognized, a scent she knew offered no threat - and you felt your pulse jump as you grounded your own dragon just outside the walls of the once great castle.

Where Vhagar went, Aemond went - a fact all knew. And what Aemond wanted, he got. It was only a matter of time before he came for you, you realized, just as you realized the choice to join him was little more than an illusion. The decision to be his was made long ago, by a lovestruck fool who believed in hope and happy endings. The consequences would be felt by a woman whose sight had been restored.

There was no use in attempting to flee. He’d seen you arrive and would doubtlessly follow, so you steeled yourself and made the short trek to the ruins of the castle courtyard.

With your blade drawn and your ears ringing, heart hammering so loud you feared he might hear over the wind howling around you, you stepped through the gate. Despite the persistent chill in the air, the bile rising in the back of your throat, you felt impossibly warm - burning from within, fear lapping at your skin like the hottest flames of dragon fire.

Aemond didn’t bother turning from the Weirwood, hands remaining folded behind his back as dead earth crunched beneath your boots. “I wondered if Daemon would dare face me himself,” he began, voice soft and carrying on the cold wind, “of if he would be craven and allow his beloved daughter to return to me.”

It was apparent he thought you knew - that Daemon knew - he’d arrived at Harrenhal. And you had no intention of correcting him as you tightened your grip on your sword. Instead, you laughed;  a brittle, hollow sound you knew he would see through.

“My father is not afraid of you.” Every step you took, sword clasped in your hands - clutched like a lifeline, as if you had any chance against him in battle - the harder it became to catch your breath. “He does not consider you at all. You are nothing more than a pest to be swatted in his eyes; that is why I am here.” A lie, something you both knew, as Daemon understood exactly who his nephew had become, what kind of man he’d grown to be.

The understanding was one he attempted to share with you, one he begged you to see, but the three of you shared a common weakness; love.

Daemon, for all his gestures and his promises, would never love anyone more than himself as only he could protect his own heart. You would never love anyone more than Aemond, despite his flaws and his mistakes, as he’d captured your heart and refused to set it free. And Aemond? He would never love anyone more than he loved the image of himself wearing a crown.

Seated amidst the ruins of a small village, lingering with the ghosts of lives lost in an awful game, you found that understanding for yourself. Though Aemond professed his love for you - and felt it, of that you were certain, even if it was not the love you dreamt of, not the love you wanted - you knew that a piece of him saw you as a little more than a pawn. The war that raged around you was bigger than you, both pawns to be knocked around a board at the mercy of the gods, but he still fancied himself a player rather than a piece.

Love clouded your judgement, cast a rosy hue over the deep gray of your world, and you almost hated to see it go.

Without it, you saw the blackened hull of Harrenhal and the jaded, empty husk of a man Aemond had become.  The man you loved was gone, the heart that beat in time with yours was no more. Instead, stood before you was a man who sent a thrill of fear shooting down the base of your spine.

If Daemon had known the fate that awaited you at Harrenhal, he would’ve sent you to Dragonstone, to the Keep, to the Reach, the Vale, the North - somewhere, anywhere other than into the hands of the man who would destroy you.

Daemon hadn’t known and neither had you. But if you had, you knew you still would’ve flown straight into his trap.

Silence, thick and tense with an energy you’d never before felt, enveloped you both, broken only by the call of your dragon - cries that sank into your heart like knives, plunging deeper and deeper with every beat - before, at long last, Aemond turned to face you.

That searching violet eye fell to your sword, amusement clear in the raise of his brow and the way his mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk. “Look at you,” he declared, gaze sweeping across your armor of red and black. “My beautiful Fierce Princess.” He took a single step forward, huffing a breath that could pass for laughter when you rocked back onto your heel, and hummed. “I always knew that you would be mine."

“I belong to no man.” The declaration escaped as little more than a whisper, leagues away from the confidence you hoped to project, but there was little use in denying him.

Aemond was the one person who knew each and every inch of you. Every detail - no matter how small - had been committed to memory somewhere in the years you’d loved one another. Though you had not yet given yourself to him, he was more familiar with your skin, your mind, your heart than any other could ever hope to be. If anyone were to see through a false act of bravado, it would be him.

“Mm.” He held his laughter, an act to spare your feelings, though his violet eye shimmered with a mirth that seemed rare these days - a mirth you once considered yourself lucky to witness - as he stepped closer.  “Sheath your blade,” he commanded, voice soft but firm as he easily brushed past you. “I would not harm you, my love.”

Disregarding the command, you kept your sword in hand as you followed him through the dark, damp corridors. There was little light and less company, something you had yet to grow used to.

Though you knew you would find nothing before you began to search, you could not stop yourself from glancing around. Desperately, you hoped for a glimpse of a familiar face - Simon, his men, Alys - but the pit in your stomach only sank deeper as you entered the empty shell of the dining room.

“If you are searching for the witch, she’s gone. Ser Strong, as well. They all seemed… content to die,” he reveled, tone almost pitying as he reached for the carafe on the table. “Has my uncle treated them so poorly?”

“They’re dead,” you repeated, whisper echoing through the empty halls as he began to fill two glasses.

“Mm. Regretful business,” he sighed, turning to offer you a glass - one you took without thought, the action so natural you might’ve forgotten the setting had it not felt so stifling even amidst the cool breeze floating through the halls. “It is a shame they had to die,” he lamented, lips twisting into a rueful pout, “but between this… dwelling and what is to come, I consider it a merciful alternative.”

“What’s to come?” The question escaped before you could stop it, before you could convince yourself to swing - to end the battle before it began - but Aemond was unsurprised.

“Harrenhal can hold a great host. Whoever controls that host, controls the realm,” he reminded you, pausing only to sip his wine. “My brother was weak,” he continued, a soft hum of disappointment punctuating his words. “He was impulsive and undisciplined, unsuited for the crown. He would not have lasted as king. Perhaps dragon fire was a blessing, a suitable end to his reign.”

“Aemond…” For just a moment, you caught a glimpse of the man you loved as you faltered - as your feet carried you closer, as you sheathed your sword and reached for his cheek. “The villages,” you whispered, “the small folk, Simon, Alys; why?”

Aemond leaned into your touch, warmth of his cheek bleeding into your palm as your thumb brushed the ride of his scar. His violet eye fluttered shut, just for a moment, before he sighed. “I intended only to occupy Daemon, to keep him far from Rhaenyra as she attempted to take the Keep. He has long wanted battle; I chose to give it to him. He now has a cause worth fighting for.”

With a hand on your waist, fingers pressing into the heavy material of your coat, Aemond drew to his full height. “Why go to these lengths for the crown?” A large hand lifted to your cup, nudged it to your mouth, and you took a sip without thought before lamenting, “You could have done much and more without it.”

“You know nothing of being denied,” he whispered, voice as soft as it was cutting. “You have been given everything you could have ever wanted. Princes fought for your hand, lords tripped over themselves to wed you; the word ‘no’ means little and less to you.” He urged you to take another sip of your wine, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as he tipped his head to meet your eyes. “I suppose I am also to blame as I have never refused you anything, nor will I ever. But the crown has always been meant for me, just as you have."

Another insistent press of his fingers saw you drain your cup, casting it aside the moment the liquid disappeared, and you flinched as it clattered to the ground. “You’re wrong,” you whispered, swallowing a gasp as his thumb brushed a drop of wine from your bottom lip. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted, really and truly, I was denied. I’ve only ever asked for your hand, for your love, for you. But I did not set fire to the realm, to the innocents whose paths the gods deemed unfortunate enough to set in my way. I did not betray my brother, my father, my queen. I tried reason, again and again, and held steadfast to hope that our families might see what we have always known.”

“And what did hope earn you, my love? Your father’s ire, your siblings disappointment, your realm’s division. Hope is for the foolish. You must take what you want and offer no apology,” he insisted, forehead dipping to press to yours. His hair, a cascade of white, curtained you - hid the blurring reality that surrounded you from view - as his nose brushed yours. “Everything I have done, it has been for us.”

The words, a soft declaration that should have filled your frozen limbs with an overwhelming warmth, made little sense as your thoughts began to muddle together. The ground beneath your feet trembled, your limbs suddenly felt boneless, and your tongue began to feel too large for your mouth.

Focus grew more and more difficult, a monumental feat with every breath you inhaled through wind-chapped lips, as you attempted to blink away the haze beginning to cloud your vision.

“I wanted love,” you whispered, voice distorted in your own ears. “But do you think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people? Hope has earned me nothing, yet I continue to cling to it and hope that the boy I fell in love with will someday return to me.”

“I have never left,” Aemond assured you, though his voice sounded far away. “And I never will. We shall spend the rest of our lives together.”

As the world began to crumble around you, as your vision blurred and your ears rang, as your heart slowed and your breathing grew labored, your legs gave out. Despite Aemond’s grip, your body connected with the floor - your knees pressed hard against the broken concrete, your cheek caught the blunt edge of the table - and in an instant, everything ceased to exist.

For a blissful few moments, there was nothing.

There was no war, no death, no fire or blood or ash. There was no king, no crown, no throne. In the softness of your dreams, in the depths of your mind, there was little more than love. Aemond’s touch against your skin was soft, eager, as he committed your body to memory. His gaze was loving, reverent. The vision was dark but you felt it all so immensely.

When you awoke, you realized that it was no dream at all. Aemond sat at the side of your bed, one calloused hand stroking your skin - fingers careful as they avoided the tender skin of your cheek, the dried blood at your temple, the bruise you knew was beginning to form. “Rest well, my love?”

The dark of the room made it difficult to see and the fog still clouding your mind held tight. Your tongue still felt too large for your mouth, too dry, but you persisted. Hoarsely, you whispered, “This was a trap.”

Aemond shifted, his weight dipping the bed but leaving you undisturbed as he brushed hair from your forehead. He was clad in a shirt and pants - missing his sword, his coat, his eyepatch - and his hair fell across his shoulders. He was beautiful, as ethereal as you’d ever seen him, but the warmth you once felt was now replaced with a feeling of dread as he hummed. “It was,” he admitted, no longer bothering to pretend as his thumb swiped at your bottom lip.

“You… you poisoned me.” There was no venom in your accusation, only confusion as your mind struggled to catch up to the moment at hand. “The wine…”

“I did.” Another easy admission of guilt, this one accompanied by a flicker of his eye to meet yours. “I needed to make arrangements,” he reasoned. “I thought it kinder than locking you in a cell.”

There was no emotion in his eye, no inflection in his tone. He simply stated a fact, but you felt your heart begin to race once more as you struggled to sit upright. “I thought you loved me,” you continued, body aching as you moved.

“I do, more than you shall ever know.” Despite everything, despite yourself, you truly believed him. Of every answer he could have given you, of every explanation - every sharp glance or sharper word - you felt inclined to believe that whatever he’d done could be traced to his love for you. It was untraditional, but as someone who had never felt love, perhaps he did not know better.

Still, you asked, “Then why?”

“Because you are mine.” The answer was simple, easy. It was the same answer he had repeated a dozen times over. 

When asked why he agreed to duel a Dornish prince who wanted your hand? You were his, not a prize to be won. When asked why he apologized to his cousins for his ‘Strong’ remarks? You were his; your family was important to you, therefore, they were important to him. When asked why he refused to offer his hand to a Baratheon, despite the crown’s need for their alliance? You were his and he was yours; his hand was already bound.

“Come,” he urged, standing from your bed and offering you a hand.

Slowly, you stood - your limbs weak and your head throbbing, mouth dry and stomach churning - as he reached to steady you. “Where are we going?”

“It is past time we were wed,” he declared, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright.

With muddled thoughts and an overwhelming bout of nausea, you inhaled sharply. “There is no septon,” you reminded him, blinking hard against the sudden warm glow of a torch as you stepped into the hallway. “No one to perform a ceremony.”

“We shall marry as our ancestors did,” he reasoned, waving away the notion as he guided you with ease. “They had no need of a septon; the Old Gods witnessed their union as they shall ours.”

“My father,” you began, blinking desperately to clear the haze from your eyes, “my family.”

“In a period of war, tradition means little,” he reasoned, voice low in the silence of the ruins. “There will be another ceremony later, in view of the entire realm, if you wish. For now, we will join hands and take our place as the rightful king and queen.”

“Aemond…”

The pleading edge to your tone, the shake of your voice, was enough to finally give Aemond pause.

A large hand lifted, cradled your jaw and tipped your head. You met his violet eye with your own and searched for answers to the thousands of questions that rushed at you from every angle. Though you’d longed for nothing more than to marry him, to become one, you now wondered if you had any choice at all. Would he allow you to refuse, to escape Harrenhal and return to your family? If you gave him your hand, would he truly spare your father, your siblings, Rhaenyra? If you ran, would he allow you to survive?

Aemond posed a question before you could. “Have you changed your mind, my love? Do you no longer wish to be my wife?” There was little indication how he meant the question - little indication of his true feelings; whether he was angry or heartbroken at the thought - and you found yourself uncertain which would be worse.

But for a long moment, you considered his question. 

The man stood before you was no longer one you recognized, not fully. There was a darkness now ever present, clinging to him in a way it never had before. There was no longer a levity to him, no longer a spark of joy. But for as long as you could remember, Aemond was all you’d ever wanted. And, when you truly stopped to consider, the pieces you missed the most were pieces only you had ever seen.

Vulnerability was given only under cover of darkness, whispered in the depths of the Dragonpit or hidden deep in the godswood. Joy was only shown in fleeting flashes, with red cheeks and swollen lips in stolen moments you dared spend wrapped together. Love was shown in flashes of protection, in moments of compassion. Honesty was only ever granted to you, answers given freely to all questions asked where others received scathing looks and half-truths. 

