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safely-in-vhagars-belly · 8 months ago

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''Fight and Die'' Slightly darkAemond x AFAB Reader 18+ MDNI PART 6!

Aemond x fem oc/reader

Tags: Show setting, abusive brother (but its not aemond) mentioned of forced marriages and duels, mentions of parental loss.

🔷Summary: Your ancestors once betrayed the Targaryens and paid a high price. Now you are back at court with your brother, who hopes to sell you in exchange for his freedom.

🔷Author's note: It might still be a little darkish but not as dark as usual. I think this is the closest to show aemond I ever got. So he still is not a unicorn yall but he is at least imo he is decent and nice.

🔷Wordcount :3347

Warnings below the cut

WARNINGS: Gore, mentions of assault (but it doesnt happen, and its not aemond who wants to do it) mentions of blood, gore, and violence as well as miscarriages (oc's mother)

Blood does not scare you. It once did, but not anymore.

It is liquid, water in a way. And there is nothing more natural to you than water.

Just funny coloured water that comes pouring out of your body if you are injured.

You came into this world, covered in blood as your mother bled out on the sheets, according to Fyrand. You were screaming and crying, kicking and alive. Despite Maesters feared the worst, despite your enemies hoping the worst, you came out alive.

And you did just that.

Time and time and time again.

Whenever you see blood, it brings you back to a distant but fresh memory. Not your birth. You don’t recall what your own mother looked like. You never saw a portrait, or anything. You never dared to ask Fyrand either. Your mother is a wound that never healed.

So, another memory surfaces from the dark instead. A dark memory of you, standing on a ship, during a storm. Your brother close to you, his fingers holding a crown. Your family’s crown.

You recall how badly the ship and the men smelled. Like piss, like beer, like all unpleasant unladylike things. Like hell, if you are being honest. You never had any man eye you with desire, but in that very moment you had. The captain of the pirateship couldn’t keep his eyes off from you.

Fyrand had made a deal, selling the crown for passage to Westeros. But the Captain had decided he wanted more. He wanted you. ‘’Westeros is a boring place. It would be best to have her stay here.’’ You remember the way his crew laughed, that sickening, twisted laughter.

Fyrand has never been kind to you. But he was not stupid either. He would not give up his pawn to a mere pirate. Not when he already offered the crown of his mother.

It is funny how the gods have a sense of humor, as that man that wanted to marry you, too missed an eye. And his teeth were almost falling from his mouth, caused by rotting.

Fyrand huffed, took the crown and left the ship, dragging you with him. But you were denied access and grabbed. The captain placed his dagger against your throat. He hissed that you needed to be quiet and that Fyrand had to make a choice. ‘’Either your sister gives me her hand, or you do.’’ You weren’t sure what you ever did to that man. But you noticed a golden sealion that day. A few weeks after the attack, you found out your house tried to destroy that house. He was taking revenge for a crime none of you were even alive to remember.

You remember how you screamed when Fyrand took a sword of a crewmember and placed it at his left wrist, and just chopped. The flesh teared, blood poured and the captain finally released you as you sobbed on the deck, hearing Fyrand’s roar of pure pain and agony. The hand wasn’t off fully. It remained, tangling by pieces of flesh, as a leaf dancing in the wind. You felt your stomach turn and whatever meal you had would soon come back up. The captain approached Fyrand, grabbed his hand, and just pulled, tearing the flesh fully as Fyrand threw his head in his neck and screamed.

After that, somehow, you were both allowed to stay. It was a uncomfortable journey for you, but no incidents had happened aside from people calling ‘’doll’’ and smirking whenever you passed.

You and Fyrand shared one room aboard, and in that room, you stitched close his wound with a needle and ripped threads from one of your dresses. You never had stitched a wound before and Fyrand didn’t have anything to soften the pain. You were afraid at first. But you knew he would die if you didn’t get over it. So you pierced his skin and started stitching, bringing the wound flesh close, and tied it close.

It is strange.

Many years and moons have passed since that night but you can still hear your brother scream and picture his hand, the way the blood sprayed out of his hand, coloring the deck red as the pirates cheered.

Aemond does not seem to notice that you are not there anymore, but your feet become quicker as if you are a dancer that takes the lead and your breath increases. Aemond, Aemond doesn't notice. In truth, Aemond seems happy. Almost dazed, enchanted or drugged. He can't seem to stop smiling as you drag him with you, faster and faster as memories plague your mind.

You think back of the conversation the two of you had earlier. How Ser Criston was allegedly a good sword fighter. How good can he be, if he injured the Prince? “I thought you told me that Ser Criston was an excellent swordsman?” Your voice sounds snappy, angry and furious.

Aemond barely hides his chuckle. You turn around to look at him, so he can see the pain and worry in your face. The moment he sees how much this hurts and worries you, the smile dies. He steps forward. You back away at first but he bumps into you anyway. Clumsily he grabs you gently and kisses your forehead. “He is, Revaera. It was a small cut and my own fault. I got too impatient. I am many things, patient is not one of my qualities.”

You smile, mischievously and play with the pins on his shirt, touching his chest. “Someone should teach you patience. I don't want you injured.” You tell him, kissing his cheeks.

He breaks into a grin, a stunning bright grin that lights up your entire world. You feel your cheeks warm and are pressed against his body. “Maybe you can teach me.” He whispers, seductively. You like the way he has you where he wants you to. You feel safe and relax, until you see that the wound still drips with blood. You stare at it, as the world seems to fade.

“We need a maester.” You hear Aemond say, but you don’t react. This time, he needs to drag you with him.

You and Aemond soon find the maester in his room. It is nicely decorated and as you assumed, it has dozens of books. You wonder if the Maester himself wrote anything. The maester in question is a bald man, wearing classical robes and a chain, as you suspected. He is reading a big book that lies in front of him on the desk, not paying the two of you any attention.

That is until you speak, pushing Aemond in his direction, surprising the young prince, who stumbles on his feet, his good eye widened in surprise. ‘’He is hurt. The prince is injured.’’ You speak, your voice clear and calm.

You expect perhaps some urgency. Perhaps a worried glance. You don't expect what happens.

The maester slams his book closed, his eyes full of fear and terror as he looks at Aemond. ‘’What? Where? Show me!’ He cries out. The chair he was sitting on falls on its back and you watch, a bit flustered.

Even Aemond seems shocked.

That was perhaps not a good idea.

You feel terrible when the concerned and dutiful Maester looks at the tiny cut in Aemond’s hands. You really scared the poor man and avoid his eyes for now on.

Aemond chuckles, smiling at you as if you are his whole world. You don’t understand why, you scared a poor man, and you also made a scene. Yet he seems to appreciate it.

You think back of his words. Earlier, he mentioned that his father wouldn't even notice if he did not attend the supper you two skipped. What was that supposed to mean?

