#castle dour

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Hadvar: If you sneeze and I say "Divines bless you," the only thing you should say is THANK YOU!

Hadvar: I don't need to hear all of this "how did you get into my quarters? Why is my window broken? I'm calling the guard" stuff.

General Tullius: FOR THE LAST TIME, HADVAR, IT'S THREE IN THE DAMN MORNING! GET THE HELL OUT!

[my-screenshot-dump]

[themegachessatron]

A Review of my time in Skyrim's Prisons (Featuring some followers): Castle Dour Dungeons

The dead speak! This is part six of my ongoing series reviewing the prison facilities in each of Skyrim's major cities. I'm sorry this one took longer than the others, I just came back from a place with very poor internet and could not post for a while.

In this chapter we examine the capital of Skyrim, Solitude. Expectations for the Castle Dour Dungeons are high given its location in the imperial and indeed national capital. I'm anxious to see if it lives up to such lofty expectations or falls short and gives the Stormcloaks another reason to hate Tullius' guts.

Upon entering my cell I was presented with a notably scarce décor. There is a table provided with seating for two and a single sleeping space (are they expecting us to have friends over for lunch?). Also supplied was an adequate lighting source, an additional chair off to the other side of the cell (for all one's third wheeling needs), a waste disposal bucket, multiple sacs into which things can be placed and a pile of hay which is presumably to act as sustenance in the event a steed ends up in here for horsing around the city. I had noticed that the southern-left wall appeared to have some faulty bricking installed which I have to consider a shortcoming of the maintenance of this facility. I was about to investigate further when I encountered an issue.

He keeps doing this. It's become a recurring issue. I am here to experience this prison fully from the perspective of a prisoner and yet Inigo insists on quickly releasing me at every turn. I had asked him this time why he paid my leave and how he had acquired the funding to do so, but he responded by saying that he hadn't paid any bail at all and refused to elaborate further. I'm scared. This Khajiit clearly knows something I don't which worries me deeply.

I at this point decided "to the Far Shores with it" and did the review at whatever way I so chose. Inigo made it clear that integrity was for the feeble anyway. I examined the central room outside my cell and was greeted with a truly breath-taking sight. Apart from some choice walling which I will elaborate on later, this building is simply magnificent in terms of architecture and structure. It's a sight to behold with expertly laid out cells and a torture chamber, a feature not seen in any other prisons so far. Though the presence of a torture chamber is likely motivated by the civil war, it can also function as an effective deterrent from any hopeful escape artists trying to free themselves or reach the belongings chest to retrieve their potions of vigorous well-being or the like. The layout and structural design of this facility puts every one previously reviewed to shame, with one exception.

This wall is frankly pathetic. It obviously stuck out from the moment I arrived and exposing it to so much as a minor gust fully collapsed a person-sized chunk of the wall leading to a potential escape route. Now, I'm hardly a qualified construction worker but this does not seem well put together at all and creates a myriad of issues, least of all giving prisoners an escape route. Falling bricks may not only put the safety of prisoners at risk but unattended bricks may be used as weaponry to attack innocents. This is simply shoddy and nothing else. I had expected better.

Following the resulting path led to a greater issue. This path goes directly to the prisoner belonging chest and leaves said chest fully exposed. Now admittedly the chest, like all belongings chests, is protected by a very strong lock but the point still stands that easy access is granted to prisoners who are afforded the luxury of retrieving their aforementioned potions of vigorous well-being to keep themselves in shape during the escape should an altercation break out. This opening, much like the faulty walling that created this escape route, is also the result of shoddy build quality and upkeep in Castle Dour. It may look impressive but it very evidently folds like a deck of cards.

Beyond this lay a very short trip to the exit out into the city through a sewer drain. This exit combines the worst elements of Dragonsreach Dungeon and Riften Jail to form an utterly uninspired and uninteresting route to escape that leaves little to make the escape feel special for the fleeing criminal. Still, I suppose beggars cannot be choosers when you are escaping prison.

Emerging from the drain onto the city streets reunited me with my team who, with the exception of the ever-unpredictable Inigo had decided not to partake in the bulk of this review. They had been fortunately spared from the events that led to my Solitude arrest which may or may not have involved getting up onto a stage in the middle of a public execution and singing a song about Goblins (A song which Jordan found particularly entertaining). What I had failed to account for during my following of the escape trail was the Imperial guard finding the wall hole during my escape and following it to chase me down under a new separate charge of destroying Imperial property. This was unexpected, but not unwelcome as it showed diligence in the Imperial guards which I hadn't expected from soldiers not out in the front lines of the war.

In closing, Castle Dour Dungeons were not quite what I had hoped they would be. I had expected a gold standard of quality and while they do excel in guardsman training, interior design and torture, they fall flat in furnishings of cells and structural integrity, two areas I had expected the very wealthy capital city to excel in.

Final score: Seven Potions of Vigorous Well-Being out of Ten Potions of Vigorous Well-Being

Thank you for reading this review. Next time we examine the opposing side of the civil war and see what Ulfric does with people who feel like being just a bit too kind to the Argonian dock workers.

PS: Don't expect another long gap between reviews. That was a one-off and regular service should resume.

[aliveafterdark]

No dungeon can keep me..

(Escape from Castle Dour prison)

[helgiafterdark]

imagine the guy who went crazy that you all just killed and left on the steps gets back up and you gotta kill him again

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ footprint in the snow ˎˊ˗ cregan stark

cregan stark x fem!lady!reader words: 12.1k synopsis: "The stones of Winterfell have always been blissfully cold against your palms, and Cregan’s presence has always naturally attended you." notes: hi!! this is my first cregan fic [so pls be gentle] but im excited to write for him more... still trying to work out his character but. ily @useralba and @dipperscavern ... febu frong anyways <3 i didnt edit this sorry but hope u all enjoy <3 warnings: canon-divergent au; dance does not/has not happened. north-centric AS IT SHOULD BE. characters aged 23+. slight jealousy, betrothals & poorly made up politics (actually made up so much lore sorry i do that when im nervous), brief mention of parental death, fluff, friends to lovers, smut (fingering, slight breeding kink), brief finger sucking what, light dirty talking. masterlist requests are open.

FOR AS LONG AS YOU’VE KNOWN, THE EVE OF WINTER HAS BEEN SAID TO COME IN A SHARP WHISTLE DOWN THE MOUTH OF THE PEAKS TO THE NORTH. 

Sharp, precipitous - the wind that breaks bones and scatters breath; it howls through the northern curls of the Wolfswood, piercing its glacial breath through trembling needles of pine, hissing up and over the stone of the North Gate. Tales of chipped slabs of sharp, which fly from the Old Tower in a gale of old; stealing the breath from lungs old and new, whipping away parchment, stealing flight and life from those southern ravens white of feather as far as the Bloody Gate. 

As a babe, your mother would sing of the sharp teeth of the Threnody; nursemaids and maester alike whispering of its wail against chamber doors even in the deepest of the castle. Your father, a less cagey spirit - still, he’d not stop the furrow of brow at the blow of hard iced snowdust that gathered within the stables on the outskirts of baileys. 

And perhaps it is not yet time for the howling of the wind when the wolves still linger in the woods; when life may still yet subsist away from the spitting crackle of hearth within castle walls - but you do not feign ignorance. 

Winter is coming. 

It comes in wind; and, just as the Threnody of old, it is subtle and piercing, perniciously beautiful. 

Lord Stark of Winterfell sits at the end of the hall, in a fur cloak that nearly swallows over the bulk of his wide frame; the lick of flames over his skin dance with the murmured din of the crowd as you watch, a cat-eyed weariness from your corner spot. It is not often this loud, though the Great hall has been much more full as of late - with the Southern company from the Reach, Winterfell has bursted at the seams just in the eve of Wintertide. A less than optimal time to host guests; but your Lord is a steadfast one, and knows an opportunity for trade when he sees one. 

Your father speaks to him - you watch the men with vague interest until the elder catches your eye across the assembly; a gesture of his hand, beckoning you to their side. And the Lord Stark, face young, weathered - handsome as he is dour in the torchlight, nodding with a surprisingly warm gaze when your eyes meet.

You do not heed your father’s summon; you remain rooted instead, struck with a sudden fatigue as some odd taste of jealousy from the nest of your bosom peeks into your mind, whispering of the woman who sits only three tables away from you. 

The Southern Rose. Her father, a man visiting to treat in way of increased wheat and salt trade with Winterfell; preservation starts soon, the harvest has found its end - leaves curl tight as a grip frozen in fist now, even near the Neck. She accompanied her father - words whispered from advisors of a potential betrothal - and as she is a girl just two years your junior, your father had instructed you to accompany her through her visit to Winterfell. 

Truthfully, you’ve found her quite wonderful - a sweet girl, though fairly plain-minded: innocent smiles, soft polite nods. You spent the fortnight riding through the Wolfswood, needlepointing - tasks rather simple, though torturous only when you caught glimpses of Lord Cregan and his men in the yard, in the halls, or treating. A yearning festered in your breast during these past days - a desire to attend matters of the mind instead of, perhaps, such soft matters. 

Though no fault of her own. A kind girl, you do swear by the gods - though each simpering look to the man who walks with Ice at his back twists a dagger deeper into your gut; A fine wife for a wanting Warden, the lords had advised - and you, with an ear pressed to the closed oaken door of Cregan’s hall like some bright-eyed maiden. An alliance with a house South would allow for a stake in the Southern lord’s trade route to Dorne; A smart match, perhaps, if Cregan searches for reach outside his North. 

You’re not particularly convinced he does. 

Though the hearths are large and heavy tonight, you yearn for that curling reach, that whisper of agony that cradles limbs into chests - and with a spare step towards the crack in the hall’s entrydoors, cool air pierces the tissue within your chest. 

Outside is the swirling ink of the owl’s hour. 

If you could see through the song of night, up and over the walls of stone which keep the first whispers of Threnody at bay - you might find the ridged roofs of Winter Town; and even beyond, those breathing hills that bring the Kingsroad up and back down. And cold, that creeping wolf, that slither of ragging which drags clouds to the ground and whispers promises of winter. 

You press your lips together; Who would wish to look beyond such persevering beauty? 

Cregan’s voice is low across the hall, though you can hear it through the din of the feast as he converses with his men; a swirl of affection, that comfortable specter in the corner of your thoughts. A glance back through the oak door to that sirened wail of glacial, ancient breath; the southern rose… and you, a pine in wildflowers. 

The yard below the great hall swirls with untouched crystals; miniscule, they glimmer in the open air and twirl in a mesmerizing dance - the ale in your palms is much too warmed by the blood that pumps through you.

A young man beside you gestures rather agitatedly; and you, bristled with the realization that you allow the creeping draft to leak into the hall, step forward once, allowing the doors to once again shut. The hall is warm and your mind is fuzzy; you step away, hugging the outskirts of the wall and avoiding the heat of your cheeks. 

Lord Stark rises in your peripheral when you begin the short promenade returning to your seat.

It is inevitable at any feast, his company - Cregan, a man only three namedays your senior and, even before becoming your Lord, a very close companion. Youths tied up in the training of noble roles, you and Cregan got on rather well - your father advised Lord Rickon, as a vassal house of the Starks; now, he serves Rickon’s son just the same. 

Your brief respite near the exit of the hall is short-lived when his boots pave their way towards you, bisecting your path though you pretend to pay the man no mind, a grin growing on your lips - there is only a breath of his own amusement in the short cat-and-mouse game you begin on the way to the trestle table; the stones of Winterfell have always been blissfully cold against your palms, and Cregan’s presence has always naturally attended you. 

Trots of hooves through the Wolfswood, trailing steps hurried through halls to keep up with long strides – a brief nod in passing when Maester Kennet would end the young Stark’s studies early. You’d learned to shoot a bow with him and his late brother in that very yard below; shared huffs of amusement when your arrow sailed wide. 

And even now, well over your youth; it remains how it has always been, with your roots so very sunk into the hard earth of the North; the Kings of Stark over your family’s barony of land just half-day’s west of Winterfell. And when Lord Rickon drew his final breath - and some years later, too, when Bennard’s slow relinquishment darkened the skies - you never dared worry of how life might change. 

You call him Lord Stark now - though in the quiet moments, he oft prefers Cregan; still the boy who convinced your father and his own to let you attend seasonal hunt, who sat with you in the rookery for hours of silence when your mother left the mortal realm; who did not protest when you insisted you did not wish to discuss it; who wiped tears from your weary skin so they’d not freeze; who waited patiently as you watched wind blow needles from the pines and ravens drop from clouded sky. 

And you, still with some melancholy whisper from the air that blows crystals over the hills towards Last Hearth; a Threnody of your own, your chilled craving despite the warmth of your soul. Cregan calls you my lady now - though he was keen to do so just as oft in youth, despite the blushing of your cheeks and quick glances to the snow-licked ground. 

He approaches you this evening with a storm of a stare and a hint of a smirk that, to any other, would look merely as his usual stoic countenance; though there is a bright in his eyes, a twitch upon his lip as he takes in the shifting of your boots upon the stone. 

You busy yourself traveling to your seat without tripping upon your feet - but still he meets you, eyes hooked upon the curve of your jaw and sliding over the apple of your cheek when you arrive to your spot, concealing your smile with a nod. 

A cacophony of laughter from the wolf’s council - you feel much more at home when the attention is off you and your Lord, hidden in the backlit corner. 

The hall is warm; warm, when all you can see are dark locks, drawn brows, pink lips, stubbled jaw. Your heart clenches when his arm brushes your own, if only for a moment.

 “Lord Stark.” Your voice swims; a wavering, perhaps from the mead that lingers on the back of your tongue, or at the stare that hooks itself upon your own. His eyes take you in - slowly, as if appreciative - an active repression of any fluttering at such a gaze, knowing him much too well to allow yourself a stirred feeling. 

“My lady,” He greets back; he’s obscured you with his height from the brunt of the hearth’s breath - a small relief, as your chest grows hot under the slow roll of his tone and your eyes fall from the mountain of his comportment. His gaze finds the doors at the hall entrance before returning to you, alight with something less than mirthful but not completely chastising. 