Perhaps your Aemond was just that; yours and yours alone, unsuited for the eyes of outsiders.

Thoughts rushed at you, moving simultaneously too quickly and syrup slow. Everything muddled in the depths of your mind, a confusing mass of emotion and rationality - heart versus head. For the first time, Aemond truly terrified you, though there was a certainty in the back of your mind that there was no safer place for you in the realm than by his side.

Despite the fear that left your hands trembling, you swallowed your doubt. “I have only ever wanted you,” you whispered, not bothering to hide your tears. “I am yours.”

“As I am yours,” he reiterated, dipping his head to press his forehead to yours.

As water dripped around you, as rain fell over the ruins of Harrenhal, you stood in the corridor together. Uncertainty lingered in the pit of your stomach, the question of how you found yourself here plagued you, but the warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours did much and more to settle the wild beat of your heart.

Hope, as dangerous as it was, again found you in the ruins as you resumed your journey to the Weirwood tree.

In the courtyard, beneath the bright, full moon and freezing rain, Aemond slipped the Conqueror’s dagger from its sheath. With a steady hand, he nicked your bottom lip and your palm before carefully gathering a bead of blood on his thumb. He then offered the blade to you and though your own hand shook, you reciprocated without sparing it a second thought.

Aemond clasped your hand in his own, your palm stinging, before he leaned in to press his lips to yours. The dagger, forgotten, clattered to the ground as you pressed impossibly closer.

Weeks apart, separated by death and destruction; confusion, desperation, desire, all clouding your ability to think rationally; overwhelming, all-consuming love - the perfect storm of circumstances saw you desperate to give yourself over the flames that certainly awaited you.

There was no longer any way out, no longer any escape. Aemond was your destiny, your lives bound together years ago. The tinge of fear that pricked at your skin each time you imagined the future - each time you questioned whether you had one, whether anyone would - remained, but your fate was sealed. Rather than fight it, rather than run, you gave in.

The moment you parted, crimson staining your lips and chin, Aemond sighed. “Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, violet eye blinking against the harsh rain.

“Valzȳrys,” you replied, grateful the rain masked your tears as Aemond smiled.

“We are one,” he declared, “united as we’ve always wished.” Your hand remained clasped in his, combined blood dripping into the scorched earth as he squeezed gently. “Nothing can part us.”

“Only the gods,” you whispered, though you remained fearful that speaking it aloud might make it so.

As he always had, Aemond dared scoff at the idea. “Even the gods could not part us,” he promised, silver hair clinging to his skin as he leaned closer.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the courtyard - the ghostly ruins of the castle torched by your ancestors, the halls Daemon had begun rebuilding - but your gaze remained fixed on Aemond. Rain drenched you both, chilled you to the bone, but neither of your cared as he began to guide you back to the castle.

There was little inside that remained dry, even less that offered some semblance of comfort, but that was of little consequence to either of you as Aemond closed the door to your room. Every emotion you felt, every ounce of fear and shame and desire and desperation, gnawed at the fraying edges of your nerves and there was nothing that could be done to alleviate your suffering. The choice was made, a pact sealed in blood, and it was clear Aemond intended to further lay his claim to you - as if he did not already own you, body and heart alike.

“I had hoped it would not rain,” he sighed, taking great care to remove your coat, “but this damn place has never been dry, it seems.”

“A curse,” you whispered, reaching on instinct to untie his breeches. “Punishment from the gods.”

“There is no such thing,” he asserted, hand tipping your chin to meet your gaze. “We are Targaryens,” he declared, “we are the gods.”

Dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach, then - a feeling so strong, you feared you might lose the little nerve that remained. Aemond was beyond reasoning, beyond rationality, and you knew there was nothing you could say to remind him of his own mortality, of yours. So, instead, you pulled him into a kiss.

The future grew dimmer, less and less likely to belong to you with every moment that passed, so you resigned yourself to enjoy the moment at hand. It was one you’d dreamt of, one you’d longed for with each rendezvous you shared, and Aemond seemed as eager as you. Now married, he had no qualms about touching you - calloused fingers skating across your damp skin, brushing across your shoulders, knocking the straps of your gown out of his path.

Aemond’s breath fanned across your cheek, a source of warmth in the chill of the ruins, and you leaned into it. Your nose brushed his, your lips ghosted over his cheek, his chin, his jaw as he nudged wet fabric out of his path.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, soft voice little more than a rasp in your ear. “I’ve oft dreamt of this moment. In only the sweetest of those dreams, you were mine to do with as I pleased. I believe this will be even sweeter.”

Heavy fabric fell from your shoulders, away from your body with every button Aemond found. A pool of red rested at your feet, the color of your house abandoned for the love of your husband. But you were not allowed long to dwell on the matter as deft fingers fell to your rain slick skin.

With steady hands, Aemond peeled your small clothes from your body - violet eye remaining on your face the entire time - before he reached for his own. Your hands, meanwhile, tangled in the dripping strands of his hair.

“You are so beautiful,” you whispered, gaze roving the sharp lines of his face. “A true sight to behold.”

Aemond came alive with your praise, a light flickering behind his eye that reminded you of the man you loved so dearly, and you were glad for it as you stood bare before him. The weight of his searching stare felt lighter, more bearable, as he finally allowed himself a moment to savor the sight of you. It felt as if he meant to commit the sight to memory, to savor the chance he was afforded, and you chose to do the same as you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

Slowly, Aemond pressed you back, pausing only when you reached the foot of the bed. It was low, easy to settle upon, and he seized the opportunity to press you into the mattress. “Lie back for me,” he commanded as he began to sink to his knees, “my queen.”

Warm, calloused hands found your calves, touch so light you couldn’t be certain you hadn’t imagined it as he leaned into you.

Before you, the vision of Aemond clad in the translucent white of his shirt and unlaced breeches, his hair falling free and his sapphire eye uncovered chipped at the fragile remains of your heart. Hope reared its ugly head, gave you reason to believe this would be your forever - the sight of your husband, gazing at you with a reverence you’d never before known - when you knew that forever was far from guaranteed. The moments you shared were stolen, unearned, and if the Stranger did not separate you, your father surely would.

But every thought, every worry, every doubt - each ceased to exist the moment Aemond’s lips pressed to your skin.

Every ounce of tension, of fear, of trepidation, of doubt left your body in a soft sigh as his warm mouth pressed to your ankle. He began softly, slowly, and blazed a path across your skin. Fire burned in his wake, the impression of his mouth seared into your skin, and your breath caught in your throat the higher he inched.

“Tell me,” he urged, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh, “is this what you wanted, what you hoped for all those nights we spent in the Dragonpit, in the library?”

The request was not one meant to stroke his ego, not one meant to serve as an admission of desire. It was not an idle thought, whispered in the heat of the moment. Aemond desired reassurance, acknowledgement that you thought of him as often as he thought of you, that you longed for him the way he’d always longed for you. It was a request for your love, for your commitment, for your comfort. And you long ago lost the ability to deny him much of anything.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers twining together, grip stronger than you intended as you tethered yourself to him. “I always wished you would take me, make me wholly yours. I dreamt of sharing your bed, of seeing you like this. You always wanted to honor me, refusing to steal my maidenhead, but you cannot steal that which belongs to you.”

“Perhaps, if I had taken you then, we might’ve wed years ago,” he ruminated. “But I intend to make up for lost time.”

Aemond repeated his path, his lips pressing to your skin as he used his grip on your thigh to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. You could feel his breath fan across your skin, warming you from within, and you clasped his hand tighter as he nosed as the juncture of your thigh. 

Part of you imagined he would make you beg, eager for proof of your desire - of your need - but before your lips could part to utter his name, he surged forward.

Between your thighs, it was as if he was a man starved. Your immediate gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, earned a soft groan from him as he lapped at your folds with the flat of his tongue. His shoulders kept your thighs parted as his hand slipped between them, calloused fingers gathering the combination of your slick and his saliva before pressing to the bundle of nerves hidden there. 

With every jolt of your body, eager for something - to run from the pleasure or sink into it, you remained uncertain - Aemond shifted closer. He alternated between broad licks, the flat of his tongue savoring the taste of you, and kitten licks, reveling in the way your hips chased each flick of his tongue. Every noise you made was met with a hum of satisfaction, a palpable relief that he could please you in a way no one had ever been allowed, and you all but gasped his name as his fingers began to explore your slick folds.

The swipe of his fingers was foreign, the brush of his thumb over your clit caused you to jolt in his grasp, and you could feel Aemond’s lips curve into a smirk as he pressed his mouth to your mound.

“Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, breath fanning across your skin as he rested his chin on your thigh, “tell me how it feels.”

Words failed you as his lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers pressed into you - slowly, carefully, tenderly - and your breathing grew labored as he worked to prepare you. The only word your mind could recall was his name. “Aemond,” you gasped, fingers tugging at the silver locks drying in the curls he hid. “Gods, Aemond.”

Warmth filled your veins, your chest, the pit of your stomach, as he pressed himself closer. That violet gaze weighed heavy on your skin, able to see through the most carefully crafted facade, and each swipe of his fingers through your slick, each press of his tongue, chipped away at another piece of you. Bit by bit, Aemond worked to break you apart, to dismantle you completely, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you shattered.

And as his fingers pressed, filling you in a way you’d never experienced, you could only hope that he would piece you together again.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice a rasp in the dim light of the room. “Take your pleasure.”

Each sensation felt like too much, too fast, but you gave in to him. You melted into the uncomfortable bedding and focused solely on his attention. The warmth of his skin pressed to yours, the silk of his hair between your fingers, the soft noises he made as he devoured you; it all overwhelmed you in the most beautiful way.

The fire in the pit of your stomach grew hotter, lapping at your skin from within, and with each breath you attempted to draw, the more eager Aemond became to hear you cry his name. And as the edges of your vision began to white, as your fingers held too tightly to him, you gave him what he wanted.

With a cry of his name, loud enough to echo through the abandoned corridors, you came.

Fire, passionate and all-consuming, flickered in Aemond’s eye as he lifted himself. He stood tall, proud, and reveled in the lust openly displayed in your gaze as he finally shucked his own wet clothing. His tunic and breeches joined your own garments; green leather and red velvet, discarded for a union that neither side would consider sacred, but you knew the time to repent had passed.

Rather than dwell, you openly gazed upon the man you’d wanted for so long.

Aemond was perfect - beautiful, ethereal in a way that made your chest ache. There was an allure to him that called to you, a draw that pulled you in and refused to grant you leave. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose; he bared himself fully, no ounce of his soul hidden, and you swallowed harshly as you hoped the gods would forgive you for accepting it all.

“Make me yours,” you whispered, no longer able to remember why you’d ever considered resisting. “There is nothing left but us.”

One of the most feared men in the realm, quick with a blade and quicker with dragon fire, bent to your will. With an even stride and steady hands, he pressed you further up the bed before climbing in to join you. He settled above you, his hair falling - a curtain to shield you both from the world around you - and studied your face for a long moment.

There were tears lining your lashes, a product of the storm of emotion raging in the back of your mind, and Aemond was quick to bring a thumb to your cheek. “This is not the life you hoped for,” he declared, certain, “but I shall spend the rest of mine devoted to you.”

Little remained certain in your mind but you knew Aemond meant every word.

“I know,” you assured him, lifting your own hand to carefully brush at the jagged edge of his scar. “Hope is foolish,” you whispered, urging him closer, “it has caused heartache at every turn, but it lead me to you and for that, I am grateful.”

Without allowing him a moment to speak, you pressed your lips to his. The sting of the nick reminded you of where you were, of what had taken place, but you cared little for anything other than the weight of Aemond’s body pressed to yours. His warm hands held tight to the plush of your hip, fingers pressing into the skin so deeply you feared there might be bruises come morning, as he kissed you.

Emotion - fear, doubt, anger, resentment, longing, love - filled the kiss, a clash of lips and teeth and tongue that tasted of copper, but it was all you could do to keep yourself tethered to reality as Aemond traced the leaking tip of cock through the slick of your folds.

The first time hurt - so the few friends you’d made at court declared, giggled about when your father’s back was turned and your siblings wandered away - but you emerge beyond caring. And as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside you, you found that the slight pinch, the sting of him, cleared the fog of your thoughts and brought the world around you back into focus.

As fearsome as he’d become, Aemond’s heart beat for you. The heavy thunder of it beneath your palm, the thrum of it beneath your lips as you pressed them to the pale skin of his throat, was a reminder that there was no other choice - there never had been.

With every press of Aemond’s hips, with every breath of pleasure, every whispered Valyrian praise, the truth grew clearer.

Hope was a mirage, affording you a fantasy that never existed. The life you lead was always destined to be one of fire and blood. The blood of the dragon coursed through your veins, dripped from the slit in your lip and your palm and spilled from between your thighs as Aemond claimed the last piece of you - a piece you knew had never been yours at all.

Every bit of you, every moment of your life, belonged to someone else; your father, your uncle, your siblings, Aemond. Now, there was nothing left.

A sob escaped your lips, a broken noise that saw Aemond pause. His head lifted, violet eye immediately meeting your own, as his hand lifted to your cheek. “Did I hurt you?” His concern was evident, proven as he stilled and searched for any hint of pain.

To lie would have been easy, as mindless a breathing, but the truth weighed heavy on your chest. “No,” you whispered, swallowing hard, “but I… you were right, this isn’t the life I hoped for. I do not want to continue fighting, to see more good people die. I’ve lost one brother, I cannot bear the thought of losing another. But I know that this, lying here with you, will drive them away. And you, Aemond.” Tears clouded your vision, hiding him from your view, as you admitted, “I just want you. I do not want to be queen, nor do I want to share my husband with the realm. All I want is to be happy, to be loved. I want to be free.”

