#chanting winged dame

[katyspersonal]

So, Rauh is Slavic + connections with Farum Azula?

I've noticed this first because of the area where you fight Magma Wyrm Makar at! It does have Rauh architecture, for starters:

But also, before this arena, you can find a unique variant of Chanting Winged Dame that appears to be wearing a variant of кокошник (kokoshnik), a traditional Russian tiara-like female headwear!

They have different variants, and this one appears to be triangle! I instantly recognised it, because this variant is very commonly found on depictions of Snegurochka (a Russian folklore character, she is a granddaughter to the guy who is basically our equivalent of Santa)!

Then, on the side note, Makar is a very popular name in Slavic countries! There is even information that it is straight up a name that appeared in Russia; back then, when old Russia accepted Orthodox Christianity from Greece, a LOT of names were adopted here from Greece too and then most were changed a bit over time in language environment! Makar is one of such names, originating from the word Μακάριος and changed into just Makar in environment with Slavic languages!

There are also some other things I've noticed that seem to match Slavic aesthetic! The first one features what could be another variant of kokoshnik, and also clothes that are very similar to a variant of sarafan, also a traditional dress in Slavic countries! I agree that the second image features appearances similar to Nox females, but also to this other traditional Russian folk look!

Again, I am kind of just spotting these because I've seen these a lot upon growing up in history and art classes, as well as on the events! Some of these just look soooooo similar, and darn name 'Makar' especially convinced me I am not overthinking it xD

There is also this statue in Farum Azula, that also has "Rauh aesthetic" and appears to be wearing a variant of a sarafan! These details were not something I could make sense of in the base game, they just seemed like nice aesthetic inspirations, but with SOTE, Rauh even became a thing, so...?

This statue is specifically found in the arena where we fight Maliketh and take Destined Death, and female figure being found near a Shadowbeast (three beings making one, kinda like if a Kamaitachi was a wolf instead of a weasel) does feel like an Empyrean! If you believe it could be Gloam-Eyed Queen, that'd make her have Rauh descent I suppose! Could she have even met Marika while she was still a Shaman? That's one doomed yuri if I've seen one dshfhfd

(I am also wondering if a link with Farum Azula could've explained the bat people in general? They could be a variant of a dragonborn, maybe... There is a Draconian preset for a Tarnished, that is just a humanoid with a 'rocky' skin, as well as Godrick mentions literal blood relation to Dragons in Japanese, proving the species can mingle! So, the so-called "bat ladies" + those annoying screaming mobs might be not just from Rauh, but one of the variants of an offspring of humanoids and Dragons?)

[omnybus]

Elden Ring + Homestar Runner Quotes, Pt. 3

"I swear that thing is evil. Liberache is fixin' to lose a finger."

"Oh hello, Dripping Yellow Madness!"

"Now here's a whiny know-it-all who sounds just like he looks."

"Ew! Go away, Head-Nub and Nub-Head!"

"WHAAAT is this? Some sort of a challenge buried in the GROUUUND?"

"I can name about forty different odors emanating from this thing right now. There's death, rot, decay—"

"Damp, moist, kimchi..."

"...subject became erratic, violent, and really funny to watch."

"Sorry, Sickly Sam- you're an affront to God and man."

"I'm not touching that thing! It's booby trapped! It'll shoot a bunch of poison-tipped witch doctors at me!"

"I don't know what kinda doo-doo meat he put in there... but I had ta PUKE!"

"Old ladies SUCK!"

Elden Ring + Homestar Runner Quotes Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[shyfurby]

"𝔚𝔢, 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔥𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔡"

[bathsebah]

[warasdf]

thinking about how, in the grand tradition of fromsoft games, Elden Ring puts so much detail into passive npc behaviors

there's the Misbegotten raising their arms in triumph at Castle Morne

a wormface kneels in front of a grave in the Altus Plateau. you can kill him and pick up the item on the grave: a st trina lily.

in the Consecrated Snowfields, you can find a nobleman trapped waist-deep in the snow, and two other noblemen trying to dig him out

and, in the same area, a pack of wolves chases the light from a scarab moving beneath the snow

Chanting Winged Dames always singing in Latin. they sit in a circle, almost meditatively. translated into English, one line reads "We have lamented and we have shed tears but no one consoles us"

deep underground in the Ancestral Woods, a Shaman sings over a cliffside; behind them, a dozen small rats listen

there's SO MUCH MORE but i cant remember them all right now.

[arnaerr]

Music of Lands Between

Today I really want to ramble about the importance of music we can hear from Elden Ring NPCs bc it makes me feel A LOT. Here's a small video compilation

One of the things that make fictional world building actually GOOD and believable for me is the existence of art in the world. Often art is an urge to express the feelings in reaction to some events or to just cope; it's a catharsis. If the fictional world has history, it would have art history as well. What strikes me about the existence of music in Lands Between is the fact that this world is broken and ruined; and yet...there's an urge to create. The culture still exists and develops. The fact that the developers included these little details in the game's world makes it feel alive.

1) A page playing flute. It seems that they're playing it by the graveyard? I love how this melody fits the ambient music of Leyndell...and the atmosphere of it, too; the grief and the pain and the sombre hope in this city.

2) Chanting Winged Dame and her song of lament. What is interesting, is that the lyrics have a meaning - she signs about the sadness of the fate of this world. Beautiful song and I love that we can hear it from afar.

3) Nomadic Merchant's song. I love how sombre it is, I love how uniquely their culture is designed, I love the fact that the fingers are animated in sync with this melody, I love how it reflects the mood of the environment. They've lost everything, but the music, the important part of their culture, is still with them.

4) The songs of the Ancestral Follower Shamans is what made this place unique and otherworldly to me, such beautiful voice.

5) Frenzied Nomad surrounded by its people who went insane because of the Flame of Frenzy. Love the horrific contrast between the jovial melody and the horrid environment.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[pbaz7]

It’ll Always Be Her Chapter 13

AN: Here’s the next chapter since the last one was pretty short. This one is basketball heavy which is perfect because they play today

TW: Slight homophobia

Word Count: 4.1k

The energy in the arena is electric, a palpable buzz reverberating through the crowd. Fans chant UConn’s fight song, their collective voice a reminder of last year’s painful loss. This isn’t just another game; it’s a grudge match. Everyone knows it—players, coaches, and especially the fans.

The players take the court for warmups, the usual routine of layup lines and half-court shots underway. Normally, UConn keeps things light, even sharing friendly banter with opposing teams. But tonight, the mood is different.

The tension had been brewing long before the game. Several Notre Dame players had made homophobic comments on social media, thinly veiled jabs that were hard to ignore. Paige and Azzi, the targets of these posts, hadn’t addressed them publicly but shared quiet, knowing glances during practice. The team had each other’s backs, and this game wasn’t just about revenge—it was personal.

A few Notre Dame players saunter over during warmups, attempting to strike up casual conversation with Paige.

“Hey, Paige. Big game tonight, huh?”

Paige doesn’t even glance their way, focused solely on her jump shot. She sinks it cleanly, then moves to her next spot on the court without a word. The slight is obvious.

“She’s still salty about last year.”

Azzi, observing from the other side of the court, narrows her eyes but stays silent. She knows Paige doesn’t need her to step in—her game will do all the talking.

As warmups conclude, Geno calls the team into a tight huddle near the bench.

“This is our house. They embarrassed us last year, and they’ve been running their mouths ever since. Tonight, we remind them who we are. Play smart, play tough, and don’t give them an inch,” Geno says with intensity.

The players nod, their faces a mix of focus and fury. Paige, the natural leader, steps into the center.

“They don’t respect us. They don’t respect who we are, on or off the court. So, let’s make them. Every loose ball, every rebound, every shot—leave nothing behind. We’ve got each other. Let’s do this.”

“No mercy.” Azzi adds.

KK, the usual hype woman of the team, “We’re dogs! Let’s eat!”

The team roars in agreement, hands coming together in the center.

“Huskies on three! One, two, three—HUSKIES!”

As the announcer calls out the starters—Paige, Azzi, Sarah, KK, and Ice—the crowd erupts. The five starters jog to center court, exchanging nods of encouragement. Usually, there’s a brief handshake with the opposing players before tipoff, but tonight, both teams skip the pleasantries, barely acknowledging each other. The tension is thick, the rivalry sharper than ever.

The referee steps in, ball in hand, ready for the tip. Paige and Azzi exchange one last look, their unspoken bond stronger than any words.

The whistle blows, the ball goes up, and the game begins.

…

The opening minutes of the game were everything the crowd had hoped for. Paige and Azzi were locked in, moving as if they shared one mind. Paige would drive into the lane, drawing defenders, only to kick it out to Azzi for a corner three. Azzi, in turn, found Paige cutting to the hoop with no-look passes that left Notre Dame’s defense scrambling. Every bucket brought the crowd to its feet, a sea of blue and white erupting in cheers.