“Is the feast not satisfactory?” A drop of tease in a river of adherence; you hear it though, you feel it - and with the flow comes a tide of affection in your stomach. A small smile that smoothes your hot cheeks, “It is wonderful,” You mend, biting your lip, “I am rather keen to find momentary respite outside, though.” 

He seems sated enough with your words, nodding just once. “You’ve always been one for the cold.” He absently observes as his eyes flick to the table briefly, “I suppose you’ve been kept inside the walls too much as of late, aye?” 

A reminder of your recent charge - of the girl, eyes shining as clear as day, gazing upon the mountainous frame of Lord Stark from across the hall.

She much prefers the hearth to the raw air; and you’ve done nothing but acquiesce, placating the whims of the girl who might one day be your Lady Stark - an unpleasant thought, though one that could very well be a reality. Your throat tightens in a bough of unwarranted jealousy at the thought and, with a tight swallow, you nod to your Lord, gaze leaving his own. 

 Your fingers trace the silver prongs upon the table, left after you’d finished your meal half-eaten in search of the whispering sirens of flurry in the courtyard; you do not find it within yourself to speak, and perhaps that is why Cregan worries so for your disposition. 

“You’re distant tonight,” he decides, eyes lingering for a moment longer on the flush of your cheeks - perhaps from the drink, perhaps from something else entirely - and though he is just inches away now, he makes no unnecessary movements - an approach calm, unwishing to ward off a skittish creature. A wolf upon a pup. 

You, in your avoidance of his ownsolemn disposition, nearly miss the opportunity given for you to respond - and so you start with a breath and a lifted stare. 

“Perhaps it is because I was not seated with all you lords at the grand banquet table,” you quip; a rather surprising use of attitude in front of such company. An inkling of rather instant regret - you ought to watch your tongue around the members of the Household. 

Mercifully, Cregan only provides you with a stern glance and a lifted brow, that trickle of amusement only a breathed whisper across the cool gaze of piercing eyes. 

He certainly is aware of your quiet yearning - perhaps in a degree more at least than your yearning for himself, which has never been spoken but has often been rather obvious  - but instead to follow your father’s footsteps; an advisor to the Warden, a trusted voice, in the eve of wintertide. 

You have, for all the exhausted topics Cregan and yourself have touched upon in your many years of companionship, not outwardly admitted such hypnagogic desires; implied, perhaps. But a dreamy wish, a foolish one for a noble girl like yourself. 

His eyes swim between your own, perhaps waiting for more words that do not yet come. You should apologize for your tongue, though away from any other ears, it is oft that your Lord prefers you to speak candidly, uninhibited by much courtly restraint. It is indeed the most common times you’ve been successful in pulling a chuckle or laugh from the man. 

Though this time, he makes the decision for you. “Too much ale?” 

You lift a brow in challenge of the amused tone that barely leaks through, setting the mug down upon the banquet before you. 

“Too much heat,” You excuse instead, hoping your fuzzy mind does not lead to slurred words as your jaw directs his gaze to the massive hearth that threatens to swallow him from behind - and then, with that quiet voice once again, “I apologize for my tongue, my Lord.” 

A frown that looks heavenly on such a countenance- and a brief flush upon the strong ridge of nose; he shifts, vague but endearing from one large trunk of leg, corded with thick muscle, to another. 

“You need never apologize for a gift. So long as you know well enough when to use it.” He murmurs - and after a stilled moment, you nod with tight lips, heart thumping quietly; unintentional as it may be, such words from him sends your desire for him into a gallop. 

In an effort to conceal your affections, you laugh quietly against the heat of your cheeks. “You will come to regret such words, surely.” Your jest falls upon his ears and he hums low, finishing the ale in the mug held by large hands, eyes burning into yours even as he finishes the last gulp. “I doubt that, my lady.” 

There is a draft that catches the edge of your skirts; it carries, beckoning you - the doors have opened, and Lord Cerwin steps outside with a swift nod to Lord Stark and yourself. Some break of the seal which held together your remaining composure; you let out a breath, eyes flickering back to the storm of interest that watches down upon your visage. “I regret I could not attend to you these past weeks.” He murmurs again- rather talkative this eve, it seems. You eye the goblet dwarfed in his large palms; perhaps the ale has done him in as it has you. 

A flip of your stomach, heartbeat picking up at his words - attend you? He must see your expression; for he shifts as flames lick up the leather upon his back. “It has been nearly a moon since I placed a blade in your hand.” He mends, face solemn; a breath from your lips as you exhale shortly. Ah. 

Many days - wind whipping at your cheeks, piercing through your heavy cloaks; Cregan’s few minutes found in spare days to show you parries and ripostes, castigating gently when you try a cheap sweep at his legs and barking in amusement when you fall upon your backside. 

A small burst of cracking embers rise from the hearth just over his stalwart shoulder - you smile at the man before you, watching his own lips twitch at your small huff of amusement.

 “There were more important matters,” Your voice light. “-Negotiations, alliances,” You clear your throat, “matters of the realm.”

His eyes, hawkish as he shifts once more; the shadow of his figure swallowing your own frame as your hand falls onto the table to stabilize yourself against his stare. “Aye,” He nods, gaze briefly flicking to the row of men at the front of the hall; your father finishes his ale, in discussion with Lady Gilliane and the Southern lord. “Tomorrow eve they set for the Kingsroad. And they will have my trade agreements.” His words come as some promise. You’d well noticed the thirty men and women preparing to leave Winterfell; they are guests at this feast indeed. You resist a snarking comment in rebuttal, instead heeding his politeness - and nod slowly.

Another guest leaves the feast and you follow the swish of her skirts and furs with your stare. Just out those ajar doors, tendrils of flakes fall from the skies. You long to feel them kiss the crown of your head, feel them settle upon the downy cloak that sits crooked upon your shoulders; a small draft that kicks again, and the chill begins to settle your flaming cheeks. 

The Southern Rose sips upon a goblet of sweetwine across the way with her few ladies-in-waiting; she smiles brightly at you across the hall and you smile back, aware of the brooded stare upon your visage from beside you. “Only trade?” You finally wonder, unable to look at Cregan, finger tracing the wear of the wood below your palm. 

After a small breath - Lord Stark must direct his glance towards the previous subject of your attention before turning back to you, a frown carved by the gods into the solemnity of his gaze. 

Your heart jumps when he shifts, his arm brushing yours - fingers, large and calloused, adjusts the clasp upon your cloak, knuckles kissing the line of your jaw before dropping away. 

Your cheeks are impossibly hot, though his are just as well. “Only trade,” he echoes, though there’s something within his tone - some secret assurance, one which sets your stomach in warmth. It is a simple silence which follows; his cloaked arm is warm against the fabric of your gown, though you do not mind it. 

“I would not keep you any longer from your respite.” He finally decides, gesturing to the open oak doors, to the pull of chill; A dulcet resonance - you stare at the crawl of flames around his ribcage, flicking over the bulk of muscled mass swathed in furs. You nearly request he join you, though it is swallowed by the polite nod he sends to the girl who sits across the hall, watching with curious eyes. 

“You have a good evening, my Lord.” You bid him, heart fluttering at the pearly soot of his gaze, at the warmth that leaves you as you take a step aside to gather yourself. 

His eyes do indeed follow your movements, tracing the familiar bend of your spine from your peripheral. 

“You as well, my lady.” 

THE NIGHT BRINGS HOWLS OF WINTERTIDE.

And the morning reaps a chill that does not subsist from the core of your bones - even when you pace through the outer hall of the Great Keep, fingers tapping anxiously against the fabric of your skirts, cheeks sharpened by a flurry across the yard. 

There is a great excitement that has stirred in your chest; some disbelief, tethered to the echo of men’s swords in the yard and of hushed whispers between bearded mouths in the halls - though as you recall Maester Kennet’s words written and delivered to your bedchambers late last evening after the feast, you cannot help but bite a smile back between your lips. 

Schooling such girlish giddiness in the brunt of impending adversity, still your heart swells; a glance up the spiraled stones of the Keep’s exterior, you eye the grimed window of your Lord’s study with a huff of disbelief. 

Maester Kennet informs you Lord Stark has accepted your request for private audience - just thirty minutes past your initial supplication - and so you begin to creep your way up the inner spirals of the structure, tracing the old stone with some newborn interest. 

Your hands do not waver when they knock, though you’d hesitated just a breath when you’d made it to his study; Enter, you hear him call - ever practical in his deep tone; a flutter of affection blossoms, spring in the forest of your heart. You once again wipe your perspired palms along the length of your silvered cloak before heeding his beckon.  

The long croak of the oaken door behind you drags against dilapidated stone; with a scratch, the hinge shuts and you slide into the warm chamber, blinded momentarily by wintering light. 

Your lord looks up from his own desk and you trace your gaze along the outskirts of the study; a rather humble room, if the beauty of Winterfell’s castle could ever have such a thing - leatherbound histories, candles that once wept tallow, waxy tears now hardened into dots of bone upon his desk. 

Lord Cregan indulges in his own sweeping glance over your figure wrapped in only lighter furs, your hands clasped and twisting before your dark dress. 

“My lady,” he greets - a girlish tickle within your stomach spurs at the use of title, as though you’ve not bore it your whole life. 

“My Lord, good morrow.” You greet, resisting a short rock upon your toes. 

Cregan leans back in his chair, thighs spread as he wastes no words. “You awaited my acceptance from Maester Kennet,” He observes. At your nod, he continues, “You’ve no need to request an audience when you wish to speak with me. I’ve told you just as much before, have I not?”

Your smile, though faint, is genuine; you relieve yourself of the distance between you and Cregan, finding your seat with gentle grace just across him. You fix him with a glance, “And just as I’ve told you,” you echo, “-as long as you remain my lord, I shall remain mindful of your duties,” Your brow raises just so. “-Whether you wish it or not.” Your voice is rather coy, unable to contain the giddiness in your heart that arises, despite your maintained perplexion - the root of your visit to the Lord in the middle of the morning. 

For half a moment, a flash of amusement upon Cregan’s lips at your familiar stubbornness; but then, he leans forward - large palms curling over the chair’s arms; you eye the worn wood enviously. “Of what do you wish to speak, then?” 

You take a breath; a sweltering heat has begun to stir at the base of your neck - perhaps under the icy stare of the man before you, or the quick gallop of your heart within your chest; outside, the same whistling howl of winds that laces itself through the song of the hounds in the kennels below. 

“I’m…” You shift after beginning, eyes flicking to the quill and ink well that lie abandoned beside him, letter halfway handscribed. A surprising bout of shyness you’ve been struck with under his attention, under the memory of the letter delivered to you last eve. 

Your frown is one of far-off considerations, recalling the information that’d been served with your evening tea while you prepared for slumber last night, a syrupy sleepiness to your hands from the remnants of the feast’s mead; News, given by way of Maester Kennet’s handscript, informing you of your new station. 

A twist of anticipation and determination; you level Lord Stark with eyes icier than his own. 

“I suppose I’m rather surprised that you’ve appointed me to your council, my Lord.” 

The truth is blunt - it feels relieving to rip it off your skin; and so you press on, watching the stern visage before you, wondering if you’ve ever noticed him looking at you without such tender absorption as you see now. 

Your voice continues, strong. “-It’s uncommon for a woman to serve on the Warden’s council, unless she is the Lady of the House.” You fight to ignore the thunder of your heart at such a sentiment - you, Lady of the House - and add with a voice just as strong, “-and we both know I am no such thing.”

A call of raven outside; and a laugh bubbling off somewhere in the courtyard below, melting into a long howl of a hound in the kennels. Cregan watches you carefully, holding your gaze; moments pass under his stare, but you do not squirm - no, as always, you stare back.

 “Would you not accept?” He wonders finally, tone rather unbiased - and for a brief moment, you believe his question is directed towards your latter sentence; a drop in your stomach, though you recover in a breath, swallowing thick. 

You rush to deny it in your accidental hesitance. “-No, my Lord, I'm honored. It’s just rather…unexpected.”

The quiet looms, a cloud rolling over the morning sun; eclipsed in the backlit shadow of daylight by his frame, you begin to pick at the thread of your dress. A fine gown, hand-needled by your own hands just a fortnight ago. 

And then, with a breath; his lips twitch ever so slightly - merely a brief uptick, but you know him. His stare, stark as the wintered sky as he nods curtly - you fight your own grin at the shift. 

“You’ve a good mind for these matters,” his voice is even, face serious. “Some at my table will do well to learn from you.”

You let out a soft laugh, not particularly out of amusement but rather out of surprise at his words, heart stumbling. “I wasn’t aware you thought so highly of me.” You admit, though you both know this to be untrue. 

His gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does his opinion. “I’ve always thought highly of you.”

The words lodge themselves true into your chest. 

And yes, you’ve never been one to underestimate your own intellectual prowess, nor to shy away from an opportunity; though your mind still reels in befuddlement, and you press to hear more, to understand. “You have wiser men - those who served your father well before you.” You observe, tilting your head; a wintery sunbeam ices through the looser strands of your hair, and Cregan's grayed pools trace their colour in the sun. 

“Aye,” He nods as his gaze returns to your own, “Your father is one of them.” 

He is firm; an intimidation in his broad frame, the haloed bright of snowed refractions around his head. “Though it is not about who is wiser, nor who has served longer. It’s about knowing when to speak, and when to hold your peace. When to challenge me.” And Gods be good, his lips curve slightly; a whisper of a smile, some sweep of chilled wind over the face of a mountain.

Your heart stirs at his words, a rush of emotions that burst below your composed exterior. Memories of mulish disagreements, of sliding glares at his youthful visage and stubborn stomps of your foot. Your voice remains firm, though rather surprised. “Challenge you?” You echo with a small smirk. 

“Aye,” he responds without hesitation. “Many lords surround themselves with voices that tend to echo their own thoughts. But you,” His gaze never leaves yours; pinned you remain, eyes unblinking against his, “-you will tell me what I must hear, even when it is hard. Will you not?”

Heat that blossoms over your cheeks as you nod at him - your throat is incredibly dry, “Yes, my lord.” 

He hums, eyes in a brief flash over your sat figure before returning to you. “Good.”