The maester allows himself to calm down, sighing with relief as he takes in Aemond's injury. He looks at the cut. ‘’O. A small cut.’’ The maester says, after studying it. “Luckily it looks like a clean one. Did you injure yourself when fighting?” He asks prince Aemond.

Aemond turns his head away, so that is a yes. “It was just a scratch, but Revaera insisted.” Aemond should be annoyed or fed up with your behavior but instead he smiles adoringly at you, holding your hand in his free one as the maester looks closer at the wound.

‘’You have a protective wife, my prince.’’ The maester comments kindly. “It is Princess Revaera, is it not?” He asks you, and you can tell by his piercing glare that he knows all too well who your family is.

You nod. The maester does not say anything but his look says it all. Disapproval.“To have a Marthyralys back in the castle. Your ancestors left a colorful mark on Westeros's history books.” You know he is right. You know your ancestors killed a lot of people. But is it really the time to have that conversation? And is it really up to him to judge you for the crimes of your ancestors?

Any other day you might have reconsidered: This man has a story, same as you. Maybe he is a family member of someone killed. Or maybe he simply wants to keep the castle and the royal family safe.

But you can't stop the words rolling off your tongue. You can’t stop the fire that burns in your veins. “So did any family worth their salt.”

The maester makes a disapproving grimace. Next to you, Aemond nods approvingly as his wound is cleaned, smirking proudly.

The Maester turns to Aemond, tying the bandage over his cutted hand. “A fierce wife. You do best to muzzle her. I'm not so sure Westeros is ready for such a free spoken woman.” You wonder instantly if the Targaryens knew you were hiding in Pentos. You told Aemond, you assume the court knew but why does a Maester know this? A maester, who knows everything about curing a illness….

And causing one.

You look at Aemond and he seems to know you caught on too, quickly scratching behind his ear and turning his head away once more. You will talk with him about that. But you have another problem. The Maester is right.

You embarrassed Aemond. You spoke out of line. You threw a tantrum like some little girl. You disappointed him beyond words.

Aemond speaks, and you can't even look at him. You really aren't cut out to be a Princess. “She has become quite fierce. I don't mind it one bit, however. She can speak however she wishes.” He says, fierce and protective. He kisses your knuckles as a token of appreciation and love. Then his gaze hardens when he looks at the Maester. “Westeros might not be ready for her, but she is ready for Westeros. Whether it likes it or not; Here she is and here she'll stay. Am I understood?” You beam, pleased as the Maester visibly cowers, afraid of the temper of the Prince.

You see the Maester gulp and know that Aemond has made his point very clear. “Yes, my prince.” The maester mutters.

Aemond smiles, barely hiding his pride, that you are his wife. ‘’I am truly blessed. My princess has enough worries on her mind. She does not need this as well.” there is a barely hidden warning there. The maester must not disturb you.

The maester does as he is told, and you and Aemond soon leave his rooms. You walk back with him, your left hand into his injured right one. You try not to think of how your brother lost his own hand. But that is difficult.

You two walk in a peaceful silence and when Aemond speaks, you nearly jump out of your skin. “How has your day been?” You think back of your talk with Fyrand. A baby must soon be made. A child. A heir. And you hate how your memories keep haunting you, whenever you see blood.

And there’s something else.

On your wedding day, Princess Rhaenyra said something that haunts you still. She said she had her ‘’own’’ maesters. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing? And can you even trust them? And why did she tell you, of all people?

Aemond is unaware your thoughts are gathering and forming a storm in your head. “What hobby did you pick?” He asks Excited to know your answer as you remain silent. You freeze. You had forgotten all about that. You would try to find something to entertain yourself. To bring him joy, rest, and so that he doesn’t have to worry when doing his duties.

Some wife you are.

“Uhm, well…I…” You laugh first then you become nervous, as the walls seem to close around you and your breath quickens.

You laugh, begin to breathe harder and eventually you become dizzy. You sway on your feet and begin crying as the air is taken from your lungs, as you collapse to the ground.

Aemond is shocked at first. He kneels down by you right away however. “Calm, my love. I am not mad. Calm.” He whispers, holding you by your wrists, gently so you may be free any moment you want. He also allows you room to breathe and takes deep breaths with you. You follow his example and soon you feel better and calm and stand back up, with his help.

He kisses you after you have stopped crying too. “I had a change of heart. If it truly makes you that anxious to be outside of my rooms, if it truly upsets you so much…” He swallows and looks at the tiles, clearly ashamed he encouraged you.

That's all he did. Encourage you. To be free. To be happy. To let your trauma go. To live your life. Maybe he is right. “No, maybe you were right. Maybe I need this push.” You speak.

He shakes his head. “I don't want to become someone you fear or worse, hate.” He whispers.

You could never hate him. “You were only worried for my own wellbeing and safety. You were right, Aemond. I can't stay cooped up in your rooms as some chicken.” No matter how safe you feel there. “No matter how comfortable your bed is.” You add, to jest. He takes it well and laughs, grinning.

Aemond helps you stand, testing if you can remain on your own two feet before letting you go. “How about we try to find something fun to do tomorrow? I never showed you the city. We can do that, should you wish for it.” King's Landing.

You have never seen it. Only heard stories. Stories of fierce men and dangerous dragons and treason and loyalty. “Your ancestors built this city side by side with mine. I know my family wants to erase you from our accomplishments. I know your ancestor was a great traitor. But he is not the only Marthyralys that lived. There are dozens before him that advised and counseled my family…” He is right. You know he is.

But…

Seeing your own history…

You aren’t sure you are ready for that.

Your ancestors might have build this city…

But they build it over the grave of millions.

Is it truly something to be proud of?

But Aemond doesn’t seem to know shame when it comes to history. “So, you could learn your history and ancestry, should you wish it.” He finishes a bit shy, and that makes you understand how important this is to him. He wants to show you the city he grew up in. He wants to spend time with you and to hold your hand as you walk through stinking streets as two ordinary people in love.

“Is that even allowed?” You ask. You doubt his father will approve. The king hates you, you are certain of it. And to have a Marthyralys wonder the streets, learn about Targaryen secrets and plots…

He chuckles. “I'm the Prince. You are the Princess. Asides, how can we learn from our mistakes if we do not acknowledge them?” He asks, and there he makes a good point.

Still, you aren’t sure. “That is true.” You mutter.

He breaks into a grin, victorious at last. “It stands then.” He kisses your cheeks and you are reminded of what you and Fyrand discussed. His baby. Aemond kisses increase as he leaves a trail of kisses on your collarbone, his smile something between a smirk and a smile as he softly pins you against the walls of the hallway, quickly looking around for servants or any other witnesses.

You tremble. And just like that, the spell is broken.

Aemond's good eye closes suspiciously, and the sweet kisses end. “What is it?” It is terrifying how well he can read you already.

You know he wants a baby.

You know so.