Sarah, the freshman, wasn’t about to let the veterans steal all the shine. She drained a three from the top of the key, then followed it up with a steal and a fast-break layup, pumping her fist as the arena roared. UConn was rolling, their lead steadily growing. The rivalry was fierce but clean—until it wasn’t.

With three minutes left in the second quarter, Azzi caught a pass on the wing and drove hard to the basket. She soared through the air, ready to finish a layup, when a Notre Dame guard came flying in, knocking her off balance mid-air. Azzi crashed to the floor, the impact reverberating through the court. The whistle blew immediately, signaling a foul, but the damage was done.

Paige and Jana sprinted over, helping Azzi to her feet. Azzi winced, shaking her head as she steadied herself. But before she could respond, the Notre Dame guard leaned in, her voice low but venomous.

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy being a dyke, you’d know how to land properly.”

Azzi froze, her eyes narrowing to slits. “What the hell did you just say?”

Paige didn’t hesitate. She shoved the guard hard, sending her stumbling backward. “Watch your fucking mouth,” Paige snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

The guard recovered, smirking as she stepped forward again. “Touchy, aren’t we? Guess it’s true what they say about you two.”

“You better shut the hell up before I do it for you,” Paige yelled, as she walked towards the guard.

Another Notre Dame player stepped in, her arms outstretched as if to de-escalate. “Relax, it’s just trash talk,” she said, though her tone was far from apologetic. “Not our fault if you can’t take it.”

KK wasn’t having it. She stepped up beside Paige, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Trash talk? You mean the weak-ass nonsense y’all spew when you’re scared?”

Azzi, now fully on her feet, glared at the guard. “You’re real bold for someone getting cooked all game.”

The guard sneered, ignoring the jab. “Cooked? Please. You’re barely holding on. Guess it’s hard to focus when you’re too busy eyeing each other.”

Jana tightened her grip on Paige, who was leaning forward as if ready to lunge. “Paige, don’t,” Jana hissed. “Not worth it.”

But Paige wasn’t backing down. “She thinks this is funny,” Paige said, her voice low and dangerous. “Say that again, and I promise you won’t be able to finish the game.”

The Notre Dame guard laughed, the sound cold and mocking. “Go ahead. Prove me right.”

Azzi stepped in front of Paige, her eyes locked on the guard. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who can’t back it up. Let’s see if you’re still running your mouth after the game’s over.”

The refs were blowing their whistles now, storming in to separate the players. The Notre Dame coach was yelling for her team to back off, while UConn’s bench was on their feet, shouting in defense of their teammates.

“Get your head in the game,” one of the refs barked, pointing a finger at Paige. “That’s a technical.”

Paige barely registered it, her eyes still locked on the guard. Azzi, noticing Paige’s clenched jaw, placed a hand on her arm. “Let it go, P. We’ll handle it.”

“I’m not letting her get away with that,” Paige muttered.

“You won’t,” Azzi said, her voice firm. “But we don’t have to do this.”

Paige finally exhaled, stepping back as Jana loosened her grip. The refs continued their huddle, handing out technicals left and right, but the fire in Paige’s eyes didn’t waver. She glanced at the scoreboard, then back at Azzi.

“Fine,” Paige said.

The intensity of the game grew with every passing minute, the rivalry palpable. Every possession felt like a war, and the refs' whistles were constant, trying to maintain some semblance of order. But the players weren’t backing down, and neither were the insults.

Paige and Azzi orchestrated UConn’s offense like a symphony, their chemistry undeniable. Paige threaded a perfect bounce pass to Azzi, who caught it in stride and drained a corner three, barely looking at the rim. The crowd erupted, but before Azzi could run back, a Notre Dame guard stepped into her path.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” the guard sneered. “You won’t be smiling in the fourth.”

Azzi smirked, jogging back to her defensive spot. “We’ll see if you’re still talking when you’re down twenty.”

The Notre Dame bench was on their feet, trying to rally their team. The next possession, Notre Dame’s forward drove hard into KK, dropping her to the ground as she powered through for a layup. As KK picked herself up, the forward clapped her hands in KK’s face.

“Too small,” she taunted.

KK didn’t miss a beat, dusting herself off with a grin. “I didn’t hear that when I blocked your shot earlier.”

On UConn’s next trip down the court, Paige orchestrated a quick pick-and-roll with Ice. Splitting the double team, Paige drove into the lane, pulling the defense in before dishing out to Sarah on the wing. Sarah drained the jumper, turning back toward the Notre Dame bench with a shrug.

“You’re gonna have to step out,” she said casually. “I could hit those all day.”

The Notre Dame coach yelled for her team to tighten up, but the players were already chirping back and forth.

“You’re getting lucky,” one of Notre Dame’s guards shouted at Sarah.

Sarah smiled as she jogged back on defense. “If you call that luck, I’d hate to see your idea of skill.”

Midway through the third quarter, the chippy play escalated. Azzi caught the ball on the perimeter, immediately facing tight pressure. She jab-stepped, pulling up for a three despite the hand in her face. The shot swished through, and Azzi turned, pointing toward Paige as the crowd erupted. Paige laughed, hyping her up with a raised fist.

But on the way back down the court, the Notre Dame guard who’d been guarding Azzi shoved her from behind. Azzi stumbled but stayed upright, spinning around with fire in her eyes.

“That all you got?” Azzi snapped. “Because it’s not working.”

The guard stepped closer, jaw clenched. “You think you’re hot now? Just wait.”

Jana quickly inserted herself between them, pushing Azzi back toward the defensive end. “Let it go, Azz,” she said. “We’ll handle it on the scoreboard.”

Azzi nodded but didn’t take her eyes off the guard until the next possession began.

Minutes later, Paige saw an opening and drove hard to the basket. She weaved past two defenders, her eyes locked on the rim. Just as she rose for the layup, a Notre Dame forward stepped in, her elbow raised. The impact was brutal. The elbow connected with Paige’s face, and she crashed to the floor, clutching her head as blood began to stream from a cut near her eye.

The arena erupted as Paige hit the floor, clutching her face. Blood was already seeping through her fingers, and the large cut near her eye was unmistakable. The crowd’s mix of boos and angry shouts filled the air, but on the court, Azzi saw nothing but red. She dropped everything and stormed toward the Notre Dame forward, her voice slicing through the chaos.

“What the hell was that?” Azzi shouted, her tone sharp and furious. “You did that on purpose. You that scared?”

The Notre Dame forward smirked, unbothered. “Maybe she should learn to stay out of the paint.”

Azzi’s fists clenched as she took another step forward, but KK and Jana grabbed her from behind, holding her back. “Azzi, don’t!” KK warned, her voice strained. “She’s not worth it.”

Azzi struggled against them, her eyes blazing. “Say that again!” she shouted, pointing at the forward. “I dare you!”

The Notre Dame player rolled her eyes. “You’re all bark, no bite. Go cry to the refs.”

Azzi lunged, forcing KK and Jana to tighten their grip. “You’re a coward!” she yelled. “You think you’re tough throwing cheap shots?”

The refs rushed in, their whistles blaring as they tried to separate the teams. One ref pointed directly at Azzi. “That’s a technical!”

Azzi barely registered the call. “I don’t care!” she snapped, her eyes still locked on the Notre Dame forward. “You’re not getting away with this!”

Finally, she stopped resisting, her focus shifting to Paige, who was still on the ground, the trainers now at her side. Blood was smeared across her face, and she was clearly in pain, though she tried to wave the trainers off.

Azzi shrugged off her teammates’ hands and hurried to Paige, her anger replaced by deep concern. “P, are you okay?” she asked softly, crouching beside her.

Paige winced, her voice low. “I’m fine,” she muttered, though the blood dripping all over her hands told a different story. “I just don’t want them to see.”

Azzi’s heart clenched at the sight. Without hesitation, she took another towel from the trainer and gently pressed it over Paige’s face, shielding her from the cameras. “I’ve got you,” Azzi whispered, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “Let’s get you out of here.”

As Azzi helped Paige to her feet, the entire UConn team gathered around them in a protective circle. Caroline, Ice, Sarah, Jana, and Ayanna all positioned themselves to block the view from the crowd and cameras, forming a wall of solidarity around their injured captain.

“Keep it tight,” Ice muttered, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one could sneak a photo. “We’ve got you, P.”

The crowd roared as Paige and Azzi slowly made their way toward the bench, the team shielding them every step of the way. Azzi kept one arm firmly around Paige’s waist, her other hand holding all the towels in place. Paige leaned on her slightly, trusting Azzi to guide her through the chaos.

When they reached the bench, Azzi helped Paige sit down, carefully adjusting another towel over her face as the other ones had blood soaking through them. The trainers immediately moved in, but Azzi didn’t leave Paige’s side, her hand resting on her shoulder as a silent promise: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

The rest of the team hovered close, their expressions a mix of anger and concern. Paige tried to sit up straighter, but Azzi gently pushed her back. “Relax P,” Azzi said quietly.