And in the burgeoning moment, a pounding of your heart; you shift in your seat, flattered as a beam of wintered light graces the colour of your stare.

Your fingers still their nervous picking at your gown as you take a slow breath. “And if I do not always agree with you? If I say no, when you would rather hear yes?” 

Cregan leans in just slightly. “I trust no other as I trust you. You'd not dare speak something you do not believe, simply because it pleased me.” 

An absence of concern in your heart at his words, instead filling you with a fierce warmth that curls around the sweet ice coursing through your veins. “You have my word, Cregan. I will advise you as best I can when needed.”

His expression does not waver; though there is a flicker within his gaze. “I never doubted it.”

And then, a gust of breath from the heavens; a rattling gentle against thick pane of glass, though a chill still finds its tendrils in your bones when hard flakes of snow whirl against the exterior. 

“The Southern company leaves this eve,” You observe, eyes glancing out the window, “It will do them well to set off before supper. Lest they become caught in the storm of Wintertide.” And then in your mind, an echo of lovely, sweet laughter; and a curl of unwanted envy at the woman behind the voice, a haunting within your own mind. You are plagued, it seems - thoughts of her kneeling before the weirwood, of his cloak round her shoulders. 

“Aye,” Cregan's voice pulls you back, “We'll not hold meeting until they have left. House Cerwin’s host returns this eve, and I must attend to them.” 

He rises, then - and you, with him, fingers clenched as you register his words informing you not with any air of casual discussion, but rather as a Lord does his vassal. You tamp a grin, nodding instead, following the warm guide of his hand hovered above your back towards the door. 

“I will see you at my table on the morrow, my lady.” He promises when you turn back to him; with a rush of affection, you let yourself smile.

WIND WHISTLES BETWEEN NEEDLES OF PINE AND LEAVES OF OAK IN THE GODSWOOD. 

A rather divine earth upon which you kneel, mind clear with the prayers you whisper to the heart before you. 

It is growing cold, steadily these days - and though you have known the North your entire life, you rather forget how biting it can be when the afternoon snowfall comes. 

You’ve seemed to have forgotten today, as well - your spine shivers just so, the cloak around your shoulders much too light for the tempest that has grown in the skies; flakes that kiss your braids and lick down your cheeks as you finish your intercession, eyes opening to meet the bleeding stare of the heart tree. 

You choose to remain despite the frost that curls around your knees - and after a few moments of quiet, there are footsteps in the snow. 

You know quite well the heavy drags of boots over the whitened crust of earth - a silence that echoes through the woods that you know can only be your Wolf. 

He arrives, perhaps only moments before you register his presence; you had not known he had returned. With a thrill, you wonder if he came straight to you once crossing the gates back into Winterfell. 

“My lord.” you greet, nodding as you feel his warmth behind you - and you can almost imagine the shake of his head at your knelt form. 

“A northerner should know better than to come out in the cold without a proper cloak.” 

A faint smile tugs at your lips, though you don’t yet turn from the tree before you. “The snow came after my prayers. I wasn’t unprepared.” You defend with a twitch of a smile - and then, just to your side, a leather glove extended for your grasp. 

He pulls you to your feet with ease - and there you find Cregan, the low pool behind him echoing the breath of cloudy sky. His eyes are warm and knowing when you trace his irises with your own gaze. 

Flakes continue, shed from the heavens; A white crown of winter falling upon his hair as he takes you in. 

“I came to speak with you.” He says after the moment of quiet you allow; he drapes his thick outercloak upon your shoulders though you glance at him rather sheepishly at the gesture, second in nature in your long years of companionship. 

It is remiss that your first few days appointed in the new station has seen a lack of advisory; alas, Cregan has finally returned after two days with Lord Cerwin and his host, and you will adjoin this evening for strategy.

“I thought as much,” your voice is soft; perhaps residual from your prayers whispered into the listening quiet of the Godswood. “Of what do you wish to speak, my lord?” There is indeed much to discuss now that the company has left Winterfell - winter comes soon enough, and the Wall indeed calls for your Lord’s visit. 

His voice is only rougher as though the words take a coaxing to admit, “Before you were appointed, the lords at my table…” he begins, and your brow lifts as he stares ahead to the tree. “they spoke of a match.”

Your heart stills; you turn to face him fully, swallowing the dip in your stomach. “A match?” you repeat. 

“Aye,” he confirms, “the Southern Lords proposed I take one of their daughters to wed,” He is rather impartial in tone. “Though my men… they advise I take a bride from the North.” 

Perhaps it would be more of a surprise to you, had you not spent the better part of your freetime pressing ears to the council doors; indeed you are familiar with the pressure upon Cregan to take a wife. 

“And…” you begin carefully, “Will you wed the Southern Rose?” 

His jaw clenches; a flutter of flakes against skin though his gaze still holds you with an intensity to make your blood hum; “I denied betrothal to her,” he murmurs, breath puffing in a soft cloud of mist against thicker snowfall; he grows more quiet, then, and it stirs in your chest. “Though as for the proposal set before me by the men of my hall…” He pauses just briefly, and you blink snowflakes from your lashes. “It was not something I rejected.”

A sacred stillness; a raw breath from you as the implication of his words hit you - here, in the Godswood, before the heart tree.

The cloak he’s brought, wrapped around your shoulders, warming your chilled flesh; a kiss of sage and leather as you watch his visage - patient, waiting. Devoted.

A breath puffs from your lips in exhale. 

“You speak of me,” you whisper; his eyes remain on yours, anchored to the press of your teeth into your bottom lip. 

“Aye.” His response is firm, evergreen, rooted. “I speak of you.”

The trees of the Godswood whisper in that quiet way they can; breaths of creeping air that lived long before your ancestors were here. They watch you, how your fingers curl tighter into Cregan’s cloak - how your veins pump with the same blood that runs through his own. You had known this was a possibility - hints from your father’s mulling eyes as you and the Lord had returned from sparring lessons, cheeks winded and amusement laced into small glances and brushes of arms. 

There is a long yearning affection that burns in your heart when you glance back up at his looming height, a small smile teasing your lips. Perhaps, as your fingers brush over heavy fur, you seek to cut through the thick silence which has found you tense with anticipation.

“Well,” you begin lightly, hoping to mask the tremor in your voice, “I suppose you would not be the worst choice for a husband, Lord Stark.”

Cregan’s brow lifts slightly at your words - and a flick of amusement swallowed by a softening; he does not brush off your words with the same playful jest you offer. A step towards you, a hand seeking your own, leather against worn leather. A hollow gust of wind across the gulley of pine to the side of you, and a red bloodleaf falls to your boots. 

“I hope,” he says slowly, eyes anchored on his thumb across your knuckles. “to be the best I can be.” he continues, his voice unwavering as snow dusts his hair, his cloak.

You can only nod through a thick swallow, heart thundering. “You could never be anything less.” You ensure him. His lips part, pink against the light of afternoon; warmth spreads through your chest as his tongue wettens them just so under your watchful gaze. 

“You’ve spent your life here,” he murmurs, “The North is in your blood as it is mine - Winterfell has always been yours.”

Cold, which nips at your skin and aches your bones - it is so distant now. Now, when his breath plumes between you gently. Now, as your hand squeezes his own, even faintly; Now, in a smile that you must bite back as your mind floats, his words rooting into your heart. 

You grin, and it’s softer now. “You make it sound as though it’s already decided.”

Cregan’s broad form towers over you as he leans - though an effective protection from the wintered wind, you feel a shiver down your spine. “I would not presume to decide such things without your consent,” he ensures, “But the thought of another standing beside me… it has never felt right.”

And perhaps, then, he’s always known of your yearning - for how could you not know so familiar the face which looks you back in the mirror, whose heart bleeds your own blood; to know is to love, perhaps. You smile, your other hand falling onto his chest - beneath thick furs, beneath leather and tunic, a heart beats strong. 

A palm, large and calloused as it graces over your cheek; you press involuntarily into his burgeoning warmth, a small smile upon your lips. “It is a good thing I suppose, that I could not imagine leaving Winterfell.” You admit - and then, fixing him with that same intent stare he brings to you: “I will marry you, Cregan.” 

His breath, stuttering only momentarily as his eyes search your own - and then, a clear of his throat. “Then it will be settled,” his thumb lingers against your cheek, his touch warm against the cold that swirls - and it is more than what you'd wished for your whole life; after all, the Threnody would chase you right back to Cregan if you'd gone anywhere else.

“I will be yours, my lady.”  

THE HOWL OF THE THRENODY IS A NEAR SONG ON THE DAY OF YOUR WEDDING.

The tub has been placed rather precariously aside the larger of windows awarded to your chambers; you sit in the smoldering heat of the bath, tendrils of oiled steam snaking up and curling into fog at the corners of your vision. 

Outside, scarce birds chirp - a morning early enough, although in this sharp of wintercoming the creatures prefer to retreat to their nests as you stir in your own, sighing away a small dreamy breath. 

It has been five and a half moons since your betrothal; your eyes flicker with a bout of excitement over to the wardrobe across the way, wherein hangs your gown and maidencloak awaiting your presence later this afternoon. 

A smile unbounded, you press palms to your cheeks, attempting to cool them under the thought of what will come tonight. The handmaids have been asked away; a peculiar request from you, but you wish to enjoy a moment of serenity before you begin the day’s preparations - of which there are many - and you worry they will scarce find a moment to eat and enjoy themselves before they are tasked with your hair and your body. 

It snows only in the way trees shake dust from their bones - a heavier pile of white which burdens lower limbs, and you watch the ground of powder stir when it is imbued by the weight. 

Winter is near; words for so long, though now, it is true. And a fine day it is, the Gods have blessed you and Cregan - but indeed, the last of the alpine flowers have curled around a layer of frost, the lakes and ponds have crusted into flat planes thick of ice. Threnody, its whistling song in the dead of night, beckons - winter comes, and the North is prepared. 

A hand falls submerged in the bathwater and you lift it once more with a stinged gasp; the skin over your middle knuckle is cracked and near raw. Maester Kennet administered a salve to it daily since your return with Cregan, Lord Cerwin, and your father - a weekslong trip to oversee the fortification of supply lines in the coming of winter’s harsh brunt. 

Split skin, cracked by the iced wind; and a warm palm to hold you, lips brushed over the top of your temples in a murmur. Your cheeks burn hotter than the bathwater enveloping you; Cregan.

And true that when you lie in your lone bed each evening, plagued with an aching and catch-of-breaths that find you after the memories of chapped lips brushing your own, firmly tender touches that are more fleeting than they are anything else. When you are plagued with such thoughts, you truly think it had all been so much simpler before the betrothal. 

Simpler; glances across halls - stolen moments while he’d chide to you in lessons, quiet words in the library or prideful smirks during a hunt in the Wolfswood. Anticipation is a torturous excitement, perhaps - his hands, you used to wonder - how would they feel against you? 

And you know now - how they hold your cheeks, caress your shoulder, your back; you know, yet you must wait to let them truly hold you, to truly touch you how you so desire. 

A sweet torture, restraint has become. Touches, kisses - far too brief, far too constrained. Your gaze falls upon the stain of red through the Godswood outside, your stomach turning with anticipation, with hunger. 

And yet, the day advances. 

A knock at your quarters starts you just slightly, clearing your throat as your head turns to the door. A stare at the oak, wondering if the doors to your marital chambers will look so similar as these. 

The oils of mountain thyme and coltsfoot bead upon your skin when you sit upwards slightly, wondering aloud who awaits behind the door. 

“-It is me, my lady.” 

Not your handmaidens yet, it seems - Cregan’s voice jumps your heart into a gallop. 

With a flush, you press your lips together, grasping the edge of the tub to rise from the tendrils of steam - the bleeding bundle of leaves which hemorrhage the treeline in the distance abandoned. 

Perhaps only now, as you pad over thick furs upon stone to reach your robe, do you wish you’d allowed your handmaids to remain with you; if only to aid you with some slip that is less revealing than the thin satin you slip on. The stone beneath your feet is warm; you bite your lip gently. 

“Come.” You call; only a breath before the oaken creaking reaches your ears - you’ve pushed your hair back, droplets of oiled bathwater cascading down your temple, over the edge of your chin, kissing the skin of your chest exposed with the loose robe you tie. 

Perhaps you should better ensure your modesty - though by nightfall he will be yours, and you his. What difference does it make now, to let him see you?

Cregan’s frame is backlit by the corridor; a broad figure, ducked only slightly in such tall stature, shoulders brushing the stone sides of the frame - your eyes meet, though swiftly he averts his gaze, turning his head rather sharp as his chest shutters only slightly. 

“My apologies.” His voice holds some tight restraint; you have no power to stop the warmth that spreads upon you at his tone, some hint of arousal at the drop in timbre. “I did not realize…” He trails off, lingering in the doorway - a glint of amber over his dark hair and you swallow a flustered giggle before it can escape your parted lips. “I will return when you are not occupied.” He decides. 

You interrupt gently, shaking your head as your fingers press to your damp palms; an earnest hope he will not leave, now when he’s already here. “There’s no need to apologize,” you gesture to the table and chairs beside the hearth. “You may stay, Cregan. Please.”

His gaze does not return to you yet; palms, large and calloused with life and labor - you press your thighs together in a momentary weakness as your eyes trace over thick forearms that remove a thick fur cloak, dragging over veins which swim up skin kissed by afternoon light. 

A quiet grunt when he sits himself in the chair, thighs spreading as his eyes finally meet your figure once more - gray as the clouded heavens, penetrating as you cross the room to follow him; how those eyes follow the trail of damp water droplets slipping beneath your robe’s loose collar - how they find the rivulets that slide down the bare of your thighs, dripping just slightly onto the stone beneath you. A heat in your cheeks, spreading low over your neck, chest - and lower more, as you find yourself before him, waiting for his eyes to flick up to your own. 

Your chambers in Winterfell have always been much too large in your opinion, for just one woman - though they hold a most divine view of the Godswood; now, the room is impossibly small with the frame of him, silent, watching you slide into the chair across him. 

“Does something trouble you, Cregan?” You wonder finally, searching the face drawn by a stern brow, how his jaw flexes at your question. 