And you can’t say that you don’t want that. That you can’t want that. That you are terrified of dying like your mother. “Nothing.”

He scoffs, concern written all over his face as his body language changes from excited to worry. “There clearly is. Tell me what is the matter? I do wish us to discuss this.” You nod, and Aemond allows you to leave the wall.

You go to his bedchamber, tears burning in your eyes and you hear his footsteps, never that far behind you.

Aemond closes the door and waits for you to explain yourself. You sit down on his bed, sniffling. “Fyrand has been pressuring me about a baby.” You admit.

At first he is confused. “A baby?”

You wipe away at your tears, furiously that this makes you so upset. Giving Aemond a child, an heir, making princes and princesses, it should be the highest honor. So why does this terrify and hurt you so deeply? “Yes. A heir for you. For your father too.” You blurt out.

Aemond raises a brow.

“You want to carry my father's heir?”

You would rather die. Disgusted, you shake your head. “No! I meant, I'd give you a son, and him a grandchild. According to Fyrand that will disincrease the hate he has for me.’’

Aemond scoffs, and you can tell he does not agree with that idea. He scoffs at Fyrand, not you. “My brother thought the same thing for a while. But nothing will please that old buffalo.” You keep crying. No matter how eager you are to stop.

Aemond sighs, and he soon joins you on the bed, sitting next to you. He grabs your hands, where you are pulling your skin, to stop just that. “I know it is expected of both of us to soon present our child at court.” You nod at his words.

But he grabs your hands tightly and kisses your knuckles. “But I want us to have that child, when you want to have a child.” You are shocked.

He continues, storking your belly through your gown. “I want you to glow, beam of pride and joy and to stroke and caress your belly and to love our child. I want you to be ready for it.” He says.

You can’t believe this.

And so you won’t. “But what of your legacy? The Targargen line? Don't you want my baby?” You ask. You can’t imagine Aemond being fine with his line dying out. You just can’t.

He grins, and you can tell he is hiding something from you. He cares. He cares so badly, about having his legacy, about having this child with you. He is hiding his own darkest desires, his own insidious thoughts. ‘’I want you. I married you. I didn't marry your title. I didn't marry your bloodline. But you, Revaera.’’ You tear up, lips trembling as you wrap your arms around his neck, burying yourself in the safety of his arms. “It's alright, my love. Just let it out.” He whispers, holding you. ‘’We will find a way. I just know we will.’’ You nod, and you wonder just how much he believes his own lies.

/TRAILER CAME OUT

so uh

IM SCARED xD

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azsazz · 1 year ago

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Change Your Ticket (Part 2)

Rugby Star!Cassian x Reader (A Modern AU)

Summary: Dating famous rugby star Cassian Bailey is a dream. What's not one is keeping your secret relationship under wraps. Will you and Cassian be able to keep from the limelight or will your relationship crumble because of it?

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,514

[Part 1]

_________________________________________

“Come on Cass, come on Cass,” you mutter to yourself, stealing a chip from Feyre’s plate of nachos. It’s only the plain ones left, hidden under the mass of other chips doused with cheese sauce and meat, but you need something to gnaw on while you watch the Stars game intently.

You’ve already peeled the label off of your beer bottle and drained it, rolled a balled up wrapped from a straw until it was debris in your fingers, but the nervous tension as you watch the game is almost too much.

You hadn’t been able to make it this weekend, wanting to work on some freelance projects you’d lined up and wanted to get ahead on. Cassian had been disappointed when you spoke to him earlier in the week, but you knew you would be too distracted by him if you flew out there and wouldn’t get any work done.

Now, you’re equally distracted, in the full bar filled with loud Stars fans, cheering and chanting and screaming as the evening grows later and the clock timer winds down.

It had been a brutal game thus far, and the Adriata Sealions are one of the Velaris Stars’ biggest rivals. There had been an injury by one of the team’s top players, Azriel Teller, and the grim silence that had taken over the bar at the sight of it had been harrowing.

He’d managed to limp off of the field just fine, Cassian’s body tucked beneath his arm for support. Hopefully it was nothing more than a rolled ankle or a bruised bone and he would be back on the pitch for the next game, but the harsh scowl on his face as he’d been led into the locker room is not one you ever want to be on the other side of.

Rhysand Cunningham, the team’s captain, had done a well enough job of keeping the Stars players in line, forcing the team to channel their protective energy back into the game instead of chest bumping the players on the other team, trying to egg them into a fight.

“Hello?” Feyre draws out, waving a chip in front of your face. You jump in your seat, ripping your gaze from the TV hanging above the bar. You and your friends, Feyre and Mor, are settled at a high-top table against the back wall. The pub is crowded, stuffed full of fans with Stars jerseys and star-shaped crowns on their heads. You’re wearing a t-shirt with Cassian’s number painted across the back, and you catch sight of similar jerseys, blaring the number 15. It makes you bite your lip to hide your smile.

“What?” you ask, realizing they’ve been talking to you the entire time your eyes have been glued to the match. The Sealions are a tough team, having gone undefeated thus far in the season. If the Stars manage to beat them, this will be great news for both the team and the city. “What we’re we talking about?”

“I didn’t know you were so into rugby,” Mor snorts over the rim of her martini glass. No beer for her during these types of things, your friend is too high maintenance to drink the bitter ale you’re downing anxiously.

Cassian’s lack of a lucky charm being at the game with him tonight shows. He’s not aggressive as he normally is, seeming a little distracted. His teammates are getting frustrated, clapping him on the shoulder in what might be support to the crowds viewing, but you can see the tightness of his mouth, the difference in his posture as he settles into the scrum to fight for the ball.

You shrug, sheepishly, motioning to the waitress who passes by your table for another drink. “Sorry, I just got caught up.”

“Caught up in Cassian Bailey, more like,” Feyre teases and you blush like you’ve just spilled your secret to your best friends.

“As if you haven’t been in love with Rhysand Cunningham since he was named captain of the Stars,” you bite back playfully, tossing a half-eaten ship her way. She squeals, swatting it away from her, laughing with you.

It’s true. Feyre had had no interest in Rhysand Cunningham until he was positioned captain of the team. She hadn’t even been that big of a rugby fan at all, not until you all but forced her and Mor to start watching the games after your first date with Cassian. They’d been a little suspicious of why you suddenly became so interested in the Velaris Stars, but you marked it all up to trending photos from the team photoshoot they did with Vogue.

Feyre’s wearing a jersey opposite yours, a purple shirt with a white painted number four on the back with Rhysand’s last name across her shoulders. Your shirt is black with white print and stars on the shoulders.

“What? He’s so hot,” Feyre swoons, pressing the back of her wrist to her forehead as she falls back against the cushy booth seat. The three of you laugh, clinking your glasses together in a toast when the waitress arrives with a new glass of beer for you, removing the old one from your table with a soft smile.