Aemond frowned, eye rapidly blinking as he attempted to make sense of the words spilling from your lips, but you shook your head. “I’ve given my family my loyalty, my father my devotion, you my heart. I have nothing left to offer,” you whispered.

“Then let me fight,” he countered, tipping his head to meet your eye. “Let me end this war and give you peace. No more will die and when I claim the throne, I will never leave your side again.”

“A beautiful thought,” you nodded, “to be sure. But you can’t promise that, no more than I can promise we shall see morning. I do not want false promises or grand fantasies. I do not want a king or a warrior. All I want, all I have ever wanted, was you.”

Silence settled then, thick and suffocating, but you could see the emotion flickering in the depth of his violet eye.

Neither of you imagined this would be your reality, neither of you ever could have dreamed you would find yourselves fighting your own kin for a crown - a throne. Neither of you imagined a life outside of one another and now, faced with the realization that loving one another was not enough, you were at a loss.

“I cannot surrender,” Aemond finally whispered, gaze fierce - pleading - as he searched for an understanding. “And you are right, I cannot promise a long future. But I can promise that I will do much and more to return to you all that you have given me. You will be my queen and you will be beloved, kind and fierce in equal measure. And your family, your father, will not perish at my hand. There is no other path to be trod.”

“Our lives are bound,” you whispered, though a fresh wave of tears tracked down your cheeks. “Your path is mine.”

Aemond leaned in, then, and pressed his mouth to yours once more. This kiss was desperate, the kiss of a man seeking reassurance, and you offered it to him. There was nothing left for you to give; no more fire, no more blood. Now, you simply took the brunt of his desperation as he pressed closer to you.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough in your ear as his hips began to move once more. “I can promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”

“And I you,” you reassured him, your own hand lifting to his cheek as his eye fluttered shut.

As Aemond’s end approached, his hips snapping quicker and his breath growing heavier, he repeated promises in High Valyrian; a promise to spend the rest of his life loving you, a promise to do whatever it took to make you happy, a promise to make right the wrongs that drove you so far apart. And though they were all grand, you knew he took each word to heart.

At his peak, he cried your name - a declaration of love following - before he collapsed into you. His head pressed to your chest, his thigh draped over yours, he held you tight and you allowed him. Your fingers combed through the curling strands of his hair, over the line of his jaw, as you stared up at the crumbling ceiling.

“This war will end,” he finally whispered, voice carrying on the cool night wind, “and we shall begin anew.”

Though hope abandoned you at Harrenhal, finally freeing you of its cruel embrace, Aemond found it. In the rubble and ash, surrounded by the ruins created by your ancestors, he vowed to give you what no other ever had; the love you’d always dreamt of, the life you’d always hoped for. 

Hope was a dangerous thing, but nothing was more dangerous than Aemond Targaryen.

____________________________________________________

Author's Note: Started. Blacked out. Here we are. Bone apple teeth.

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo

[honourablejester]

I’m realising as I browse around that I really love lore when it comes to ttrpgs, games and game worlds. And by that I don’t mean I like to obsessively learn lists of dates and wars, and the names of leaders of factions, I mean …

I like learning weird, juicy details about the worlds of games. I like finding little nuggets that say things about the set-up and culture and assumptions of the world. I like finding fragments of ideas to hang whole story and character concepts off.

I love that in D&D 5e’s Spelljammer, the Astral Sea is full of the corpses of dead gods that you can fully sail up to in your ship. Just. Floating out there. Waiting for you to rock up to them.

I love that in Sunless Sea, the king of the drowned is the way he is because he fell in love with an eldritch sea urchin from space, and successfully married it. His niece is an angry sentient floating mountain whose mother is a goddess-mountain and whose father is a face-stealing humanoid abomination. This is fine and normal.

I love that in Starfinder, there are mysterious bubble cities in the surface of the sun that the church of the sun goddess discovered and cheerfully occupied despite having no idea who the hell built them or for what purpose.

I love that in Dishonored, the entire industrial revolution that has built the empire we’re in the midst of saving or destroying was built on the properties of whale oil harvested from eldritch tentacled whales that live half in the oceans and half in an eldritch void personified in the form of a weird-ass black-eyed shit-stirrer of a deity who was formed from a murdered and sacrificed child. And this is largely a background detail.

I love in the Elder Scrolls that the dwarves up and fucking vanished, as a race, at some point in history and absolutely nobody has any clue what happened to them or where they went, but their technology is so insane that ideas like ‘they time-travelled’ or ‘they erased themselves from existence’ are absolutely on the table.

I love that in Numenera, so many incredibly advanced civilisations have risen and fallen on this world that it’s absolutely littered with bonkers science fiction artefacts that have caused the current medieval-esque society built over top of them to develop in bizarre ways, and also you can find a mysterious artefact that absolutely baffles and delights your character, but that you the player will fully recognise as a slightly-more-advanced thermos flask.

I love that in Fallout, an irradiated post-nuclear apolocalypic hellscape, there’s a cult that worships the god of radiation as they have come to understand it, and they are mysteriously immune to radiation with absolutely no explanation whatsoever. They’re not ghouls, the usual result of fatally irradiated humans with some resistance, they’re perfectly normal humans who can somehow just tank rads all damn day. It could be a mutation, but Lovecraftian gods apparently do also fully exist in this setting, so it’s also possible that maybe they were on to something with this Atom thing.

I love that in Heart The City Beneath, there’s a mass transit train system that they tried to hook up to the eldritch beating god-thing buried under the city so that they could metaphysically chain the stations together more easily, which went horrifically and metaphysically wrong in entirely predictable fashion, and now there’s a whole order of train-knights who have to keep people safe from the extradimensional weirdness magnet the network has become.

That, and all the fantastic little details you can stumble across. There’s a biotech augmentation in Starfinder called an angler’s light that gives you a little angler-fish bioluminescent antenna on your forehead, and it was developed by asteroid miners who needed light but also both hands free for work. In Dishonored there’s a festival that everyone pretends is outside of time so nothing you do during it can be held against you. There’s a god of snuffed candles mentioned in a single line from Heart The City Beneath who has pacifist cannibal priests, and that is literally all the information you get on him.

While things like the history and geography and timeline of a world do also fascinate me, I’m not really here to memorise stuff like that. I’m here to find weird little nuggets of information and worldbuilding and delight in them. Give me funerary customs and weird myths and oddly specific circumstances and baffling little objects and absolutely bonkers cosmological implications. Give me the corpses of dead gods, and aesthetic movements with highly specific backstories, and bureaucratic fuck-ups of titanic scale, and mysterious things that seem to break all other rules of your setting with absolutely no explanation because people in-universe have no fucking clue how they work either. Why are the Children of Atom immune to radiation without ghoulifying? Not a clue, but Confessor Cromwell has been cheerfully standing in that irradiated pond that kills the player character with about 10 minutes of exposure for the last year and he’s still absolutely fine.

I just. I really love lore. I like my settings to have some meat in them, some juicy details to dig into, some inexplicable elements to have fun trying to explain. Particularly that last bit. I feel like a lot of people when building worlds feel like the rules have to be absolute and everything has to have an explanation, but nah. Putting some weird shit in makes everything immediately feel bigger, more real, because we don’t have even half an idea of how our world truly works, there’s always something we just don’t fully understand yet, and you can put that in a fictional world too. Some mysteries, some contradictions, some randomness, some weirdness. There’s a line, obviously, this depends on execution, but a little bit of mystery really does help.

Lore is awesome. And weird lore is even more so. Heh.

[mythalism]

my #1 complaint with veilguard is probably the lack of moral complexity and maturity and how much of northern thedas is sanitized and almost all issues (outside of solas and mythal, which they knocked out of the park imo, but the moral complexity of them as characters and of their relationship makes the lack of nuance in every other faction and relationship stand out even worse) are presented as black and white, good vs. evil. i think the absence of the presence of slavery in northern thedas is the most egregious example of this. the crows are found-family heroes with absolutely no mention of the fact that they canonically populate their ranks with abused elven child slaves and kill them if they try to escape. we know minrathous to be the capital of a massive empire that was built and founded on slave labor and blood magic. the slave trade is baked into every single stone of that city, and it should be everywhere in a disenfranchised area like docktown. and yet.... its nowhere? its like they went, "okay well the factions all need to be GOOD and slavery is BAD so lets just pretend it doesnt exist so we dont have to talk about the way these factions have historically participated in it!" a few codex entries? a few mentions of freeing slaves by the shadow dragons and by solas but its never actually depicted? i think its something a lot of people have picked up on in accusations of the game feeling like something made by marvel or disney, and a lot of people are attributing that mostly to the art style and cheugy dialogue, but i honestly think it is the very simplistic and juvenile presentation of what should be complex issues diluted down to the sort of hero vs. villain, good vs. evil no-nuance conflicts that is creating that juvenile feeling, rather than the art style. past games have always had cheesy-ass dialogue and the graphics have never been the highlight of the game, but neither had the same feeling of playing something incredibly glossy but also incredibly shallow, especially in a franchise that is famed for its complex and nuanced (though, often poorly done and racist - looking at you qunari and dalish) depictions of sociopolitical issues through a fantasy lens.

but whats especially interesting is that the artbook (just the first 50 pages that are free) reveals that... this was present in the early stages of the game. the concept art of tevinter is full of disturbing depictions of slavery, as is the concept art of arlathan. now, to be clear, slavery is not a morally complex or ambiguous issue. slavery in fantasy is often depicted in ways that is damaging and problematic, especially when written by people who have no real understanding of it and its lasting effects on a group of people. bioware has been guilty of this in the past.

however, i think it is the best example of the shallowness of veilguard when compared to both the past games and the concept art. other examples, however, include literally the Qun as a whole suddenly being UNAMBIGUOUSLY EVIL combined with, imo, a super racist depiction of the antaam as mindless and animalistic, absolutely no exploration of racism against elves other than like, one mention from davrin in a game that is basically all about elves, blood magic being unambiguously evil rather than exploring how it is being used and for what purposes, the complete absence of the mage-templar mass incarceration and mass-lobotimization conflict, isseya being afforded none of the empathy that solas is given and instead presented as unambiguously evil and deserves to die, the grey wardens being heroes who definitely do not manipulate disenfranchised people into escaping their lives to join an order that will steal their bodies and eventually their minds and futures from them, and much more. going from a world that was so willing to at least ATTEMPT to depict the horrors of empires that utilized slave labor to build, the way dehumanization facilitates and interacts with these issues, violent class disparities and how poverty forces people into crime, the effects of institutionalized racism even after slavery has been legally abolished, with stories like that of varania and fenris, of zevran and taliesin, to.... finally going to the site of the horrors they faced and to find it to be completely sanitized? and yes, they did not always land, and i have a lot of issues with their execution of some of these representations (the option to give fenris back to danarius and having anders approve??????? HELLO?), but at least they TRIED to tell a story about a man recovering from the trauma of something so horrible and learning to trust again. so what happened in the middle? were they afraid of their own ability to handle the topic due to past criticism instead of attempting to learn from it? instead we are just going to pretend like it doesnt exist? we're not going to talk about it? its literally the most insane elephant in the room. of course fenris and zevran couldn't make cameos in this game, because then they'd have to make a statement on a painful, real, and difficult to discuss topic that actually means something, instead of using a warehouse full of elves being guarded by armed police at the docks as a hollywood-style backlot and depict an empire built on the blood sacrifices of the poor and enslaved as just another fun little area to explore. how does neve fight for the people of docktown but slavery literally never comes up in her story????? we know that blood magic exists but we never see who is being disproportionately used for those blood sacrifices?

i think its especially interesting considering how explicitly supportive of trans people this game is, which is fantastic and i admire bioware deeply for making such a strong and unapologetic statement of their values of acceptance. but that strong statement makes the lack of any other strong statements or exploration of issues even mildly contentious (again, slavery is not even a contentious issue, and i think that's why their fear to depict it at all, much less as unambiguously horrifying, is so insane) leaves the world of northern thedas feeling so shallow and sterile. it is as if bioware doesnt trust me to engage with topics like an adult capable of using critical thinking skills, and did not trust themselves to depict these issues like adults capable of critical thinking skills either. maybe, considering the presence of these things in the artbook, this was on EA for pushing for more mass-market appeal, or maybe it was really the bioware devs backing away from difficult topics due to a lack of confidence to do them justice. idk. but its really disappointing to me

[mako-designated-driver]

Warning: Some dav criticism ahead

Why is Tevinter so shallow? It isn't just about the lack of slavery (that, whatever else it is, however it was handled before, has been a pillar of Tevinter identity and inevitably leaves a hole in the narrative by being pratically missing). Why does the magisterium, the caste system, the Antaam invasion outside of Minrathous and the Black Divine play no role at all in its storyline?

Why the atrocities of the Crows (buying children, for example?) never come up during their faction quests?

Why do we hear nothing about the political side of the mortalitasi, how they control Nevarra from the shadows?

Why do we never even hear about Kont-aar even though we are in Rivain? Why there is no counterpoint to the (metaphorically, by qunari standards, mindless and souless) Antaam? Why is the qun completely missing from the game and the qunari reduced to cannon fodder the player has to cut down?

Why are the questions about magic that permeate every previous game absent here, especially when veilguard being set in the north could have given us such a unique viewpoint?

And, more importantly:

Why am I supposed to believe that no dalish elves would worship the gods they have already been worshipping their whole lives? That they wouldn't follow out of naivety, out of misplaced hope for a better future, out of fear, seeking to placate them?