A half-shake of head; a beam of light once again has found his face, an ethereal sight of such a man softened by the wintered sun. He hums, “I came to…” He pauses momentarily, as though struggling to find his words; his eyes once more wavering as a bead of water slides down your damp leg. His eyes flick back to you, swallowing, “I came to ensure this marriage is not being forced upon you.” 

A startle from you; though spoken with a lilt of care, such blunt words hit you rather suddenly, and your heart pangs. He does not see how you crave him, even after these last moons? How your cheeks grow hot under his attention, how your arm laces through his when he walks you to your chambers after meetings - how your lips seek his own in every darkened corridor you might scarcely find? 

 How you return your affections for him each time he murmurs them into your ear in solitude - how you have loved him since long before there was such a word? 

 “I’ve never been more certain of anything.” Your voice does not hesitate; neither does your heart. His eyes, so dark in the yards of Winterfell, so bright by light of your solitary quarters; though he does not respond for a brief moment, and in the silence you grow concerned. 

“Cregan,” your voice is soft as you lean forward just so. “Do you want this?”

He blinks at that - daring to be surprised by the question - and for a moment, as his lips part, no sound comes out. The hesitation upon his breath strikes your heart; faint doubt lingers in your chest. 

“I’ve thought about it long before the idea was brought to me.” He admits; a deep tone, eyes fixed upon yours as he murmurs. “Before it became a matter of duty,” his gaze is as steadfast as the words which fall from his pink lips, “I wanted you.”

The breath upon your lips hitch; a warmth that sprouts within your heart begins to spread, against the wide windows behind you, against the man who sits with knees nearly touching your own. 

Tonight, you will meet him under the leaved arms of your ancestors; of those haunted, ancient spirits which call to you in the wind, who blow the Threnody through sharp ravines, who watch you with solemn edict. You will whisper words that have waited upon your tongue for years - he will drape his cloak upon you, and you will taste his faith when your lips find his own under the sight of the Old Gods. 

Dark, his hair blows gently in the quiet of his breath - and perhaps struck by the sheer beauty of the North within him, that steadfast stare cooling the heat upon your skin - you rise from your chair.

His eyes, a hawk; they watch you, head tilting back as you rise to stand before him, your palm gracing his arm; a tinge of pink that creeps over his countenance, a low snowcloud over the breath of dawn upon his cheeks. 

Under your palm are the thick muscles of his bicep; and a heat, one from his skin through the tunic, melting you just the same as his own breath catches. No hesitance from him at your boldness - instead a large, warm palm comes to cup the back of your thigh as you stand before him; and a thumb that traces over the goosepimples that grow at his touch. 

A slide upwards and over his shoulder - your breath quiet, nearing labored as a rising growth of hunger stirs in you. Your eyes catch the armoire across the way, where you know your wedding gown awaits; the material gentle, lined with fur and coloured the refraction of cloud and snow - and wolves, silver and embossed with the darker patterns of your own house sigil. 

The thought stokes your mounting desire for Cregan; your hand slides along the thick warmth of his neck, turning to cup his jaw. Rough stubble which catches on the soft of your palm when your thumb strokes his cheekbone; and eyes, those dark lashes, fluttering only slightly when he blinks up at you - silent, waiting. 

You do not make your lord wait much longer. 

“Cregan,” you whisper, eyes finding some wonderfully reflective taste of devotion laced through his own stormed gaze, and your breath falls with your confession. “I have long wanted you. I wish not to wait anymore.”

His chest moves with a breath - and in lieu of words, a calloused hand wraps around your spare hand, pulling it towards his own shoulder; guiding you. 

With hot cheeks, you allow it - his breath is warm as it hits your cheek, though you gasp when his hands move once more with a gentle motion towards his lap.

You stumble slightly against his powered tug; knees, knocking together as you’re drawn upon his lap - and a small, breathy laugh from your lips. Some flutter of anticipation within you as his own hands come to steady you, taking in your flushed cheeks as he holds you firm atop him, steadying you with a hint of a smile ghosting his visage.

 Gods - you’re close to him, now; closer than you have ever been. And his clothing, fine and smelling of sage, is warm against your robed figure - intoxicating. 

“We need not wait much longer,” He murmurs now, “We’re to marry tonight.” 

As if you’d not been aware - a smile grows on your face as you shake your head. “Yet it seems so very far away.” You sigh. His eyes do not waver; and in a passing moment, a bird calls outside.

Longing falls in puffs of breath from Cregan’s wanting lips; drank in and breathed back out by your own, you shift only slightly, feeling the stutter of his breath, how his chest brushes your own with each inhale.

You both simply stare - allowed, finally, to enjoy the arresting starkness of beauty laced through your veins and his own, that sturdy, hardy northern resolve that persists in the truest of souls. 

Outside, there are preparations; household members prepare the hall - polishing the long trestle tables, setting goblets and trays. Cooks prepare a feast in the kitchens - garlands of evergreen and coltsfoot lifted to archways, Maester Kennet gathers texts and prepares the ceremony. 

The skies are calm, low swirls of snow-caught breaths fluttering up and down when boots fall upon the ground. Outside, the sun bleeds its love unto the harder layer of snow fallen during the eve previous - and you will follow that path, that leads out to the Godswood tonight. 

“You’ll have all of me soon enough,” He promises - and the tone; a deep stirring within you. 

Your eyes fall to the man you’ve known for your better life; and still he watches you, hands firm and unyielding, gaze quite the same, melted only by the breaths that come from your lips and caress his own. Love, held in communal - that is what you feel when his hand slowly slides up the ridges of your spine, his chin tilting up to where yours begins to fall, as if called upon by the same spirits.  

And slowly, shyly - as if you do not know Cregan as you know yourself, as if you do not know how he breathes, how he speaks, how he is -  you lean forward. 

His eyes flutter closed just as your own do, his fingers flexing against your waist. 

The kiss that comes is nearly tentative; gentle as it is, it still shoots through you, a deep warmth and need when his mouth presses, a test against your own. Your fingers curl, of their own volition searching nape of neck, strands dark of hair. 

His own hands, one sliding up your spine, thick arm circling you, pulling you into his orbit - and the other, resting where your hip meets the breath of thigh; a thumb, pressing just so into the divot, curling around the top of your backside, warm against the thin of your robe. Heat surrounds you when you pull away just a bit, your breaths mixing, eyes opening to flicker between each other. 

And he pulls you back to him once more, a small hum in his throat when his lips slide to part against your own. Gods - you shiver, hands grasping the thick muscled frame of his shoulder and neck, shifting to press up into him, chasing that tingling chill of hunger. 

Perhaps it is when you shift upon his lap once more, growing hot in your burgeoning desire - or perhaps when his tongue slides against your lip and you part them, coaxing him into you; he tenses, then, pulling back as muscles fall rigid under your hungry palms. 

Your fingers trace the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin. A teasing tug upon your lips, exhilarated at the blush that’s grown across his cheeks.  “Have I made you nervous, Cregan?” your lips brush, tantalizing against his.

Cregan’s hand tightens slightly on your waist, the other reaching up to cup the side of your face; his palm dwarfs your visage, thumb brushing along your cheek before pressing against the soft flesh under your jaw, coaxing you to look up just so. 

“No,” he says, though his voice has muffled itself as he brings his lips to the soft patch of skin against your throat, lips ghosting your own pounding heartbeat. Shivers of arousal through you; and a near growl as he hums, “though you have made me an impatient man.”

A thrill through you at his words - an admission rather echoed by your own sentiments, you nearly let out a small mewl at the aching desire gathering between your thighs. 

And as his teeth scrape over the junction of your neck, you tug him gently back to look at you- a dark gaze, clouded by the anticipation of your coming union, of the coming night that will be spent within each other’s arms, finally. A sunbeam wintered and frosted across his chest and yours; they rise and fall together in your shared breaths of desire. 

It’s hungry, eager when your lips once again find each other - noses sliding against each other, a sigh into your mouth. Cregan’s palms paw at your waist; and as you’re pulled tighter against his sturdy chest, the feel of his body hard beneath you sends a shiver of anticipation. 

His hair is silken under your fingers; tugging gently as you deepen your embrace, Cregan lets out a short groan into your mouth. The sound vibrates through you - an ache of arousal that bleeds through each layer of skin, clothing, tissue that separates your soul from his own. His own grip grows rather impatient when your hips seek more of such a feeling; a raw, urgent indulgence, your mind reminds you there is still a wedding to be had - that you will need to prepare for it very soon. 

The press of lips, a hot, open-mouthed trail down your jaw, your neck - and you gasp softly, your body arching into his palms. “Cregan,” your voice is a near whimper, some unspoken plea as you shift upon his lap once more. 

A grunt, his lips pulling back from your flushed flesh - and a puff of air and a tightened grip to hold you against him as he murmurs. 

“You test me, woman.”

It is a valiant effort on your part to resist a grin at the desperation laced through his breathy grunt - though you simply hum, smiling sharply. A thrill of need - breaths fall fast from your lips, spurred by the arousal that grows within his own dark stare. “Do I?” You wonder - and a stern look no more than teasing upon his visage, lips glossy with your previous kiss. 

“Every day of my life.” He grunts, then - a low tremor of restraint that begins to break with a tempered softness he holds only for you. “You know what you do.” He murmurs upon your lips, large palms reaching the expanse of your back, tugging you into him. 

With a flutter, you admit, “I do.” And how very close you are to giving in; to wait until this eve seems torture when you could simply ask him to take you right here, right now. A glance of heat between you and your soon to be husband - his breath falling upon your lips. “And do you know what you do, Cregan?” You wonder, a static of hunger spurring your hand to catch his wrist in your own grasp. 

Eyes watch with hawkish interest when you guide his hand lower, lower - he drags his rough palm over the downy satin of your robe, swallowing thickly as you press his hand the the warm, damp skin of your upper thigh. His breath is hitched - perhaps given up on a response, or rendered unable to from the heat of your flesh upon his own. 

A whisper of a curse, perhaps upon his lips - his eyes break from yours, the mountainous frame of his shoulders under your palm. It seems he has finished speaking with you - a tension has snapped, the final thread pulled; and though he teases you with a light kiss now, his fingers - they are not so patient. 

A trail - one previously led by you as you’d tugged his palm to your thigh - is slow, achingly so as his fingers slip under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, now - and he, with a rumbled voice: “Tell me. Tell me what feels good.” 

Shivers of arousal send your spine curling to seek his warmth; your hips buck just so, feeling the length of his own hunger press deliciously into you. “Cregan,” You can only murmur, and his head tilts just so. A tease - a gentle one at that, but still what you’d not expected; indeed it sends jolts of desire through your body when he hums, fingers digging just lightly into your thigh. 

“Use your words, my lady,” His voice orders you, though there is some desperation in his wanting tone, “I’ll not move until you tell me what it is you desire.” 

You've waited much too long for him to stop now, to duck and retreat merely from some pious embarrassment; and in your bout of shivered hunger, you groan. “Touch me, Cregan.” And, perhaps as a last-ditch hope he will indeed understand the extent of your desire, “I’ll do anything.” 

A guttural sound escapes from Cregan's throat - the growl of a wolf, the howl of wind through a valley; and his lips brush over your jaw teasingly soft, as if savoring the power he’s found over you despite the strain of his own hunger. He says nothing, heeding rather quickly to your request. 

Sharp gasps from you in succession when his thumb slowly presses over the pooled heat - a stolen breath or two before you let out a quiet moan, hips instinctively bucking into Cregan’s touch. 

“Easy,” And his voice is no more than a whisper, some tender coaxing as his other hand steadies your hips, drawing you into the slow-burning torturous circles he draws with his finger. It is indeed a sensation you’ve tried to explore yourself on many restless nights in these very chambers - but his fingers sturdier, calloused, gentle - and his presence, warm and loving against the bright of day. 

It is wholly too much and not enough at once, and when he shushes you gently against your lips, a shiver thrills down your spine. 

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto as the pleasure slowly burns through you - his fingers explore you, your molten heat; and his lips press warm and insistent upon yours. A slip into the depths of him; some choice warranted only by breath of desire, by the knowledge that come this evening he will be your husband and you his wife. 

His forehead falls against your own, breath uneven as you slowly buck your hips, letting his other hand guide you in a motion that sends pleasure curling around the tips of your fingers. “Wife.” 

The word spurs you; with a jolt you whimper into him, voice breaking desperately as you keen into his large palm. Your lips find the thick column of his neck - a warm smell, saged and spiced; your teeth grazing along the beat of heart upon his throat, a grumble low in his chest. 

“Husband,” You respond, though the word is strangled as one finger, dragging through your molten heat, prods at the entrance of you; with a gasp, you whimper, “please, please.” 

He hums, shifting only slightly beneath you; a whimper from you as the heel of his hand presses deliciously onto your swollen bud, tensing your thighs as you swallow dryly. 

“My sweet wife,” He repeats, brows drawn as his eyes rove over the exposed flesh revealed from your loose robe, “Tell me, how does this feel?” 

Your eyes pitch back, hair tangling in his grip around your back as you shiver, his hand pressing into your cunt - “Good,” You respond pathetically, unable to formulate any semblance of reflection when you begin to see spots of pleasure in your vision; your fingers sliding to grasp at his neck, at his hair. “I’d- I’d like more,” Your face burns at the meekness of your own tone; only in the girlish fantasies, in dreams of Cregan climbing to share your bed under a heap of furs, have you allowed yourself to consider such things falling from his mouth. 

A kiss to your throat, the nip of teeth gentle against your jaw. Perhaps, if you were any less enraptured with the thrill of his touch, you’d feel the small smirk that presses against your throat.

His breath is warm, though you nearly jolt as one finger presses slowly, languidly into you; you keen as he groans, feeling your tight warmth envelop him. 

A very slow torment as he begins to move his fingers against you - you’ve grown rather speechless in pleasure.  Eyes lidded, cheeks hot, lips parted as you watch him; and he nods smally, murmuring, “-Is this what you needed?” 

A kiss to your lips, silencing any broken response that attempts to fall from your hungry mouth, fingers curling to fist his tunic as slowly, another finger joins his first. 