The UConn bench buzzed with tension as the refs huddled together to review the play. The crowd roared, some fans calling for an ejection, others shouting in defense of the Notre Dame forward. Paige sat on the bench, towel pressed against her face as the trainers worked to stop the bleeding. Azzi stayed by her side, her jaw tight with barely contained anger.

“You’re definitely getting stitches after this,” one of the trainers said, dabbing at the large cut near Paige’s eye. “It’s deep.”

Paige grimaced but nodded. “Just patch me up enough to get back in.”

Azzi shot her a look. “You’re seriously thinking about going back out there?”

Paige’s eyes, though partially obscured by the swelling, were fierce. “I’m not sitting out, Azzi. Not against them.”

Azzi sighed, a mix of frustration and admiration. “Fine. But don’t do anything stupid.”

The refs finally broke their huddle, and the lead official walked to the scorers’ table. He gestured toward the Notre Dame forward, who was standing with her team, trying to look unaffected.

“Flagrant 2,” the ref announced, his voice cutting through the arena noise. “Ejection.”

The crowd erupted again, this time in a deafening mix of cheers and boos. The Notre Dame bench protested loudly, but it was a done deal. The forward glared at the UConn players as she was escorted off the court, her face a mask of defiance.

“Good riddance,” KK muttered, loud enough for her teammates to hear.

Paige pulled the towel away from her face, revealing a freshly bandaged cut. The bleeding had slowed, and though the swelling was visible, she looked determined. She stood, adjusting her jersey, making sure there was no blood.

“I’m ready,” Paige said, her voice steady.

The trainer hesitated. “You’re sure? You’ll need stitches after the game.”

Paige nodded, her eyes locked on the court. “I’m sure.”

Azzi shook her head but couldn’t help a small smirk. “You’re unbelievable.”

As the team gathered around Paige, Ice clapped her on the back. “Let’s finish this,” she said, her voice full of resolve.

Paige nodded, leading the way as they stepped back onto the court. The crowd roared their approval, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. Paige and Azzi exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between them.

Despite the rising tension after the foul, UConn remained unshakable. The Notre Dame players kept throwing insults, trying to rattle them. “You’ll never make it past the Sweet 16,” one guard sneered as Azzi jogged past her. Another player muttered under her breath as Paige lined up for an inbound, “Can’t wait to see you fold like last year.”

But UConn didn’t bite. They let the scoreboard do the talking.

Azzi swished a three-pointer from the wing, then jogged back on defense without so much as a glance at her defender. Paige responded to a hard foul by hitting both free throws, her face expressionless as she returned to position. Even Sarah, the freshman, showed poise beyond her years, dropping a step-back jumper and giving only a subtle nod as she ran back down the court.

UConn’s focus was unwavering, though they had to burn a few timeouts to manage Paige’s injury everytime the blood started leaking through the gauze. Each time she came to the bench, the trainers worked quickly to change the blood-soaked gauze near her eye. Azzi hovered close, her concern evident.

“Paige, seriously, sit out a few minutes,” Azzi urged during one timeout, her voice low but firm. “You’ve done enough.”

Paige shot her a look, her eyes blazing despite the swelling. “Az, I’m fine.”

Azzi sighed, knowing there was no changing Paige’s mind. “Alright,” she relented. “But if you start seeing double, I’m dragging you off the court myself.”

Paige smirked, bumping Azzi lightly with her shoulder. “Deal.”

As the clock ticked down, the game stayed close, each possession more intense than the last. UConn clung to a narrow lead, but Notre Dame refused to back down, hitting tough shots and keeping the pressure on. With just over a minute left, UConn led by three.

Notre Dame tried to trap Paige near midcourt, but she broke free, passing to Azzi, who immediately dished it back. The ball zipped around until it found Paige again, who dribbled to the top of the arc. With the shot clock winding down, she rose up for a deep three over her defender.

The ball hung in the air for what felt like an eternity before it swished through the net.

The arena exploded. The crowd, already electric, erupted into a deafening frenzy. Paige pumped her fist, her usual stoic demeanor cracking for just a moment. The dagger three had put UConn up by six with less than a minute to go, sealing Notre Dame’s fate.

Notre Dame called a timeout, but the writing was on the wall. Paige, Azzi, and Sarah had combined for 73 of UConn’s 98 points, a dominant performance that showcased their unbreakable chemistry.

As the final buzzer sounded, UConn’s bench emptied, celebrating their hard-fought victory. The Notre Dame players, still fuming, reluctantly lined up for post-game handshakes

The handshake line was a minefield of tension, every step charged with unspoken hostility. When Paige reached the Notre Dame guard who had insulted Azzi, her body language shifted. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed. The guard smirked, clearly relishing the tension.

Azzi, ever watchful, immediately stepped in. With a calm but firm hand on Paige’s lower back, she gently pushed her forward. Leaning in close, she whispered, her voice low and soothing, “Let it go, baby. I’m fine, and we won.”

Paige’s muscles relaxed just slightly at Azzi’s words. She took one last hard look at the player before turning away, her steps measured as she continued down the line. Azzi stayed close, her hand lingering on Paige’s back as a silent reminder of her presence.

The team moved quickly toward the locker room, the adrenaline from the game still coursing through their veins. Inside, the mood was electric, a mix of triumph and exhaustion. Paige slumped onto a bench, letting out a deep breath as the trainers gathered around her once more to change the gauze near her eye.

As the trainers worked, the team’s media coordinator popped in. “Paige, Azzi, Sarah,” they called, clipboard in hand. “You’re needed for interviews in five.”

The three players exchanged glances. Sarah, the youngest of the trio, groaned lightly, already dreading the media frenzy. Azzi just gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Hang on,” Paige said, her voice muffled slightly as the trainer applied fresh bandages. “Let’s finish this first.”

The three of them hung back, letting the rest of the team revel in their victory while Paige’s injury was attended to. Azzi leaned against the lockers beside Paige, her eyes softening as she watched the trainers work.

“You good?” Azzi asked quietly.

Paige nodded, giving her a small, appreciative smile. “Yeah. Thanks for stopping me back there.”

Azzi smirked. “You were ready to swing, and I wasn’t about to let that ruin our win.”

Sarah, sitting nearby, laughed lightly. “You two really are unstoppable out there.”

Paige and Azzi shared a glance, their bond clear without needing words. Once the trainers gave the all-clear, the three of them stood, bracing themselves for the media storm. Together, they made their way toward the interview room

Paige and Azzi settled into their seats for the post-game interview, with Sarah sitting next to Azzi. The atmosphere was still charged from the game, but the three of them exuded a calm professionalism. Paige, with a fresh bandage over her eye, leaned back slightly, her body naturally angled toward Azzi.

The reporters wasted no time diving into the game’s intensity. One of the first questions came from a reporter in the front row. “This was one of the most physical games we’ve seen this season. Why do you think it got so chippy out there? Was it personal?”

Paige leaned into the mic, her expression calm but her tone pointed. “I think anytime you have two top programs with a history like ours, things are bound to get heated. We both want to win, and sometimes that passion shows up in ways that aren’t ideal.”

Azzi chimed in, her voice steady. “Exactly. It’s a rivalry. We know what’s at stake, and so do they. We’re always going to play hard, but at the end of the day, it’s about basketball, not personal grudges.”

The reporter pressed further. “But it did seem personal at times. Was there something specific that set things off?”

Paige’s jaw tightened slightly, but her response remained measured. “Things do happen in the heat of the moment but we kept our focus on the game, and that’s why we came out on top.”

Another reporter followed up, directing the question to Azzi. “Azzi, there were a few moments where you and Paige seemed particularly fired up, especially after that scuffle in the first half. How do you stay composed in situations like that?”

Azzi exchanged a quick glance with Paige before responding. “It’s about staying locked in. We know our roles on this team, and part of that is keeping our heads being leaders for the team, even when things get intense. We trust each other to have our backs, and that helps us refocus quickly.”

The next question shifted toward strategy. “Sarah, this was a breakout game for you, especially with how you stepped up in critical moments. How did it feel to play such a big role?”

Sarah smiled, leaning into her mic. “Honestly, I just try to do whatever the team needs. Having veterans like Paige and Azzi out there makes it easier. They set the tone, and I just follow their lead.”

Azzi gave Sarah a proud nod. “She did more than follow—she carried us at times.”

The room chuckled, and another reporter finally brought the focus back to Paige. “Speaking of carrying the team, Paige, how are you holding up after that hit late in the third quarter? It looked pretty nasty.”

Paige grinned, gesturing to her bandage. “Yeah, I’ll definitely need stitches. But hey, the scar will probably look cool.”

Azzi smirked, her gaze flicking to Paige. “Definitely cool,” she murmured, biting her lip subtly.

Sarah covered her mouth, trying not to laugh, while the reporters caught what they thought was a playful dynamic and chuckled.

The next question shifted to Sarah, asking about her standout performance as a freshman. As she responded, Paige glanced at the stat sheet in front of them, her finger tapping on a specific line. She nudged Azzi lightly.

“Look at this,” Paige whispered, tilting the paper toward her.