“They’re all so hot,” Mor pouts like she’s suffering anytime she looks at the TV. She sat with her back to the game, so she didn’t have to watch, because watching sports makes her feel grimy, but even she is wearing a purple shirt with a glittery star on the center of the chest. It’s not official Stars merchandise, but you’ll take it nonetheless. “But I prefer my men in suits.”

“Like the owner of the team?” You giggle and Mor gags. She brushes her hair off of her shoulder with a flick, red lipstick sticking to the rim of her martini glass as she plucks the toothpick with the olive out of her glass, throws the liquid back, and stuffs the fruit between her parted lips.

The pub goes wild and you realize you’ve taken your gaze off of the match for too long and the Stars have scored. You bounce up and down in your seat as the replay comes on, showing one of the team’s players tossing the ball backwards to Cassian, who slips through two of the competitors’ bodies for the try. The action puts them in the lead with only five and a half minutes to spare.

“Hell yes, Cassian!” You cheer, high-fiving the older gentleman next to you whose cheeks don two painted violet stars. Even the locals go wild in support of the team while they’re playing in another city; flags wave outside of pubs and homes, jerseys of all kinds as far as the eye can see, even the stadium parking lot is filled with tailgaters and parties, barbeque and brews. “That’s my boy!”

“Your boy?” Mor scrunches her nose and you fight to keep the redness you can feel crawling up your neckline to your cheeks. She sighs, continuing, “Why can’t either of you like actors or something. I feel like we have nothing in common anymore.”

Feyre shakes her head, “Five years of forcing us to watch The Holiday House and we still don’t think Helion Spellcleaver is cuter than Kallias Storm. I can’t believe you still won’t give this up, Mor. It’s almost insane!”

The Stars miss the following conversion and it’s the Sealions turn to attempt to score. There are only a handful of minutes left, and it’s looking pretty good as the timer inches lower and lower to zero. The match cuts to a commercial when the ball gets stuck in a ruck and the teams have to reset.

You’re about to reenter the conversation, but the ad that come on the tv as the announcers cut away is one you know all too well, and have teased Cassian about since you’d first seen it. He stands in his uniform, bottle of beer in his hands. There’s a lime tucked into the neck of the bottle and the volume is too low for you to hear over the sounds of the patrons in the bar, but you know the commercial by heart.

He's saying how he feels like he’s on a beach when he drinks the beer, and as he takes a sip, he appears on a beach right as an opposing player was about to tackle him. He looks around in surprise and his shirt is ripped off by a phantom wind. A dollop of sunscreen falls from the sky and a nearly naked woman walks by, handing him a pair of sunglasses.

You can’t help yourself, pulling your phone from your back pocket to snap a pic of the screen. You then take another one of yourself with your beer and open both in a text and send it to Cassian along with the message: Not fair, why isn’t mine doing that?!

Sending it off whilst biting back a grin, you raise your glass with the rest of the patrons at the bar as the ad comes to a close. Then, with Cassian, everyone in the bar shouts the slogan together. “Drink until the stars go to bed!”

“They’re on two completely different levels,” Mor is arguing when you tune back into the conversation, a cheesy smile on your face. She’s tapping a red painted nail on the tabletop. “Sure, Kallias Storm is hot in a blatant kind of way, but Helion is like a God, or something! Have you seen—”

“Yes, of course we’ve seen it,” you press, cutting her off with a roll of your eyes. Mor has forced you to watch every single one of Helion Spellcleaver’s movies. Sometimes more than once. In fact, there hasn’t been a movie night you remember when he wasn’t in any of the movies she’d picked to watch. “And yes, we think he’s hot, I just personally feel like Cassian Bailey is hotter.”

You can’t wait until he’s back in town next week. You miss him deeply, even though you had the chance to go and see him for his match tonight. Sometimes, the long distance can be hard, when your days are filled with work and his with practice, matches, and press. There are days you aren’t able to speak, texts gone unanswered until the late hours of the night.

It’s then that makes it all worth it, hearing Cassian’s voice before you go to sleep. Without fail, he calls you every night when he’s away, all settled into the hotel and sleep paints his voice groggy. It comforts you more than he knows, hearing his voice. Even if he somehow manages to fall asleep during one of your many unimportant stories about mundane things, the even breaths heard through the phone are a lullaby themselves.

“I still think the hottest man is Rhysand Cunningham, if anyone is keeping score,” Feyre adds with a slight smile.

“Oh, whatever. We can have this conversation for hours,” Mor waves her hand dismissively, then uses it to shoo away the man who’d been walking past your table who had stopped to ogle her. Or maybe he’s trying to work up the courage to talk to the woman, but the look of concentration—or perhaps it’s constipation—on his face. “Go on now, I’m way out of your league buddy, and not at all interested.” Your jaw almost falls to the floor at her abruptness, but the man nods and quickly disappears. Mor turns back to you and Feyre. “Is this game almost over by the way? I’m getting a headache from all of the beer and screaming.”

“You haven’t even had any beer, Mor,” you point out and she cuts you a look.

“I know that, I just hate the smell. How can you both drink that piss?”

You and Feyre share a glance, as if deciding who is going to take this question that she certainly doesn’t want the answer to. Your shoulders fall, and Feyre’s blue eyes brighten. You’ll answer, then.

“I was hoping it’d transport me to a tropical vacation,” you responding longingly, staring into the glass of ale. “Maybe if I drink it until the stars go to bed, it’ll work then?”

Mor shoves out of her seat with a tut. “You’re incorrigible, (Y/N).”

You raise your glass, smirking at your friend. “I aim to please.”

Mor stalks off to find the bathroom while you and Feyre giggle, turning your attention back to the TV. The game is back on and there’s only a minute left now, but the Sealions still hold the ball. Their team is smart and their wall of players is strong. It barely looks like the Stars are affecting them, with the skill in which they pass the ball back to their next in line as they race towards the Stars’ goal line.

“Oh fuck,” Feyre mutters, watching as intently as you.

You’re chewing at your lip, staring at the screen. Most of the conversations happening in the bar have gone quiet, every patron on the edge of their seat as they watch what will be the final play of the game.

You catch sight of Cassian who is trying to steamroll his way to the ball, but the Sealions are all in unison with their plan, and the player tosses the ball to the next, who barges past Rhysand and across the goal line.

“Shit,” you agree, slamming back the last swigs of your drink.

If the Sealions get a conversion, they’ll win the match.

The player who is going to kick the conversion sets up the ball, eyeing the goal. Once it’s perfect, he stands, taking a few steps back, gauging the distance. His fellow teammates watch on, while the Stars ready themselves by the posts, eager for him to miss.

The Sealion’s player charges and kicks the ball with a wicked arc that sadly, soars right through the goal posts.

