#chainmail veil

[assmaster-8000]

atropos and clotho hide their faces for separate reasons. i originally was hesitant to give lachesis a veil because they're my most beautiful son but? it makes sense doesn't it. you wear golden glory like a skin - like a second face. you hope and you hope and you hope that someone doesn't see the dark, sickly scleras of your eyes - your soul, past the gilded net.

they do. they do. they all do.

[periodcostumefantasylover]

Guinevere's wedding dress and chainmail veil in Excalibur 1981

[victoria-grimesss]

Knight!Ghost Drabble

masterlist

->Pairing: Knight!Ghost x Princess!Reader

->A/N: A little something to combat my endless writers block

Since the night of her attempted assassination, she requested a knight be present by her side at all times. A wise decision many agreed. She had the pick of the litter, many knights vying at the chance to prove their worth by protecting her. She chose him out of all of them, the Ghost. She demanded he be in every room she was in, still scared from the attempt on her life. Even within the dim lights of the bathing room, there he stood, right on the cusp of the room.

He would lavish in the way the candlelight danced on her skin. The steam of the water coming off her skin like she crawled right out of hell just to torment him, to fill his mind with carnal sin. But he stood still just on the other side of a sheer curtain, leaving little to the imagination. The steam warming his armor and in turn himself. Sweat dripping on his skin within the metal, chainmail growing uncomfortable, but he could bear it.

The multitude of candles strewn around the room illuminated her in a godly way, he was tempted to get down on his knees and worship her as she was. But he was sworn to protect, lest the King calls for his head. His eyes are veiled by the helmet, making him appear more as a statue than a man.

She yearns to tempt him, see how much he can endure before that knightly training is cracked and thrown out her tower window. To pull the armor piece by piece until he’s revealed to him as she is to him now would rival any romance poetry or gossip she's ever heard. A fantasy is what it is. 

His touch was original sin, tongue gracing the side of your neck like hellfire. That’s where you were going right? For indulging in awful terrible fantasies of a man who could never be betrothed to you. One so near yet far. He was unlike others. Standing guard day and night, still as a shadow unless he was walking behind you, eyes forever scanning for danger, for an opportunity to pay the ultimate price and lay down his life for yours, the most noble sacrifice.

Unlike the princes you were presented in front of at banquets, he always stood there unmoving, as you were shown possible future husbands. None of them you wanted, but it would be foolish to run to your father and mother and proclaim your infatuation for a knight. You would be mocked and ignored. Your fate was sealed, a marriage already brokered long before your birth as a way to form an alliance with another kingdom. You pray each night to be rid of these fevers of a man who you know nothing about. A man who you could never touch, but his dark eyes, you get drunk on them. They are more intoxicating than any ale that could ever be crafted. Yet no gold could buy you such a gift.

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE • BOYCOTT TLOU

𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒊𝒊: 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒚

knight!abby x princess!reader

you can find chapter two here and the series masterlist here

songs: yeh kya jagah hai doston — asha bhosle and barber: adagio for strings, op. 11 — samuel barber

summary: the crown now lays in your palms, but is glory so easily won?

warnings: 18+ mdni. angst and smut, oral (r!receiving), heavy political themes, political misdoings, class differences and struggles, major character death, child death, extensive descriptions of murder and violence, descriptions of blood, physical descriptions and overarching descriptions of famine, reader is cruel, literally a tragedy, profanities. dark themes. please read at your own discretion. semi-proofread.

wc: 5.9k

a/n: here’s the finale. good luck…

There was a ferocity in Abigail’s longing, a want for a flower poisonous and withered.

Peculiar, she thought, how she found comfort in the sweltering chafe of chainmail, but not this; silver-laced brocade meticulously moulded to her body, embellished at the chest and cuffs with the sheen of saltwater pearls. 

Perhaps armour was like a second skin to her now, a sort of animal comfort. Standing in these fine clothes, she missed the way it demanded attention; the clank of it, a person’s head snapped to the direction of its presence well before their eyes ever snagged on her form.

Now, her reputation relied on sight alone. Servants and nobles alike would bend at the waist when they saw her, or rather to the dignified mirage that stood in her stead. 

With a string of flowery words, you had swaddled her name in grandiosity, spoken thus until the word traitor was peeled away, the tale spun until it was palatable enough to be fed to lily-livered aristocrats. Acts of bloodshed and treason, now spoken with the veneration of legends.

The half-truth of it engulfed her, secure and yet suffocating all the same. The sword fastened to her hip was flimsy and pin-light and the coiled braid snaked around her head pulsed throbbing pain up her temples. She had evolved into something higher, no longer a knight, but in the process she had become other. Like growing-pains, she felt the aching uselessness of her new title in the present, though her name would now be preserved in the ever-shifting tides of history. 

But what consequence was the future to her, or the past? Immortalisation was for gods and men who pretended at divinity. To her, these waning minutes and days, weeks and months; they mattered little. Time bled, and she remained only influenced by you.

Her eyes flitted to her left, where you sat pillar-straight on your jewel-set throne, decorated hands folded in your lap as you listened to a man sputter and plead. 

The gossamer veil that covered your head, a midnight blue, was studded with pearls as well, and it cascaded down your back like a waterfall caught in starlight. The gold of a crown glinted above your brow, a thing of delicate, curling flowers that descended sharply in the middle. It was crafted centuries ago and yet had collected dust in the treasury until your reign; queendom, after all, was a last resort.

Abigail felt her heart give a familiar thump, a fist of devotion enclosing around the organ and tugging. She had felt it the first time she saw you on that sun-blazed balcony, the earthy smell of fresh henna piercing her senses, and she had not been able to shake it since. Every time she laid eyes on you, she knew it; this beloved face, these certain hands… they were worth everything she had sacrificed. 

She hooked her tongue beneath a canine and forced herself to linger on the emotion. Perhaps she could keep pretending she was something more glorious than she was, something righteous and true and not completely swayed by the faintest winds of love. To see a smile upon that face, to kiss the unmarred ridges of those hands; those were the only acts of fidelity that she clung to now.

Because, if not for you… what else was left for her? What else, but a hollow title and the hole of something that no longer prevailed?

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Rainfall swallowed up the embers of night. It drowned the usual flicker of candlelight beyond and suffocated the world beneath its crash and spill. As if dipped in resin, time stood at a stand-still.

The royal council had finished only a few hours prior, but Abigail still felt the desperation of it lining her lungs, tangible as a salt-laced breeze. She remembered the sullen faces and furrowed brows of men she had previously considered callous, pleading for a cessation of rising taxes. She tried not to think about the farmer that one of them had brought with him, with his worked-raw fingers clutching to his threadbare clothing. She tried not to think about the placating stretch of your lips as he begged in a voice reeded with age. 

Your words still rang in her skull, the ones you had spoken so resolutely before the meeting commenced. They sought to ruin my reign, so I will take all they hold dear.

Was it moral to let those caught in the crossfire of aristocratic squabbles suffer? Abigail had never known the answer to this, and she would not pretend to know now. Though she was now part of your court, she understood little of its ethics. 

What understanding she possessed laid at the feet of her own loyalty. Every action stemmed from your beginning and your end. 

So too was this worship an act of her unyielding faith. On her knees before your shining throne, the plushness of a silk-knotted rug shielding the press of marble beneath. 

No spurious gestures existed here. Alone, with the lamps flickering tenderly while sheets of water curtained the windows, you had cast aside the role of benevolent queen the way an autumnal snake sheds its spring-scaled skin. 