Azzi leaned in closer, their heads almost touching as she followed Paige’s finger. “That’s wild,” she murmured in agreement, their voices low. They were entirely in their own world, oblivious to everything else as Sarah continued answering her question.

The reporters chuckled, noticing the quiet exchange. One of them joked, “Looks like Paige and Azzi have their own post-game analysis going on.”

Paige grinned but didn’t bother explaining, while Azzi simply leaned back, her hand resting casually on her knee.

After a few more light-hearted exchanges, the press conference wrapped up.

As they stood to leave, Azzi grabbed both her and Paige’s bags in one hand. “Let’s get you those stitches,” she said, her tone gentle but firm.

Paige rolled her eyes with a smile. “Fine, nurse Azzi.”

Sarah grinned as they all headed out together.

[psych3-delic]

“Why don’t you come in, creature of the night? Let’s us together confess our sins”

Father Michaelis led the demon down a long and narrow passage hidden behind a large tapestry hung on the wall. The childlike imp smug, thinking it had enticed another victim.

They descended the staircases, step by step, just as Dante entered the mouth of Hell - ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’; or perhaps, a perverse version of Orpheus and Eurydice with how two shadows reflected by the candle light, but only one’s footsteps could be heard. And instead of emerging from the underworld, they only spiraled down, down, and further downward. Father Michaelis didn’t turn back to look at the creature once. He felt the thing’s wicked presence well enough over his shoulder. What a same a pretty face like that strayed outside of God’s realm. But no worries, he could be repented. Sebastian would make sure of it.

Soon, they arrived at an unused crypt beneath the holy ground; the walls of which were covered in Enochian runes and Solomonic keys…

Also… Father Michaelis singing Hellfire from Hunchback of the Notre Dame

"Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man. Of my virtue I am justly proud"

"Protect me, Maria! Don't let this siren cast his spell. Don't let his fire sear my flesh and bone"

"Be mine or you will burn"

In the end, when the villagers found out a demonic being is being kept underneath the holy church; they stomped the ground with their pitchfork and angry chants, and set the place aflame. The imp, bound by ancient spells and weakened by its broken wings, had resigned to its fate. The crypt is maze-like with its many obscure paths leading to secret entrances all over the town; but nailed as he was to the wall and the keys thrown away, there was no escape. And yet, its captor, its abuser, the once devout man of God, remains by its side. He used his own body to futilely shield Ciel from the blunt of the heat.

“Are you stupid, mortal? You can still run away. By what reason do you remain?”

“Didn’t I said I would never abandon you? Lying is against the teachings of God.”

Ciel laughed instead of pointing out the obvious hypocrisy of it all. Its captor, its abuser, and perhaps, the only man that had ever truly loved the creature in its entire sorry existence; even if it was in the man’s own horrible, twisted way.

“Very well then,” said the imp, “we shall burn together.”

It fisted slender fingers onto the priest’s black robe and pulled him down; the cross scorched one last time over where its heart should be. They share their first tender kiss as the Church collapsed over their head.

[eliteseven]

D.J. Shadowheart Oneshot (Redemption AU): A Farewell

Pairing: Shadowheart x (Named) F!Tav

Words: 12.2k

Summary: (5 years post-canon): As Tav and Jaheira work in secret to free the Nightsong and undo wrongs of the past, Mother Superior Shadowheart grows suspicious of her former lover's activity. When she comes in person to investigate, Tav uses a final Hail-Mary in an attempt to throw her off their trail.

Read here (with images) or on AO3

From the moment the sun's rays kiss the sky alight in tawny yellow, and she steps out into the chill of early day, Serena feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

It’s a matter of training, and Serena has a half a lifetime of it at her disposal.

She’s being watched.

And really, it isn’t a noteworthy feeling, in such a bustling hub of commerce as Wyrm’s Crossing, given that there are already so many people moving about between the stalls and preparing for the day’s trade activity. 

Following the rebuilding of the city, in the five years or so that have passed after the Netherbrain was felled, Wyrm’s Crossing boasts a colorful variety of travelers, making their way to the Gate. 

There’s something different about today, though, and Serena isn’t certain why that is. 

From the moment she leaves her estate in the thick maritime fog of early morning, and works her way up to the forge, she can feel the presence of eyes upon her, perhaps more scrutinizingly or intently than usual.

Nothing appears out of place; Serena wonders if perhaps she’s beginning to grow paranoid, given the nature of her recent activities with Jaheira.

What they are attempting to perform is nothing less than a miraculous feat in and of itself; they venture in the Gods’ territory, now. 

It has not been a particularly easy passing of the years, since the end of Serena’s journey with her fellow tadpoled companions. Though many of them have scattered across the land, finding new homes and new work in the various corners of Faerûn, Serena has opted to fulfill her obligation to restore her family, house Tavyndír, to its former glory, dominating the city’s maritime trade. 

Though it is true, Serena has partially acquired a new fleet with the modest fortune she earned for saving Baldur’s Gate, it has quickly become nothing more than a cover story, after a pointed run-in with Jaheira, some years ago. 

Jaheira’s work as High Harper is never finished, and true to the very creed of the secret society she is beholden to, she seeks to amend wrongs that could not be seen to, the first time around. 

After all, it is etched into the very words of the Harper Chant.

We are the Harpers. We are the Lord Protectors of the Realms, Fools, all―but the Gods look down and smile glory upon us. Weep for us, watch for us, and hope in us. We shall not fail thee.

If that is truly the case, Serena wonders if, perhaps, Selûne herself scowls upon them for their failure to protect her daughter, blood of her blood, her winged and angelic emissary. 

Does she weep for the wayward travelers who’d nearly had the opportunity to cast her sweet light upon the shadows, only to fail at the most crucial point? Does she watch for them now, as she and Jaheira lay out an intricate plan to re-enter the Shadowfell itself, forging weapons made with the intent of breaking Shar’s suffocating bonds around her? 

Does Selûne find hope in them? In Jaheira, whose druidic way of life has pushed her towards Silavanus, more often than not? Does she look upon Serena- a former patriar, raised to be a Selunite, and yet- nearly faithless, now? 

If it sounds absurd, Serena wagers it is; but she and Jaheira share a common cause yet again, and they will not be denied. 

Jaheira lamented the loss of Dame Aylin more than even Serena; not as much for Shadowheart’s sake, but for the greater implications on the world around them. 

Shar won, that day, in her unholy crusade against her lighter half. 

Serena lost her love, yes, but the fall of Isobel Thorm and the subsequent failure to undo the Shadow Curse left a deep, gaping wound in the cosmic balance Jaheira is sworn to preserve. 

Serena’s motivations may be entirely selfish, but in truth, she believes there might be hope for Shadowheart, still. 

Until just recently, perhaps a mere moon prior, she and Shadowheart shared no physical contact, had not clapped eyes on each other since the end of their travels. 

…And then Shadowheart’s initiates had kidnapped Serena in an egregious error, presenting her to Shadowheart, allowing them time to speak freely. 

They’d bonded once more- as true lovers cannot keep their affections at bay, even in the presence of the Gods themselves- benevolent or otherwise. 

Shadowheart had asked Serena to stay, in what was self-perceived as a moment of weakness, but that was- and is- the one request Serena cannot oblige her. 

Serena recognizes no deity, Shar least of all. 

Still, even as Shadowheart is at war with herself, Serena still sees the woman she became so enraptured with, beneath the caustic bite of her words. 

Serena was relieved to learn that Shadowheart still cannot bear to see her friends and allies in unnecessary pain, that she still keeps Serena’s letters, that she still laughs and smiles easily in the privacy of her quarters, if the moment allows for it. 

Shar has failed, time and time again, to mold Shadowheart into the heartless entity she so desires her to be. And to what end, Serena cannot fathom. She knows Shar will surely discard Shadowheart once she is no longer of use or interest to the petty goddess. 

If the rumors about Sharran worship are even remotely true, there is a chance Shadowheart’s soul will never find peace with Shar, and Serena loves her far too much to allow her to waste away. 

Serena knows quite well it could spell the end of her fickle relationship with Shadowheart; she might never be forgiven for harboring plans to undo so much of the work she’s done for her goddess, but she cares little, in the grand scheme of things. 

She’d rather Shadowheart be free and resent her, rather than live an outright lie. 

Shadowheart does not remember spearing Aylin through the heart; only the power, the approval she felt, after Shar granted her Dark Justiciar status. 

She certainly does not remember the events that followed at the House of Grief, where she overthrew Viconia, and attempted to kill imposters taking the shape of her mother and father; she’d blacked out promptly from the sudden surge of rapid emotion and dark, nefarious energy coursing through her, as they dropped from their bindings. 

It was Jaheira, who urged Serena to take Shadowheart far away, to allow her time to deal with the mess. Astarion bore witness, though he said nothing- and for good reason, too. Had it been any other companion, perhaps one with a truthful streak, such as Wyll or Karlach, and the secret never would have remained intact. 