Why am I supposed to believe that the gods would not even try to seek the dalish, when we are told by the previous games about the dalish hunters of legend, about how they are a mighty force to be reckoned with when united? Why do they only show up at the Blood of Arlathan quest, to play damsel in distress?

Why am I supposed to believe that no elves from the alienages would want to join the gods, because of every reason mentioned above, or out of spite or disdain for an uncaring world?

And yes, I know everyone learned the gods were evil off-screen. Why was it off-screen?

Also, where are the agents of Fen'Harel? Where are the people that vanished by the end of Trespasser?

Obviously, you can't expand on all of this in a single game, but why is all of it absent?

Why is bioware so afraid to engage with the world they created?

[vigilskeep]

various and sundry artbook tidbits i found interesting (SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE VEILGUARD ARTBOOK. obviously)

faction & location stuff:

a sketch page from the very early days exploring shape languages for factions like elves, dwarves, wardens, the necropolis, tevinter, and rivain, also includes concepts for the mages’ college and the ben-hassrath

early rivain concept arts have npcs with a similar armour patterning to duncan’s, suggesting it’s a mark of his rivaini heritage like i always thought!

the depiction of the ““creation story”” suggests elves were mimicking the bodies of dwarves when they formed their own, not humans like i think mythal says in game flashbacks, which would make more sense timeline wise

there’s concept art of the city of ventus, which i believe is of particular relevance to mercar players? it’s right on the border of arlathan forest, and surrounded by magical statues holding out raised hands forming a ward along the tree line to keep it from encroaching

the home base was going to be a lovable fixer-upper of a ship given to us by isabela, named the dumat. this didn’t fit the spy theme they were originally going for, so they tried really really hard to make it a submarine without feeling anachronistic by making it sort of sea monster shaped. there are a lot of cutaways and schematics. they were going to give it a mystery engine that you would get light fetch quests to feed random objects: “ten dried lavender flowers, five quail’s eggs, three brass belt buckles, etc.....” the submarine then turned into an undersea mansion on the back of some giant shambling sea creature you would never get a good look at

later on there were some funny takes on the lighthouse specifically, like bringing back the sea creature theme to put it on the back of an interdimensional veil whale, or having it be the true location of the black emporium with a collection of eluvians that xenon the antiquarian lets you use

there’s a tiny concept art for a “high-speed aravel chase” in a canyon like a western

tevinter gladiators are mentioned a couple times. we WEREEE going to get to see the minrathous proving grounds :( there’s also a dwarven embassy concept art somebody take me out back and shoot me

there are a lot of ghilan’nain creature designs that didn’t make it into the game which is a shame but i can see why they would have been resource heavy

the antiva concept arts are so gorgeous. a lot of it got through! and definitely the overall Vibe made it. at some point it seems to have been antiva city itself; they don’t call it treviso and they mention the circle of magi as a major landmark

“The entrance to the Necropolis is like an inverted Tower of Babel. They seek knowledge in the grave instead of heaven.” <- this just rules as a line

for arlathan: “To differentiate it from previous forest and jungle locations in Dragon Age, we went with an autumnal colour palette. It has the benefit to feeling ominously like the end.”

the veil jumpers have a “skull halla” symbol that “implies their willingness to risk death”. did that end up in the game?

“With each faction, we explored a range of aspirational fantasies. For the Wardens, this ranged from knights in shining armour to butal tanks to a Nietzche quote: ‘Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster.’”

there’s this concept among the warden armours for an insane orlesian noblewoman look with the winter palace morrigan corset and a piled high wig, but the skirts torn knee length and a serrated fan in hand. i’m kind of obsessed

“To bring more life to the world, we thought about what industries would keep the Anderfels afloat. We took the prominent Warden blue colour and envisioned an industry harvesting flowers, creating dye, and then weaving copious amounts of blue fabric.” this is probably where the flower quests in the hossberg wetlands started off conceptually? v cute

character stuff:

in completely different early versions of the game, solas had a “bad cop” right hand woman called reva

imshael the desire demon/choice spirit from the masked empire and inquisition was going to be a two-handed weapon warrior companion, and also sexualised now while in largely feminine form, which would have been a Choice. there is one art of him in masculine form, also sexy but still not showing as much skin as the feminine one

as i said, neve was going to be calpernia

taash was a rogue. (they’re still a light-armoured dual wielder so that checks out.) it seems like davrin was briefly a mage. at some points harding seems to have inherited bianca

saarbrak, another qunari companion, seems to have lastest the longest of the abandoned concepts. he’s the only non-canon one who got as far as having a place for him sketched into designs of the lighthouse: “saarbrak’s planning room”. mentions and sightings of what might be him are sporadic and i think you only see his name on that sketch, but i’m connecting it to the description “a potential qunari companion evolved from saarebas to dapper qunari spy, offering a deeper look into qunari culture”

the embroidery on harding’s clothes is how she passes the time while “waiting for days in a sniper perch” on missions. i just thought that was cute

[aphroditelovesu]

Yandere Team Black Headcanons (Platonic)

''There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, and no war as bloody as a war between dragons.'' — Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was.

❝ 🐉 — lady l: I needed to get this out of my mind, so here it is. It's more focused on the Black Council, so only they appear, but if anyone wants, I can do it with the other allies of the Blacks. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistake! 🖤❤️

❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, mention of murder, unhealthy platonic relationships, messy writing.

❝🐉 pairing: yandere!team black x gender neutral!reader.

After the death of King Viserys I Targaryen, the Seven Kingdoms was divided into two factions. The Greens, who supported the succession of Aegon II Targaryen, son of Queen Alicent Hightower and Viserys, and there were the Blacks, who supported the succession of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the first woman to be chosen as heir to the Iron Throne and the legal heir of Viserys. There were these two sides to the war and you were a supporter of the Blacks, of Rhaenyra.

Your family had long ago sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra and you would not dishonor that oath. You would fight alongside the Blacks and follow the Queen to the death if necessary. You would protect her and defend her honor until your last breath. It was this oath that you swore and it was what brought you to meet her face-to-face, along with the other members of her family who supported her.

Rhaenyra received your support with great enthusiasm and affection, smiling at you and hugging you, saying how much it meant to know that you, and your family, stayed true to their oath. She hugged you tightly, and you melted into the Black Queen's tight embrace.

She was so kind, just like the stories said. You were proud to call her the Queen. Rhaenyra touched your cheeks warmly and introduced you to the rest of her supporters, her family. Rhaenyra quickly became attached to you, developing her obsession and becoming possessive and protective. She doesn't want anything to hurt you. She had already lost too much.

You were introduced to Daemon Targaryen first, Rhaenyra's husband and prince consort. He was a little skeptical of you at first, looking strangely like he was sizing you up and your intentions. Which in fact, he was doing. After deciding you weren't a threat, Daemon was more open and welcomed you.

He wasn't the kind of person you wanted to mess with. Always so cruel and using violence to resolve conflicts, Daemon is not easy to deal with. But you can deal with him in the right way, being his listener and eventually his friend. Someone he can truly trust. Very possessive and short-tempered, Daemon doesn't hesitate to claim you for himself and will burn alive anyone who says anything about it.

Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, was all the stories said. Stormy yet with a gentleness and grace you had never seen before. She was courteous and distant at first, as you would expect a princess to be. But as she got to know you, the more Rhaenys opened up and trusted you.

She is very protective of you, Rhaenys does not want you to fight, preferring you to become part of the council and act solely as a strategist. The war was very dangerous and she wasn't going to risk your life. Not when she already liked you so much and had already lost her two beloved children.

Corlys Velaryon became close to you quickly. You met him when he was still in bed, injured. Rhaenys was the one who introduced you to him and he quickly warmed up to you. He smiled in gratitude every time you helped him feed or get out of bed. His eyes seemed to always follow you, with affection shining in them.

He could see what his wife saw in you. Something new, something lasting. When he had doubts about whether or not he should join the Blacks, you convinced him and he found himself admiring you even more for your loyalty. Corlys knew he had to protect you. You were so pure for this world and the war that was to come. He couldn't let something bad happen to you.

Jacaerys Velaryon took a liking to you at first sight, warming up to you and becoming the linchpin of his mother and brothers' obsession with you. He saw a lot of himself in you for some reason and enjoyed your company immensely. Jace is always asking for your approval, trying to please you in any way.

He is quite protective and this only intensified after the deaths of people dear to him. Jacaerys enjoys reading to you and would love to teach you High Valyrian if you wish. When he becomes King, he would love to name you his Hand.

Lucerys Velaryon became especially close to you after you arrived in Dragonstone. Not just because you supported his family, but because you were you. So kind and so loyal, he was immediately attracted to you and started following you like a baby duck. Luke loves spending time with you, reading, or when you watch him train with swords. Just your presence is enough.

He is very possessive and clingy towards you, constantly wanting your attention and approval. Lucerys does his best to be with you, clinging to your arms, as if he were hiding behind you.

Joffrey Velaryon is the baby of the Velaryon family, so young and unaware of what is happening. He usually stays close to you, holding your hand and looking at you with curiosity and affection. It's common to see him following you through the hallways of Dragonstone.

Although young, Joffrey is very intelligent and is possessive of your attention, often fighting with his brothers for it. He wants you with him all the time, close and protecting him.

Baela Targaryen is fearless and a free spirit, much like her father. She approached you firmly and quickly, encouraged by her grandmother and father. She really liked you and you quickly became friends with you.

She is quite demanding when it comes to you, Baela has a tendency to get angry quickly but she never stays with you. She likes it and is very patient and calm, smiling charmingly and holding your hand affectionately. Quite possessive, she will often get into fights to defend you.

Rhaena Targaryen is more delicate and calm than her older sister, all gentle and sweet. She is more courteous and also less demanding, taking whatever she can get and inwardly happy when you approach her of your own free will.

She's more subtle in her obsession, watching you from the corners of her eyes and smiling sweetly when she thinks no one is looking. Rhaena takes every opportunity to be close to you. She loves dancing and would be honored if you wanted to dance with her.

The Blacks cared deeply about you. Not just the Targaryen and Velaryon family, but others as well. The Lords and knights also created their own obsession with you and they knew they must protect you at any cost. Especially when you were the pillar of that faction.

They will go against anyone who dares to hurt you. Ready to destroy and burn, the Targaryens have no qualms about getting rid of anyone who threatens your life. The Velaryon fleets are at your disposal at any time and always ready to protect you.

They would only become even more suffocating after Lucerys' death. They had already lost him, they couldn't lose you. There's no way you can leave Dragonstone alone. Always accompanied by one of them or of guards.

You have become important to them. Important to the Black Queen and her allies. You have become their obsession. They would rather raze King's Landing, and burn the Iron Throne than lose you.

[many-but-one]

Satanic Panic, The False Memory Foundation’s Shaky Origins, and Why You Should Believe RAMCOA Survivors

(TW: mentions of RAMCOA, False Memory Foundation, child torture & death, cults, trafficking)

Pretty disappointed to see a fairly popular and well known blog on tumblr is encouraging the idea that RAMCOA doesn’t exist. Just came across this post and was pretty bummed to see the comments too.

For those that agree with them (most of my followers won’t but who knows who will stumble across this), please know that RAMCOA has been going on for much longer than the Satanic Panic. The Satanic Panic was fabricated in an effort to discredit RAMCOA survivors. It was supported by the False Memory Foundation, which was created by a man (and his wife) trying to prove his daughter’s repressed memories of trauma involving him did not really happen. [Explained further in the third article further down in this post]

For the record, false memory/planting false memories has been disproven, it’s not possible to fully plant false memories in patients. Some memories can be altered to an extent because memories can be disjointed and influence from others can cause memories to shift slightly, which is why it’s not encouraged for trauma patients to share exact detailed memories with each other. For example, if two trauma patients were abused by their father and had a similar situation happen and patient A spoke about their experience in detail, if both fathers wore glasses and patient A describes their father to have black rimmed glasses, patient B’s memory might shift to believe that their father also had black rimmed glasses, even though his glasses were gold rimmed. However, it’s not possible to fully plant memories that do not exist in a patient’s memory. The “base memory” so to speak has to be there in order for any alterations to occur, and those alterations that are possible are often rather minuscule, such as glasses or whether or not their abuser had facial hair or not, or the color of the person’s eyes. Not an entire scene of RA. [Again, explained well by the third article below.]

Repressed memory has been proven to exist. (Though it’s more accurately called dissociated memories by clinicians) It can even exist in people who have traumas that happen in adulthood. Pieces of a traumatic event may go missing in a patient’s working memory, and they may not retrieve it until they are ready to process the memory and all the emotions and information that comes with it. However, it still exists stored in the brain, just in a different area than working memory. It’s why triggers to the traumatic event (that the patient may not even realize are triggers until they occur) can cause flashbacks and memory resurfacing during said flashbacks.

Some sources explaining the False Memory Foundation and the harm they’ve caused: [a good overview of a woman who was major in the development of the idea of repressed memory being a myth, by a researcher of child psychiatry], [while this is a psychology today article, I think this explains well how misused the idea of FMS - false memory syndrome - is.] [A comprehensive article explaining the roots of the FMF and how the studies used to “prove” false memory are terrible and easily debunked, with several assertions from professionals in the field.] I want to add that while the FMF has dissolved and rightfully so, the British False Memory Society is still alive and well, as well as the Satanic Temple’s Grey Faction, and both groups still cite False Memory Syndrome as being real and claim that RAMCOA survivors have false memories of their abuse.