You were slumped against the velvet backrest, the silken fabric of your attire bunched around your waist. One hand gripped a gold armrest, the carvings of glinting vines digging into your skin. The other held Abigail’s now loose blonde tresses away from her face. 

She wore a dreamy, drunken expression, her eyes submerged in the depths of brilliant blue lust. You tried to keep your watery gaze on her, even as pleasure traced its blissful, trembling fingers up your spine. You wanted to sear this vision into your memory, though you had seen it a hundred times over. 

Her lips moved prayer-soft against your cunt. The strong line of her nose grazed against your wetness now and then, and each time your gut lept. 

Your jaw went slack, head lolling back as the fog of lovemaking engulfed you completely. Slurring, pitched praises fell from your mouth in a fractured stream as your hips pushed up off the feather-filled cushion. The desire for proximity was all-consuming, and in this moment you would have sacrificed anything for her to melt, to slide up your veins and become one with you. 

Her fingernails pressed crescent moons into the flesh of your quivering thighs as a groan slipped past her own lips, lost and saccharine. The sound, the feeling, of it sprawled over you like honey.

Starlight burst behind your eyelids and in your abdomen as you reached your high. Your thighs tensed around her head as you gasped into the cavernous silence of the throne room, the sound rippling about in the absence of crowds and chatter. 

Your grip on her loosened as the flutterings of blazing orgasm began to subside into a buttery warmth. Your eyesight was hazy, but you stared down at her anyway.

Abigail had wiped her slick mouth and chin clean on the hem of her tunic, eyes dilated and dark as she stared at you in turn. She bent her head down afterwards, reverently, to your thighs and the four half-moons rising red and angry on them. 

You hadn’t noticed the sting until she pressed her lips to each one, feather-light as if to apologise with touch alone.

“I love you,” she whispered into the pucker of skin. “I love you.”

Over and over, the words entwined into the night air as certainly as a prayer.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Dawn was just an hour out of reach. The sky was still heavy with water, grey outstretched as far as the eye could see. Abigail stared into the colourless void as she waited, her back ghosting the damp stone wall. 

Another sleepless night then. The correspondent, low-voiced, had said this was a matter of urgency.

 He had spoken of an intruder, a ghost that had slipped past the outer gate of the Palace and had not been caught until they had half-scaled the inner wall. Such an occurrence had only happened once within the century. That blackened night when your father was assassinated, in Abigail’s flower-fresh youth. The plunder of a peaceful age, some poets now spew. A dynasty, ruined.

Abigail expected a being more weapon than human. Shadow-clad, skin silver with remnants of violence, eyes observant and a void of unfeeling. Somebody who was reared for dishonourable work, who perhaps enjoyed weaving the thread of misery.

She was rarely wrong in the way of bloody business, but how could she have expected this? Her jaw clenched to conceal her surprise, her fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword at her hip.

The proposed ‘urgent matter’ was a child, no more than ten, flanked by two looming guards. He was swaddled in a tattered cloak that did more to soak up the rain than to shield its icy assault. Even beneath such copious rags, she could notice it; the bird-bone frailty that reared its ugly head only in the midst of famine.

A guard threw something and it clattered hollowly against her feet. A bow, whittled by unpracticed hands but well-loved. Smaller than an adult’s. 

How could a child scale a wall the height of a cavalry? How could he have slipped by the guards that Abigail had hand-picked and hand-trained? 

These questions wilted in the back of her mind when she gazed upon his face. 

He wore a beastly scowl, his nose scrunched and his teeth bared like a babe imitating its predacious mother. What struck her the most, though, were his eyes; black and shivering like oil-soaked coals, waiting to house a flame that they could stoke. She knew this look well, though she had not worn it herself in three long years. The expression of the foulest hatred. A contempt so burdensome that its presence is felt in every breath, every joint, every step. She knew how desperate it could make a person.

Especially a child on the river-bed of death.

Abigail felt an inkling of empathy seep into the corners of her heart, but she refused to acknowledge its presence. No matter the circumstances, he still breached the security of the Palace. Finding out why was her focal priority. It had to be.

She adjusted her stance and straightened her back so that her broad figure swallowed up more space. One hand was folded behind her back but the other remained enclosed around her sword. A warning.

“Listen to me,” she spoke evenly. “If you want to keep your life for another night, you will answer my questions. Is that understood?”

There was no response, only the subtle narrowing of his eyes. That would have to be answer enough.

“How did you get so far up the wall?”

“Your wall may be big but it is not impenetrable.” She inclined her head at him to elaborate more, but he spoke no more on the subject. 

She could only assume that it was because of his stature that he committed such a feat. The stone may be jagged, but there were no alcoves to catch one’s breath. She had to commend him for his strength in that regard.

“Hm…  and why did you try? Surely you must have a reason for such desperation. What was it?”

The boy’s chin jutted upwards at this, eyes shining in the torchlight with a reawakened savagery. He spoke honestly, frighteningly so.

“To collect your queen’s head and parade it around the main square. Why else?” he spat venomously. “Maybe then she’d finally see the empty markets or the diseased slums we’re forced to survive in.”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” she drawled, though there was no immediate threat laced in her voice. “What you speak of is treason. Men have been struck down on these grounds for much milder things.”

“And why should I care?! She deserves to suffer!” he bellowed viciously with the resolute naivety that only a child could possess. 

“That is only for the gods to decide, not you! Surely you knew that this was a foolish endeavour,” Abigail said sharply, chest heaving with an unknown emotion rising like bile. 

“It was akin to suicide, what you have done. You know it.”

Something shifted on the boy’s face, a veil of fog lifted from an early morning. He looked older, suddenly, archaic in the sudden crease of his lips and the steadiness of his once-ferocious gaze. 

“Better to die standing with a bow in hand than curled around an empty stomach,” he spoke with conviction. “You must know that, too.

“Abigail,” his voice wavered in the wind. “... the Ruinous.”

She froze at the words, her stale title hitting her ears like the lashing of a whip. She hadn’t been stung by its cruelty in years, and had almost forgotten the blood-shrouded legacy that followed her name. 

It struck her, then; no matter how good-hearted you made her seem, the common folk had long enough memories to know otherwise. They knew what she was and what she had done, even if it was in loyal service to the Crown. What was royalty to them, anyway? An oppressive force. A leash around their throats. 

A brief inhale, and she was turning away from the boy. She could feel his eyes, hawk-like, trained on her back as she began to walk.

“Take him to the dungeons and do not harm him. He may have information for us yet.”

She heard no protest, only the scuffle of feet and the creak of armour. The child was swallowed up into the quickly disintegrating night once more. 

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

It was an auspicious night. 

A wedding was being held in the shining heart of the Palace, on the eve of the Kanwal Festival. The beginning of a summer flecked with roses and rain, the gods smiled upon this occasion.

Abigail wished she could agree. She did not feel the excitement that buzzed around the marigold-draped hall or the utter joy and affection on the bride and groom’s sweetly bright faces. Instead dread coiled inside of her, a slow rising feeling like smoke.

Dancers twirled around in vibrant silk, their anklet bells chiming elegantly to the rhythm of the sitar and tabla. There was a revered artist who sang words of a love so ancient but as beautiful as aged wine. Her voice was powerful, beating within Abigail’s chest the way rain beats down upon soil.