Serena longed to tell her everything, really. She still does, in truth. Lying to Shadowheart’s face was an entirely new, brutal test of her love. 

But when Shadowheart’s eyes opened, carried back to camp by Serena, they were darker, clouded by ambition, by Shar’s very poison. 

Shadowheart believed herself victorious, felling the imposters, despite the way it hurt, and cementing her place at her Dark Lady’s side. 

Serena dared not correct her, for she was too far gone. 

The memory remains heavy in Serena’s mind, though she tries not to dwell on it too much, approaching the final steps to what was once Angleiron’s Smithy. 

Orin made short work of the man in her killing sprees- the smithy and small attached living quarters had remained idle for some time, until Serena and Jaheira tracked down a suitable smith for their purposes. 

Serena smiles as she sees her blacksmith at work already; being a high elf, Camille requires no sleep, and their process has been sped up all the more because of it. 

Not only that, but Camille’s considerable eighty-plus years of life, though quite young for a high elf and never observable on her lineless features, are present in the wisdom she carries, and they give her an advantage in forging arcane weaponry. 

She tends to a short blade on the closest grindstone, deft hands turning the blade by the pommel, just enough to catch the edge against the stone. 

The gritty sound reminds Serena of Lae’zel, more often than not. She wonders how the Githyanki warrior fares now, with Xan by her side. She’ll need to make time to see them, and the others, before all is said and done. 

“You’re late.” Camille notes, without turning around, and her voice is stern, but laced with a good-natured humor, beneath. 

“True. But I brought you sweets.” Serena counters, gesturing to the basket in her hand. 

Camille pauses from her handiwork, finally turning around with a wry smile. 

“Very well, Lady Tavyndír.” Camille relents, choosing Serena’s least favored title, just to be cheeky, it would seem. “...You may remain here.” 

Serena knows that it’s nothing more than an invitation to get to work. 

 Setting the basket down, Serena takes in a detailed sweep of her surroundings. The road beside the smithy remains bustling with activity, but nothing out of the ordinary, and yet she still cannot shake the feeling that she’s being watched very closely. 

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

“A fine blade.” Serena studies the glint of sunlight against steel as Camille binds the hilt with tightly bonded black leather wraps, more for comfort than for aesthetic, though it looks nothing short of remarkable.

“You sound surprised.” The blacksmith tuts, though there’s not even a slight deviation from her meticulous handiwork; it’s clear she doesn’t lack confidence in the quality of her work. 

It’s an advantage of Elves and Half-Elves in particular, Serena has learned; they have the unique privilege of time.

They often spend the equivalent of a single, fleeting human lifespan merely acquiring and honing their skills. Human ambition can only allow for so much growth and progress; time is truly the master of all things, and time simply does not favor humankind. 

“Not surprised…just in awe of your work.”

Serena admires the expertise regardless; she’d be a fool not to, and only a select few can truthfully say they witnessed the creation of weaponry meant to carry the blessings of a tried and true goddess, to boot. 

Though the sword does not bear any enchantment yet, Serena knows she could be staring down the blade that will free The Nightsong and change the course of Faerûn’s history. 

“There.” Camille glances at the now-wrapped hilt and sets the blade into Serena’s hand by the pommel, folding her arms with a pleased expression. “A bastard blade, just as you requested.” 

“...hand-and-a-half.” Serena murmurs the correction in amusement, feeling the weight of the blade in her hands. It is weighty- enough to shatter a steel helm, undoubtedly; but light enough to be wielded in one arm, should the need arise.

“Sorry?” Camille blinks.

 “...I always called it a Hand-and-a-half sword.” Serena explains at her quizzical glance. 

The quartermaster in Cormyr always did make light of Serena’s preference for lighter weaponry; war is a man’s game, more often than not. 

Regardless; it is a game Serena has learned to play quite well. 

“A kinder term.” Camille notes. “...And very human of you, perhaps.” She wipes her brow, sighing as she tugs against her blacksmith’s apron. “The armor is coming along. Another tenday, and I will be able to-” 

Serena feels it once more. 

A telltale prickle against the back of her neck, a sign that they are not alone, despite the fact that the forge sits in the midst of a trail of shoppes, teeming with foot traffic. 

Serena blinks once, twice- and she sees her. 

It’s entirely pathetic, the way the mere sight of Shadowheart seems to always render Serena so breathless, weak at the knees, lips slightly parted in awe. 

Whether it’s been years since their last meeting, or several tendays- as it is now- Serena finds that she is always enraptured by the very sight of her once-lover. 

Though she dons the clothing of Mother Superior- though she wears a hood nearly covering her eyes, meant as an extra measure of anonymity when outside the cloister walls, Serena finds her breathtaking. 

Raven hair is tucked beneath a circlet of Shar, and though she wears a commoner’s disguise, it is still outwardly evident that Shadowheart is not someone to be trifled with. Her beauty alone is sure to turn heads, whether or not she attempts to hide herself beneath her so-obviously-Sharran garb. 

She leans against one of the support posts of the forge, near the bellows and the grand hearth, like a shadow cast against their light. 

She looms, folding her arms, and it is only then that Serena notices the chiseled figure behind her, close enough to touch Shadowheart. 

A guard; a high ranking one, Serena notes, from the gleaming (if not gaudy) golden and silver embellishments on yet another clearly-Sharran set of armor. 

Serena feels a sharp twist of envy at the figure standing behind Shadowheart, scrutinizing gaze cast upon the entirety of the forge, waiting for a kill-order. She dares not allow her mind to ponder just what one of Shadowheart’s guards need to accomplish to be considered for her inner circle. It is a privilege, more often than not, paid for in blood.

Serena’s grip on the blade in her hands tightens, and Camille follows her gaze, stiffening as she realizes just who has graced the steps of her forge. 

Suddenly, the air around them feels electric; tense, dangerous, far too tightly wound to undo with mere spoken word. 

Serena realizes, with a small hint of trepidation, that she and Camille might be in danger, despite how thrilled she is to see Shadowheart. 

Serena’s eyes meet a familiar verdant gaze, and before Serena can do anything at all, the gaze narrows, taking in Serena’s proximity to the blacksmith. 

Oh, they are in danger now.

“No.” Camille immediately goes on the defensive, reaching for her own blade, resting in its scabbard at the foot of the workbench behind her. “You promised you wouldn’t bring trouble here.” she hisses at Serena. 

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Shadowheart speaks for the first time, and Serena’s heart falls into her stomach. Shadowheart chooses a lofty, somewhat disinterested tone, but Serena knows better than anyone that it’s all a ruse. 

“Camille, please, don’t.” Serena rests a hand on her arm, pleading with her voice, and the blacksmith only grows increasingly frustrated with her lack of reaction. “What…are you doing here?” She turns to Shadowheart, and does not miss the way her piercing gaze bores holes into the hand that’s rested on Camille’s arm. 

“Funny, Tav. I could ask you the same.” Shadowheart opts not to speak her name, as a measure of distance, Serena surmises. It hurts, all the same. 

“...Purchasing arms?” Serena shrugs, casting a bewildered glance over the forge. 

“We don’t owe you answers, Sharran.” Camille sniffs in disdain, eyes narrowing at Shadowheart and her lackey of a guard, still silently seething behind her. 

That comment seems to galvanize the man, for better or worse. 

“Watch your tongue whilst addressing the Mother Superior, lest you’d like it cut out.” He snarls. 

“This is not your cloister.” Camille seethes. “You have no authority here.” 

“A moonwitch as a smith?” Shadowheart laughs dryly, unimpressed. “And here I thought I’d seen everything. No matter- you all bleed the same.” 

“She’s not…no one will bleed today.” Serena interrupts with a sigh, ever the voice of reason. “What’s happened?” She glances at Shadowheart curiously, tilting her head. “Heart?” She asks once more, before she can think, and Shadowheart’s guard responds first, shouldering past her in an attempt to beat the respect out of Serena. 

“Don’t.” Shadowheart utters the single word to her guard, and he stops abruptly, as if he were a dog yanked backwards on a lead. 

“I don’t want trouble at my forge.” Camille doubles down, turning to Serena with a stern look. “Whatever war you fight on your goddess’ behalf, I want no part in it.” 

“Clearly, whatever you think you’re after is to do with me.” Serena begins, facing Shadowheart once more. “Why don’t you allow Camille to leave, and I’ll gladly answer whatever questions you might have.” 

This rankles, apparently. 

Shadowheart stiffens at the very words, eyes narrowed to sharp daggers as she glares at the Elf.  “How chivalrous.” She drawls, words dripping with caustic venom. “But I think not. She stays.” 

“Allow me, Mother Superior.” Shadowheart’s guard speaks reverently to her, and Serena fights off an involuntary sneer at the sound of his tone. “I’ll lay waste to the dwelling and surely, we’ll find what we’ve come for.” He murmurs by her ear, and the action makes Serena’s fingers tense in a fist at her side.

“Heart.” Serena pleads, willing Shadowheart to meet her gaze. “What is this about?” 