However, before Satanic Panic happened, people were starting to actually believe in the existence of RAMCOA and the concept of DID was brought into the mainstream. A survivor on tiktok has a very good video on this situation. And that scared people, especially the abusers themselves who didn’t want to get caught. That’s when the False Memory Foundation stepped in on the heels of Satanic Panic and literally rewrote the textbooks therapists learned from, and basically taught everyone that repressed memory doesn’t exist. Any therapists that spoke about their patients’ experiences with RAMCOA were sued. Therapists stopped wanting to treat RAMCOA patients for fear of being sued and/or losing their license or being told they planted these memories in their patients’ heads and possibly losing their licenses. It led to generations of old therapists not treating RAMCOA patients and generations of new therapists learning it doesn’t exist.

But it does exist. To outright deny that child torture cannot exist is absurd. 1-2% of reported child abuse falls under the definition of child torture. [source, TW: photos of children with serious injuries from torture included on page 7 of this document] For the record, my abuse was never and has never been reported, and most survivors—RAMCOA and non-RAMCOA, whose trauma falls under the definition of torture—never reported or plan to report.

Even if you find the mind control aspect to be far-fetched, ritual abuse most certainly does exist. I’ve seen videos on the surface web on fucking tiktok of all places of child torture and ritual abuse. Organized abuse such as sex trafficking and labor trafficking does exist. Two out of those three things in the acronym are well documented to exist. And for the record, ritual abuse and cult abuse even in adults can cause extreme mind and identity alteration, upwards to the point of nearly being mind control. Look up OSDD-2 in the DSM-V. Look up just about any cult survivors testimonies and hear how they talk about how they nearly became a different person within their cult, how the cult uses torture and mind altering drugs to get their initiates to commit terrible acts of violence to each other. Now imagine if that same stuff were happening to a child whose mind is significantly easier to mold and change. Even if the child RAMCOA survivor does not develop DID, it can cause extreme conditioned responses in which the child (or now grown adult or teen) will still do the responses even now because as a child they were threatened with torture or death if they didn’t do it.

Mind control is essentially an extreme form of conditioning, and with the plethoras of research on DID and how it functions, it’s not even a difficult concept to grasp that a cult member might learn how to split new alters in a child via torture and then manipulate those alters to do what they want individually. Anyone who knows fuck all about DID knows that alters can be triggered out via positive and negative triggers. All mind control programming is, is creating a specific trigger for a specific alter and then when that child is exposed to that trigger, that alter comes out and does the task it was taught to do—usually via torture, manipulation, and threats of harm to the child or those the child loves. It’s not a difficult concept to grasp, and with how long TBMC (torture based mind control) programmers have had to perfect their work, it’s no surprise that they’ve learned how to make alters do extremely complex tasks or hold onto specific functions, always at the ready for their specific trigger.

RAMCOA research doesn’t exist in mainstream spaces because it’s nearly impossible to be taken seriously because of people who claim it doesn’t exist when it’s not even a complex topic to understand. They just don’t want to accept that it exists. The concept is terrifying, harrowing, and at some times almost absurd—and that combination makes it easier for people to put their blinders up and decide it doesn’t exist. [Edited to add: On top of this, what little research is done on it is steeped in conspiracy theories that often have roots in antisemitism. While I’ve asserted that Miller’s deprogramming books are good reads for RAMCOA survivors, she does often sound conspiratorial, and quotes Svali, a known antisemite. While I don’t think RAMCOA is exclusively related to the Illuminati stuff she often talks about, Miller’s work cannot be completely discounted because of her beliefs of where the abuse originated. Where it originates matters much less than the fact that it happens. However, not from dark, underground, secret societies—but from normal places like churches, children’s own homes (yes, RAMCOA can be done by a single parent to a single child, it just may look different than say, a trafficking ring), trafficking rings, militaristic groups, political cults, etc. I wanted to put the above put there because I know someone is going to come at me and try to say the researchers who talk about it were conspiracy theorists. Yeah, they were. Maybe they were the only ones willing to talk openly about it because of the fact they’re conspiracy theorists? I don’t know. However, I think it should also be noted that just because the researchers sucked doesn’t mean the information taken from them isn’t useful when you weed out the conspiracy stuff. For example, a LOT of modern understanding of medicine was taken from Nazi and Japanese experiments during WWII. Arguably some of the worst doctors on earth. Do we discount everything we learned because they were horrible, evil, people? No. While those who studied RAMCOA went about it in shit ways, that doesn’t discount the information learned completely. Likewise, much of modern psych understanding came from roots that included incredibly unethical experiments that would never be allowed today. Do we throw out all of that info too? No, we don’t. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t hold these people accountable, I’m saying we cannot throw out all discussion of RAMCOA because the doctors who talked about it were shitty people.]

I wish I could decide it doesn’t exist. I have permanent scarring that proves what happened did happen. I have doctor’s visits that prove I am disabled because of the traumas I went through. I have a DID specialist who didn’t even know programming to our extent even existed before our parts started telling her what they went through and she heard it from our own mouth. She had to learn how to deprogram us on the fly because she’d never done so before. So fuck off with your “oh, RAMCOA patients only have RAMCOA because they’ve been influenced by their therapist to believe they do” bullshit.

I relive my traumas in flashbacks and nightmares daily. There have been periods in my healing process where I couldn’t leave the house without someone with me for months. I couldn’t hold a job for nearly a year. I didn’t know any of this happened to me until I was in my 20s. I thought my memory was just bad and the only parts of my childhood I remembered were little blips of good things, usually involving my parent that was not involved with the cult or memories with friends at school or when I was hanging out with my sports teammates. Living with this stuff is hell. You think I want to live with this stuff? If I could permanently erase it all from my memory forever I would. But I can’t. I don’t have that luxury.

It happened. And I’m not the only child it happened to, both in the area of my country I live in and in areas all over my country and the world. This is not an isolated phenomenon. It is more common than anyone tends to realize (though still rarer than most DID cases, thank fuck). I was lucky to survive. I survived because they wanted me to. I saw a lot of children, teens, and adults who were not as “lucky” as I was. If you won’t respect survivors and their stories, at least respect the ones who didn’t survive. They didn’t deserve their final moments to be so full of pain. All of the children in these groups deserved to be loved and cared for and treated with softness and compassion. So do adult survivors like me and many others.

If I could end on one thing, it would be to urge the doubters to have some fucking compassion and empathy for people who have been through things they cannot even begin to understand. My past feels like a nightmare I will never be able to escape. I cannot erase it. I can only try to heal from it. So heal I will do, and in the process I will continue to speak the truth of my experience as safely as I can.

You want proof it’s real? Survivors are your proof.

WE are the proof.

[Edit: changed some wording for clarification + added a section after rereading a couple hours later]

[Edit 2: I realized I said my abuse has never been reported, I meant my RAMCOA related abuse. Want to make that clear. I reported sexual abuse done by my church to CPS and nothing came of it. CPS actually wrongfully claimed that since they had no reports existing of that church harming kids they wouldn’t pursue it since it happened so long ago, when a cursory google search of said location shows they’ve been reported multiple times and all reports were dropped. Why, I’m not sure.]

[felassan]

Some thoughts on this article from Game Informer [source]. ^^

Teia and Viago as the 'face' of the Crows/the Crow 'agents', pretty please..? 🥺 👉👈 And I hope maybe Strife and Irelin can be the same but for the Veil Jumpers..? :D

Customizing qunari Rook's horn type and material reminds me of Taash's gem-horn design

Which faction do you think has the coolest casual threads? in my mind's eye [wild speculation] it's a toss up between Mourn Watch and Antivan Crows :D

What do sword and shield warriors 'hip-fire' with?

What is a "night blade" :D

Faction selection/backstory (while not playable) determining who Rook was before, how they met Varric, and why they travel with him reminds me of the different origins in DA:O and how each possible HoF crossed paths with and was recruited by Duncan in a different way.. 🥺

Factions and groups in the world working together to save it.. it felt like there were hints of this in Tevinter Nights. In that book, we saw different groups and factions from across Thedas working with the Inquisition, with varying degrees of cooperation, on being concerned about Solas. Yet other groups were also interested in keeping tabs on him. now we see the same kinda thing in DA:TV with different groups being involved in saving the world from the Evil Gods.

"'You help them, they help you now" but first they all have serious problems you need to solve' has echoes of how in DA:O, the HoF solved a problem for each major group (Dalish elves/werewolves, Circle Tower/templars, Orzammar etc) before they would obey the Grey Warden treaties and agree to help fight the darkspawn for the final battle

Do you think that some of the voices in the Thedas Calls teaser trailer were some of the 'faces' of the factions? For example, the Antivan Crow woman speaker as the face of the Crows, and the Nicholas Boulton-sounding Warden man speaker as the face of the Grey Wardens?

Each spec being tied to a faction explains the faction symbols being on the specializations, as here. From this, we can see that the faction each spec is tied to is as follows:

Mage: Death Caller - Mourn Watch Evoker - Shadow Dragons Spellblade - Antivan Crows Rogue: Duelist - Antivan Crows Veil Ranger - Veil Jumper Saboteur - Lords of Fortune Warrior: Champion - Grey Wardens Reaper - Mourn Watch Slayer - Lords of Fortune

The Mirror of Transformation returns. Do you think that means Rook will also be able to go to the Black Emporium, like Hawke in DAII and Inquisitor in DA:I? Will Xenon the Antiquarian also return? ^^ Maybe not though, since it's said the Mirror is in The Lighthouse

I'm not sure about "If you find yourself unhappy with your lineage or your class, you can change them using the Mirror of Transformation". It was previously reported that "You can change your character’s physical appearance at any time during the game, but not their class or backstory" [source] [prev post mentioning it]. I guess one article is incorrect, but am not sure which. or maybe this aspect of the game changed in development. ^^ UPDATE: please see here re: an update/clarification from Game Informer on this. it reads:

"Editor's Note: This article previously stated players can change their physical appearance, class, lineage, and identity using the Mirror of Transformation. That is incorrect as class, lineage, and identity are locked after you first select those. The article has been updated to reflect that, and Game Informer apologizes for any confusion this mistake may have caused."

What do you think is the problem[s] faced by each faction that we have to solve? :D We got some hints about this already. For example, for the Crows, something "is amiss" in Antiva and they're trying to uncover the source. The Qunari have also invaded Antiva. For the Wardens, they just recently discovered one of Ghil's underground monster labs and learned there are 11 more (Tevinter Nights), and ominous tremors of unknown cause have been creating disturbances in the Anderfels lately. The Lords of Fortune have lost dominion over the coasts of Rivain and dragons are laying waste to their ships. The Shadow Dragons probably have the Venatori, who are still around and up to mad shit, to contend with. Arlathan Forest is currently all timewarped, reality-fragmented, awash with darkspawn and corruption etc. For the Mourn Watch.. maybe the Veil rips and weakening has caused more premature possessions of corpses and demons possessing corpses and wreaking havoc in the Necropolis, or the Nevarran politics stuff? In TN Dorian also mentions learning from a Mortalitasi mage that there are things "past the Veil of our world, neither demon nor spirit". maybe they're having problems with those things?

[source]

[chiyoso]

“THE MARA'S WILL”

someone as fragile as you shouldn't have to reign the bloodied fields of cloudford, along with raging war against two powerful factions—as well as an internal presence that invaded your mind that started all of this mayhem.

content warnings; oneshot · female reader · honkai impact 3rd inspired · takes place after xianzhou arc · canon universe · manupulation · mentions of depressive tendencies · declining mental health · war · death · traumatic events · mentions of blood · fighting · sensitive descriptions · dead dove: do not eat.

author notes; an open ending is an open ending. i appreciate all your of love for this oneshot, but i won't be making pt2. ty.

The Astral Express.

A widely known faction of celestial mysteriousness that traverses across the galaxy, they dedicate themselves to the ways of trailblaze and adventure, an enormous train conducted by a rumored fluffy creature that travels through vast worlds with its starry residers.

However, you didn't expect to meet the faction like this. The time that you yourself encountered the famous members of the Express— or rather, they bumped into you.

A memorable impression, leading their hearts and minds to waver in complete uneasiness, fear and curiousity.

It was one of those moments. Moments of tranquility, replaced almost immediately with unsightly chaos, and screeching horrors.

And they weren't coming from you.

2:49 PM — CLOUDFORD, XIANZHOU LUOFU

NOW PLAYING ♪ TOT MUSICA

11 minutes until eruption.

ᚷᚨᚺ ᛉᚨᚾ ᛏᚨᚲ ᚷᚨᚺ ᛉᚨᚾ ᛏᚨᛏ ᛏᚨᛏ ᛒᚱᚨᚲ

ᚷᚨᚺ ᛉᚨᚾ ᛏᚨᚲ ᚷᚨᚺ ᛉᚨᚾ ᛏᚨᛏ ᛏᚨᛏ ᛒᚱᚨᚲ

“F- Fu-aahh.... Haah...” You groaned in pain. The sounds of alarms, crumbling and a voice of elegant dread echoed inside your mind, chanting unfamiliar, incomprehensible sounds that you were unable to understand nor fathom its sound waves.

Your flesh continued to crack as gold seeped out from the insides, bright lightning marks all around your form, accompanied with your heavy eyelids, struggling to keep your consciousness as you panted heavily. Your thoughts fogged viciously with memories of all kinds, your mind had felt like a mix between ice and fire. A flaming vortex along with an Icy storm that seethed inside, causing a severe throbbing that had you wailing in pain in heaps of volume consecutively as you grip your head.

“M- Mr. Yang!” A high pitched voice trembled, struggling on her feet while a grey haired female helped her up to stabilize her balance.