You were sat next to her, upon a more elaborate seating cushion than the others, entranced by the flutter of song and dance. It was unusual to see you within the sea of a crowd, noble may these people be. You were still a queen, a slayer of kin at that. Who knew what kind of enemies lurked about, a blade’s edge away?

“Your mannerisms are making me nervous, Abigail,” you said over the cacophony of clapping and chatter. You must have noticed her wandering eyes and the painful set of her jaw. “There is nothing to fear here. Enjoy the festivities.”

“How do you know?” Her voice was a hasty whisper against your ear. “These people seem to change as swiftly as a breeze.” 

You laughed, barely audible over the sound of music. Your veil slipped off your hair as you tipped it back, the gauzy material landing on her shoulder. “They only change when they are not spoiled. Do I not look after my people?”

A vision of the boy, so young and gaunt, flashed through her mind. She pursed her lips, unseeing gaze drifting back to the dancers as she absentmindedly slipped your veil back onto your head.

She felt your hand enclose gently around her wrist, a small tug that drew her vision back to you. You wore a concerned smile, eyes wide. “Let us go to the balcony. Perhaps some fresh air will calm your unease, hm?”

Abigail let you take her by the arm and stand. As you led her across the hall, people in every direction inclined their heads deeply. Downturned eyes and complying smiles; a wall of mirages.

The air outside was mild and sweet-smelling. The stars above were silvery, surrounding a full moon that shone brightly overhead. Such a beautiful night. It filled her with something unexplainable. Grief-sickness.

“Perhaps you are working yourself to illness,” you suggested, in a voice as hushed as a lullaby. Your eyes glittered, as if the night sky above also lived and burned within them.

“Your protection… while it is endearing, it is no longer a necessity,” you continued and held up a hand as if to stop the impending protest already bubbling from her lips. “I have an entire retinue of guards that you have trained for me, and… well, you of all people should know the brutality I am capable of. You… I want you to rest now. Leave the bloody work to others. To me.”

She wanted to laugh, but she bit the disbelieving sound down. “What will I do with my time when I rest?”

Your features softened, hand cool as it came to cup her cheek. She could feel your gaze roving over each new detail of her face; the sunken purple beneath her eyes and the tired lines that began to sculpt her forehead. Changed, yes, but no new tracery of scars. For you, that was enough.

“Build a future with me instead of trying to carve one out for me,” you said as your thumb traced a path over her soft lips. “Love me, not in the shadows or from behind my throne. Do it beside me, my heart. Openly.”

A thousand questions and logistics raced through her head, though they dissipated like mist sliced by a bright morning sun when your lips met hers. Gentle and slow, but the kiss said all the right things. It let her believe in it, of devotion without sacrifice.

Almost.

The sound cut through the air in such abruptness that Abigail paused, head tilting towards the hall. The sitar came to a twining halt and there was the sound of frantic shouting within. Boots slammed across the marble. The person was speeding closer.

Within seconds, a young knight burst outside, sweat on his brow and words coming out in a tangled stream. You left Abigail’s side immediately, worry flitting up to your face.

“What is it, my boy? What has gotten you in such a panic?”

“People…” he gulped in air, then remembered himself. With wide eyes, he bent at the waist.

“Your Grace, two children have scaled both walls,” he said quickly. “They killed the extra guards we posted at the outer gate, and they… they managed to disarm an archer. Luckily he was able to raise the signal before they killed him too.”

Abigail watched as you straightened, the concern on your face slowly hardening into an unreadable mask. “If they are killing my men, why are they not yet dead?”

The man kept his eyes lowered, a visible tremble running across his body. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. They said they wish to negotiate with you. In any other circumstance, we would have killed them immediately, but… well, we thought it was best to take them prisoner. They claim a great danger befalls the city.”

“Is that right?”

“Y… yes, Your Grace.”

Your body straightened, hands behind your back and gaze glacial. “Bring me to them.”

They truly were just children, bound and huddled together in a fetid dungeon cell. 

They both had the same emaciated stature of the boy she had seen yesterday morning and they eyed Abigail in a wide-eyed manner. The older of the two, a girl with braided black hair, shifted her body to partially hide the younger child’s, as if that alone could protect them from whatever awaited. 

Abigail slid the lock of the door out and swung the groaning thing open. She could feel the flicker of hope light up on their faces, only to be immediately snuffed out when your presence swallowed the doorway, casting a long shadow along the wall.

“So young you both are,” you mused though there was no kindness to your voice. Your jewellery glittered in the little light that dappled the room, your form as luminous as a moon spirit.

“Where is my brother?!” the older one asked in a panicked rush. Although her face was morphed to hardness, her small hands still trembled beneath her chains. Too big for a child’s wrists.

“Does it matter?” you asked back, a smile playing on your lips. It was cruel and teeth-filled. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about yourself, dear. And who you are speaking to.”

“I know who I speak to…” the young girl countered, despite the warbling uncertainty of her voice. Abigail watched as her black eyes flickered, and she realised instantly that the child’s brother was Abigail’s prisoner, the other boy who attempted to scale the wall. The same contempt, the same coal-like stare.

“Oh? Yet you refuse to bow to me or to acknowledge my title. How do you plan to bargain with me if you cannot even show the proper respect that is due to your queen?”

“When have you shown your people the respect we deserve?!” the girl raised her voice, dark brows scrunched in anger. “D-do you even know what is going on outside these castle walls? We are hungry, Your Grace. We cry for help, but nobody answers us!”

To Abigail’s surprise, you laughed at this. Melodious. Horrible. “Respect is not an equal thing. I am god-ordained, god-descended. Going against my will is going against the gods. It is treason. Worse, it is blasphemy.” No mention of their murders or their circumstance. Only their defiance to you personally. 

“You know what happens to blasphemes and traitors, do you not?” You kneeled then, the jewels on your body twinkling as you did so. You eyed the girl steadily, watched as her indignation slowly disintegrated into regretful, bone-deep terror. 

“Ah. I knew you were smart enough to understand,” you spoke, voice smooth like soothing fingers running down silken hair. “It must be done, little one. But have no fear, I won’t let you stew in purgatory, waiting for your fate.”

Yout stood up then, turning back to the entryway with gleaming eyes.  The smaller child made a high, keening noise.

“Abigail.”

Abigail swallowed around her own horror forming at the base of her throat. “Yes, Your Grace?”

You gestured back to them as if it should have been obvious. “Will you do the honours?”

Honours? Abigail’s body stiffened, her fingers enclosing around the handle of her sword. Then, just as quickly they faltered. Her hand fell to her side.

“I… I cannot, my queen.”

“They are murderers, Abigail. Retribution must be served.”

There was an itching dryness in Abigail’s mouth, her tongue a block of lead as it tried to form the right words. “Children… they are children–”

A mirthless laugh left you at this. “Yes, but they are not innocent. They have murdered my guards. Why should I show kindness just because of their age? Would the emperors before me have been so forgiving?”

“I am not telling you to forgive their crimes, but there are other ways to punish them! Do not sully your hands like this. There is no honour in this kind of bloodshed.”

“Will you ever stop lecturing me on my honour?!” you spat. “When will it finally fucking dawn on you? I am not merciful, I am not good and I have no honour! I do what is cruel. I do what is needful, and I have no regrets.”

“Please…” she begged, her broken blue gaze searching for a kernel of goodness. She could find none in the rage-sodden lines of your face.

“Enough of this.”