The entire bar rattles with disappointment, curses and shouts filling the room, along with a simultaneous screech of chairs being shoved away from tables as people rise to pay their tabs and leave. Your heart sinks in disappointment, knowing how upset Cassian will be with this outcome, and even more so when he returns to his empty hotel room.

The camera cuts in close on the Stars players, heads hung and consoling each other as they make their way to congratulate the Sealions. Cassian and Rhysand have their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, talking with their head bowed. You’re positive Azriel Teller is kicking himself for being injured and taken out of the game, too.

“Why the long faces?” Mor asks, plopping her purse on the table before sliding back into her seat. She’s clearly ignored the grumbling and now grumpy Stars’ fans that are starting to close their tabs and wallow on the way back to their homes. A few of the regulars seem to be straying to drown their sorrows in a few more glasses of beer. “Did Helion Spellcleaver walk in here and I missed him?”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Change Your Ticket Taglist: @justasillylittlegoofyguy @starsinyourseyes @jdeclerc @indiedash

#cassian #cassian x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #cassian au #rugby!cassian au #rugby!cassian #acotar au #change your ticket

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usafphantom2 · 1 year ago

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Royal Air Force Tactics During the Battle of Britain | Classic Warbirds

During the years preceding the Second World War (1939 - 1945), the prevalent idea that affected military thinking was, as Stanley Baldwin, leader of the Conservatives, stated in a speech in the House of Commons on the 10th November 1932 that “the bomber will always get through”, as it was envisioned that in a future war the enemy would deliver a knockout blow from the air. Limiting the damage enemy aircraft could do would be the responsibility of the Air Defence of Great Britain, which was established on the 1st January 1925, and was the component of the Royal Air Force tasked with defending the UK's airspace.

As the RAF expanded during the 1930s, on the 13th July 1936 the Air Defence of Great Britain was disbanded and replaced on the 14th July 1936 by three new commands, Bomber, Coastal and Fighter alongside Training Command, formed on the 1st May 1936. Fighter Command, with Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding as its Commander-in-Chief, was now responsible for the defence of the UK's airspace.

The tactics developed by Fighter Command, as part of its Air Fighting Manual, called for tight formations of three aircraft in a Vic formation to perform Fighter Area Attacks, of which there were six different scenarios to attack enemy aircraft, depending on the amount and type of aircraft intercepted. Once they spotted the hostile aircraft the squadron would position themselves according to the Fighter Area Attack chosen. However, this was based on the premise that attacking bombers would fly from airfields in Germany without effective fighter cover, which wouldn't be the case in the summer of 1940, as the Luftwaffe could operate from airfields in France.

Fighter Command Structure

When the battle began on the 10th July 1940, Fighter Command, whose headquarters were at Bentley Priory, was still commanded by Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding and was structured as follows:

No. 10 Group

Commanded by Air Vice-Marshal Sir C J Quintin Brand

Headquarters: RAF Box

Covering: South West England and South West Wales No. 11 Group

Commanded by Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park

Headquarters: RAF Uxbridge

Covering: South East England and London

No. 12 Group

Commanded by Air Vice-Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory

Headquarters: RAF Watnall

Covering: East Anglia, Midlands, Mid and North Wales No. 13 Group

Commanded by Air Vice-Marshal Richard Saul

Headquarters: RAF Newcastle

Covering: North England and Scotland

No. 14 Group

Commanded by Group Captain Philip F. Fullard (1)

Headquarters: Drumossie Hotel, Inverness

Covering: Scotland No. 9 Group (2)

Commanded by Air Vice-Marshal Wilfred McClaughry

Headquarters: RAF Barton Hall

Covering: Northern Ireland and North West England

1. Replaced by Air Vice-Marshal Malcolm Henderson on the 20th July 1940.

2. Formed on the 16th September 1940.

Aircraft Strength - 10th July 1940

Fighter Command had 656 fighters available, consisting of 29 Hawker Hurricane, 19 Supermarine Spitfire, 6 Bristol Blenheim and 2 Boulton Paul Defiant squadrons. It could also call on Nos. 804 and 808 Naval Air Squadrons, the former equipped with Gloster Sea Gladiators and the latter Fairey Fulmars, who were on loan from the Fleet Air Arm.

View the order of battle for Fighter Command on the 10th July 1940

The Luftwaffe could call on over 2,000 aircraft to begin their campaign to gain air supremacy over Southern England, one of the requirements for Operation Sealion the invasion of Britain to take place. Mainly comprising Messerschmitt Bf 109 and Bf 110 fighters, Heinkel He 111, Dornier Do 17 and Junkers Ju 88 twin-engined bombers and Junkers Ju 87 dive bombers.

Squadron Structure, Vic and Finger-Four Formation

During the battle, a typical Royal Air Force fighter squadron was to have twelve aircraft and pilots available for operations. The ideal number for the squadron was at least sixteen aircraft to cover those being serviced or out of action. To cover pilots who were on leave or unable to fly it was intended for the squadron to have at least 20 pilots to call upon, although at times some squadrons were unable to meet this number.

The squadron would be split into four sections (red, yellow, blue and green) with three pilots (one, two and three), with two sections making up one flight of aircraft. Each section, flying in Vic formation, was led by a section leader with two wingmen, with red and yellow normally making up 'A' flight and blue and green normally making up 'B' flight, with a colour and number identifying each aircraft. For example, as shown in the squadron structure diagram below, the red section leader would be known as red one.

Structure of a typical RAF squadron during the Battle of Britain

When the battle began, the Luftwaffe were able to operate from airfields in France, enabling their fighters to escort the bombers to Britain. So when the RAF and Luftwaffe met in the skies above Britain and the English Channel, the ineffectiveness of the Fighter Area Attack tactics and Vic formation was soon exposed. As with the required tight formation, only the lead aircraft of every Vic was able to search for enemy aircraft, as the other two aircraft in the Vic had to focus on keeping formation, so an attacking aircraft could catch the formation by surprise, particularly from the rear. Although the tactic was later modified so that the fourth section would fly 1,000ft above and behind the other three sections, whilst weaving, to help minimise the chances of an attack from the rear, casualty rates among these aircraft were high.

Typical RAF squadron formation during flight in the Battle of Britain

Despite complaints about the Vic formation, no official change was forthcoming, so some squadrons adapted a tactic being used by the Luftwaffe called Schwarm, which was a more flexible tactic. This had been developed after the combat experience of the Luftwaffe's Condor Legion in the Spanish Civil War (1936 – 1939) and would be called Finger-four by the RAF. This involved four aircraft flying in formation, but operating in pairs. This allowed the attacking aircraft to be covered by his wingman with the overall formation spaced at about 200 meters apart and flying at various altitudes. This meant the pilots could focus on looking for enemy aircraft and also protect each other, and if the formation was attacked the two pairs would split up, one going left the other to the right. The Finger-four tactic also meant that the squadron formation changed as it would now be divided into three sections of four as opposed to the Vic formation's four sections of three.