“Go. Call for reinforcements. I'll take it from here.” He says, gripping his cane while the other hand hoists his frames up to his nose bridge, returning his gaze towards the sight of you.

Reinforcements?

“H-hhgk—” You coughed up gold. Your face stained with your aureate tears, gasping for air as you clenched the area of your heart, which was beaming light, pulsating with the same color as the liquid that stained your whole being.

What was happening?

You screech, lower limbs suddenly at work, executing swift dodges that your untrained body couldn't handle physically, stretching and tearing your muscles.

Something was fighting for survival, and it wasn't you.

Your actions lowered the morale of determination from the Cloud Knights that had stationed on the sidelines, now replaced with a panic and fear from your ever so visibly increasing strength and agility, etching negative emotions into their wounded states that you have inflicted previously.

The man with the glasses, distance away from you clicked his tongue in frustration, he had summoned a multitude of black holes, raining hellish orbs of gravity towards you in such high speeds and velocity, but you... despite your poor state of self, you've managed to avoid them all.

But,

Even you weren't aware of your own skillful sequences.

ᛗᛁᛖ ᚾᛖᚷ ᛟᚾ ᚷᛁᛖᚲ ᚷᛁᛖᚲ

ᚾᚨᚺ ᛈᚺᚨᛋ ᛏᛖᛉᛉᛖ ᛚᚨᚺ

“P- Please... shut... get out of m—”

Feeble attempts of retribution, cease your resistance.

Play into submission, child of Lan.

You cocked your head to the skies, letting out gutteral sobs to the heavens, screaming and pleading your heart out while your own nails dug into your skin, your eyes weeped in gold, blurring your sense of sight.

Your thoughts were a sea of fragmented memories, bad ones, the negative ones that only fueled your transformation and the thread of your consciousness that you desperately were holding onto, was now being threatened harshly.

The man in glasses gripped his cane, firming his hold while witnessing your overwhelming presence and what was happening infront of him.

You were talking to yourself. You were visibly in pain, you were weeping, and the mara that was supposed to overcome you right now was... being barely resisted. Resisted. Resisted?

That's impossible.

You can't resist the Mara.

Beads of sweat formed trickled down along his jawline, his eyes diluded towards the sight that was all too familiar for him.

Someone- or something was talking to you, and he felt nothing but the sensation of dread swell inside him.

He didn't know what to do. Based on your own visible actions, it was clear—you didn't mean to do any harm, you were struggling more than anyone in this dire situation.

You brought your tainted hands that was darkening onto your face, trying to hold onto what's left of yourself, your consciousness.

“PLEASE! L- LEAVE M—” You choked out.

You were stumbling on your feet, drowning in pain as you sobbed your pleas of desperation.

His face scrunches, biting his bottom lip, frustrated over his hesitancy and lack of determination into going all out against you.

You reminded him of a state that reminded him of his past companions from another world, a state that only led to an upbringing of a powerful force, leading to the destruction of humanity and civilizations, a state that almost destroyed his homeworld.

But he had to remind himself repeatedly, you were just... Mara-strucked. A man-made work from the schemes of Sanctus Medicus, their work, befalling to an unfortunate character before him.

But... why the hell were you talking to yourself? Why were you pleading? Crying? How were you still able to talk? And most importantly, how were you still able to resist your supposed inevitable demise?

You peeked through your digits, your eyes pierce to the man with glasses, before lowering your hands to your sides in idle, continuing to pant heavily in place.

Your stance had your staggering legs slightly bent, your chin upwards—but your stained eyes remained on the figure infront of you.

His eyes diluded upon meeting your sorrowful gaze, his hand tightened around his cane further, seemingly ready to take on any action you will commence, but he wished you didn't engage, he wished for your attacks to cease. He didn't desire to harm you at all—You were in obvious pain, emotionally, physically and mentally, and only his veteran observations can see that.

“M- Miss—”

“Kill me.”

You said breathily with your burning throat, your voice had been accompanied with a second, mixing with your original tone with a now deeper, and sinister chord that showed the fruition of the transformation you were currently experiencing.

Your hands find their way to your throat as you coughed out more gold, along with the taste of iron that mixed with the aureate liquid that had turned into an morbid shade of color from your blood.

Your legs gave in, bringing you to your knees while you continued to choke on your own secretes, sobbing continuously from the sensations you were experiencing.

“BENEFACTOR! SHE HAS FALLEN!”

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!”

“END HER LIFE BEFOR—” “Gghk-... Nngh...”

“Reinforcements are on their way.”

“I- It hurts.... It HURTS!!!”

“Call for further units! At ONCE!”

“P- Please tell me I'll live...”

“BENEFACTOR ITS YOUR CHANCE!”

“M- Monster!” “M- MY ARMS!”

“KILL HER!” “HER STRENGTH IS ONLY-”

“KILL HER!” “KILL HER!”

“KILL HER!!!!”

“KILL HER!”

The man with glasses was overwhelmed with contradicting emotions, hindering his wavering will to use the opportunity of your vulnerability.

The cries and pleas of desperation from the several Cloud Knights that have fallen from your battle, ring through the bloodied field, along with your genuine—sorrowful filled sobs that only haunted and hesitated him much more.

His own thoughts were only mirroring the mess that you were in, having to be filled with deep memories of a life that was filled with death and torment, reminding him of his sins once again.

The child of the Hunt, hopelessly clings onto the wretched humanity, only to be shunned out and betrayed by your own race.

I feel their sea of desperation, their desires for your lesser existence to perish without a trace in the galaxy.

Give into the sensations of truth, let it embrace your poorly sculpted soul, for I will accept you without fail.

You were already on the floor arched, your hands had continued to hold your head, gripping your hair as you wallowed in your pool of tears, gold and blood that soaked your once beautiful skin.

“Sss-top... Stop... Please...”

You've already hurt your own kind.

“I- I... Hgk— Ahh-Haah...”

You've already inflicted enough despair and chaos to the point where these lowly humans cling onto their life in a feeble attempt of living.

“Th- That's not...”

Savor their pleas and screams of anguish as they call upon your death. You aren't wanted, you aren't needed.

“THAT'S NOT TRUE—”

The floor beneath your shaking body began to crack, the density and force around you had only drastically strengthen, creating a growing crater below you.

You are only inducing fear in your surroundings, and you are more than aware of what you're causing.

Hatred. Anguish. Despair. A need for violent measures. A selfish greed of clinging onto life from their grave wounds you placed upon them. This is all you.

All you.

Mindlessly in pain, your body unwillingly helps itself up despite your own injuries. You took a heavy step forward, only ceasing the noises that surrounded you as they witness your hauntingly beautiful yet bloodied form, but there was no attraction, they were now instilled with a new type of fear.

2:55 PM — CLOUDFORD, XIANZHOU LUOFU

5 minutes until eruption.

You were a golden death. A victim.

A new dreadful existence that was unintentionally yet successfully created by Sanctus Medicus.

The golden liquid had already burned the rest of your outfit. Your body only continued to pour gold from the rifts on your skin, your heart—or your now crystalized core, pulsated with consecutive glows, as if your former heart, and the rest of your biology had changed, in which case, it did.

That's it... Embrace it... Your perfected, honed and better self.

Shut up.

The voice chuckles, continuing to fog and envelope your whole essence.

The unwavering, unbearable pain was now released, replaced with the sensations of your skin, healing slowly. The paleness in your face had become warm once again along with your body.

Your hair only grew longer, luscious and free, your eyes glimmered in high self esteem once more, while previous cracks all over your body had almost disappear as if nothing was there in the first place.

You will never admit it, but you felt more healthy, you felt beautiful, you felt confident, you felt...

New, refreshed and reborn, and you grasped control of yourself once again.

Your newfound vigor and vitality only brought unease and curiousity to the Cloud Knights who loathed your existence being a supposed child of Yaoshi the Abundance now.

The man with glasses couldn't help but be reminded of his weakness from your newfound growth, he had hesitated until now, witnessing your upbringing and his own actions had left a sour feeling on his drying throat, unease had surrounded the man, in fear of what will commence. He doesn't know how much longer he can fight, accompanied with the knowledge of his two fatigued Astral companions seeking out help of any kind, but another question lingered in his thoughts;

What were you?

You weren't a mindless Mara-strucked individual that they've previously continuously dealt with, nor you had the appearance of golden leaves that battered and grew out of you. You were just a woman, at what he assumes to be your very prime, the high peak of your health, appearance, physicality and mental state, and your curiousity and confusion about your own state confirmed his assumptions.

“I-...” Your senses interrupt you as your instincts come into fruition, tilting your head to the right, only to reveal a Cloud-Piercing spear infront of your vision that had thrusted forward from behind. The light, horizontal slit from your left cheek which the Cloud Knight slightly grazed, begun to heal almost quickly, as well as suddenly realizing your hand was already around the unfortunate Cloud Knight's neck, lifting them up in a chokehold as their air supply begins to be cut off.

With widened eyes, you immediately loosened your grasp upon becoming aware of your actions, retorting your hand while guilt pumped into you.

“It- It was... It was instinct I-” Your voice cracked, bringing both of your hands to cover your mouth as your once blurred vision finally had a good look to your surroundings, grasping the situation and your hellish surroundings at bay.

Remember the sight.

Your mind throbbed once again, yet your nerves find ways to soothe the pain, but... even then, it will never be able to heal your aching heart and the damage you inflicted against the soldiers of the Xianzhou Alliance.

Instincts went into play once more, feeling a sudden familiar, pulling force behind moving towards you in a faster, denser velocity, only for you to barely dodge a faster orb of gravity that you had previously, went up against.

“W- Wait! I-” You turn your face quickly towards the man whom attacked you just now, only to be met with a bright, icy blade that moved quickly towards you, but both of your hands had already instinctively raise to your face, piercing both of your palms instead, grasping in the side of the bloodied tip of the cold sword that pierced you.

“FUCK!!! NNGH—!” You whimpered in pain, feeling the sensations of burning that sourced within your palms, along with the skin and nerves that was already healing, your own rejuvenating flesh, pushing out the icy sword as a 'CLANG' follows suit.

“Hmph. You're lucky I didn't throw it with too much force, otherwise you wouldn't be able to survive that!” A voice of a young boy graced the battlefield, turning the red sea into a cold, thundering storm of snow and ice, putting the injured Cloud Knights at ease and discomfort from the coldness that surrounded the environent.

“L-Lieutenant Yanqing!” A Cloud Knight gasped at his arrival, alerting the rest with jarred cheers erupting, while your gaze dilutes back and forth to the man with glasses—and a child who happens to be a lieutenant that had arrived.

“P- Please- I-”

“Save it servant of the Abundance!”

A continuing, cold breeze of snow enveloped the young boy, his aqua colored swords flying towards you once more.

Now equipped with newfound, engraved instincts that you have begun to get use to, your body- that had not tasted the ways of war and battle, danced its way around elegantly and flexibly from the skillful wrath of ice that relentlessly continued to attack you.

Despite your consciousness and having a sense of control once again, you felt another sensation, one that felt like another presence, another soul, tangled with yours, tugging at your essence, and it was most definitely the reason as to why you were moving in such a way, that continued to inflict fear and uneasiness to the Cloud Knights, and the man with the glasses whom continued to witness your dance of agility and grace against the right hand of the Arbiter General.

...

...

Why me...?

Imperfect.

There are many others.

...

The embodiment of failure and success.

Wh- What does that even mea—

A host of purity and defections all in one. All suited for me.

A canvas of the purest, warmest of soul, painted with absolute grief, sadness, regret, pain — yet harboring no anger, rage, hatred. A non-existent need for revenge.

Something a certain diciple of mine lacked, thus her inevitable defeat from the subjects of Akivili.

And you are mine to break and reconstruct. I can finally fathom why the Hunt had their arrows set on you.

The words gnawed your logical, racing thoughts, leaving you in a moment of disarray, visibly seen from your relentless opponent.

The Hunt... The... Reignbow Arbiter? But—

“Hhgk—!”

Tch. So flawed.

You felt another burning sensation to the left side of your waist, looking towards a deep cut that split your flesh into two from the icy blades that hailed like the rain against you, yet once again, it had begun to heal slowly, as sounds of your flesh and cells crickled, halting the young boy in his trained steps for a moment.

“What... What are y—” The young boy gets cut off.

Your gaze suddenly returns to the boy, with your left iris flickering into a golden color, replacing your original shade.

“Your demise.” The voice took over your vocals for a moment.

“N- No! you will NOT HARM ANYONE FURTHER!” You grit your teeth, holding your curled fists into each other, retraining yourself and letting the voice solely focus on avoiding further attacks.

How unpleasant.

Why do you continue to resist, child of Lan?

The sight of you... talking to yourself? No... Your voice had continued to change back and forth, only confusing him further.

Something was amiss, but the young boy and his youth couldn't fanthom the uniqueness of the situation before him, he had only one thing in his determined mind, the solution of exterminating a being that threatened the peace for the Xianzhou Luofu; You.

The boy took his stance, his flying swords once again stationed behind him, but a sudden deep voice emerges from behind him, only startling the whole battlefield in his appearance.

“Yanqing. Well done in keeping the adversary at bay.”

A commanding presence immediately intensified the trickling air of tension, only leaving sounds of sharp breaths and your continuous argument with yourself.

Hush.

Huh?

You fall into silence to its bidding, only to look around to the young boy, who was now accompanied with the famous Arbiter General, holding a glaive that had a threatening presence, along with the General himself.

“I apologies for my tardiness Mr. Yang. I had matters to tend to.” The strong presence spoke, his eyes hovering upon your naked, yet coated state, assessing the situation with an unknown gleam in his eyes.