Before Abigail could move, you were lunging savagely for the dagger sheathed at her side. The blade glinted in your hand as you swivelled, as you closed in on the inconsolable children with spine-shivering determination.

She only had a fraction of time to veer her eyesight away, nausea enveloping her.

Blood seeped upon packed soil, vermillion splattered over delicate moonstones. 

And the wailing. She knew that the sound of child-screams would haunt her, until the day she drew her last breath. 

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

For the first time that night in years, Abigail went to pray. 

The temple was silent as she knelt before her gods, before the deities that have shaped your legacy. She stared into their hollow eyes and their statue-frozen faces, and she wept. The tears fell to the stone beneath her. Her offerings, her repentance. 

She understood it, in harrowing clarity; her salt would never be enough. A price was to be paid, and it was not found here.

Abigail walked back to her chambers with a bottle of the least pleasant tasting wine she could find tucked under her arm. She was planning to drown in it until dawn came, but as she made her way through flower-clad corridors, the plan withered. She steered down a different path, one so familiar and yet now dreadful to her.

She nodded to the guards outside your chambers, and they greeted her back. She had passed through this door many nights before this one. Who was to think anything had changed?

Low flamelight greeted her when she opened the door, and so did you. You stood at the other end of the room in fresh attire, new golden jewellery at your throat, ears and hair. 

“Where have you been?” It was not a demand, nor was there any accusation in your tone. There was a blankness to your cadence, utterly unreadable.

“I went to pray,” she admitted after a beat, none of the lies that flashed through her head convincing enough to speak. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, scanning her. Your eyes snagged on the bottle of wine cradled in one arm. “So suddenly? You have never been one for piety.”

“I had a change of heart tonight.” She placed the bottle of wine down on a low table, but she made no effort to cross the room towards you.

“Your heart has grown soft, Abigail,” you said gently. It sounded like a praise, and the way your features mellowed proved that you meant no ill intent. 

Your legs swallowed up the distance, until you were before her, your warm hands on her shoulders. Your mouth was curled into a calm smile. 

“I don’t resent that about you. It means you have finally felt love enough to let others in.”

One hand came up to trace her cheekbone. “But that is why you must leave the gruesome work to me. Leave it in my hands, my love. I will ensure the necessary things are done.”

They needed your help, she wanted to scream. They needed you, and you slaughtered them.

But exhaustion had eclipsed her despair. Abigail said nothing as she sighed, her face moving to meld further into the palm of your hand.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words brimming with intensity. “I would raze a thousand villages for you if it guaranteed your happiness.”

Ah, there it was. A sickening realisation only confirmed by your words.

 Her own love for you was something devout and ardent, a thing that had always felt like coming home. But your love was violent, something with too many teeth. It consumed and it boiled until the edge of it began to blur with hate. It was like the pluck of a string within her, a clear, resonant echo. The realisation that she had suffered enough of your love’s bruises.

Did you truly know the shape of her heart if you could not even understand this? She had lived through a lifetime of war and brutality, had dealt its repulsive blow for as long as she could remember. The reason why she clung to you so furiously was because you were like a morning star. Brilliant and brave and tender-hearted in your strength and logic. You were the winding path out of that misery-steeped place.

Now, she can see it was all a lie. The truth of it was ugly. It was poisonous and rotten. It would eat her and her whole country alive if she did not smother it. 

Abigail cracked open her eyes and stared at you. The soft line of your mouth, the fervent adoration in your eyes. She clasped her hand over yours, warmth upon warmth.

“Will it always be this way?”

“Yes,” you answered earnestly, pulling her closer to you. “You will always be safe with me. Shielded. I will care for you as you have cared for me.”

She made no movement as you embraced her. Her eyes scaled along the wall across from her. They landed on the blade propped up, shimmering beneath the flicker of lamps.

She remembered its shape well. The one she stole from a nobleman and threatened to gut you with, all those years ago. Now it stood as a testament. To her and to you.

Her arms encircled you back, finally. “I love you, too.”

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

You had drifted off pressed up beside her, a comforting presence. Abigail remained awake, unblinking, as she savoured the honeyed vestiges of the love she had for you. All while the revelation grew within her, rising and rising like fatal tides crashing upon a cliffside. 

She slid out of the bed with little sound, her bare feet meeting a plush rug below. It yielded beneath her soles as she padded across the room. She knew what was needed of her. The sacrifice both gods and men demanded. 

The weight of the knife was familiar in Abigail’s palms, cool from the predawn air. The feeling of it carved electricity through her veins, a danger and a thrill all at once. She turned back to the bed. 

She loomed over you for what felt like hours, just observing the life that thrummed so outwardly, even in sleep; your even breath rising and falling from within your chest, your eyelids fluttering in the midst of a dream. The hand curled beneath your chin and your other arm sprawled out, towards her side of the bed, as if reaching for something that was no longer there.

Her heart cracked, as if already mourning. 

She woke you with soft touches as she stifled a sob, feathery traces over the apples of your cheeks and your nose and the curve of your lash line. You deserved this, at least. A death with eyes wide open, last moments spent looking at the one you held closest.

“Wake up, my love,” she spoke on a shuddering breath. “Wake up.”

Your eyes opened, alert and then calm when you saw that it was her. “Abigail? What is it?” you asked, voice rolling and raw from slumber.

She leaned down and kissed your face; first each eyelid, your sleep-warmed cheeks, your nose. Then she pressed her lips to yours, firm and slow, as if she could pour all her regrets and past devotion into this one act.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she kissed you again. “I love you, I love you. I’m so sorry.”

You felt a hot tear drip onto your cheek, confusion rising in the pit of your stomach. “What…”

The words wilted on your tongue when you felt it; a pain so deep within you that it burned. A gasp left you as you looked down at your chest, at the beloved hands that pushed the dagger into it, further and further, your ribcage wielding to its sharp, stinging pressure.

A writhing sob ripped out of Abigail as if she were the one that had been stabbed. Tears scattered across your face, unbidden and unwanted, but her grasp remained ambitious as it held the dagger in place. Your blood rose up between her fingers, searing against her skin as it began to pool on the silken bedding below.

A part of her wanted you to fight your death. To scratch at her and to curse her existence. She wanted you to hate her. It would feel easier, that way. It would have tasted less like a betrayal.

But you had no such intuition. Your shaking fingers dipped towards your chest, to the river of blood that flowed, and then they reached for her. They grazed up over her blonde hair, her neck and over her face, painting her in crimson. She watched as your eyes filled with tears. Not of anger or sorrow, but of acknowledgement. The greatest kind of love.

She pressed down harder, her breath ragged as the sound of flesh tearing caught in her ears. Your arms drooped to your sides and your eyes widened. Your mouth went slack as the last rattling breath was pushed out of you. There was a moment of tension until it snapped. Until you stilled completely.

That was the end of it. 

There was no time to mourn you, to cradle your lifeless body to hers though her bloodied fingers twitched with the need to do so. She pressed one final kiss to your forehead, copper and salt mixing on her tongue. 

“May we meet in the next life,” she whispered against your hair. 

With that, she fled, clutching her chest where her shattered heart lay. She wound through tunnels, travelling deep below.

With this death came a possibility. She held it close, a droplet of hope within the ruins of her soul.

₊°｡❆

The north was entirely different to what she had once known. 

Though Abigail missed the heat of her home, this snow-piled nation made the perfect place for two phantoms to live out the rest of their days. Unquestioned and unharmed, freedom had kept the both of them warm where the sun’s rays did not. 