In the aftermath of the battle, Fighter Command modified its tactics in 1941, before, in 1942 the Finger-four formation was officially added to pilot training.

Finger-four squadron formation

Engaging the Luftwaffe

When an incoming raid had been plotted by Britain's Air Defence System, also known as the 'Dowding System' (see diagram below), squadrons would be scrambled by controllers as and when needed, as opposed to a large formation, allowing an enemy raid to be under constant harassment by the Royal Air Force which also had the effect of breaking up the Luftwaffe formations, however, fighter sweeps by the Luftwaffe were not a priority for Fighter Command.

Dowding System

The opening stages of the battle, during July and early August 1940, saw the Luftwaffe probe the Royal Air Force's defences by attacking shipping in the English Channel and targets along the coast. However, mid-August saw the Luftwaffe change tactics and launch Operation Eagle Attack on the 13th August 1940, known as Eagle Day, this saw the Luftwaffe try to lure the RAF into battle in the air by targeting Fighter Command's infrastructure.

Many tactical instructions were issued during the battle, and this new phase saw the first major tactical changes by Fighter Command when, on the 19th August 1940, Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park, Air Officer Commanding, No. 11 Group, Fighter Command, issued a number of instructions. Among these was for RAF fighters to operate only over land or gliding distance to the coast.

Despatch fighters to engage large enemy formations over land or within gliding distance of the coast. During the next two or three weeks, we cannot afford to lose pilots through forced landings in the sea.

And prioritising German bombers as targets.

Against mass attacks coming inland, despatch a minium number of squadrons to engage enemy fighters. Our main object is to engage enemy bombers.

Seven days later on the 26th August 1940, Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park issued further instructions to help with the interception of German formations, as not all squadrons sent to intercept were doing so. This would require details on the intercepted raid to be detailed over the radio to help controllers vector more squadrons to the correct area.

To enable Group and Sector Controllers to put all squadrons in contact with the enemy formation leaders are to report approximate strength of enemy bombers and fighters, their height, course and approximate position immediately on sighting the enemy.

One of the final major instructions issued by Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park was on the 11th September 1940 that when contact was made with the Luftwaffe formation, the Spitfires should tackle the fighter screen, whilst the Hurricanes concentrated on the bombers and close escort. However, as radar couldn't differentiate between the aircraft in a raid it wasn't always possible for this to happen.

READINESS SQUADRONS: Despatch in pairs to engage first wave of enemy, Spitfires against fighter screen, and Hurricanes against bombers and close escort.

By the time this instruction was issued, the Luftwaffe had again changed tactics and were targeting London and other cities across the UK, in what was to become known as the Blitz.

The Big Wing

The use of multiple squadrons for one large formation wasn't a completely new tactic for Fighter Command, as they had been used during Operation Dynamo (26th May 1940 - 4th June 1940) the evacuation from Dunkirk, France. The issue with these larger formations was if vectored to the wrong position, missing the enemy formation, there may not be any reserve squadrons available to intercept the raid instead. As the battle progressed the idea of large formations of multiple fighter squadrons intercepting enemy raids resurfaced, championed by Air Officer Commanding, No. 12 Group, Fighter Command, Air Vice-Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory and Acting Squadron Leader of No. 242 Squadron, Douglas Bader

The idea of the Big Wing was to get three to five squadrons (36 – 60 aircraft) to form together and engage enemy aircraft in numbers. Known as the Duxford Wing, it was used for the first time on the 7th September 1940 and was led by Acting Squadron Leader Bader. Comprised of Nos. 242 and 310 Squadrons, flying Hurricanes from RAF Duxford, and No. 19 Squadron, operating from Duxford's satellite airfield RAF Fowlmere, flying Spitfires, they formed together to protect RAF North Weald whilst its squadrons were in combat. They arrived to late to stop the airfield from being attacked but did engage the Luftwaffe and for the loss of one aircraft, claimed eleven German aircraft. This would be a familiar story, as due to the amount of time it took to get the aircraft into formation, it normally wasn't until after the target had been attacked that the Big Wing would make contact with the attacking aircraft.

One of the successes of the Big Wing was its psychological effect on Luftwaffe aircrews, who were told the Royal Air Force was close to being defeated, to then come up against a formation of up to 60 fighter aircraft.

Big Wing formation

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lindsaystravelblogs2 · 2 years ago

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Days 9&10 - 12-13 March

Day 9 - Sunday, 12 March Tucker Island

We were togged up ready for our zodiac cruise before 8.30 this morning. It was a beautiful calm day despite some swell, cool and cloudy but with no rain until we were almost back on board. We went out to some rocks where we saw lots of seals and a few sealions, as well as quite a few birds. There was a lot of kelp and our zodiac became entangled in it a few times, once enabling me to get some photos of a few very small birds standing on and pecking around the surface of the kelp. They were tiny and still a fair way away, but some of my photos were (surprisingly) good enough to identify the birds as the little Baird’s Sandpipers. We saw quite a few other birds and I got a little excited when our zodiac driver identified four species that I had never heard of. In due course, I found that I had seen all of them many times before under their English names, rather than their French colloquials. We did see a couple of big raptors that got me excited thinking they may have been condors (at least four have been seen by others so far this trip – update that to nine a couple of days later). Alas, closer inspection showed them to be Turkey Vultures that I have seen on a few occasions before.

It was a really enjoyable cruise and we ended up in a little bay on the main Island where there were quite a few Magellanic Penguins. I saw very few of them on our last trip so it was a buzz to see a lot more on this trip. There were also quite a lot of Imperial and Magellanic Cormorants, some spectacular Kelp Geese, as well as gulls and a few unspecified Cinclodes. It was a great two hours (it was supposed to be only ninety minutes), rich in wildlife, surrounded by spectacular rocks, snow-capped mountains and green hills.

We had a lecture in the afternoon about Chile, the Land of Fire – but I left partway through because I had no idea what she was talking about. Her heavy accent and her extensive use of her red laser pointer to illustrate whatever she was saying had me absolutely bamboozled by the time she was ten minutes into her presentation so I decided that I could use my time more profitably back in the cabin. I am sure it would have been interesting but I just couldn’t follow a single sentence of what she was saying.

There was a charcuterie tasting after that and we participated in that with relish. It was accompanied by an excellent wine and we took an extra glass of that back to our cabin to enjoy before dinner. There is a themed afternoon tea each day, mainly sweet pastries, but they had some nice savoury croissants for a change so a couple of them also found their way back to our cabin.

Day 10 - Monday, 13 March Estero de Las Montaras

This location is a very long, very narrow fiord that left us in something of a quandary. The Expedition Team knew of three possible landing places, only two of which had been explored before. One of the other Ponant captains had recommended a site at the extreme north of the fiord but nobody on our ship had visited that before. They spent some time in the morning scouting, before settling on the middle site at a glacier for which I can’t recall the name at present – it’s a B-word, I think. I don’t think we were even told its name on the day, but it has been referred to by name (as if we were expected to know it) a couple of times since.