His other hand, a strong grasp - he guides your hips in a slow roll that leaves you both breathless and gasping, your slow peak building after only a few moments. 

Once again, his forehead falls against yours; the uneven stutter of his breath falls against your skin as he watches you intently, eyes gauging every sound you make, each furrow of your brow in pleasure as he takes you apart. “You mustn't-” You swallow, unused to your voice laced with such desperate pleasure, “-you mustn't dare stop,” 

He dares to chuckle against your throat - a brief vibration as fingers press deeper into you, reaching the spot within that has your eyes rolling to the ceiling; you’re suddenly staring at him wide-eyed as his thumb finds your clit, and with a near whimper, you buck your hips. 

And then he pulls back slightly, his eyes locking with yours - his thumb still lazily circles over you, pushing you closer to the precipice with every pulse of heat. His countenance is more gentle, though he watches your body keen into his touch with brows furrowed and a strong inhale. 

“Tonight,” He murmurs, thumb stroking excruciating strokes over you, “I will take you as my wife, and you will take me as your husband.” 

You’re nearing the very edge of bliss, muscles rigid, his voice low and thick as you buck against him. “We will finally have each other. Completely.” He promises, his stormed eyes never leaving yours. It mounts such pleasure; your eyes flicker to the armoire, wondering how he might use his strength later this evening to rid you of the gown’s intricacies; how his touch might burn you - how your touch might burn him. 

How he might sound, as he finally pushes inside of you - taking you, as you’ve so yearned for him to; how you might one day be gifted by the Gods and swollen with his babe, round and glowing. How he might give you many children, and they will be rooted with the same fierce durability, same gentleness, the same love their parents have forged their whole lives. 

Shivers down your spine as Cregan’s hand cants your jaw to face him once more, cradling your flushed cheek as his fingers take you apart so easily - so intimately, so knowing. 

How could it ever be anybody else? 

And that gentleness, so at odds with the raw need in his touch, so known by you - he, so known by you - each slow stroke of his fingers within you, dragging pleasure in waves. He says your name and it echoes in the pounding of your heart.

“Tonight, I will make certain that you feel all of me.”

You’re helpless at the pleasure he’s built - his thumb moves with a maddening precision as you clutch him, sage and pine and wildflowers and love; your lips part with a moan, the last threads of control loose.

“Do you wish for that?” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just slightly harder, sending a fresh wave of heat through you as you desperately try to stave off your crest if only in hopes he will never cease the words that fall from his honeyed lips. “Have you yearned for it, every night as I have?” 

You are unable to respond as his words and ministrations bring you to your crest of pleasure, shuttering as your body bends into your peak. He grunts when your hand tugs at his tresses; though his hand does not cease as your cunt clenches around him, pleasure swirling and clouding your mind. “Yes,” you moan out finally, ecstasy pulsing through you as his lips trail over your jaw with jagged breaths. 

His name, pressed from your lips into his heated skin as he guides you slowly through your wave. “Cregan,” You exhale breathlessly, lips pressing to his skin as you begin to fall from your peak, aftershocks tremoring through you. 

His hand, leaving your hip to soothe up your spine - and an awakening of hunger when he presses you against the hard line of his own arousal; a shiver at the craving hunger it awakes within you. 

Your legs have lost their tight rigidity; you are rather slumped within his grasp, the afterwave of your peak rendering you rather sensitive. His fingers slide out of you slowly, and you watch with parted lips as he brings his hand between your heaving chests. 

A hunger rekindled when his fingers slide past his own lips, a grunt as he tastes you upon his tongue; and a whimper from yourself involuntary and helpless, unable to do anything more than pant in desire. He must see the hidden desire, as he grows merciful - with a slow motion he drags his thumb, to you - and slicked with yourself, over your bottom lip. 

Your taste on your own tongue - earthy, mountain thyme and desire - sends a shiver of unknown desire through you - never in your darkest, impurest desires could you have imagined Cregan here, as he presses his thumb past your parted lips and upon the flat of your tongue. You stir against him and his breath hitches; a promise of the eve to come as he pulls his hand away from you. 

It is upon his lap, with his arms around the bend of your spine, that you rest - within the heart of Winterfell’s castle come clangings, shouts of merriment as the beginning of the celebrations are set. 

Your cheek upon his shoulder, his head against yours as you both relish the small bit of solitude you’ll have before you rejoin finally within your marital chambers this evening. 

And, as it came, the day advances once more. 

Your heartbeats have slowed, though his arousal is a present reminder pressed against the soft of your inner thigh; he presses his lips to your temple, emitting a reluctant sigh. 

“I regret to leave you.” 

You knew it would come; though you mind not, for in only a few hours, you will be with him once more. 

“-but there are preparations yet to be made.” His fingers trace a gentle path along your neck - similar in devotion and exploration as the one you trail over his sturdy chest. 

A playful thought crosses your mind as you consider him returning to his own chambers to prepare for your wedding: “Will you be shaving before the wedding, my Lord?”

Cregan's brow arches - perhaps at your use of his title or the question itself, as he inquires in response, “Would you prefer I do?” 

You beam at him, cheeks heating in memory of the first time he’d asked you if you’d prefer he shave: No older than ten-and-four, when he’d returned from the Wall with his Lord father and you’d faked horror at the sight of the stubble gracing his young visage for the first time. He’d not listened to you then, though you were rather boisterous and impressionable as a young girl.  

Much has changed. 

“Yes,” You decide after a moment. He grins at you and it sends your heart into a race, his hand pulling your inner wrist up to his lips. 

“Then it is done,” He decides, stubble tickling your soft skin as he presses a chaste kiss to your wrist. “I will call your handmaids back, if you wish.” 

A gentle nod from you and he presses a kiss to your warm cheek, returning to his full height and setting your rather unstable legs onto the stone floor. 

“I will see you this eve, my love.” he promises; your heart flutters at the term.

And after one last kiss to your knuckles, you watch him shut the oak doors of your chambers - the wind howls down the slopes outside, though Winterfell shines cold and unstirred. In the distance, the bleeding leaves of the heart tree shimmer, spreading a warmth through your chest as you slowly ease yourself back into the tub, waiting for the maidens to return and begin the preparations. 

Birds chirp outside; there is already a new signet and silver wax prepared and sitting upon your desk - it boasts the sigil of the Direwolf. It is forever yours.

taglist/moots ; @softspiderling @cregan-starks @useralba @dipperscavern @benjinotes @earth4angels @nightfyres @astrxq @oldtowrs @ficlovegirlie @sanzuandmikey @dozcan123 @inkandarsenic @writtenapoiogy @vee-mage @xxselenite @cregnstark @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @hxtd @divinesolas @bucksplum @manhandlememando @housetargaryenloyalist @v3lary0ns

[sordidmusings]

do you think mihawk would go through the 7 stages of grief when he catches feelings for someone or would he be a self-aware king and just shrug and accept it?

On a scale from One to Death, how pained is Mihawk about falling in love?

Pairing: Mihawk x GN Reader

Form this took: non-bulleted headcanon!

Word Count: ~730

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Mihawk actually continually creates new stages of grief in his unmoving stance to Pretend Everything’s Fine.

He’s not in love with you, he just has every bit of info on your likes, dislikes, and stories tucked away in his memory for convenience. He didn’t even consciously decide to do that actually. It’s just a fluke or maybe it was because it’s all such easy info to remember; it’s certainly not because all that information has special importance. It’s most definitely not because you look at him with such joy and gratitude every time you realize that he’s remembered something about you. Nor is it how beautifully his heart aches when your face glows with appreciation and affection for him.

He’s helping you out because your skills are disappointing, not because he sees you as a being of boundless potential. It has nothing to do with the pride he finds in each stride you make, whether by his guiding or your own breakthroughs. Nothing at all to do with how, day by day, he finds it more precious to watch you grow than the beloved gardens surrounding his castle.

His restlessness and temper when you’re gone are only because he has to take over all the tasks you do at the castle. Of course he’s not happy having unnecessary things out back on his plate, it was so much better being able to hand off half of those so he has time for the things that are important. Like swordsmanship and your shared hours to end each day. He doesn’t miss you bugging him all of the time; he can take care of himself without your drop ins to bring him water and snacks, or calls that dinner’s ready, or excited recommendations for books he always ends up enjoying, or observations on all the inane things around you (he obviously sees everything and it’s not better sharing them and a present existence with you, nope), or the rare occasions you speak your worry for his dour and lonely life that cut right to the heart of him. Those are what he misses the absolute least; he’s used to being called cold and heartless and alone, he doesn’t need you saying it but worse - noticing the heartlessness is unfortunately a lie, that there’s been something raw and painful festering in him for years, kept far from where anyone can touch and exhausting him of life’s pretenses.

He has no hope that you could possibly help fix that (just as much as you’re a balm for that wound, closeness to you rips it wide open).

There will have to be some change to your routine dancing around each other for him to accept his feelings for you and become that self-aware king instead of the willfully-ignorant peasant. This could be a threat of you leaving, likely not in you giving him that ultimatum but in more gradual ways that circumstance usually does. Maybe you begin to get into your head that he’ll never have feelings for you, and in your acceptance of that you begin to seek other hearts to share. Maybe you run from the depths of your own emotions for him, slowly shifting your life to be less and less at the castle, seeking opportunities that will take you to further seas.

Or maybe life does throw you both a much more drastic cause for change - an explosive argument when you seek a new love, or you unloading all your worry for him and fears that he is heartless while he’s frozen stiff, or him knowing the deep fear of not having you in his life in any capacity when your life is almost taken. Regardless of the cause, once he does acknowledge his feelings, he will absolutely act on it. He is a man of drive and dedication after all.

Now Mihawk is a lucky son of a bitch because it is very likely that you don’t know for a fact he has any interest in you until the Cool and Confident stage kicks in. He’d be mortified if you ever found out how desperately he tried to patch the dam in him that barely kept his overflowing interest, affection, and adoration at bay.

I hope you do find out because that needs to be held over his head for the rest of his life and then some 👌🏻

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

For my lil milestone celebration here 🤍 come ask!

Thank you for your question anon❣️ the phrasing had me cackling it was too good 💀 I hope you enjoyed!! Sending love and hugs

[ladykailitha]

The latest in the Steddie brain rot, so you now those crossword thingies where they say the first three words use see are x (your love life for the next year, your new year's resolutions, stuff like that)?

There was one for fan fiction, the words I saw were enemies to lovers, historical, and time travel.

I'd link to it but FB refreshed and I lost it.

But buckle up, babes, we're going in for a ride.

Hawkins has always been hell. There was no denying that. Eddie in 1983 isn't sure he's going to graduate high school. Yes, he knows it's only October, but school really sucks.

All the bullshit with his dad and trying to make life suck just a little less, he accidentally stumbles on a Gate. But not to the Upside Down. At least monsters he handle (not really, but he's trying to be brave), but snobbish upper class in the middle ages? Yeah, that's going to be a problem.

Like he knows how to talk and how to act, he's be researching the hell out of that stuff since he was a kid.

He doesn't know how to get back , so he kinda wings it and becomes a traveling minstrel. Like it pays decently enough and people will talk to him.

Then he hears of a little princeling who hasn't smiled since his mother died and King Richard is willing to pay a handsome sum to whoever can make the prince smile.

Eddie decides to take up the challenge. If he can get into court, then he have more of ear to the ground to be able to get back to his own time.

The initial audition does NOT go well. The king doesn't like him and the prince is in different.

So Eddie runs his mouth. It really should have gotten him killed or at least thrown in jail, he calls the prince a couple of rather choice insults. And holy fuck, the Prince smirks.

It's not a smile, it should have not counted as one. But the king does. He tells Eddie, now named suitably Edwin (yes he knows his parents named him Edward, but Edwin seemed older somehow), that he now has 30 days to turn that smirk into a real smile as that is when the ball for the Prince to chose his bride and he can NOT have a dour son.

Eddie gets thrown into the Prince's room and is told to stay there until after the ball.

And now he's pissed. That was not the plan. He needs to find a way to get back home. To running water, heated buildings, and flushing toilets.

Dressing up is one thing, D&D is another, but this is Hell. What he wouldn't give to go back to the hellscape that was Hawkins High.

The prince he's learns is named Stephan, so piss him off Eddie calls him Stevie.

The two are hostile to each other. Steve doesn't want the ball, he doesn't want to laugh or smile. He wants to mourn his mother in peace, thank you very much. Which pisses Eddie off. He didn't get the luxury of mourning his mom, and he was much younger than Steve. Dude is nearly twenty. Grow up.

They start snapping and sniping at each other. But close proximity to each other starts to wear off their sharper edges, and they learn to tolerate each other, then like each other.

Then just two days before the deadline, Eddie makes Steve laugh. The King is overjoyed and now Eddie feels terrible. He forgot the price to be paid for making Steve was laugh was to lose him.

As he's packing up to go, a duchess named Eleanor slips into his room and tells him she knows he's from the future and she knows how to get him back. He needs to stay at the castle. So she "hires" him as her personal bard.

Steve is surprised and happy to know that he's still around. The ball comes and he's introduced to a lot of beautiful, rich, well connected women. Lady Christine from France, Duchess Tamera from Russia, Countess Annaka from Germany, and Marchioness Martina of Italy. (Am I borrowing from my other medieval story? Maybe a little. Shush!)

Steve is forced to wait on these women hand and foot, all the while his cousin, the Thomas, the Duke of Hagan is cozying up to King Richard, making an all to obvious bid for the throne.

Lady Eleanor has figured out how to get Eddie home, but Eddie doesn't want to leave without Steve, so he tells him who he really is. Steve wants to believe him , but it's so fantastical.

He starts packing up a bunch of his clothes, his mom's jewelry, and some trinkets from his past that he wants to keep. He has about three bags full and Eddie is getting antsy.

Steve runs into Lady Christine and tells her he's running away and she can either move to the side, or he's going to have to tie her up and gag her. Because he will not be stopped.

She winks at him and runs to the opposite direction Eddie and Steve are going and starts screaming there is an intruder in the castle.

All the guards go rushing to her, leaving the path Steve and Eddie need to travel free.