The boy was taller than her now, with eyes liquid black like the night and hair as dark as his late sister’s. He was quick to smile and even quicker with a bow. She had shown him how to properly string one and how to track game. As he grew older, he came to love these woods and all that resided within. 

News trickled slowly towards the north, but she preferred it this way. Little information on the turmoil roiling in their homeland reached their ears. She knew that her kingdom had spiralled into disarray with no heir to uphold its monarchy. She cared little to know more.

The older she got, the easier it was to let paranoia slip from her grasp. Nobody would come for them on the outskirts of this white forest. The people here looked past their earthy tones of speech and the faltering way in which they spoke their language. They had other things to be concerned with, like the biting winters and a ruler of their own. As it was, people rarely visited this close to the border. 

There was peace nestled within this little cottage of theirs, something she realised she had never truly touched until now. 

As the years soared by, the boy became a man. With such tender-heartedness that she was certain she did not teach him, he fell in love.

It was when cradling his firstborn child that she could finally speak it; the truth of what transpired, in the rawness of her native tongue.

Though you were a wraith that haunted her each time she closed her eyes, she knew the events of that night would no longer hunt her down. It took this, greying hair at her temples and a dozing grandchild swaddled against her chest, to realise it.

She would never love again, nor would she pray. But it was no matter. 

Beneath a sheet of milky snow, in front of a crackling hearth, she told him from the beginning. 

She began with the smell of jasmine flowers and henna. The brilliant gold of their homeland’s setting sun. The electricity of a performance and a gaze. Your eyes, thrumming with challenge.

And a promise, vowed and broken long ago.

[vintagerpg]

Back in the ’90s, a big part of the local punk scene in North Jersey that I bounced around in was centered around street punk and oi bands like Headwound, Niblick Henbane and The Wretched Ones. Their music was stripped down, catchy and their lyrics reflected a mix of working-class life, light hooliganism and, in the case of Those Unknown, grassroots leftist politics. One thing that none of them struck me as? Nerdy.

Fast-forward to 2023 when I stumbled across Harvest, by Philly’s Poison Ruin. Self-described peace punks, the album is a leftist working-class manifesto filtered through the aesthetics of medieval peasantry. It gets weirder! The tunes are gruff head-kickers with a strong sense of ’90s-era production, but there are all these clearly dungeonsynth-influenced interludes and, well, come on, look at that cover. Spooky chainmail guy with a sickle, black on yellow — it’s basically a MÖRK BORG zine. Can’t help but notice that flail is real similar to the one in the Gnoll logo, too…

Poison Ruin reminded me how much I liked aggro-infused music, so I went hunting for more. Most of the stuff I dug up hewed to the ’90s standard of slice-of-life working class lyrics and aesthetics, though many have a strong mix of post-punk and new wave influences, a la later-era Blitz, which is also surprising and intriguing. But some bands have decided to explore even stranger trails.

Enemic Interior, out of Barcelona, mixes oi and post-punk, and their album art, by David Soto, clearly evokes the look of old school RPGs — that ghost on II (2022) is very reminiscent of the ghost from the original Monster Manual — and could easily front dungeonsynth albums. Same for Castillo but more so — the sleeve of their self-titled EP (2020) boasts Sutherland’s green dragon and frost giant from the MM, and the Paladin in Hell from the Players Handbook (I can’t place the wizard). And for Pete’s sake, just look at that cover for Lost Legion’s Beyond the Concrete Veil (2024). It’s not explicitly tied to RPGs, but it could totally be an illustration in Realm of Chaos. And in a million years, I’d never have expected to hear oi this catchy and stompy to also be so entangled with science fiction, psychedelia and Aleister Crowley, but here we are. And, mind-blowingly, when I ordered the Mutant Genes 7-inch, Derek Atkinson at the label was already following my Instagram and popped the vinyl in a custom hand-stenciled sleeve featuring the text of the gelatinous cube entry from the Monster Manual. Fuckin’ wild.

Does this mean anything? I dunno! Medieval fantasy, and the notion of the fantasy dungeon in particular, can be a pretty handy visual shorthand for brutality, whether physical or metaphorical. Just look at all those poor adventurers getting eaten by monsters in the original Monster Manual! Does the frost giant and his huge ax on the Castillo sleeve represent the oppressive, exploitative forces of capitalism? Are frost giants with huge axes just cool now? Two things can be true simultaneously. And, regardless of intent, it’s interesting how the aesthetics have shifted in 30 years. Maybe fantasy is having a moment of broad appeal reminiscent of the last golden era in the ’70s.

P.S.: And, yes, true, the Misfits were into nerd shit way before any of this stuff, but I think horror nerd shit has always had more cachet than fantasy nerd shit? Perhaps because it maps more readily to established masculine norms; there was a big gulf in 198X between Danzig watching Plan 9 from Outer Space and Danzig copping to running a weekly D&D game).

[vixensdungeon]

For years I've had this on-again-off-again project about creating a D&D setting that uses edition changes to build a World of Darkness style metaplot. And maybe I should start parting the veil on it a bit.

The history of the world of Qwerth is told from the time of the Great War of Law and Chaos onward, anything before that being lost to the mists of prehistory. So basically I'm starting from Chainmail.

The changes in the game that affect changes in lore are those that actually affect how something works within the fictional world. Going from THAC0 to base attack bonus is nothing, nobody in the world talks about those things. But halflings having druids and then not having druids and then having druids again? That's something, that can tell us something about the world and its history.

There's a lot to cover, so I'm gonna crowdsource this a bit.

Whatever you vote for, I'd appreciate suggestions for that type of thing so I can make a follow-up poll.

[comfortless]

Syl, my lovely, please. I need to see this vision come to life through your words. Would König take his darling to the Ren Faire?🌷

VANI!!! my angel!! of course he would… König is a just a hapless knight at heart & it gives him an excuse to treat you like an actual princess! 🗡💕 i can not promise you that he will not force you to sit in his lap and play skyrim or something when you get home though…! /:

“Danke for agreeing to come,” he whispers to you once you’re out in the sprawling field, an abundance of colorful tents, partitions and others in similar dress surrounding the two of you.

It’s a lot to take in, as though you’ve been whisked away to a separate world entirely; the air smells faintly of fresh food, a bard strums a lute somewhere out in the distance, and… was that supposed to be a dragon’s roar?

König dons a veil of tightly woven chainmail, only a glimpse of his jaw visible, lined with prickly stubble. The rest of his armor leaves little glimpses of him, his thick wrist between cuff and glove, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he curls his arm around you protectively. If it were possible, he seems even larger wearing the plates of armor, far more imposing like this.

Tucked at his side, stands you in your linen bliaut, a soft woolen cloak dyed a royal blue thrown over your shoulders; a stark contrast from the shimmering and hardened armor of the knight guiding each of your steps with his arm around your waist.

König has to look at everything— marveling at the handmade objects and shiny, smithed weapons in each booth.

When you give him a quizzical glance as he ghosts his gloved fingertips over the angular blade of an exceptionally smart spear, he pauses his frantic admiration for a time to explain to you that it reminds him of one he read about once— like Odin’s Gungnir, fierce and proud. Even you take a moment to admire its craftsmanship, to which the pale blue of his eyes seems to light up; he makes the purchase without a second thought.