There was a lecture about Whales in the morning and the landing was during the afternoon. It was quite a long walk in to the glacier, but very pleasant, despite consistent light rain. It was a bit rocky and steep in places but really not too bad with lush vegetation on one side and the shallow fiord and terminal lake on the other. A lot of the vegetation was bedecked with red and purple fuchsias. They are prolific in this area (and on subsequent days) so I suspect they are local endemics that have been transplanted across the world. They certainly make the shrubbery pretty.

There was a real bottleneck near the face of the glacier with everyone wanting photos of themselves touching the ice. The Guides seemed to be actively discouraging this to get through the queue more quickly. When our turn finally came, Heather took a photo of me touching it but we wanted one of us together, so I asked a woman sitting nearby if she would take a shot of us on my camera. She refused but said she would take the photo on her camera and we could get it from her back on the ship. I later learned that she was the official photographer and all the photos she took (and all the photos we plebs were discouraged from taking) would cost us more than $AU20 a pop if we wanted them when we returned to the ship. What a rip-off, aided and abetted by Ponant staff. We returned to the zodiacs along the same track – that was not really a track, just a narrow bit of stony beach that wound its way through to the glacier. The tide had come in a little while we were walking in and back so we often had to walk in the water on the way back.

There is a Daily Briefing and Recap before dinner each night. The Briefing outlines the plans for the next day, but the Recap is not a Recap at all. It sometimes references some of the things we saw, but it is usually just three or four 5-minute segments by the Guides on a range of subjects – seals, a species of bird, geology, local history and so on – usually quite short but pithy and interesting if you can understand the French accents. Some are very hard to decipher and I just give up!

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djhenryhall · 2 years ago

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Best Check Out Dive

Without a question, this has been the best check-out #dive I ever experienced. We were #diving off the #Galapagos Master #Liveaboard based out of San Cristobal Island. #scuba #wildlife #sealions #islands #TwitterNatureCommunity #nature #video

https://vimeo.com/394832364 Check out dive Normally dive operator take scuba divers to boring dive sites for a check dive. This was not the case in the Galapagos. The captain took us to a shallow bay filled with juvenile Sea Lions. I couldn’t ask for more – I love Sea Lions!

vimeo

View On WordPress

#ecotourism #Galapagos #marine life #Nature #oceans #Scuba Diving #Scuba Diving Ecuador #Scuba Diving Galapagos #sea life #Sea Lions #Underwater Video #wildlife #Vimeo

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quamorphor · 3 years ago

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ID: The screenshot of a picture the user generated with the AI at neuralblender.com.The picture the user requested is "The cover art of the Mastodon album "Leviathan", as painted by Pablo Picasso."

The actual album is a concept album loosely based on the novel “Moby Dick”. The Neuralblender version shows a rather deformed greyish whale. This Moby Dick" is not followed by Captain Ahab’s ship but by something that looks rather like a giant brownish sealion (?).

ID: For comparison the original's album art. A white whale followed by a ship. The fictional Picasso version was more blue- and green heavy, the original album art is more red-heavy.

#neuralblender #mastodon (band)#pablo picasso

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respectanimalrights · 3 years ago

Photo

Credit © 📽 ✅ @loriannah #Repost ///@loriannah: ✒ Does this make you want to take a 💤 nap? I absolutely love photographing Sea Lions. Seen while stopped at the navigational buoy outside the @oceansideharborvillage while whale watching with Captain Shane on the @oceansidewhales whale watching boat this afternoon. #sealions #sealionsofinstagram #sealion #sealovers #piniped #animals #explore_wildlife #excellent_nature #ocean.explorac #live_love_wildlife #wildlifephotography #discoverocean #exclusive_wildlife #oceanpreservationsociety #allthingsorangecounty #ocean_magazine #wildlifeaddicts #marinewildlifetourism #nature.cuties #explore_wildlife #kings_animal_love #splendid_animals #wildplanetphotomag #natgeo #wildlifefriend #ocean_lovers (at Oceanside, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/CU3Cc6YATWD/?utm_medium=tumblr

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snini-9 · 4 years ago

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Superpod 2020 (Sept. 19, 2020)

So, I follow Spirit of Orca’s Whale Watching Blog and they encountered a superpod yesterday. I’d enjoy some help with IDing some of the whales present (I can ID some of them, but not others). Anyone can add onto this post with IDs as they feel fit.

“What a wonderful day with SuperPod 2020 & baby calf. The second time in a month we have had a Super-Pod and the last one prior to this was in 2016. I got to see the new baby today. We actually saw two babies. The one that is pink in the eye patch and other white parts is the brand new baby of J35 Tahlequah. Captain Sarah McCullagh first spotted the baby calf a week or two ago. Tahlequah is the mom who birthed a baby girl two years ago and it died after a half hour. Tahlequah then went on to carry her baby girl on her head for 17 days before finally letting go. So happy this turned out to be a happy outcome with this calf. The other calf belongs to J31 Tsuchi and her calf born last year is J56 Tofino. It is still small and is among the first calf pics in my blog but it is not as pink as the smaller one. It got the name Tofino because that is where it was first spotted, off Tofino BC. We also saw a whole slew of other whales including the following but so many more I did not identify. L103 Lapis and calf L123 Lazuli, L72 Racer, L83 Moonlight, J35 Tahlequa, and her calf J57, J31 Tsuchi and her calf J56 Tofino, J26 Mike, J27 Blackberry, J19 Shachi, J22 Oreo and son J38 Cookie, and K34 Cali. There was lots of foraging for salmon going on and it was nice to see them catching fish. The seagulls were hovering over them after a catch to get any tidbits left behind. There are a few pics of other marine life including Great Blue Heron, Bald Eagles, Steller Sea Lions, and Harbor Seals. I also snapped a shot of our USCG as they flew over in a helicopter. It was both sad and aggravating to see NOAA out there yet again harassing the whales, motoring up over their backs and stabbing them with a 20-foot pike pole to attach a tag on them. I have seen this crew riding the whales wake making them mad where they are slapping their tail flukes showing their displeasure at having a boat over the top of them. NOAA scientists are the only ones who practice this invasive type of study. At least they are no longer using a crossbow with two four-inch bolts shooting it into the whales. The man in the bow of the boat did just that four years ago now, killing one of our endangered species residents, L95 Nigel, a 20-year-old adult male. NOAA has been charged with the responsibility to assist in the recovery of the Southern Resident Killer Whales, and several species of salmon that are also endangered. They receive millions of dollars each year and they squander it on study after study after study fortifying their careers instead of actually doing something like say put more salmon in the sea so the Southern Resident Killer Whales can survive. They oppose the breaching of the four snake river dams which would also bring back more salmon for their winter food supply but that would mean a loss of millions in the coffers of NOAA and Bonneville Power Administration in maintaining those dams. I have always applauded NOAA’s meteorologists, they do an awesome job at predicting the marine weather and keeping mariners safe on the oceans and even here in the Salish Sea. Even in my early years as a captain, we used to get a weather fax and you would know how good the forecast was by the signature of the man or woman who signed it. You got to know who you could count on for an accurate forecast. It is a shame these folks are linked to the NOAA fisheries folks who are utterly failing decade after decade with zilch for results in bringing back our endangered species squandering millions of taxpayer dollars every year.” J31 Tsuchi?