“Where of Stelle and March?” The man with glasses walked beside him, mirroring his gaze upon the beautiful woman before their sights.

“I sent message to the High Elder Vidyadhra medic to tend to their wounds, not to worry, they will be back.” He said faced to him with a knowing smile, only causing goosebumps to your skin, he was taking in this stage you set lightly, only irritating the voice in your head slightly.

“Now... What of the contexts of this fascinating situation?” The Arbiter General's penetrating gaze returns to you, eyeing your undeniable attracting form. You were oblivious, but the voice wasn't.

Leave the premises, now.

Wha? W- Who are you to tell me what t—

The throbbing had begun once again. Their conversations sealed upon noticing your actions as your hands gripped tightly around your head, whimpering in place.

“S- Stop...”

No. If you perish, I-

...

Leave, woman.

“Is she...?” The Arbiter General looks towards the man with the glasses, his eyebrow raised slightly in speculation.

“She's... She had been at this state for more than a few minutes since earlier...” He frowned, gripping his cane, being reminded of fragments from his life that whispered evily to him.

“Who cares? Let's extinguish her presence already General!” Impatient, the young boy firmed his grasp around the hilt of his sword of ice, pointing the tip of the sharpness towards you, his sky filled eyes sending daggers to your direction with determination.

“Patience little lieutenant. One does not rush in unknown, trifling matters.” The General warns with a faint smile that doesn't reach to his eyes, and without a choice from the tone of command, the young boy's will wavers with a sigh, lowering his blade in defeat.

“P- Please, end me...”

Your words grasped the attention of the trio, while your tears began to flow, taking note of your willingness to submit in defeat.

“See?! Even—” The young boy gets cut off once more, earning a serious glare from the General that hushed him almost immediately.

“Please I-... I'm sorry for causing harm...” You continued to sob quietly, gritting your teeth while your head continued to throb mercilessly with ruthless, familiar pain.

I said leave now, and I'll cease the pain.

The Arbiter General takes a step forward, his left hand holding the body of his glaive, no words left needed to describe that despite his aloof hold around his weapon, he was more than ready for any attempt of violent assault.

NOW.

Mirroring the gesture of his, you took a step back abiding the voice's word, your glistening, heterochromic eyes lock with the readied General, only fascinating him further from your saddened, alluring gaze. Noticing your hesitancy for closeness.

“...My lady, if you escape this very moment, I will make sure that every inch of the Xianzhou Luofu will be well guarded, awaiting your presence in every corner you find yourself in to hide away from our— from my grasp.”

A silence from him ensued for a few long moments, following a faint warning smile from earlier, his gaze unwavering towards you while you weeped, assuming you aren't able to grasp his own chords.

“I- I do not... wish to harm anyo—”

“You're right my lady, I won't allow it.” He came closer, moving towards you with delicacy in his footsteps.

“ ... ”

...

...Stubborn child.

“Don't go, my lady.”

“It- It hurts... My head... General I-”

“Our High Elder Vidyadhra apothecary will assist you.” The General says firmly with undertones of softness, taking another step forward, but you remained still, weeping in silence from the continuous throbbing and regeneration of the nerves that seethed you repeatedly.

He manipulates.

S- Stop the—hhnghk... Please...

His experienced words, eons worth of vocabulary, coming into fruition, laying the power of syllables onto you. Do not—

I DON'T- I CANNOT CARE FROM THE UNBEARABLE PAIN YOU CONTINUE TO MAKE ME SUFFER IN!

A befitting punishment for your unwilling soul.

“I- I didn't mean to... General I- Hnnhk—...” Your form staggers, suffering from the internal turmoil that resumed, collapsing in place—but before you hit the floor, the sensation of warmth arrived behind your lower back and waist.

You found your crystalized golden core, your bare, coated chest pressed up against a man with command, towering and holding your suddenly weakened state that matched a situation one again in prior events.

“Jing Yuan.” He said, lowering his own golden to you, his expression, hidden with enthrall from your weakened state.

You hear the voice click its tongue.

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm so—”

“Hush my lady,” He said in his low, husk voice, holding your weakened body, his hand firming against the soft, coated and warming flesh of your waist, stirring a once familiar sensation that rooted in his stomach.

“General Jing Yuan—” The young boy averted his gaze with a slight flush in his cheeks. Jing Yuan had not heard him, lest deciding to tend to the injured Cloud Knights instead, grumbling under his breath.

The man with glasses came closer to the two of you, his gaze feigning ignorance on the display.

“Miss... What—” He gets cut off, both men alarmed from your sudden intense grip around his biceps, your golden, crystalized core beaming, pulsating rapidly along with your quickened breath.

A golden ray of light erupted from you surrounding you vertically in a circle, sending the light up towards the sky endlessly, alerting everyone who bore witness to the intense display.

So be it.

A powerful, echoing screech escaped your mouth, tilting your head up to the direction of the clouds that welcomed your gaze as rubbles of cement from the previous struggles of the battle began to levitate the surroundings.

”ᚷᚨᚺ ᛉᚨᚾ ᛏᚨᚲ ᚷᚨᚺ ᛉᚨᚾ ᛏᚨᛏ ᛏᚨᛏ ᛒᚱᚨᚲ”

I claim your soul, little child of the Hunt.

You will be my host, my pure, imperfection of despair.

Only I shall intertwine with you, body, mind and soul eternally.

And this mortal, blessed with the lightning guardian spirit, shall be your first prey.

3:00 PM — CLOUDFORD, XIANZHOU LUOFU

The eruption commences.

how ironic, this fic being my first successful hsr fic ended up being the reason why i got my ppl pleasing tendencies back pfft. anyways, reblogs help my audience reach, thank you!

[bucketsquid]

An Exhaustive List of Octarian F.A.Qs... and Answers!

There's one thing I've noticed about the Western Splatoon fandom.... and that's the weird amount of misconceptions, mistranslations, and misunderstandings about the Octarians.

For some reason it's often lore about them, surrounding them, or about their activities that always seems to have this happen. And so I want to help correct that! They're a super cool faction and I want to work on people hopefully understanding them better, while helping to correct misconceptions about them.

This will be long, there will be many citations and pictures both. Shoutout in particular to Inkipedia and inkfish translator rassicas, and the hard work of both, for this.

If there's any common lore misconceptions that I left out, please let me know! I'm including every single one I can think of, but I probably missed something somewhere.

================================================

General Octarian Questions

Q. How are Octarians made? And are Octolings made the same way?

A. Octarians are made from severed Octoling tentacles (The Art of Splatoon + SplatoonBase) that are then somehow animated. Ones with more tentacles are "more intelligent"; they're sapient, either way.

Octolings are not, to our knowledge, created like this. The existence of SashiMori's Paul suggests that Octolings undergo the same life stages as Inklings do. (Similarly, Diss-Pair's Warabi has lore that mentions having parents.)

There is concept art in HaikaraWalker (the Octo Expansion artbook) that depicts Octolings mutating from Octarians... but it seems to just be concept art.

Q. Did Octavio brainwash the Octarians into obeying him? Wasn't music used to make them obey?

A. No, they were never brainwashed. Octavio uses his music to keep the Octarians in order and to keep their working rhythm correct-- like a military march. Inkipedia compares the Onward! jingle to "a call-and-response clapping rhythm used by teachers to grab students' attention in elementary schools". It does sound like that...

Now, if you want to say that Octarian propaganda is brainwashing, yes, that does exist.

Q. We've only ever seen feminine Octoling soldiers. What's with that?

A. The "rival Octolings" we meet in the story modes are all part of a special military unit that's female-only. They're referred to as "Takozonesu" in Japanese, a mashup of "tako" (octopus) and "amazons". Not every female Octoling can be one of these, and this group isn't completely representative of Octolings in the military.

There are male Octolings, they're just not part of this one group. (Fun fact, did you know that these Octolings are voiced by Callie and Marie's voice actors?)

Q. What's with the green sclera on Octarians?

A. There's no confirmed canon reasons. Octolings are very inconsistent about it, as well; Octavio has it and so do many enemy Octolings, but not other Octolings of note.

It could just be that the whites of their eyes are really reactive to stuff in general, since sanitized Octarians have black sclera. The green color could also just be something that happens with age while living in the domes.

Q. In Octo Expansion, Marina calls Octarian society "oppressive"-- how oppressive is it really?

A. This descriptor is actually inaccurate to the original Japanese, and was added in localization. (The Splatoon 2 Retranslation Project has a more accurate version over here! Thanks @shiverhohojiro for the link.) Octo Expansion has some notorious details that were added in localization, like Craig being more racist than usual or the omission of Commander Tartar's chatter about humankind.

That said. The domes are an isolationist* military-centric society, with emphasis on meritocracy. Octolings go into professions for things they're good at, not necessarily for what they want to do. Resources like electricity are limited, so they have to structure life around that detail, and strictness logically follows. The military doesn't tolerate slackers or nonsense, but talented people seem to do well for themselves based on how Marina's life was. Even so...

A lot of music, culture and artwork gets made down there! And they have things like beachside domes, bowling-themed domes, amusement park domes and even circuses... so it's not completely strict. There's a lot of room for silliness, it just needs to be in the right place.

So, to be totally fair? We don't know much. It's not perfect, but it's also not a hellish place to live if you wanted to stay. * They trade with Salmonids, but don't seem to do so with anyone else.

Q. Can they respawn? Are we killing them when we splat them?

A. Yes, they can use respawn technology in the same way Inklings and Octolings do. The only situation where an Octarian explicitly dies is, potentially, during the escape phases in Octo Expansion!

Q. Where/how did they make the domes?

A. Leftover human technology, meant to be similar "last resort shelters" made by humans. Think Alterna, but on a smaller fragmented scale.

================================================

Questions about DJ Octavio

Q. Why do we always see him in octopus form? Can he shapeshift?

A. Octavio can't shapeshift because of an injury from the Great Turf War. He was able to do so before and during it, however!

Q. We know Octavio leads the Octarians, but what is he? A king, an emperor, or what?

A. He is a Japanese shogun, as referenced by his title in the first Splatoon: "DJ Takowasa shōgun". We don't know if he was appointed by an emperor, if he was part of the previous shogun's family, or if he just sort of... took up the mantle (haha octopus joke) after the Great Turf War.

Q. Did he brainwash Callie?

Based on the information we have... I am inclined to say, no, he didn't brainwash Callie.

Callie was in an extremely stressful period of her life, Octavio reached out to talk, and... we don't know what happened next. But the context feels like Callie might have joined willingly. In reference to the Hypnoshades, it's important to note that hypnosis as a concept is incredibly variable, with one argument made that "you cannot hypnotize an unwilling participant".

"But, didn't he say--"

He likes music puns. He's a DJ. It's supposed to be funny, why aren't you laughing? (What this line was in JP, I wonder...)

... But, I feel like the evidence stacks up. It suggests that Callie wasn't kidnapped or brainwashed or forced to join the Octarians. It was probably an escape from fame and loneliness for her-- the Hypnoshades helped her get away from that and just have a good time. But with Octavio being a guy to hold a grudge, nothing got to be that simple, and Callie was ultimately weaponized against the New Squidbeak Splatoon.

It remains very up-to-interpretation because we don't know, exactly, what happened behind the scenes. But Callie fosters zero ill will towards the Octarians, even after being rescued... and if fiery, outspoken Callie doesn't seem to be angry about it, what does that say about the matter?

Q. Why do all the tentacles piloting the Great Octoweapons have the same scar as him?

A. Because they're directly cloned from Octavio and are then made to pilot them, presumably because they have the muscle memory to operate as pilots. Octopuses have very complicated brains and neural centers that extend out into their arms.. so this cool bit of sci-fi checks out.

Q. How old is Octavio, really?

A. We don't know. But the narrative often parallels him with Craig Cuttlefish, who mentions in Octo Expansion that he's 130 years old. It would be fair to assume Octavio is also, at least, 130.

Q. Why is he so gigantic in Splatoon compared to the other games?

idk man, you tell me. I think this is much funnier and cooler than later games, though.

================================================

Octo Expansion + Octarians Questions

Q. It's suggested that there were thousands of test subjects before Agent 8. Where did Kamabo Co. get all of these people?

A. Not only is it suggested that the Deepsea Metro may be accessible from other train lines, but it's also plausible that the subterranean networks that the Octarians use could be connected to the Metro. (Thank you for your hard work, Dodo.)

Test chambers always reminded me of Octarian domes, anyways, with the large amount of highly versatile space they have, and how it'd only make sense underground.

After all, Commander Tartar offered a glimpse of "the promised land", and that plays very specifically into the Octoling desire to see the surface world again. ("A utopia of light beyond your wildest dreams".) Its appearance as a telephone even seems to evoke an Octarian's face, which they're more willing to trust.

Q. Are sanitized Octarians a hivemind?

A. They're something like that, being hollow shells that have lost their memories and identities while submitting to a higher force. (This can be fixed, as we've learned.) They seem responsive to being assigned roles, what with Acht being made to produce music while other sanitized Octolings act as enemies in test chambers.

Commander Tartar's ideology revolves around a lot of "giving up one's individuality for the greater good" and "joining something bigger than yourself". To "eliminate the general idea of the individual" for "a harmonious world"... "becoming one with existence".

I think that carries a lot of interesting implications. You can draw your own conclusions, since there's no explicit canon answer.

Q. Was Acht sanitized willingly or unwillingly?

A. Public twitter info suggests that they were sanitized willingly, to "get rid of doubts and conflicts involving production" and to commit completely to music. But in Side Order, Acht says that it wasn't done willingly.