You find yourself enjoying the atmosphere, especially with that ever-present grin on König’s face; he’s in his element surrounded by fantasies drawn from history. It’s a nice change, seeing him so filled up with whimsy as he whisks you from tent to tent, buying you anything that catches your eye, taking your picture any chance that he gets.

You humor him, lifting your skirts a little when you pass between two of the fabric structures, hidden away from the eyes of any other grinning merchants, pretty ladies, and bellowing bards.

Seated in his lap he tells you of holy grails and swordplay tactics while feeding you from a dish on a wooden countertop, a pastry stuffed full with apple.

You only think to offer a complaint once you note the three now emptied pewter goblets of mead in front of him as König proclaims he wants to act out a proper sword fight with one of the others donning armor in the small, hastily fenced in area serving as a knight’s training yard.

(It was certainly a coincidence that the one he chose to spar with happened to be the very same man who offered you a friendly wave in passing.)

He makes a display of his swordsmanship, swift knocks and parries that leave your eyes wide as you clasp your hands over your mouth; even a prise de fer as you dig your nails into the wood of the shoddy fence. You’ve never seen him so swift, so brutal, as when he finally knocks his opponent into the dust, the sharpened edge of his blade pointed downward. Had this not all been pretend, you could imagine the bloodshed that would have occurred here.

Thankfully, König backs off, dips his head in a begrudging bow to his opponent before wandering back to you.

Your hand is pried from the fence, a kiss placed upon every knuckle as you praise his talents. He smirks, proud, and whispers to you something about how he had to show off for his lady. Even has the audacity to tell you that he would kill for you, and you knew very well it was not said entirely in jest.

When the sun finally dims and lanterns are lit, bathing the green below your boots in a soft, tangerine glow, you find yourself helping to loosen the straps of König’s armor. Poor thing had not thought to wear a proper shirt beneath, or.. perhaps, that was intentional. The sweat glistens off of him when you’ve tossed his dark top and curved metal into a heap, the curls of his chest hair sticking to pale flesh.

You rove your hand over him to dull the ache of those straps digging into his shoulders. He groans, contented as he pulls you up to your feet, leaning down just enough to kiss you, to desperately grope at your hips, your rear, before the strumming of a lute and the cheers and giggles accompanied by dancing fills your ears.

Attentions turned, you find yourself curling your hand into his, tugging him towards the feathery songs and shuffling of feet.

“We should dance,” you suggest, all giggles when you tilt your head to offer a pleading glance to him over your shoulder.

“Anything for you, meine prinzessin.”

[the-grey-hunt]

i was encouraged for two seconds and now you all get to look at medieval ghost trick—heavily based on the medieval AU by @theriveroflight!

MORE WORDS BELOW THE CUT:

im gonna talk about each outfit specifically because again, someone encouraged me for 2 seconds and i love talking

YOMIEL (and SISSEL): Sissel gets a little medieval hood instead of a plain kerchief, because it's adorable.

Yomiel's outfit is based on this gentleman here, but with a longer doublet to mimic his suit jacket. His red clothes are plain and a common color, but the richness of the color (from an early dye batch) indicates that it's probably a bit expensive, and the rich black collar and blindfold (because sunglasses didn't exist) are also some flashy signifiers of wealth.

The white leather of his shoes and belt would also be pretty showy (even if those white shoes are a bad idea in medieval mud...). I couldn't figure out a way to make the hat work, but I kinda wanted to.

CABANELA: As a knight, Cabanela not only has some flashy white leather for his belt, but he's wearing a full-length chainmail shirt (expensive!) AND a deep black skirted tunic—lots of fabric that would take LOTS of expensive dye. This is conspicuous consumption to the max, showing off his status (indicated by his silver chain and pendant) as a royal knight.

His sword doesn't quite seem to match...as it's not his, but Jowd's old sword, still bearing Jowd's family's crest. Cabanela's outfit is taken from these two 12th/13th c. knights.

LYNNE: A younger and less established knight than Cabanela, she's wearing more common colors (red, blue, yellow) from cheaper dyes, and her armor is based on this 9th/10th c. fellow. Older gear and much less flashy—she has plain brown leather accessories—but she bears the green ribbon favor that shows her commitment to Jowd's case.

Plus, her hose (pants) are a pretty deep blue and her armor is polished. She's taking good care of her handmedown gear and has made a few splurges on clothes! Her sword may not have a crest, but there's still a few jewels set in the hilt, befitting a royal knight.

KAMILA (and MISSILE):

Kamila as a young noblewoman is referenced from this statue of a French queen. Her veil and circlet are typical for medieval women—most wore some kind of hair covering—but her circlet is metal, while most ordinary people would use fabric. I'm very proud of how nice all the gilding turned out. The power of shading!

Her little purse is not only expensive, but a royal favor—it's silk dyed Tyrian purple, a color that was often legally banned for anyone not in the royal family. I imagine it's a gift from her friend, Princess Amelie! Her clothes are pretty plain, light colors for a noblewoman, which is probably a matter of taste and/or youth.

The pose she's in, holding her cloak fastening down so it doesn't pull against her throat, is very common in medieval artwork of the period where this type of sash fastening was common.

Missile is Missile. you can't improve on perfection XD. I have given him a green collar, in a style to match Kamila's fancy gilt belt.

JOWD:

Jowd is dressed in his "prison clothes", this rough brown friar's robe and rope belt that I copied the pose from as well. However, being brought back onto the case as a knight, he's recovered his old green "coat", a very nice garment called a gardcorps. It's a simple green, not too expensive, but it's lined in a contrasting white, showing the care put into its make.

I switched the opening on his gardcorps to the front, rather than the side as in the original illustration, so that the rope belt would be visible because I really liked the belt. It's got most of the "penitent" vibes I was trying to give Jowd. Also, like the friar, he is barefoot (prison does not give one a big clothes budget).

The background shows the city, like the original green-monochrome city skyline from the game's promo images. This city, however, has fewer and smaller lights, indicating the palace and the castle wall—and over the sea, the Viking longships of Sith's country are swarming in! (it's explicitly not longships in the fic I reference, but the Vikings are just too suitable a reference)

[assmaster-8000]

i haven't really thought about atropos' timeline but like? atropos being born in another ancient land, and only coming to fight for lovent somewhere in their 20s-40s. their helmet was amongst their prized possessions - proud, sharp steel. nowadays they only wear armor to protect the workers of the body; arms, legs... on a hound? a head has no real use, you don't need to think. either you keep it or you lose it. and if the latter comes to be, then you would've grown too foolish to remain worthy of keeping it

[serpentface]

Fuck we are under attack (Janeys armor reference image)

The Imperial Wardi military has no standardized weapons or armor (except for a few small, elite and specialized groups of soldiers). The vast majority of soldiers have to supply their own, and one's armor is only as good as they can afford. Janeys can afford very, very good armor, though this set opts more for comfort, visual appeal, and basic coverage of vital organs than truly comprehensive protection.

This set consists of a lacquered and finely scaled iron lamellar covering the torso, shoulders, and wrists, and two layers of thick padded skirts protecting the upper legs and groin, all worn over a standard skirt and a light undershirt. The veil draping from the helmet is externally decorated with fabric and conceals an internal set of chainmail (the rest of the mail that would complete the set has been neglected). While this armor is not as fully protective as would be ideal, it is designed to allow for an adequate degree of protection while maintaining freedom of movement to engage with versatile duties (riding, fighting with a sword or spear, archery, shooting a musket, verbally abusing your soldiers to cope with stress, etc).