They get to the gate and Lady Eleanor shoves an scroll into Steve's hand, telling him that all she asks in payment is that when the time comes, when meets a little girl named Jane, with extraordinary powers to give her the scroll. It will help her end the troubles once and for all.

They jump through the gate and they land in the forest behind Forest Hills, just three days from when Eddie left.

Eddie does not graduate that year, because he's too busy teaching his boyfriend modern life and dealing with actual fucking monsters, who knew?

Steve gives Eleven the scroll when he learns her real name is Jane and she has so many questions, but with the information Lady Eleanor gave her, she can completely collapse the entire system. Return it to just a place where nightmares come from and not actually evil.

It takes a lot of effort and some major team ups, but she does it. The Upside Down is no more.

Eddie keeps asking Steve what he's going to with the stuff he brought with him, until Steve sells one of the trinkets to a museum and gets serious money from it. Steve explains that historians are the same no matter the era. You show them something that will blow theories out of the water and they will eat that shit up.

And they live happily ever after.

A lot of museums come calling but after learning about vaults hundreds of feet below their building, hiding treasures from the world out of greed, he will only sell to earnest collectors and small well funded museums that he in turn donates to.

Steve also learns Thomas and Christine married but he died shortly procuring an heir and she took over as regent making her the best queen they ever had.

[arlequinelunaire]

Verthandi in the Middle Ch. 1.1

SV Next>

CW: The first couple of chapters involve a serial killer.

_ _ _

Because I’m the one who gets stuck with the serial killer, aren’t I?

…Okay, guess I should back up. Long story short, short-ish anyway, I go by Vera Norin, well down here I do. I’m one of the three owners, okay, one of the only three employees of the Wyrd Sisters Agency in Stockholm. Says a lot that my older sister Ruth told us we’d all have equal say, but then named the agency after herself. Er, after one of her alternate names.

Put simply, we control fate. No, we don’t just see your fate like a fortune teller, and unlike them we’re the real thing. Control it. Wanna go from rags to riches with us as your fairy godmothers, send someone you don’t like from riches to rags, or avoid your appointed death? Arranged all that and more thousands of times, and big sister Ruth even gets to control the past. Because of course she gets everything.

Er, guess I’m not being much of a saleswoman here, am I? Hey, I’m still the best of my sisters in that department, probably. Like Ruth would just tell you a bunch of flowery mythic-mystic bullshit before getting to anything important, while my little sister Svea would just prefix everything with ‘SUPER-’, ‘AWESOME-’, and ‘EPIC-’ and add a whole bunch of exclamation marks and a digi-cyber-guitar solo. Wait no, not epic, nobody says epic that way anymore, unless they start doing that again in the future when it’s retro. Huh, you’d think Svea of all people would know the actual meaning of the word ‘epic’, given we were there when the old sagas were being written. Then again, the past is Ruth’s domain- oh shit, I’m giving too much away, aren’t I?

Right, I take it you’re thinking if we’ve got power over fate itself, why are we letting mere humans have a say with this agency? Er, fellow mere humans, I mean. Simple, come the 21st century, someone as stuck in the past as Ruth has finally learned about democracy, and not just the barely-counts Ancient Greek kind. If we’re gonna hold this much power over people’s lives, the least we can do is actually give those people a say in things. That’s part of why I’m sharing this with all of you. Not that there aren’t conditions and restrictions of course, we’re still judge and jury, been doing this for millennia- ah, for years after all. Though I assure you, Ruth’s just as strict with us as she is with you, way more so. She’s had thousands of years to hammer into us “You can’t do that”, “Such is unbefitting of us”, “No using your power for your own gain” and on and on.

Okay, what’s this about me getting assigned a serial killer then? It started when a bunch of teens, you know the type, pimply, dour-faced, arms perpetually crossed, would’ve worn baseball caps backwards in past decades, lurched their way right into our office. “Wait, this is the place? Thought a ‘fate-writing’ place would be all dark and spooky, y’know all haunted castle. But this looks like where my parents work,” one of them whined.

“Fate-weaving, kid,” I muttered. Actually, we were still renting this basic white walled, brown carpeted office, and this kid reminding me of that got him on my nerves even more. Granted, freedom to decorate would give Ruth full reign to make everything all lacey and doily-draped and Svea to put spikes everywhere and drown it all in black paint. I shuddered at the thought. But speaking of her, “Svea, you know these guys?” I called out, since they were about high school age. Not that there’s only one high school in Stockholm, but eh, no harm in asking.

“Awesome, you guys saw my flyers!” Svea’s voice rang out all through the room. Which at least showed I was right, even if my ears throbbed. She ran up to them dressed in the exact opposite attire your standard office would demand. With her black hair uneven, leather coat clearly too big for her, knee-high combat boots ringed with spikes, it showed restraint that she didn’t enter the room to a guitar riff. Of course, I showed up to work in my usual anorak and jeans, and Ruth normally arrives in full Victorian garb, so we’re hardly any better. “Alright, so what can Verth and I do for you guys? Anything fate-related, that’s us!” Svea said with an ear-to-ear smile and both thumbs up.

“…Yeah, knew the loudmouth to be behind this. The handwriting on that ad was so bad, couldn’t be anyone but her,” one teen said, rolling his eyes. Huh, since when did stroppy teens care so much about handwriting? Oh yeah, as an excuse to bully Svea they do, though it looked like that remark only got a twitch out of her, on the surface anyway.

“So, if you people really can control fate,” another of the teens began as a smirk crept across his face, with me facepalming at what he said next, “Prove it by making the hottest girl in class fall desperately in love with me.”

“Not happening,” I wasted zero time in telling him. There was no way I’d risk Ruth coming into the room and hearing that one of her biggest rules was in danger of breaking. “We can weave what a person does or what happens to them into their fate, but not how they feel about it. Emotions are a person’s own domain.” It’s a testament to how much Ruth drilled those words into us that I could repeat them on the spot.

“Pfft, sounds to me like you can’t ‘weave fates’ after all,” that teen had to say, his smirk somehow even wider. “Or that hearing about hot girls reminds you how plain and drab you are, anorak,” he snickered like he thought I couldn’t hear, I then winced as Svea snickered with him. The little shit was so lucky that I was in a professional service environment right now and so couldn’t just deck him. Though any more talk like that, and he may find fate has decreed for him quite a few fists to the face. Or worse, decreed for him a life in retail.

“Hey, we can still do a whole bunch of stuff. Like with my domain, I get to decide who lives and who dies-” Svea began, before I put my hand right over her mouth.

“Oh no, you’re not putting that power in these losers’ hands,” I hissed in her ear. And on top of… the obvious, did she have to use the term ‘domain’? I then turned to the brats and told them, “How about sticking to your own fates, okay?”

But then one of them, an even more morbid type who’d been slinking in the shadows so far, had to ask, “What if you fated someone who really deserved it to die? Like a serial killer.”

Now that had me thinking. Obviously there’s been debate after debate on if killing someone can ever be justified, even the oh so brutal Viking Age still had Althing meetings over this sort of thing. On the other hand, like I’d shed the slightest tear over the death of a serial killer. On the other other hand, I was in no mood to become a bunch of snotty teens’ own assassin for hire, let alone foist that on Svea.

So I wussed out and went the rehabilitation route, how Scandinavian-justice-system of me. “How about we just fate it so that they never succeed in killing anyone again?” I offered. Naturally, I said that before knowing who and how bad this serial killer even was. Of course, Svea promptly frowned right at me.

“Fine. Just as long as, y’know, you actually do something involving fate already,” the first teen said. “Oh right, and that you don’t charge too much, we’ve been here long enough.”

Long enough? Since when’s a few minutes ‘long enough’? Not that I can’t sympathise with being strapped for cash, as Ruth won’t let us fate-weave ourselves rich since we ‘can’t use fate-weaving for own advantage’. But at the same time, who the Hel’s this kid to tell us how to run our business? Still, a compromise came to mind as I smirked back at him, “Our price is the satisfaction we get when you all concede that we really do control fate. How’s that?”

“Deal,” the teens said in unison, their faces still sour. Hey, I’d be happy to get this whole thing over with too. The one in the shadows then kept scrolling on their phone until they went, “Yeah, this guy looks like the right candidate.”

“Wait, you mean you didn’t have an actual killer in mind till just now?” I asked them, mouth agape. Just when I thought these teens couldn’t annoy me more. And they flat out ignored what I just said and held the phone up to my face. “Anastasios, surname unknown, the ‘Scarecrow’ killer,” I read. So named for his scrawny, nigh skeletal looks and the way he ties up his victims. Main stalking ground is… all the way down in Athens? These kids were absolutely sure they didn’t pick this guy at random? Then again, a serial killer’s a serial killer, and I like to think I’m more principled about death than Svea. “You got it, this guy’s killing days are done for. Check the news for any more reports on him if you don’t believe us,” I said with a smirk of my own. “Oh, and when that happens, make sure you tell all your friends just how wrong you were about us. Now scram.” Not the best thing to tell your customers, but Ruth wasn’t around, so as if I cared at this point.

“You mean you’re not gonna let us see your actual fate-writing, weaving, whatever process?” one of them had to blurt out.

This again. “Look, a nuclear plant isn’t gonna let you hang around radiation, we’re not gonna let clients hang around the destiny threads. They’re the whole of a person’s time on this Earth, maximum caution required. Now scram,” I said as I shoved them one by one out the door. Hel, ‘scram’ was me holding back, my first instinct was to tell them ‘Fuck off’. Then again, scram is what you say to kids, too Sesame Street reminiscent, while fuck off is what you say to adults, and I didn’t fancy treating them like that.

Then the second I’d dusted my hands of them, I turned around to see Ruth as prim and proper as a 19th century nanny staring right back me into my soul. Oh come on, I didn’t even hear her come in. Well, that’s typical for her, why announce your presence when you could make your sisters fear you’re always watching? “Vera,” she said looking down at me, like that word was all she needed to say.

“Hey, it’s just us three now, you do know you can use my real name?” I said first, then actually replied to what she’d implied with, “And I’m doing my job. I kept putting up with those kids till we reached an agreement, and now we’re gonna change fate per their request. What more do you want?”

“For you to start treating our customers with respect, to begin with. It would not do for our business to be saddled with a bad reputation,” Ruth said as she loomed closer over me. She then placed a hand on Svea’s shoulder as she kept chewing me out, “And in addition, you insulted the very customers your little sister invited. Think about how she must feel, after she put in all the hard work of advertising.”

I was about to point out to Ruth that, had she not shown up at the last minute, she would’ve heard these kids insulting Svea too. But as the future’s not my domain, I’d failed to foresee that Svea would betray me. “Oh yes, Verth was really mean, and to me too. She kept telling me no when I had any idea about how to give our clients what they wanted,” Svea said as she ‘cried’ at Ruth.

“Because Svea wanted to let teenagers order a guy’s death,” I hissed. Don’t know why I did, because if Ruth didn’t ignore me, she probably would’ve manufactured some excuse to defend Svea. Anything for the ‘baby’ of the family. So I then said, “Hey, we’re the only fate-weaving business on Midgard, in all the Realms even,” …as far as I knew, “We’re the last people who need to be worried about customers leaving for the competition.”

Ruth sighed down at me. “We know that, but they do not. To those more superstitious, any charlatan with cards and a crystal ball could be just as valid as we. To those more skeptical, we could be yet more quacks. We cannot afford to drive away clients, Vera. And even if we could, such behaviour would still be utterly unprofessional,” she said through gritted teeth. Then she softened her voice and used my real name, “Verthandi, as the past is not your domain, I don’t know how well you remember this. But in the Eddas, in all the Sagas too, any time our names were said, it was in fear or hatred, and that was when they chose to acknowledge us at all. The last thing I want is for that same fear and hatred to follow us into the 21st century. And that is why manners matter,” she huffed as her voice shot back up to its normal volume.

“…I know,” is all I said to her about our, well, past infamy. I seethed at her thinking all those things said about us didn’t still hurt me. I mean I get it, if you hear someone else controls your fate, it makes sense you’d be resentful of them. But I never asked to be shat on just for doing my job.

Though now she mentions it, if restoring our rep’s so important, doesn’t us using aliases defeat the whole point? Especially when they’re so paper-thin anyway, though I was at least grateful not to get stuck with the proposed ‘Bertha’.

Oh, and since Ruth had just ‘wrecked’ me, Svea of course had to stick her tongue out and pull down an eyelid at me. Yeah, that’s ‘manners’. And how is Svea going ‘killing is totally awesome’ not as harmful to our reputation as me saying a swear word to some kids? “Let’s just weave this fate already,” I settled on.

Guess it’s no use still trying to hide who we are, huh? Even Ruth’s gone and used my real name. Right, I’m Verthandi, Norn of Present Time. And if you’ve so much as squinted at a Norse mythology book, I take it you’ve figured out Ruth’s Urth of the Past and Svea’s Skuld of the Future. Told you our aliases were flimsy. We’re the Nornir and we’re, er, hard to describe, and that’s coming from one of them. We’re not goddesses, let’s make that clear, even if we do have to hang out with them. Urth tells us we’re Jotnar, which gets translated as ‘giants’ despite her only being six foot four, Skuld being a shrimp, and me being average as always. Yeah, you can argue the exact difference between Jotnar and Gods is pretty flimsy, but trust me, you really don’t want to compare the two to their faces.

Of course, my domain being the Present and not the Past means my memory’s kinda hazy, so I only have Urth’s word for it that I even am a Jotun. Hel, I don’t even know my own parents, think I heard Dad’s someone called Mogthrasir? He’s a real deadbeat, whoever he is. But I guess Urth’s telling the truth, like what would she have to gain from saying we’re Jotnar specifically?

Anyway, the fate-weaving. The three of us walked over to a corridor as bland and unfurnished as the foyer, till we came to a door no mortals could see. Or at least, they better not see, if all the runes we scribbled on it are working right. Our local fate-weaving room… how to even describe it? Have you heard of a tesseract, you know, a four-dimensional cube? Picture a whole cavern of four-dimensional spiderwebs, where each dewdrop reflects a moment from someone’s life, from big things like birth, graduation, and death, to the smaller stuff like that one time traffic was real bad, or it rained when the forecast said it’d be sunny. These webs of fate are also this room’s sole light source, with a person’s past shining white, their future shrouded in hazy black, and their present a smushed pallet. Or so it looks like to me anyway, if my sisters see their domains differently they’ve told me squat. Though I think Skuld wouldn’t want her domain to be any other colour than black, like her soul~.