J56 Tofino and J31 Tsuchi

L91 Muncher?

Not sure

J27 Blackberry

J38 Cookie

J35 Tahlequah and J57

J42 Echo?

L72 Racer

J26 Mike?

NOAA being dicks tagging whales

United States Coast Guard

Harbor Seal

Bald Eagle

Steller Sealions

Great Blue Heron

K34 Cali?

Photo Credit to Spirit of Orca Whale Watching

#K34 Cali #J57 #J31 Tsuchi #K34 #J31 #J35 Tahlequah #J35 #J27 Blackberry #L91 Muncher #J27 #L91 #J38 Cookie #J38 #J26 Mike #J26 #L72 #L72 Racer #J42 Echo #J42 #I need some ID help

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toon-town2012 · 14 days ago

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The Ringmaster/Mari and The two loveable Characters Shall wish you ladies and gentlemen…~

A MERRY CHRISTMAS!!~

Olympia oyster belongs to: @speadrunner

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talesfromicarium · 4 years ago

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Gold (Part I)

Lugrik is not an advocate of violence. In fact, he quite abhors it. That distaste of blood and glory marks him out amongst the Isles, where brawling for sport is a favourite pastime, but he is not an Islander. No, no amount of tasteless ale and frozen digits will reduce him to a rabid barbarian. True, he has spent more winters than he'd like battling sea waves and ingratiating himself with drunk sailors, but—Xathanael be his witness—he remains a Commonwealther at heart. He does not claim to always understand the Grand Architect’s Plans, but it is by His design that there be a place and a role for each and every man, and Lugrik will be damned if he does not take and fulfil his.

Not that many know of his roots, fortunately, and Lugrik has gone to great lengths to ensure it stays that way. None may know his secret—or secrets, as it were—and so far, none has questioned his unerring way of knowing, of making things happen just at the right time… And that is well to him. Throughout these long cold years he has procured success, earning the Clan's trust despite being an outsider and working his way through the ranks, eventually taking up position as boatswain, then helmsman, and finally first mate. He was but a few days away from becoming Captain, had all gone according to plan, until the fool man got himself executed at the hands of some sea wench.

They lost more men in the battle, of course. Some threw themselves at the creature following the Captain's death, screaming all known names for Him, Her and the glory of the Clan. Like moths to a flame. Lugrik, however, is a firm believer that there are always better solutions to his problems than beating them with a glorified stick. As he himself oft said to Bolg, "trust not in the sword, but in the hand that wields it.” And on the Sealion, as it had been, his is the hand that wields the blade.

So when his new leaderess orders for treasures to be thrown overboard, he does not lament the loss of coins that could've bought him land, women, even a small title. He hears the outcries, sees the clenched fists, smells the simmering rage sour against the sweet sea air… and Lugrik scents opportunity.

Zoltan watches as another chest sinks into the water. Another 500 gold pieces, gone, drowned, claimed by Her Wrath. Except She is calm today, and very generous. They'd caught a full week's worth of critters this morning alone. Of course, it has been easier gathering foodstuff for the kitchen since the new captain and her kin took over. Tritons, they call themselves, and they appear to have a way with the ocean beasts.

He likes the Sealion's new captain. Saf, they've taken to calling her. Sapphire, after the sea-blue of her skin. She's only been at its helm for little over a fortnight, but they have already seen more Commonwealth ships sunk than the last raiding year under Bolg. Gold has been flowing, and freely. For all her skill and enthusiasm in combat, the captain does not seem to care much for the bounty she's a right to. Save the odd jewelled blade or a brightly adorned garment the merchant ships sometimes carry, she keeps none of the spoils for herself. Victory secured and battlelust over, Captain Saf often leaves the aftermath to her crew. Zoltan, along with his crewmates, has quite enjoyed his captain's disinterest in gold, until now.

"That's the second coffer she's tossed to the seabeasts, Zoltan! A whole thousand gold, brother!”

"Appears our Captain does not share our love for coin, Bari.”

"So I can see. So we can all see.”

Zoltan grunts in response, stifling a weary sigh that he suspects would provoke more trouble than is worth. He'd taken more than a handful, naturally, before their fate was sealed. Most of the crew had. Still, Bari seethes beside him, glaring at the spot where their gold was but a moment ago, as though his resentment could persuade the glinting waves from taunting him with their mirth.

Shaking his head, the dwarf turns, resting his strong back against the oaken rails, giving his companion room to scowl in peace. Along the length of the ship his crewmates mourn, some glowering with almost as much force as Bari is, some lounging despondently on deck, faces turned towards the setting sun and away from the offending sight. Others try still to reason with the Captain, to no avail. Her verdict is unyielding—the gold was weighing the Sealion down.

“Last one, men! Come, and we shall sail the seas fast as marlins!” Curses fly the deck with renewed vigour. Three miserable lads shuffle once more towards the third and final chest, enduring spits and bitter jests along the way. Zoltan looks towards the prow, where the true target of the crew’s wrath stands, beaming, navy hair rippling in the twilight breeze, blue against the lilac skies. Behind her, leaning against the stempost and trident embedded at her feet, stands the true reason for the crew’s inaction. Visraza, the Captain’s supposed First Mate.

Unwilling to risk her attention, Zoltan glances away—and meets the eyes of Lugrik, the Sealion’s unmade leader. He holds the human’s gaze. He’s never liked the man, and not just because of his height, or his dry, sometimes morbid sense of humour. No, something about the gaunt islander unnerves him, in the way a too-warm day in the midst of winter might unnerve a sailor. It is true that he owed much of his fortune under Bolg to the taller clansman, and the crew had enjoyed an unusually long summer for which Lugrik had taken credit, yet while his honeyed words might have had their former captain and the rest fooled, Zoltan knows better. There is something not quite right with their current helmsman.

Lugrik winks, and Zoltan feels a shiver travel down his spine. He wraps the sealskin tunic tighter around himself. Suddenly anxious to savour the withering dusk, he watches as the last rays of daylight retire beyond the horizon, the autumn air shifting with the darkening sky, yielding graciously, but prematurely, to the first gusts of winter.

#fantasy #writing #story #icarium #original work #visraza #saf #dnd #pirate #tales from the surface #surface

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