This armor is substantially more decorated than is typical, while not outright being fully ornamental/ceremonial. The padded components and belt are trimmed with consecrated white lionsmane (a material typically reserved for Odonii and their kin, used to increase prowess in battle), and the helmet has a purely unnecessary skimmer gull plume flopping around on it (for good luck).

There is a great variety of armor produced in Imperial Wardin, but it tends to fall into the categories of lamellar (usually iron or leather) and chainmail, and/or thickly padded linen armors. The latter is of increasing importance in the contemporary, as it is the only armor that offers SOME degree of protection against musketfire. Padded armor certainly cannot withstand a direct hit, but it can sometimes absorb distant or glancing hits from ammunition.

[tongue-twists]

hello! just wanted to reach out and say: I saw your metal lace chainmail veil photos of your ample and wonderful breasts while very high on edibles and got a lil scared because I thought that death was posting selfies on tumblr.gov

in your last moments, as you expire, you will be thankful for the warmth of my chest, as I take you under my veil - and the cold face of death will give you a bony kiss goodbye

[thebookworm0001]

wip Wednesday

hi felt like sharing have some solavellan

“It appears your mind is elsewhere, ma vhenan,” he said, voice as level as if he were commenting on Skyhold’s continued frosty weather. Casually, he lifted his left hand from where it supported the open cover of the manuscript, and the whole of her attention focused on the soft skin of the inside of her knee as he curled his fingers around it, as it slipped just a hair lower to caress the inside of her thigh. “What has captured it, I wonder?”

“I’m perfectly focused, thank you very much.” The words came out higher than she’d intended. Not a squeak, thank the creators, but certainly not the low, settled confidence that would have been at least half-convincing. And though Solas’s expression remained cool and unchanged, his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Is that so?” She made a small noise of affirmation, and his thumb began smoothing over her skin in a wholly distracting back and forth motion. Suddenly, she was sharply aware of all the places her body met his – every inch of her thighs and calves that rested atop his, the thin sleep trousers which separated their bare skin – and how much more effort it took to make her chest rise and fall in a calm, collected rhythm. Two pictures warred in her head, one where she retrieved her legs, tucked them beneath her and smoothed her slip back down over her thighs, and one where she indulged the urge to surge forward, slide her fingers around the near-translucent collar of his shirt, and leave the book to fall to the side for the night.

And he could see her struggle, plain as if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. And even if she could not see it in the twitch of his ear and the tension in his cheeks to keep them from betraying his smugness, it radiated off him, coloring the magic that always clung to him with a deep amusement – it danced across the surface of the veil, making her scalp tingle and the memory of sparks tease at her lips. It was bait – every bit as much the flower set inside the snare.

Apparently, she was keen to play the deer. But it wasn’t as if Halla had no horns of their own.

Ignoring the voice that wisely cautioned against rash actions, Ellana sat up, drawing a leg beneath her even as she swung the other across Solas’ lap so that she was perched firmly over his thighs – and settled her ass on the perch of his knees. She drew the book from his hand, the cloth binding snapping shut between her fingers, and made a show of leaning over to set it in the seat she had just evacuated – leaning over farther than she needed to so that her hair fell in in waves behind her back and the loose straps of her nightdress flirted with the cliffs of her shoulders. When she righted herself, Solas’s gaze snapped from her gaping silk neckline back to her eyes, an eyebrow quirked expectantly.

“Ask me anything you want.” Warm hands slid over her thighs, calluses formed by holding brushes and staves rough against soft skin protected by muscles, pillowy flesh, and chainmail. She did not bite her lips, as her nerves would normally bid her do, instead she wrapped her arms around Solas’ neck, casually crossing her wrists, momentary, foolish boldness overtaking the rapid beat of her heart. “I presume you remember the bulk of the passage?”

no pressure to play, but tagging: @dreadfutures @ell-vellan @shift-shaping @plisuu @rosella-writes @kcwriter-blog and anybody else who needs or wants an excuse to share their writing

[oh-faire-rider]

Would I be a fool to fight an army alone? My chainmail jingles as I shiver from the cold, burn from the fever, the fervor, the devotion I have for you. My eyes water with emotion; your light is blinding, the candles too bright, the humming too loud. I do not question the change of station.

Lain on cotton sheets, propped on feather pillows, your face is shielded by a veil as you enter. Your blessings are in Latin, in tongues, in speech too holy for me to understand.

You compel me to rest. I cannot say no. I cannot seem to say anything at all.

[secretmage]

Gaming Heads Solas Statue (Fade edition)

very long unboxing-related post ahead -

So I was lucky enough to get my hands on one of these and it has arrived! My sister was at home when it was delivered by China Post (and my country's post for the last-mile journey) from GH's Asia warehouse in Dongguan, Guangdong province. I live in South East Asia, so that's the closest warehouse to me. Shipping cost me 120USD but that price is likely dependent on where you live from their nearest warehouse.

and let's just say the box is super big (boba for scale). The shipping box is 66cm x 30cm x 84cm (26" x 11.8" x 33") while the actual packaging box inside is around 60cm x 25cm x 79cm (23.6" x 9.85" x 31.1").

The packaging box is more than half my height and I unboxed in a really small space, so it was a little of a struggle. I kinda just dragged the styrofoam out slowly and carefully. Both sides of the styrofoam - image of statue embossed on one side, and on the other side, the authentication card:

The authentication card looks and feels like a credit card; the authentication code text is embossed in silver.

I lifted the styrofoam up slowly so the parts don't take a rough tumble. And found myself face to face with disembodied body parts - I never thought I would use those words in a sentence. (I already unwrapped the base for the first photo).

The base is really heavy! Unfortunately there was some really minor damage but nothing super glue (cyanoacrylate) can't fix. Just remember not to use too much, so the glue doesn't ooze out betwee the cracks when you press the pieces together. I didn't bother contacting GH over this.

Boba again for scale, and main attachment points in the statue - the robe attaches to a notch in his butt LOL. Ignore the crack on my wall, clearly the veil is thin in my house as well ;_;

Inventory of parts. The statue comes in 3 variants and here are the differences:

Standard Edition

Head with brown eyes

Hands clasped behind his back

The Veil Edition

Parts that come with the Standard Edition (i.e. Brown-eyed head, Hands clasped behind back)

Isana's Song

Acolyte's staff

One left arm

One right arm

TWO right hands for the staves. Okay this one tripped me up for a bit and I thought GH sent me two hands by accident. It turns out the sculpt is so detail-oriented that Isana's Song and the Acolyte's staves DIFFER IN DIAMETER so one hand is for Isana's and the other is for the Acolyte's (Isana's shaft is wider in diameter). Honestly if it were me I would have just standardised the diameters so only one hand is needed hahah

Fade Edition

Parts that come with the Standard and the Veil Edition

Head with light purple eyes

One left arm clasped across his chest

One right arm

But do check out GH's website for more details, they've itemised it better than I could. Currently, all 3 variants retail for the same price on GH's website so obviously, if you can, it makes more sense to grab the Fade edition to get more value for your money. Just note that the Fade ed. is limited to 500 pieces, Veil's is limited to 1,000, and the Standard has 1,500.

Isana's song has two points of magnetic attachment to his right hand, so he can grasp it slightly higher or lower. The points are marked out super subtly but sliding the staff up and down his hand will reveal the magnetic areas easily so don't bother looking for these marks! Acolyte's seems to only have one.