Shadowheart appears conflicted, at the very least- a positive indication to Serena that she isn’t well and truly lost in her wealth of power and influence. 

“Might we speak alone?” Serena offers; it’s a last resort, and though she knows Camille has wisdom and training beyond her years, she fears the notion of leaving her with Shadowheart’s lackey, even in broad daylight as they find themselves now. 

Serena knows the truth; if Shadowheart wanted either of them dead, they wouldn’t be drawing breath now. 

She’s only operating on a hunch. 

Shadowheart studies her gaze, and Serena holds it, willing her to see reason. 

Somewhere in the depths of green, beneath layers of treachery, of learned vitriol, Serena sees what she’s so desperately hoped to find within Shadowheart: subdued trust. 

Shadowheart still trusts her. 

“A trap, Mother.” Shadowheart’s guard leers as he crosses bulking arms, and Serena does not break Shadowheart’s gaze to glare upon him as she might like to. 

“Mind yourself.” Shadowheart snaps, and the very corner of Serena’s mouth lifts upwards in a minor victory. 

I was once her favorite, too. 

“...watch her.” Shadowheart finally acquiesces in the form of a demand to her guard, and if he dares to question her approach, he does so quietly, without a word uttered. He fixes his gaze on the blacksmith, and Serena’s stomach churns uncomfortably. 

She exchanges a single glance with Camille, and the meaning is clear as the daylight that soaks them in yellow golden rays:  say nothing at all. 

Camille’s nod is near imperceptible; Serena cannot even register the movement, so dizzied by Shadowheart’s approach. She gestures to the small dwelling behind them; it will afford enough privacy to get Shadowheart alone, even if for a moment or two. 

Shadowheart’s guard does not draw his blade, though he watches Serena with a look of utter disdain, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Serena does not smile upon him as she closes the door to the quarters behind her in a flurry- shutting out most of the sunlight, and giving her a moment of respite with the woman who once loved her. 

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

Shadowheart, to her credit, dons her mask of cold neutrality as they find themselves alone in the small dwelling beside the forge. 

However, it isn’t long before she studies the room with a scrutinous gaze, eyes resting upon each and every detail- from the neatly made bed, to the beat-up dresser in the corner, looking for signs of Serena, apparently. 

“How very…quaint.” Her first remark is dry, and her lip curls in distaste as she takes in the ramshackle little room. 

Serena cannot help the slight quirk of a smile on her lips. “Do you think so?” she banters easily, despite the tense situation just outside the doors. 

“...You’ve certainly settled.” Shadowheart wields the word as a double-edged blade, eyes narrowing once more as they come to rest on Serena’s gaze. 

“...Me?” Serena blinks. “This isn’t mine, it’s Camille’s…The smith’s.” She clarifies at the blank gaze in Shadowheart’s stare. 

“Yours, hers…what little difference that makes.” Shadowheart offers cuttingly, clearly not buying Serena’s explanation.  

Serena feels taken aback, almost as if she’s been struck across the face. 

Apparently, the nagging feeling of envy, buried deep within her chest when she looks upon Shadowheart’s new companions is mutual. 

Shadowheart is every bit as jealous, though she seeks to hide it (rather poorly, Serena might add). 

Serena makes the mistake of smiling, and Shadowheart jumps to accuse her like a Displacer Beast on the prowl. 

“We’re not…we’re merely friends, Heart, I live in an estate. I’m rather surprised you don’t know as much, considering you’re having me followed.” Serena sighs, rubbing her temples. 

She’s dreamt of seeing Shadowheart again; just not like this. 

“-And I’m to believe that’s why you were so defensive of her just now?” Shadowheart snaps, though it’s clear she’s mulling Serena’s words over. 

“Well, yes!” Serena scoffs incredulously. “I’d prefer it if you stayed your blade from my friends…” She points out as if it should be obvious, and Shadowheart sneers. 

“Your preferences mean little to me.” Shadowheart cuts deeply, and Serena bites her lip to keep from saying anything foolish, though Shadowheart’s words hurt more than any stabbing ever could. 

Shadowheart sees the hurt in her gaze, and for a moment, she stills, as if she aims to apologize and take back such an egregiously offensive statement. 

Instead, she nods once, as if reassuring herself on her path of destruction. 

Serena wonders if she hears Shar’s hateful whispers in her ear; perhaps Shadowheart loathes her entirely of her own volition. 

After all, Serena is lying to her about everything. 

She can only hope Shadowheart trusts her enough to allow Serena to lead her off their trail. 

“Say it plainly: why did you seek me out?” Serena tries again, sighing as her shoulders drop in a show of defeat. “Am I not to continue living?” She whispers, perhaps more emotionally than she intends, but her words are laced with truth. “Or to try, at the very least?” 

It has been painstaking thus far, in all her attempts to move on from Shadowheart’s affections. Every attempt to fill the curious void left in her heart has been largely in vain; there is no replacing Shadowheart. 

Unfortunately, there is no loving her, either. 

Shadowheart’s guilt is evident in her gaze, and she cannot muster any disdain into her stare. She cannot feel anything but affection for Serena, despite the way she tries to write her off as just another enemy of her Lady. 

“I didn’t…” Shadowheart begins, tone softening. “I only meant-” 

“Do you know what it is to look upon your love from a distance, and see only sycophants falling to their knees before her? And to know that no matter what you do, you will never have her?” Serena utters, taking a step into Shadowheart’s personal space. 

It’s a move that would certainly infuriate Shadowheart’s guard, were he in the quarters to witness it, but Shadowheart herself only gasps softly. 

The words fall from Serena’s lips before she has a chance to correct them, but Serena finds herself uttering the truth, anyway. 

“This has nothing to do with you-” Shadowheart insists. 

“You came to me, with one of your bedfellows ready to draw his blade at my smith and myself, and you tell me it’s nothing to do with me?” Serena challenges, and while this is all a part of her attempt to throw Shadowheart off their trail, she cannot deny it feels good to finally confess her feelings to the Mother Superior, one way or another. 

“I’ve received reports of Selunite activity in the forge at Wyrm’s Crossing.” Shadowheart defends, though her tone quivers, and it’s clear she’s focused on Serena’s lips, now. “My spies leave little room for error.” 

“The same spies who nearly killed me whilst misinterpreting your orders?” Serena presses, a manicured brow lifted to accent the question. “And I’m to believe the Mother Superior does her own dirty work?”

“Anything pertaining to you comes directly to me.” Shadowheart ignores her jab, sidestepping the comment with subtle grace, though Serena knows she simply doesn’t wish to acknowledge such a glaring mistake. “I…thought it apt to investigate these claims, myself.” 

“You wanted to be seen.” Serena realizes aloud, murmuring the words softly. “Else you never would have made your presence known.” 

If it were any other being, a simple “I missed you” would suffice. 

But it’s Shadowheart, and she cannot bring herself to verbalize such weakness under Lady Shar’s thumb as she is, and so she settles for admitting this much to Serena. 

“You don’t need an investigation to justify seeing me.” Serena murmurs. 

I do, actually. 

Shadowheart’s thoughts are plain as day, and Serena feels the urge to do something that could potentially end with her fingers severed, but the risk is well worth the reward. 

She wraps Shadowheart in a hug- a tight embrace, clutching the woman to her chest.

Shadowheart forgets she is the Mother Superior, for a moment. 

She forgets everything, save for the scent of Serena, of home, of salty sea-touched air and laughter, of jasmine and the warmth of a fire in a hearth. 

No one is permitted to touch the Mother Superior without her consent; and yet Serena buries the tip of her nose in the dip of Shadowheart’s exposed collarbone, and breathes deep. There is not a single soul who has permission to touch Shadowheart beyond the scope of what she verbally requests, and yet Serena plays gently with the baby hairs at the back of her neck, soothing Shadowheart beyond words. 

In their shared embrace, there is no Selûne, no Shar, no gods or goddesses, no heavens or hells to revere and fear respectively. 

Instead, there lies a plethora of memories- of shared laughter and smiles over drinks by the fire, of tending to each other’s wounds and carrying one another from battle. 

“I’ve missed you.” Shadowheart breaks, finally, and the muffled confession comes into Serena’s ear as Shadowheart’s arms wind around her neck, fastening herself to her former lover. 

Serena presses a soothing kiss to Shadowheart’s temple, and Shadowheart tucks further into her warmth, despite the throbbing pain she feels emanating from her hand. 

She tries to offer the touches Shadowheart’s acolytes cannot, she offers her love without any expectation of reciprocity. Loving Shadowheart has always come naturally; Serena fears she’ll die with adoration in her heart for her, despite how Shadowheart regards her. 

“Whatever you’re here for, you can have it.” Serena promises in a whisper, tucking a stray hair from Shadowheart’s eyes. 

Shadowheart shakes her head, knowing she can never have who she truly came for. 

Her suspicions have been laid to rest for now; Serena was never a practicing Selunite, and the sight of her seems to have distracted Shadowheart sufficiently from her hunt. 