There's a lot of ways to interpret this. Maybe they wanted to at first, had a last-minute realization that they got tricked, and ultimately didn't want it. Maybe they committed completely and don't want to say it. Maybe social media is lying to us completely, in the same corporate word-twisting ways that Grizzco also uses, to make Kamabo Co. seem better. So... who knows?

Q. How does the Kamabo Corporation have clones of the Octo Canyon bosses?

A. Uh...

... I don't actually know. Clearly they have pretty advanced technology going on, so maybe they actually did manage to replicate and clone these bosses perfectly?

Or, maybe, it's just a psychological recreation of Agent 8's memories. Octo Expansion has a lot of stuff like that, so it feels pretty possible!

================================================

Anyways, that's all... for now. I'll probably only edit in more sources and tweak details on this post, but it's completely possible that I might need to add more things later.

[iamthemain-character]

You Drew Stars Around My Scars

four/tobias eaton x reader

she/her pronouns

TW: mentions of scars from abuse, heavy making out

Y/n’s head was swirling with thoughts of the new recruits as she headed down to to the training area. The day had been long, trying to help all the new kids as they desperately clawed to qualify. Some did well, instantly brandishing themselves as worthy Dauntless. Others, however, struggled.

And while the Dauntless part of Y/n knew that this was just the way things were done, there was still a part of her, a part that had grown up in Amity, that worried about those poor kids. Y/n’s heart twisted every time one of them failed, knowing that they slowly crept closer and closer to being cast out. Despite only being a couple years older, Y/n saw them as kids, still needing someone to be there for them.

Letting out a large sigh, Y/n was about to walk through the door when she looked down at her hands, realizing that she didn’t have her gloves on. Wracking her brain, Y/n remembered that she had lent them to Four. It was getting late at night, so he was probably either finishing up some personal tasks or going to bed. But Y/n didn’t really feel like tearing up her knuckles, and Four and Y/n were close enough friends that it wasn’t uncommon for the one to unexpectedly pop into the other’s quarters.

So regretfully Y/n turned back around and made her way to the living areas, wishing she had taken the time to remember everything she had needed before she had traveled halfway across the compound. Eventually she arrived at Four’s home, and hearing nothing following her knock, Y/n let herself in.

Y/n looked around the common area, searching the seats and shelves for her gloves. Nothing turned up, however, so she made her way to Four’s bedroom. There was nothing under the bed, nor in the closet, but as Y/n turned about she spotted a book sitting on the bedside table. Curious, she picked it up and flipped through the pages, wondering what kind of books interested her friend.

“Resorted to rifling through my stuff have you?”

Y/n whipped around to see Four standing behind her, having come out of the bathroom. The bathroom where he was evidently taking a shower, given his wet hair and glistening chest.

Oh. Oh.

Four never took off his shirt, or if he did, it wasn’t in front of Y/n. Now everyone in Dauntless was fit, but as Y/n looked at Four’s torso, she realized just how beautiful his body was. Loose, black pants rested on his hips, and his muscles tensed as he crossed his arms.

Realizing she had stared for far too long, Y/n forced herself to look at the book in her hand. “Oh, no.” Y/n said, letting out a breathy laugh. “I was looking for my gloves. Which, you wouldn’t happen to know where they are would you?”

Smiling, Four walked over to a set of drawers and pulled out the elusive gloves. Y/n watched his movements, but she couldn’t help a gasp that slipped from their lips as she saw Four’s back. A massive and intricate tattoo covered the entirety of his back, running from his neck down his lower back, with the tips of the lines disappearing underneath the waistband of the pants. Four turned with concern at Y/n’s reaction, but his face relaxed when he saw what she had gasped at.

“Have you never seen my tattoo?” He queried, walking back over to hand Y/n her gloves.

Speechless at Four being so close once again, Y/n simply shook her head.

“Do you want to?”

Bashfully Y/n nodded, curious as to what could have been so important that Four would have it inked across his whole back. He turned around once again, allowing Y/n to get a full view of the tattoo.

As Y/n dragged her eyes across Four’s skin, she saw the pattern of the lines with 5 circular symbols in the middle. Not just any symbols, she noticed, but the 5 factions. Four had all the factions represented on his back.

But as Y/n leaned closer to look at the details, her eyes shifted to something else. There were horizontal lines littered across Four’s back, and while Y/n at first thought they were part of the design, she soon realized that they were part of Four’s skin.

On instinct, Y/n’s hand came up to touch the scars. As soon as her fingertips touched the skin, however, Four flinched.

“I’m sorry.” Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t be. They don’t hurt anymore.” Four replied, and while his voice sounded so steady, Y/n could detect a bit of a waver underneath.

“What happened Four?” Y/n softly asked, gently running her hand over the scars.

Four’s shoulders tensed up when he heard the question, and for a moment Y/n regretted asking. But slowly he turned around, grabbing Y/n’s hand and holding it within his own. Softly he ran his thumb over her fingers, his eyes dark with the pain of his memories.

Four’s voice was low and thick when he spoke. “I wasn’t good enough for my father, so he tried to fix me with his belt.” Letting out a humorless laugh, Four shook his head. “I never changed, but I still got to keep these scars. Guess they serve as a good reminder that I won’t ever be good enough.”

“No.” Y/n vehemently shook her head. “No. Your father wasn’t good enough. Four you, you have always been enough. You never have to change for anyone. Not for your father, not for Dauntless, not for me. You are beautiful and wonderful and incredible just as you are.”

Y/n looked into Four’s eyes, hoping that someway, somehow he would see that she was saying the truth. He stared back, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. Y/n could feel the warmth of his body radiating off of Four, and despite the intensity of the moment, she couldn’t help but feel her heart race as he seemed to get closer and closer.

Four’s eyes fluttered close as his face came close to Y/n’s, nose brushing her cheek as his lips angled towards her’s. He stopped just inches away, his warm breath fanning across Y/n’s face. “Tell me to stop.”

“No.”

And Four didn’t. Leaning in all the way, his lips pressed against Y/n’s. It was soft, gentle, and a little bit tentative. His lips are slightly chapped, and the scent of his body wash filled Y/n’s nose. It was sweet and reassuring, feeling the warm pressure of each other’s lips.

When Four pulled away, his heart was beating wildly. His eyes searched Y/n’s, trying to gauge her reaction. She smile, one side of her mouth edging up higher than the other. That alone sent Four over the edge.

All the tension, all the passion, all the pent up feelings come crashing over Four, and when he reattached his lips to Y/n it was no longer gentle. Hungry and a tiny bit desperate, their lips moved in tandem, engulfing the other’s.

Y/n’s hands made their way to Four’s short hair, fingers grasping the back of his head and pulling his face closer. In turn, Four’s hands slid down to Y/n’s hips, fingers digging in as he grasped them. He pulled her closer, eliciting a gasp from Y/n, but they don’t break their kiss.

Step by step the couple moved closer to the bed, until suddenly Four’s knees hit the edge of the bed. As his back hit the bed, he stared up at Y/n; her lips were swollen, a deep reddish hue giving evidence to his lips being on her’s.

Y/n didn’t miss a beat, instantly coming onto the bed and straddling Four. His hands returned to her hips, pulling her down on top of him. Y/n’s hands wandered to Four’s chest, feeling the outline of his abs and pecs. Leaning down, she slowly placed kisses along his sternum, making her way up to Four’s neck and jawing.

He arched his neck, loving the feeling of her lips on his skin. Feeling greedy, however, he turned his head back and caught Y/n’s lips with his again. Four’s hands wandered, sliding up from the hips along the sides of Y/n, feeling the outline of her body. His fingers twitched at the edge of her shirt, and she murmured a “yes”against his lips. Four didn’t wait another second, sliding her shirt over her head and throwing it to the side.

He took her in for the first time, suddenly hit by just how beautiful she is to him. Her top half covered in just a sports bra, Four’s eyes ate up every inch of exposed skin. His skin was slightly rough as his hand came in contact with Y/n’s waist, but the warmth from the touch flooded her entire body. Placing his other hand on the back of Y/n’s neck, Four flipped her over so that she was on her back and he was hovering over her.

Four grabbed one of Y/n’s thighs, guiding the the leg to rest on his hip. Hand twisting in her hair, Four pressed kisses to every inch of skin possible, from Y/n’s stomach to the valley of her breasts, and finally her lips again, loving the feeling of the pressure of Y/n’s lips against his own.

The two were breathing heavily when they broke apart, Four gently coming down and lying on top of Y/n. He pulled her in close, wrapping his arms around her waist. Y/n wrapped the other leg around Four, feeling like she never wanted to leave his embrace.

“Don’t go.” Four whispered, his nose brushing Y/n’s ear.

Y/n didn’t respond, instead letting her lips on Four’s be a silent promise never to leave again.

[drakaripykiros130ac]

There is a constant idea flowing about that the Greens are entitled to take the throne in order to protect themselves.

First of all, they didn’t take the throne to protect themselves. They did it because they wanted power (Otto and Alicent Hightower, at least).

Secondly: What about the Blacks? Aren’t they entitled to the same thing?

Had the Greens taken the throne without any protest from the Blacks, do you imagine that they would have all lived in peace, happily ever after?

No. Rhaenyra’s family would have been assassinated one way or another.

1. Rhaenyra is the chosen heir, and direct kin to the Arryns, who also have a woman at the helm (Jeyne Arryn), not to mention that she has lords who had sworn fealty to her. She has more than any princess before her ever did. It’s hard to imagine the Greens sleeping soundly knowing all the support that Rhaenyra could receive should she decide to change her mind one day.

2. Her husband, Daemon, is the most feared man in the Realm, with a special kind of hatred for Hightowers, who holds plenty of influence with the smallfolk, basically controls the City Watch, wields Dark Sister, is a seasoned warrior and possesses a unique dragon, Caraxes. He would be the first of the Blacks the Greens would target. Daemon is the protector. He’s Rhaenyra’s shield. Without him, everyone else in the family would be vulnerable.

3. Their sons, Aegon and Viserys, would always pose a threat to the usurper, because of their pure Targaryen lineage. There would very well be lords arguing that Aegon the Younger is the rightful heir to the throne.

4. The Velaryons, as the greatest power in the Realm, commanding the largest fleets, would always remain closely tied to Daemon and Rhaenyra through the marriages between Jacaerys and Baela as well as Lucerys and Rhaena.

Either Jacaerys or Lucerys would have become the next Lord of Driftmark, which would certainly complicate matters. And with the constant rumors about the parentage of Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey, they would have been in most danger of losing their lives without any consequences following.

Rhaenyra has just as much right to protect her family.

Regardless of what you all imagine in your fanfics, the Blacks and the Greens would have never been able to live in peace. There is too much discord and hatred between the two factions. It’s either one or the other.

And at the end of the Dance, only one family was left standing: the Blacks.

[dopaminepump]

While I never expected a good game, I at least hoped that some of the remaining veterans on the writing team would make sure that the game stays consistent in terms of lore.

It's not hard, I said, as someone who keeps a wiki of their OCs and worldbuilding, so I don't contradict myself. It's not hard to give even incompetent gig writers you hire for the job a guideline. You've had over a decade to write it, of course!

WRONG.

On top of glaring incompetence in something as basic as keeping a logical flow in dialogues and scenes, somehow you manage to break your own canon every couple of minutes of spoken content?

How did any of this go through review? Was there even a review? Did anyone care to make this game at least consistent?

And at the same time, somehow, they managed to actively avoid adding new lore to the game. Everything that Veilguard reveals has already been foreshadowed or half-revealed in the prior games.

And the plotlines that DID have unresolved mysteries? The titans, the world outside of the effects of the veil? The elven uprising, the flocking of Dalish from all over Thedas to Solas' cause in Tresspasser? The hints of a war about to break between Tevinter and qunari? Briala's countermeasures in the eluvian guerilla warfare between the factions? The grandiose mystery that has been hinted at, with Morrigan's sisters, the ancient dragons, all being connected to the "blood of the earth" and the Titans, and the blight, AND qunari? The plotline hinting at the death of the archdemons somehow damaging the world irreconcilably and being something to be avoided? Enchantment? Kieran?

Damn it, even just the real and gruesome picture of Tevinter slavery and the existence of the Black Divine and Minrathos' policy of worshiping solely the maker and considering the worship of Andraste s heresy!

Off all these the only thing that hasn't been chucked out of the window and into abyss is a wheel of cheese.

Edit I: Oh and if you thought drug addiction of the Templars is still a theme in the game, don't worry, they forgot to write that in.

Edit II: I was wrong! They didn't forget to write it in. They deliberately wrote it out for the Northern Templar order and turned them into cops.

Edit III: After going through Codex entries, I would like to make mention that there IS a Codex that talks about the differences of worship between nations. However it does not change that the writing outside of the Codex entries is breaking that lore.

Additionally I made mention that they forgot about the outside world. Again, there is a Codex entry that mentions that lore, but it seems to be incomplete as it erroneously states that people have been turned back and there are wild stories circulating. People have in fact died in storms, and survivors that made it back were all driven insane. There is no mention of it. My speculation over the years was that the effect of the Veil is local and I was expecting THAT alongside the "veil measuring devices" and the Orb to play into the study of the Veil by the Inquisition remnants and other interested parties. Alas, this plays 0 role in the plot.

As does the mechanic of belief as a power source, in fact! You know, the one mechanic they hinted heavily as something that could easily change the nature of beings closely connected to the Fade? Remember the Avvar?

Or the Chasind? Hello? Does anyone remember the Chasind? (Who, I notice now after rereading the wiki page on them, are written in an archaic form of xenophobic stereotypes towards northern eastern europeans. Wow.)