Height when Isana's Song is held at the upper position is almost 65cm, or 25.4". The entire length of Isana's Song is approx 53cm, or 20.9". The length is perfect as a real-life wand haha

Both staves are secured by magic magnets to his back (though not both at the same time). It feels a little fiddly to me though. But it also means that technically he can hold a staff and carry another on his back like a dual-wielding mage.

Some details (love the chainmail) and scale comparison with Dark Horse Direct's statuette (giving "don't talk to me or my son ever again" energy)

I would say the sculpt and paint quality are great, the only two complaints I have is that:

The fur isn't as vibrant as the master on the GH website. It's missing the contrast as the dark parts of the fur are nowhere near dark enough but this is in no way a dealbreaker for me.

The hand holding the staff feels both secure and fiddly at the same time. It feels like if I brush the staff the wrong way the entire thing will drop right off, but at the same time there is a pin and some magnetic attachment so I am probably overthinking it.

Right now I'm trying to get a case made as cheaply as possible so for now I've left it like this like a museum exhibit with some DIY stanchions (added a human for scale) -

If anyone has questions or wants measurements or more detailed photos feel free to ask away! I just like to add that I consider myself lucky to be in a spot where I can purchase this without going completely broke so I'm grateful for that ;_;

[hoboblaidd]

hey can we talk about how solas rolled up in literally what was an elven business suit, because that does make me laugh

It's my favorite thing. Opened his closet after Trespasser and was like 'yeah this thing I wore everyday 4,000 years ago will do.' It's the ~aesthetic~. He clearly lost his tailor when he put the Veil up, which is a damn shame because whoever that tailor was had the Vision.

It's a clean look for a guerrilla general. It's not ostentatious or wholly impractical. It isn't overly militaristic or ceremonial. It sends a message of 'I'm in charge but I'm also one of you on the ground.' It's probably downright pedestrian compared to what the other Evanuris were wearing (bland datv Mythal design notwithstanding). From a combat standpoint, while he can be a front line fighter, he's not a heavy combatant. He's got his points in dexterity and not strength (and charisma but that's another post).

And we've got good armor in there, embellished with design choices that are aesthetically pleasing and also practical - the way the chest armor is a bit of a barrel and fans out to deflect penetrations. We've got great chainmail coverage on the legs beneath the greaves that also have good coverage that don't restrict his movement. The leather overlay has a bit of extra protection and covers his neck. It's not great on its own, but it's more helpful than cloth or nothing would be.

images: (1) (2)

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

(adar pov) (kissing someone on saurons throne you say) (sfw but suggestive??)

You can smell Mairon everywhere in the great ruined tower of Eragion - he must have been living here for months. He's like metal on your tongue and down your throat. This place is layer after layer of forge and smithy, supplies, ores - for your former master, this must have been a heavenly kingdom to rule.

It's abandoned now. Your troops have made short work of the elves guarding it - you imagine this will make Mairon run back here as fast as he is able, when he stops being distracted by Lady Galadriel. If hte two of you stretch him thin enough, each armed with a piece of his crown, one of you will surely be able to strike him down.

There are no traps; there's not even a veil cast over this place. Just the increasing stink of smoke and ash both mortal and immortal, the same skin-clinging heat you'd feel in Mairon's forges back in Angband.

On the top floor is a locked door; your blackened knife breaks the lock easily. You open the door slowly in case of traps or a waiting enemy; none strikes.

The single spot of color in the room is an elf in green robes hunched over a desk, one hand on a machine you don't recognize. He was looking at the machine; now he's looking at you. His face and hair are streaked with forge-ash; his eyes are the only light in the room other than the candles.

"Who are you?" the elf asks, picking up a slender hammer better used on jewelry than on flesh. There's a long, golden chain attached to one wrist that clinks whenever he moves. "Did Annatar send you?"

"I do not know any Annatar. I am here seeking the one you elves call Sauron." You step forward; he steps back, hips against the desk. With the length of the chain, there's no way he can get around the table unless he crawls under it, and that will still give him little room to maneuver. You're glad you left your children to explore the rest of this place; this is exactly the right amount of fear for you to give a captive elf. "He was here. Where is he now?"

"Sauron? Sauron - what do you want him for?" the elf asks. He backs up until he's sitting on the table. You stand between his legs, palms open. "Are you one of his?"

You bark a laugh. "I have not been his for a thousand years. I have come to finish things with the Deceiver. I have little doubt he'd hate the theft of a prize he kept squirreled away so. If you wish for freedom, there are few others you can turn to."

"And few others I can trust. He weaves a veil over those in his power. How do I know you are not him? He has many names and wears many faces."

"Do you think he'd wear a face like this?" Your Mairon was always uncanny in his symmetry. You were not fair of form even before he made a ruin of your skin.

"He might, to fool me," the elf says. His eyes dart over you - the heavily repaired armor, the chainmail, the faded embroidery on your sleeves and neckline. "Though I suppose there are ways to test such things."

"I'd prefer you not stab me to check what my wounds do," you say dryly - if only because you bleed as black as Mairon does.

"That was not what I had in mind," the elf says; his hands curl on your shoulders as he pulls your face to his, mouth to mouth.

You respond on ancient instinct. His mouth is open against yours. You run your tongue across his mouth, tasting iron and copper; your hands settle on his hips to keep him steady as he lets you in, sating a hunger you do not let yourself indulge in often. He is blood-warm and his hands are eager on you, urging you to kiss deeper, plunder more from him.

His cheeks are flushed when the two of you finally break to breathe. He clings to you as you draw back an inch. "Satisfied?"

"Very," the elf says. "He does not kiss as gently as you do."

You cannot help but snicker at being called gentle; you are hardly that. It is that Mairon works his lovers to the bone. "I am no friend of elves, but the one called Sauron is a greater threat to both of us than we are to each other. Will you let me rescue you?"

"You may. I had thought I'd need to sever my thumb. Do you have any better ideas?"

"Yes," and you bring your black knife up and drive it into the cuff. It melts under the touch of a shard of Morgoth's crown, allowing you to pry the warped metal off the elf's wrist. "Are you satisfied?"

"Very," the elf says, rubbing his wrist. He takes a small bag from the table and tucks it into his robes, then gingerly clambers back onto the floor. You take his elbow to make the fall smoother. "Do I have the honor of knowing who my escort is?"

The dim light of the candles flashes over the steel in his eyes, the crooked smile, turns his hair rusty, and you remember where you've seen his features before. "I am Adar, one of the Moriandor who lead the Uruk legions of Angband against your kin, Nelyafinwe Feanorian and his brothers. Will that be a problem?"

"I've worked with plenty of people who wanted my family dead. At least you're up front about it," the elf says, and there's life returning to his eyes as you walk him to the stairs, crown shard in hand. "I am Celebrimbor Curufinwean, last of the House of Feanor and lord of this city."

"You are going to be just as much of a pain as your uncle was," you say fondly. "We shall battle for the fate of this land later. We have bigger fish to fry."

Including, you think as Celebrimbor takes your hand, the fact that you've stolen into Mairon's tower, Mairon's cellblock, and stolen the prisoner he must be using to control this city. Taken a taste of him in the very heart of the forges. You will take all this elf offers up so that when you face Mairon, he can smell just how much of what was his you have made your own.

BRIMBY!!!!!

Also fact that Adar ASKS for permission to rescue him... I DIED.