Serena feels a black bile burning her throat, her lungs, burying itself in the pit of her stomach. Lying to Shadowheart makes her feel wretched- were she a knight with an oath, she feels she’d be stripped of her titles and named oathbreaker.

She reminds herself that this is all for Shadowheart- though Shadowheart may never love her again, she will be free- and that in itself is worth dying for. 

“...Just…tell me what you’re doing.” Shadowheart pleads, so very uncharacteristic of the Mother Superior, and Serena’s heart breaks at the tone. 

There’s a moment where Serena truly believes Shadowheart is free of Shar for a moment- or blocking her out, at the very least. There’s a glimmer of hope somewhere in her eyes, and it’s clear she wants nothing more than to confirm that Serena is not directly in violation of the cloister’s- (and Lady Shar’s, by extension)- guidelines. 

“I’m having custom armor and weaponry made.” Serena begins. 

“Why?” Shadowheart presses again, and it’s clear that not knowing seems to irk her. She isn’t accustomed to having a wealth of spies, and yet, a profound lack of information. 

Jaheira and Serena have taken the utmost care keeping their goings-on a secret, and for good reason, apparently: Shadowheart has been watching keenly. “What are you planning, Serena? And why do my informants know of it?” 

An almost whimsical notion floods Serena’s mind, and she falls prey to it. 

“Can you do away with your guards?” Serena murmurs, tilting her head curiously as Shadowheart’s palm comes to rest against her cheek. She leans into the touch, foolishly unable to distance herself, and Shadowheart’s thumb rubs softly at her cheek, eyes trained once more on her lips. “I can show you why.” 

“Planning to kill the Mother Superior, are you?” It’s meant to be cheeky, but it comes out as anything but. 

Serena’s gaze darkens. “Don’t jest about that.” She whispers, and it’s chilling. “You know I’d sooner perish myself than see a scratch on you, Heart.”  

Shadowheart’s lips part slightly in awe; it’s a certain rarity to see Serena so stern with her about anything at all, but regarding her own safety? 

It is indeed an odd notion to acclimate to; that Serena cares more for her well-being and safety than perhaps all of her acolytes, combined. 

It is romantic- a word Shadowheart has all but forgotten. 

It ignites an age-old fire between Shadowheart’s thighs, and she swallows thickly, nodding once in apology to Serena. 

“Only for a day.” Serena reiterates gently. 

“You still haven’t told me why.” Shadowheart points out in quiet amusement, and then sighs. “I can’t abandon my post-” 

“You can.” Serena insists. “Surely your numerous Sharran spies and Dark Justiciars alike can last a day without your constant oversight, Mother?” 

Shadowheart scowls as the obvious dig, but it’s a scowl mixed with quiet affection; she likes hearing her titles on Serena’s lips, they always seem to sound sweeter coming from her.  

“They can. Fine. But why no guards?” Shadowheart asks. 

“Because I can’t stand the idea of someone knowing you more intimately than I do, and I want you all to myself.” Serena whispers, and the truth comes tumbling out like an avalanche atop a steep hillside of snow. 

Shadowheart’s gaze softens, and the soft “oh” emitted from her lips causes Serena’s heart to skip a beat, or several. 

“One day.” Serena pleads against her lips, and Shadowheart trembles in her touch, so eager to be one with her. “That’s all I ask of you.” 

“You sound as if you wish to court me.” Shadowheart teases gently, but her tone is laden with emotion. 

Serena did court her, not so long ago- and it was the most beloved Shadowheart had ever felt in her short forty-or-so years of life. 

It was Shadowheart, who’d chosen Shar over Serena, over light itself, in the end. 

It was once an eventuality that Shadowheart looked forward to, more than anything; a shared life of domesticity between them, after all the bloodshed, and suffering. 

Now, as Mother Superior? 

Shadowheart has resigned herself to accept the fact that she can never be anyone’s betrothed, nor their beloved- not while she’s expected to take her rightful place at her Lady’s side. 

The idea of a single day, in which she might be unbound by duty and free to simply exist, is nearly too strong a temptation to resist. 

Nearly.

“And what if I do?” Serena’s quiet challenge is issued in a polite whisper. 

And then Serena smiles at her, full of hope and a glimmer of genuine excitement, and Shadowheart’s lungs constrict painfully in her chest. 

She cannot say no to this damned woman. 

“...One day.” Shadowheart agrees in a very quiet whisper, but oh, how it’s impossible to resist grinning when Serena looks upon her as if she is responsible for the creation of the very cosmos and heavens above. “...Dark Lady forgive me.” Shadowheart adds, quietly wincing as her hand flares up in bright purple hues, signaling that Shar is tugging on her figurative “leash”. 

Serena eyes the wound with no small amount of disdain for Shar, and all of her dark practices.

That is why she must succeed, even if it means betraying Shadowheart’s trust, to an extent.

Shadowheart’s mind is clouded- though she believes herself to be fulfilling her duties, she cannot see how Shar abuses her, wielding her as a weapon of mass destruction, without any regard for the breathtaking, remarkable spirit Shadowheart possesses. 

So, yes. 

If Serena is to perish in her efforts to free Shadowheart- if Shadowheart herself hates every fiber of Serena’s being for her perceived betrayal, so be it. 

The day Shar can no longer poison the well of Shadowheart’s thoughts, Serena will rest. 

“Come here.” Shadowheart demands in a soft whisper, but it’s sweeter than the way she refers to any of the acolytes in the cloister. 

Serena meets her in a sweet kiss, sighing softly against familiar lips as she closes her eyes, and lets a fleeting feeling of serenity wash over her, as her brain recites the same motto it has chanted relentlessly, since falling in love for the first time in her life.  

Anything, for Shadowheart. 

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Shadowheart figured her days shopping, frolicking, and genuinely partaking in leisure time around Wyrm’s Crossing’s numerous stalls and vendors were over, the very moment she became Mother Superior. 

It is simply not the place of Mother Superior to leave the cloister, lest it is in efforts to strengthen their cause, as Sharran acolytes.

The last five years or so have only reinforced this belief; the majority of Shadowheart’s time is spent below ground, basking in the shadows and darkness, as a serpent would sun itself on a rock. 

She’s nearly forgotten life, in some sense, and the way the world above ground and out of the cloister seems so colorful, in comparison. 

Shadowheart is nearly blinded by the rich shades of orange and red hanging outside of Carm’s Garm, the tailor showcasing her latest set of dyes from a window display. The smell of spring bloom carries from the breeze, tousling her hair beneath her hood, and carrying some of Serena’s perfume as it mixes with Shadowheart’s senses. There is a symphony of sound- routine shouts from the guards, the shrieks and howls of laughter from playing children, the arguing of a couple outside the Flophouse. 

Shadowheart’s senses are assaulted in the sweetest way, and she finds it difficult to remember a time where she was accustomed to this. A time where she was as much a part of the living, breathing mosaic of the city and its surroundings, rather than some relic left to rot in the shadows.

Her hand keeps brushing against Serena’s- and though she lacks the courage, or audacity, perhaps, to take her hand outright- the feeling of Serena so near calms Shadowheart to no end. 

Occasionally, when they stop at a stall- Serena has been shopping for food, though Shadowheart cannot fathom why- Shadowheart has made a small game of leaning backwards against her warmth, knowing Serena will be there. 

It is entirely pathetic, but a repressed part of Shadowheart longs for normalcy. She yearns to be like the other unbothered couples, the lovers embracing each other as they partake in life itself. 

Do they know their own privilege, Shadowheart wonders? To take the same person in their bedroll every night, to know without an inkling of a doubt that they are everything, to someone else? 

They live a life that was nearly hers, until she thought better of it. 

Shadowheart is shocked from her inner musings rather abruptly. 

A particularly overzealous group of children run right into her legs- Shadowheart stumbles, and a familiar hand at her waist protects her from falling over, face first into the dirt. The other children run off with yelps of laughter, though the one that has stricken Shadowheart has taken something of a fall, instead. 

Shadowheart’s initial reaction is one of anger as she turns around- but her scowl quickly melts away when she spots the child who ran into her- a little girl, a half-elf, likely no older than five or six. 

She glances up at Shadowheart, taking in the dark fabric of her hood, her circlet, the dark lines drawn around her eyes, and her lower lip wobbles.

Shadowheart doesn’t know why it hurts- seeing the child suddenly so fearful of her- proud as she should be for striking the fear of Shar into the heart of anyone. 

She feels taken aback- the lump in her throat does not quite settle, and she feels truly monstrous and unsightly, despite all her acolytes’ words, dripping with lust and endless praise for her. 

Serena moves to comfort the girl, but something in Shadowheart compels her to kneel, and so she does, doing away with the hood for a moment. 

The little girl seems to relax slightly as she sees Shadowheart’s eyes of bright, inquisitive green, and her shoulders drop slightly as she sniffles, finally paying attention to her scraped knee. 

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?” Shadowheart asks with a voice she can’t recall ever having possessed- it’s softer, barely above a whisper, and ever-so-soothing.