While we didn’t have any super strong leads, knowing some basic information on this killer did help in tracking down his specific thread of fate. As Skuld and I approached the threads, our hands as usual morphed themselves into instruments akin to a spider’s pincers. Yet another reason we don’t humans watch us fate-weave, they’d be sent screaming seeing us turn semi-arachnid. Still, it’d help a lot if I could actually use an opposable thumb for all the tricky, obnoxiously precise bits.

I got to plucking out all the murders the Scarecrow killer ever would’ve committed from this point; I suppose I should’ve felt disturbed seeing them but well, I’m thousands of years old. I may not have the best memory, but the seriously bleak things from the past are all too good at sticking in the mind. Meanwhile, Skuld got the even more laborious job of lengthening all the threads of his future victims, now their fated deaths had changed. And all the while, Urth just… stood in the corner. Watching us do all the work.

“We are tampering with the web of fate enough,” Urth told me as soon as I glared at her, “Were I to get involved and rewrite the fates of his past victims, we don’t know how drastically we would complicate the web.” Which yeah, was exactly the response I expected. Again, alive for thousands upon thousands of years, I can’t fathom how many times she’s told me that. Although, makes sense we couldn’t show those kids we’re the real thing if the killer never even got to kill in the first place. “Not to mention-”

“The gods of the dead don’t like us taking those who’ve already died back from them, I know,” I said. Though it wasn’t like those three could afford to lose a soul or two, especially Odin. I then dusted my hands and said, “Anyway, we’ve got all these fates sorted. Let’s hope our next client asks us for something more pleasant.” And has more money to throw around.

“Oh no, we are not done yet,” Urth said as she looked right at me again. “You’re to watch over this Scarecrow to see how he reacts to having his capacity to kill taken away.”

“What? Why?” I asked, as I instantly assumed she was having me do this out of spite. “We know he’s not gonna kill any more, so what’s the point?”

“Yeah, and how come Verth gets to meet a serial killer and not me?” Skuld had to ask.

“Because Verthandi, you should know by now that the consequences for reweaving fate are nothing you should ignore. And seeing the reweaved in person is to remind you that these are fates of people we deal with, not dolls,” Urth told me, then turned to Skuld and said, “Skuld dear, I will absolutely not let you meet a serial killer. It simply isn’t healthy for you.”

“Why isn’t it?” I actually found myself coming to Skuld’s defence for once. “We can’t weave ourselves into his or anyone’s fate, but even then he still can’t kill her. Can’t kill the future after all. Not to mention some gods she’s met are way worse than serial killers,” I felt the need to keep my voice low for that line.

“Yeah, so lemme meet the killer. Why does Verth get all the fun?” Skuld kept whining.

“Verthandi, this is your little sister you are talking about!” Urth snapped at me. She then steadied herself with a deep breath and said, “Besides, while he may not be able to kill her, there are still plenty of awful things, physical and mental, he could still try on her.” Then she turned around and went, “Skuld, why don’t you and I go out for ice-cream instead? Maybe we can bring your hoverboard to the park?”

Oh, so suddenly those ‘awful things’ are okay when I’m the one in the crosshairs, are they? Yeah, Skuld’s stuck in permanent adolescence, but she’s still been in existence since, like, forever. Though I could immediately imagine Urth replying to that with ‘as have you’.

But if I said all that, it turned out Skuld wouldn’t have my back anyway, as she instantly said, “Ooh, ice cream!”

By the way, if you wonder why we make Skuld go to school even though she’s an immortal, well, one part that permanent adolescence, her being future potential embodied, but also Urth’s whole ‘gotta know the people’ thing. Everything I’d heard about school just made me glad Skuld got stuck with the Future and not me.

With me left with nothing but to groan, I followed Urth out into the scrubby patch that passed for our backyard. There, she picked up a rune-adorned old clay jug of water and held it aloft in the air. Everything shook as a massive, twisting root came down from out of the sky to drink from it. That’s our other job, attending the World Tree Yggdrasill. Well, ‘Yggdrasill’ is just what it’s called now, after Odin hanged himself from it. Its real name is… huh, I don’t think I even know. Maybe Urth does, but if she did she’d probably find some excuse not to tell me.

Anyway, even a root this size was still a minor root for Yggdrasill, nowhere near the three big ones, but it’d do for my assignment. “Ah, the Norns, what can I do for you today?” the tree’s personal squirrel chirped as he scurried his way down the branch, his alien green eyes letting you know this wasn’t your standard red squirrel. Well, that and the little reporter's hat and jacket he was wearing. And the voice thing.

“Nornir,” Urth had to correct, as if the fuzzball at all cared.

“I just need a lift to Athens, Ratatosk. That’s all,” I told him quick. I was about to tell him not to dump me on the outskirts, but knowing my luck that would probably be where the killer’s hiding.

“Why, you three already bombing in Stockholm?” he had to say. Him being the only one amused, and then having to dodge a can thrown by Skuld, he followed with, “Okay okay, your ride to Athens is ready. All aboard.”

I then took hold of the end of the root, and with that was pulled through creation all the way from Europe’s north to its south. Nothing I hadn’t done a bunch before, but I could only imagine how terrifying the experience would be for a regular human, especially for their arm.

And now you know all about how I got assigned to babysit a former serial killer. Here’s hoping he won’t be too much of a headache to deal with in person, I could use less of those in my life.

[ladytanithia]

WIP whenever tf

I've had practically nothing in progress writing-wise in ages. Lost my mojo. But I'm trying to get back into a groove. Not happy with how I've done BLP so far, so I'm rewriting it, from the beginning, and incorporating Miranja's journal into it.

However, this scene from Out of the Ashes came up in a conversation the other day, and OotA technically still counts as a WIP, since it's not finished (dammit - NONE of the parts of Miranja's story is truly finished!). So I figured what the hell. It's been a long time since I had any writing to share, and this is one of the best scenes to really show how Miranja's mind works. Not even any sex here. <gasp!>

Tagging friends whose writing I've been enjoying whilst not producing anything myself. @dirty-bosmer @lillxart @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter @theoneandonlysemla I hope you enjoy it.

It was just about eight o’clock in the evening when they arrived back in Solitude. Before doing anything else, Miranja went directly to Castle Dour.

Tullius was sitting on the bench in the corner by the enchanting table in the foyer. Miranja had gone straight to the war room looking for him, hadn’t found him, had checked his bedroom, still hadn’t found him, and had backtracked to the front door before he finally spoke to her and drew her attention.

“Looking for me, Auxiliary?”

Surprised, Miranja turned toward the sound of his voice and approached him.

“Yes, sir. Here’s the Jagged Crown. Legate Rikke sent me to deliver it to you.” She handed over the Crown, and Tullius took it and turned it in his hands, examining it with interest as he replied.

“Excellent work, soldier. I have to admit, I had my doubts it even existed. Did you run into any trouble?”

Tears filled Miranja’s eyes, but she kept a stiff upper lip. Teldryn’s hand in the middle of her back certainly helped give her fortitude.

“We lost a lot of good men. I hope it was worth it.” Tullius didn’t need to know that she was also talking about the Stormcloaks who died.

“That’s not for you to decide, soldier. I wouldn’t have sent you in the first place if it wasn’t going to be worth it.”

Miranja’s pride stung at those words, while at the same time, her sense of justice was offended. She was the gods-damned Dragonborn, as well as a Thane in this hold, and she had become largely unaccustomed to people talking down to her. And in her opinion, this stupid war wasn’t worth the loss of ANY people, if you got right down to brass tacks. No one should be dying over what she felt was a deeply personal religious issue. It was tantamount in her mind to killing people for what they did in their own bedrooms.

“You seem to forget who you’re speaking to, General. May I be candid with you, sir?”

“By all means, Auxiliary. Let’s hear it.” There was a challenge in his voice and in the way he jutted out his chin.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t like you very much.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Tullius replied indifferently. He rose and brushed past her to carry the crown into the war room. “I’m not here to win popularity contests. I’m here to keep the Dominion out of Skyrim, and to quell this dissention.”

Miranja followed him, and Teldryn tagged along quietly behind her. “The Dominion is already in Skyrim, whether you want to admit it or not. I pass Thalmor on the road every day taking Stormcloak prisoners to gods-know-where to do gods-know-what to them. The only reason I don’t kill them is that I don’t want a bounty on my own head.”

“Wise choice,” Tullius acknowledged briefly, but added, “Think what you want, Auxiliary. It could be much worse.”

“I’m sure it could. I just want you to know that I think you’re a cold, insensitive…” She hesitated for a moment, searching for a milder word than ‘asshole.’ “…jerk. I wonder if you have a compassionate bone in your body, and if you really care about the people of Skyrim at all.”

Tullius’ face darkened with anger. “Listen up, Auxiliary. I’m here to do a job. Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I have family back in Cyrodiil who I love and miss terribly. I’ve been in Skyrim longer than I ever wanted to be. I’m doing what I’m paid to do, what I believe is for the greater good in the long run. I hope that’s also what you’re doing, why you joined the Legion in the first place.”

“Of course it is,” Miranja glowered back. “But I’d like to think I’m going about it in a more personal, compassionate way. I’m not sitting in a fancy castle ordering everyone else around. I’m on the ground, learning about the people and helping them in more ways than just killing Stormcloaks and getting Imperial soldiers killed.”

“Well, good for you,” Tullius replied with overt sarcasm. “Imperial Generals don’t have that luxury. I didn’t get to my station in life by being compassionate.”

“That may be so, General, but it’s obvious you’re not particularly happy. And there’s no reason to take it out on others. You chose your path.”

“And you chose yours when you joined the Legion, Auxiliary. You can either follow orders or take up residence in the Solitude prison. Which will it be?”

She was sick of being addressed as a title. “My name is Miranja. Miranja Laurentius. And I will follow orders, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You’re absolutely right, Miranja. We all have to do things we don’t like to bring about things we do like.” He stopped and regarded her with a scrutinizing look, as Miranja stared back with some surprise at his unknowing echoing of her father’s words.

“You said your name was Laurentius?”

“Yes.” She didn’t bother with the ‘sir.’

“Your father was in the Legion, wasn’t he?”

“Yes… sir.” Where was he going with this?

“Ah, yes, I see the resemblance now. I worked with your father briefly in Hammerfell some twenty-five years or more ago. I remember him because he had the same bleeding heart and lack of respect that you do.”

“I’m proud of my father and his work for the underprivileged,” Miranja said, jutting out her chin as Tullius had earlier. “And both my father and I give respect where it’s due. We just feel morally compelled to point out injustice regardless of who’s perpetrating it, and that includes the Empire.”

“Well, his soft heart is what kept him from advancing past Captain. He could have been a general himself, if he’d been tougher.”

“My father and I don’t measure success by titles and wealth. We measure our riches and our station in life by the happiness we create and the love we give and receive. My father retired a happy, peaceful man, and he’s still bringing joy to those around him and earning respect for his deeds.”

“Well, that’s a heartwarming story, Auxiliary, and your opinions are duly noted, but it’s time we got back to business.”

Miranja heaved a resigned sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, then spoke tiredly. “Very well, sir. What’s next?”

“I need someone I can trust to deliver a message of great import to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have it on good authority that Ulfric has raised enough men to attack the city of Whiterun. The Jarl, however, refuses the Legion’s support. This missive should convince him. Be aware, soldier, these documents contain sensitive intelligence for the Jarl’s eyes only.”

Yes, yes, she’d overheard the conversation between Rikke and Tullius when she’d first walked into Castle Dour yesterday. “Of course, General. We may not see eye-to-eye, but we are on the same side, and you can trust me. Balgruuf was one of my first friends when I came to Skyrim. I’ll see this gets delivered.”

“You do that,” Tullius replied, eyeing her thoughtfully. “You’re dismissed.”

Once they were outside, Tel whistled – or tried to, and only partially succeeded with the scarf over his face – and shook his head. “Damn, woman, I can’t believe you spoke to a General like that and didn’t end up in the stockade.”

“Speaking your mind isn’t a crime, Tel, and I didn’t disobey any orders. I asked him for permission to be candid, and I also made sure to include ‘with all due respect.’ My father taught me that. I know when I’m within my rights.”

Teldryn chuckled. “I like a woman with cast iron balls. I bet your dick is bigger than his.”

Miranja grinned and blushed with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. They were still standing between the door guards, and there was no way the guards hadn’t heard the whole conversation, but they were wisely keeping their mouths shut. She knew the barracks would be abuzz later, though.

“So, what are we going to do with the rest of the evening, boss?”

[lefarte]

Can i ask how funger 2 or 1 characters which you can choose react to an enigmatic reader who is a yellow mage who makes very smooth moves like pure silk while also holding a very calm and nonchalant expression?

Yeas :3 I’m catching up with some of the older requests in my inbox

Abella

She’s enthralled by your mystery… it makes her think of a romance story.

She doesn’t know much of anything about yellow mages so she’d be making up fantasies in her head. And her crush on you makes her think of you as way stronger than you actually are. “Do you live in a castle?… have you ever flown through the sky?… Can you shapeshift?” “😐?”

Abella wants to try dancing with you. She’s actually pretty good, and can hold a rhythm well. Though she’s not perfect, she’s moreso happy to blow off steam. It’s been years since she last danced, and she’s never danced with anyone but her little siblings.

As the war picked up, things were so dour that she forgot what it was like to have a crush. She gets giddy easily. Like sometimes she’ll be outside pacing or lying on the bed kicking her feet because she feels like a girl again.

She likes that you’re kind of stoic. It makes her feel extra special if she can get you to talk, or especially to smile.

Abella would take some interest in learning magic, but ultimately have little talent for it, which frustrates her. But, she is okay with her fighting in the front and you staying behind doing magic. She’s a little insecure about way of fighting being less… elegant. But if it works, it works. She’d rather not fight unless she has to, anyway.

I can see her picking you up and throwing you so you can do a cool little landing and impress people. She’ll also carry you on her shoulders like a parrot. Basically I can see her just manhandling you in general, picking you up and giving you surprise hugs and kisses.

Pav

Pav doesn’t like people who don’t react to him.

He also doesn’t like magic or magic wielders in general. He used to be firmly against the idea of magic existing, though things have changed, of course. I still imagine him being cautious. You have a weapon that he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t like that.

After a while he understands that you won’t attack unless provoked. He still can’t help but test that line though. Would you kill him if he threatened you? Mocked you? Threatened someone else? …Poked you?

After a few minutes of conversation he would get annoyed that his normal Bremen-soldier shtick isn’t working, and wander away with his tail between his legs.

Every encounter after that he tries to prod at you to get a reaction. After some point it stops being about asserting dominance over you and more out of curiosity. Trying to study you.

I think Pav has a very rigid sense of hierarchy, so he could very quickly acknowledge your skills, and if you were working together he would take orders from you. Quietly. He wouldn’t act deferentially towards you, he’s still going to try to pick at you. But he acknowledges that you are helpful. Helpful. That’s all.

Also I think that Pav is frightened of ghosts. The orphanage is his worst nightmare. He’s standing unusually close to you, who just so happens to be the only one able to kill the ghost girl. For no particular reason.

If he thinks that you’ll have a reaction he’ll do anything, so you can push him into the direction of embarassing himself if you want to be mean….

For example, if you fake going to grab a hat, like “oh that’s a cute hat” he’ll snatch it up out of your hands and put it on immediately. And then he’s stuck wearing an ugly hat. And your party will laugh at him.

Samarie

Samarie knows about yellow mages due to her studies. Though she has interest in the teachings, the philosophy isn’t for her. She quite likes the few mortal possessions she has, the small tethers to the real world rather than the magic she was born into.

Two similarly quiet people but both on the opposite ends of the spectrum. One nervous wreck Samarie who freaks out over everything and one completely chill you. She needs to hold you like a teddy bear while hyperventilating after every monster encounter.

Samarie could never do the danse macabre - or any dance for that matter. She’s too weak and gangly from malnutrition, all her movements are a little clumsy. She’s more of a Sylvian girl than a Grogoroth girl… if you want to dance with her you’ll have to put her on your back, or hold her bridal carry. (She’s tall but light, it won’t be a problem.)

Sometimes you will have entire conversations just by staring at each other like this 😐 and the other contestants will find it SO weird. Well, Samarie can read minds but that doesn’t count. She’s staring at your eyes the whole time and spacing out.

Sharing your magic studies! Trading skin bibles! She shows you little tricks she picked up from the Ninth Circle, and you show her things you learned from your travels!

Since Samarie was raised in captivity underground, she wants to hear everything about life outside. She gets such a calm and peaceful look when she sees the visions of your travels in your head. She will plead with you to hear all of your stories and see all of the memories from your eyes. Her heart starts beating so fast with excitement, feeling like she’s there with you.

Samarie will never be able to see the world outside, she is already reaching the end of her lifespan. She loves small things, like trinkets and souvenirs. She doesn’t smile a whole lot, but she gives you a nervous little grin.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Elenwen: General, I need a favour.

General Tullius: I am not giving you another lap dance.

Legate Rikke: Lap dance?

Ondolemar: ANOTHER?

[my-screenshot-dump]

[alms4oblivion]

WIP Wednesday

It's still Wednesday somewhere, right? Got tagged by @the-darkness-does-not-bargain, so here's a little something from the upcoming final chapter of my Bridgerton AU:

“Try this one.”  Beatrice held out a small black candy with the outline of a castle stamped into it. Ava cast her gaze about the confectionary, resplendent with sweet delights in all manner of colors and shapes, and concluded that this offering must be a ruse of some sort, a poisoned “candy” meant to lay low the humorless sort who might favor them and, through dourness of countenance and deficit of congeniality, undermine the bounty and joy that should otherwise prevail in the establishment. “Is it poison?  It’s poison, isn’t it.”  Ava found that, as her comfort in Beatrice’s presence grew, so too did her willingness to speak her mind, however outrageous her thoughts might be at any given moment.  “Or are you trying to intoxicate me, so you can drag me off somewhere without any trouble?” Beatrice smiled at her over her hand, upon the thumb and middle finger of which the object perched, menacingly.  “Perhaps I am only attempting to level the playing field.” “How do you mean?” Beatrice leaned in close and whispered in Ava’s ear.  “You always intoxicate me.” Ava blushed and smiled and shook her head, basking in the warmth that accompanied her when Beatrice, her Beatrice, the Viscount Bridgerton, flirted outrageously with her in public.  She wrapped herself more tightly around Beatrice’s arm, not to prevent any distance between them, but because of a deep-seated desire that she should be closer to Beatrice, impossibly closer.  Impossible in public, in any event. “So it is poison.” Beatrice did not so much as bat an eye.  “You think there’s something fishy about it.  Or would you prefer it to be fish-shaped?  I’m sure they can arrange a custom order.” Ava ducked her head and strove mightily to keep a rein on the smile that blossomed on her lips, though she succeeded only in keeping her teeth from showing.  “Are you trying to impress me with bilingual puns?” A dangerous glint appeared in Beatrice’s eye, and Ava found herself in the mood for risk.  “I always try to impress you,” Beatrice whispered, “especially with my–” She was interrupted, loudly, by Lady Superion clearing her throat behind them.  “When I agreed to chaperone the two of you for this little excursion, I did not do so in order to learn for myself how incapable you are of restraining yourselves in public.  I recognize that you perhaps consider yourselves wed already in your own minds, but please, for the love of God, do try to control yourselves even slightly.”

Tagging in @thistleation, @baez-atwitsend, @pinechips, and @willowedhepatica

[littlemoriflower]

Mori Book Recommendations, by littlemoriflower

Hello, dear-friends!

It's been a while since I have done one of these "longer" posts. I have been very absent, not only from this blog, but from the internet at large. School has been killing me lately, and I let the tiredness get the best of me more often than not.

However, I'd like to state that I continue to love AND wear mori everyday. not that anyone was accusing me of not doing it lmao I've simply been lacking the motivation to make more posts, but I hope that that's about to change! I won't be posting every day, but I'll try to come by and be more active in the community where I found so much happiness and lovely people in!

On another note, I have noticed more people joining the community! ^^ That is so exciting!!! I welcome all of you to our humble corner of the internet, and I hope you find peace and happiness in mori kei, as much as we mori folk do! (✿◡‿◡)

Now, to the post!

The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Synopsis:

Mary Lennox, a spoiled, ill-tempered, and unhealthy child, comes to live with her reclusive uncle in Misselthwaite Manor on England’s Yorkshire moors after the death of her parents. There she meets a hearty housekeeper and her spirited brother, a dour gardener, a cheerful robin, and her wilful, hysterical, and sickly cousin, Master Colin, whose wails she hears echoing through the house at night.

With the help of the robin, Mary finds the door to a secret garden, neglected and hidden for years. When she decides to restore the garden in secret, the story becomes a charming journey into the places of the heart, where faith restores health, flowers refresh the spirit, and the magic of the garden, coming to life anew, brings health to Colin and happiness to Mary.

Goodreads

Anne Of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery

Synopsis:

This heartwarming story has beckoned generations of readers into the special world of Green Gables, an old-fashioned farm outside a town called Avonlea. Anne Shirley, an eleven-year-old orphan, has arrived in this verdant corner of Prince Edward Island only to discover that the Cuthberts—elderly Matthew and his stern sister, Marilla—want to adopt a boy, not a feisty redheaded girl. But before they can send her back, Anne—who simply must have more scope for her imagination and a real home—wins them over completely. A much-loved classic that explores all the vulnerability, expectations, and dreams of a child growing up, Anne of Green Gables is also a wonderful portrait of a time, a place, a family… and, most of all, love.

Goodreads

Howl's Moving Castle, by Diana Wynne Jones

Synopsis:

Sophie has the great misfortune of being the eldest of three daughters, destined to fail miserably should she ever leave home to seek her fate. But when she unwittingly attracts the ire of the Witch of the Waste, Sophie finds herself under a horrid spell that transforms her into an old lady. Her only chance at breaking it lies in the ever-moving castle in the hills: the Wizard Howl's castle. To untangle the enchantment, Sophie must handle the heartless Howl, strike a bargain with a fire demon, and meet the Witch of the Waste head-on. Along the way, she discovers that there's far more to Howl—and herself—than first meets the eye.

Goodreads

Inkheart, by Cornelia Funke

Synopsis:

One cruel night, Meggie's father reads aloud from a book called INKHEART-- and an evil ruler escapes the boundaries of fiction and lands in their living room. Suddenly, Meggie is smack in the middle of the kind of adventure she has only read about in books. Meggie must learn to harness the magic that has conjured this nightmare. For only she can change the course of the story that has changed her life forever.

Goodreads

By Ash, Oak And Thorn, by Melissa Harrison

Synopsis:

Three tiny, ancient beings - Moss, Burnet and Cumulus, once revered as Guardians of the Wild World - wake from winter hibernation in their beloved ash tree home. When it is destroyed, they set off on an adventure to find more of their kind, a journey that takes them first into the deep countryside and then the heart of a city. Helped along the way by birds and animals, the trio search for a way to survive and thrive in a precious yet disappearing world...

Goodreads

Alice In Wonderland, by Lewis Carrol

Synopsis:

When Alice sees a white rabbit take a watch out of its waistcoat pocket she decides to follow it, and a sequence of most unusual events is set in motion.

Goodreads

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: Brother Humble, the Unlikely Usurper

Your party has been hired to escort a delivery to a monestary high in the mountains, not the most glorious job, but it pays well. Word is that an early frost has stirred up the monsters in the region and has the local bandits looking to fill their larders before the snows force folk off the roads. Best to be quick, quiet, and be ready for anything. 

It’s a hard few days trekking up the mountains, and the heroes’ feet are aching by the time they catch sight of their destination. The monks are happy to welcome them but even more happy to receive what they carry: A large reinforced box containing the bones of one of the members of their order, lost  for some years while she was out on pilgrimage and now finally returned home to rest. Such an act of charity has more than earned the party a few nights of rest and hospitality and the monks, who happen to be as skilled brewers as they are devout souls, are more than happy to provide. Among the crowd of holy hermits the party might just notice a dour faced monk in fraying robes unloading their cart despite wearing ankle fetters, though their hosts ask them to pay no mind: Brother Humble is always in a sour mood and not even an act of god is going to change that. 

Screams wake the party that night, followed by sound of the great bell and the smell of smoke. The monks are being slaughtered, and before they can do a thing about it the part of the monastery they’re staying in catches fire. Just as they’re forced to flee they catch sight of Brother Humble, smiling toothlessly as he runs one of the other monks through with a sword of unearthly black metal, laughing as the world around him burns. 

Adventure Hooks: 

Trying to divert the mad monk from his slaughter turns out to be a hopeless task, as despite the fact that the old man should barely be able to lift the sword he fights with an inhuman strength and speed and a skill that far eclipses the party’s best. He’ll toy with them at first but should any of the heroes try to make a stand he’ll make sure to give them something to remember him by: a brutal scar, a missing hand, a burn as he presses their body up against the building as it goes up in flames. Should they somehow manage to hold their own he’ll bring the whole place down on top of their heads, leaving them to wake up and pull themselves free of the rubble in the morning. 

Though well protected in a concealed compartment within the saint’s bone box, there’s a chance the sword will be discovered during the journey either because of the party’s curiosity or a random encounter mishap. In such a case, the party will feel a calm will wash over them as they inspect the blade, a presence intoning that they are a sacred weapon sought by the monk, and it was sent to the monastery so that a great wrong may be righted. What the party do from that point is up to them, though their might be forces that would steal the sword back should they wander too far astray. 

If you’re using this adventure as the launchpad for a campain, consider the party ending the first leg of their journey taking a rest at a local outpost, or friendly mountain town before continuing on to the monastery. Not only will it give your party a break from the action and a chance to connect before shit goes down, but it will also prove a poignant moment when they limp back into the haven with whatever few survivors managed to escape the massacre. 

Background: Before he was a monk the man known as brother humble was named Firodon and he was the disinherited elder sibling of the realm’s previous soverign. Born to rule and a peerless swordsman, Firodon was unfortunately a monster who awnsered any flaw or failure with anger and delighted in petty acts of violence. He wasn’t thinking of the consequences when he dangled his youngest sister over the castle ramparts, he just wanted the brat to know her place. The ensuing fall would mean the girl would always need a chair to get around and showed the king and queen that their eldest was unfit to inherit their name, letalone a crown. 

A hunting accident was contrived, and while it would have been easiler (and saved everyone else a lot of grief in the longrun) to put a bolt through the back of prince Firodon’s head his parents were goodhearted people, and thought that with a little guidance the boy might grow beyond his wickedness outside the pressures of royal expectation. And so a body was produced, a story concocted, trusted servants sword to secrecy. Firodon was dragged to the monestary in chains and finally humbled. The queen and king might’ve been right in their thinking. Though Humble raged at the indignity of his birthright denied, life in the abby was good for him. The rigors of life living so far from the palace gave him an outlet for the energy that spurred his darkest impulses, and the monks were not affraid to correct him when he was wrong, as so many others had when he was crown prince. He was not happy, he never allowed himself to be, but he found peace, or atleast he would have had the sword dreams not started. 

Firodon’s family decended from an ancient line that first rose to power through a compact with Orcus, the now dead god of oaths, part of which involved the bestowal of Dominion, darksteel sword of great power and the service of a spirit set to watch over and guard the royal house. Working from behind the scenes this spirit served Firodon’s parents faithfully, as was its role, but upon their deaths its protection transfered not to their chosen heir but to their displaced eldest child who had never abdicated and was thus the “rightful” king in accordance with the ancient pact.  Since that day it has been working tirelessly to put the sword in Firodon’s hand and see him back on the throne regardless of how much blood it needs to shed in order to do so. 

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