“Y…yes.” The little girl sniffles again, and a diamond like tear falls from her wide emerald gaze, vulnerable and simply adorable. 

 She pouts in quiet sympathy for the girl, and glances left and right for a moment, before continuing. “Do you want me to make it better?” She asks sweetly. 

Serena forces herself to look away; her heart lurches in her chest, and she feels her own lip wobble. 

Rarely is she afforded the privilege of seeing Shadowheart; the real Shadowheart, and not some twisted creation of Shar’s making and design. 

Serena is reminded of the countless times Shadowheart had mended the entirety of their traveling group back together after their injuries, time and time again. 

That was Serena’s first introduction to Shadowheart, after all; a cheeky (if not slightly reluctant) healer- yes, but more than that: the very saving grace between life and death. 

It’s a wonder they didn’t all become so enchanted with Shadowheart as Serena did (and still is). 

Shadowheart closes her eyes, and whispers her words of healing as she touches the little girl’s knee. 

Serena braces herself for a sight she never would have believed, had it been described to her verbally: The Mother Superior of the Cloister of Sombre Embrace, knelt to tend to an innocent child’s wounds in the middle of Wyrm’s Crossing itself. 

It’s a sight Serena will simply have to imagine.

Shadowheart’s healing powers do not come.

There is no familiar hum of a magical quality emanating from her palms, nor is there an illumination. 

Shadowheart’s wound flares up instead, and she hisses at the sudden shock of pain, serving only to further startle the poor girl before her. “Ah!” She gasps through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry, I…”

Serena watches with rapt attention; she smoothly intervenes before any further damage can be done. She tears a piece of cloth from the basket she holds, deftly wrapping it around the girl’s knee like a makeshift tourniquet. 

The girl barely bleeds, and it is more for her own confidence than anything else, but Serena smiles as she pats her leg gently. “There we are.” She smiles at the girl, willing her to focus on her own gaze, and not on Shadowheart’s pain. “Your friends ran off that way, you can catch them now. Off you go.” Serena hurries the girl away before she can glance back and truly study Shadowheart’s face. 

The moment she’s gone, Serena turns to Shadowheart, a look of worry clouding her features. “Heart, are you-” 

“I’m fine.” Shadowheart snaps viciously, for a moment, withdrawing her hand and recoiling from Serena as if burned. 

“...Right.” Serena sighs, pushing herself to a standing position and dusting off her knees. “What…happened?” 

“I don’t know.” Shadowheart mutters, glancing at her hand with a scowl, and Serena fights every urge that tells her to embrace her, to press her lips apologetically to the back of Shadowheart’s hand. 

Clearly, Shadowheart wants her space. 

“I…” Shadowheart begins, brow furrowed to the point where Serena wonders if it hurts. “I tried to heal the wound…it was as if I was…blocked, somehow. I don’t understand. That’s never happened before.” 

Serena glances at her curiously. “...Perhaps Shar didn’t like it.” She reasons gently, but plainly. 

It’s crucial for Shadowheart to understand the consequences of her blind faith; she must know the kind of deity Shar is. 

“It’s Lady Shar-” Shadowheart snaps. “-And she’s never stopped me before. Not even when I healed you, back in the cloister.” She points out. “No…it must be an error. Yes, that’s it…Lady Shar was likely testing me, and I failed.” 

“And what, pray tell, was the test?” Serena blinks owlishly. “To let a young girl suffer?” 

“-It was barely a scratch.” Shadowheart snorts. “And I think-” 

“Do you hear yourself?” Serena murmurs solemnly. “Heart, she didn’t let you heal her. A child.” 

“You speak in absolutes.” Shadowheart growls. “You know nothing of my Lady’s intentions.” 

“I know her intention is to make you hurt, for whatever reason, and for that, I will never revere her.” Serena snaps, finally, chest heaving. 

She cannot sit idly by and watch her beloved in so much pain for being selfless; she will not watch as Shar attempts to beat the love out of Shadowheart’s very soul. 

Serena has made promises to protect Shadowheart, promises to bring her home in one piece. 

For a moment, Shadowheart lets the words sink in. 

It is jarring, in some sense, to realize someone loves her more than her Goddess. It is a truth Shadowheart is unwilling to accept. 

“Enough.” Shadowheart demands- it is not a request, and Serena falls silent, watching as Shar shocks the poor woman again and again. 

Serena steps forward boldly, cupping Shadowheart’s cheek with a hand as she studies her frown, shaking her head at Shar’s cruelty.  “You wanted to heal her. Never forget that part of yourself.” She tells her solemnly, using her thumb to dab away Shadowheart’s tears. 

Shadowheart nods once, and offers no more. 

Serena wishes she could draw a Goddess’ blood, for the umpteenth time now. 

Her hands would be soaked in crimson, or black of night, or whatever foul color and hateful substance runs through Shar’s veins- if she even has a corporeal form. 

“You handled that quite well.” Shadowheart notes softly, as they pick up their pace, and make for the city gates.

“...The tourniquet?” Serena chuckles softly, so unaware of the way Shadowheart’s lips part slightly at the sound, enamored as she is. “Hardly necessary, but…it always made me feel better to know someone minded my battle scars, as a child. I figured she’d appreciate the same.” 

“...You’re good with them…children, I mean.” Shadowheart whispers, almost forlornly. 

“After traveling with you lot? I should hope so.” Serena teases, hoping to lift some of the melancholy from Shadowheart’s gaze. 

“You’re very lucky the others aren’t here to put you in your place.” Shadowheart snorts in delight at the notion. 

“You can do it for them.” Serena assures in a saccharine tone, and this time, she delights in the way Shadowheart’s eyes seem to sparkle with something beyond simple attraction as she allows Serena to walk several steps ahead of her, opting to enjoy the view. 

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

“...And here it is…which I’m certain you’ve already figured out by now.” Serena gestures to the grand ship with her free hand, the other clutching the basket of food she’s purchased on the walk over. 

They occupy a spare set of docks between the Counting House docks and the Grey Harbor itself; in truth, Shadowheart has heard of the location from her spies tailing Serena. 

It’s another thing entirely to see the ship in person; it is massive in scale, with great sails that Shadowheart can just envision billowing dramatically in the wind as Serena sails down the Chionthar, and into the sunset. 

The afternoon sun hangs over them, gently rocking the ship as it remains anchored in place and tied to the docks, swaying gently on each lapping wave touching shore. 

The docks around them are quiet- not a soul is in sight, and Shadowheart realizes that every ship in this dock belongs to House Tavyndír. 

Shadowheart peers up at the coat of arms emblazoned proudly on the mainsail; a cresting wave sports a trade galleon, and a golden, jeweled crown is fixed as the centerpiece. 

Shadowheart tries not to think of how she once daydreamed of bearing such a name; that opportunity was left behind when she ended her romantic relationship with Serena. 

Still, Shadowheart feels a sense of pride, looking up at the coat of arms, and then back at Serena, cautiously awaiting her reaction. 

Serena fought and bled for the right to come home, to attempt to restore honor to her sullied family name. To the outside eye, it may seem as if Serena has accomplished everything she set out to do, when she finally left Cormyr to return home, to the Gate. 

In truth, Shadowheart can see it in Serena’s gaze; longing, plain as day. 

Longing for her.

It wounds her intimately to know that she is the missing piece to Serena’s happiness- that she alone has the power to bring a sense of calm to the stormy seas of Serena’s heart. 

It wounds her because she knows Serena will live the rest of her days tempest-tossed, searching for something that can never be. 

“...It’s beautiful.” Shadowheart finally manages to croak out the two words, and she feels awful at the way Serena beams at her, as if her opinion is the only one that matters. 

Serena always looked at her like that. 

“...I’m certain your informants already told you they were being built.” Serena nudges Shadowheart in the ribs gently- an act that would have anyone else drowned on the spot- and Shadowheart smiles at her fondly. 

“...They did.” Shadowheart acknowledges. “But…descriptions pale in comparison to the real thing. This is…truly remarkable. I’m…happy for you.” Shadowheart chooses her words carefully, and she nearly melts when Serena’s eyes twinkle with pride at her words. 

“...Well, I figured we might be the very first to enjoy the spoils of my labor.” Serena gestures to the ship, and then the basket in hand. “There aren’t proper seats, yet, but…we’ll make do.” She gestures to the various barrels and cargo crates lining the ship’s expansive deck. 

“...You want to take Mother Superior on a picnic?” Shadowheart clarifies with a disbelieving scoff. 

“...No, I want to take Shadowheart on a picnic.” Serena murmurs softly, giving her a smile that nearly splits her heart in two. “...If she’d have me, of course.” 

Shadowheart nods silently, glancing away suddenly and blinking away the pinprick sensation of tears in her eyes. 

If only she could have her. 

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

True to her word, Serena takes Shadowheart back to a time before vengeful goddesses at war, before the weight of the world has left an indelible mark on Shadowheart’s shoulders. 

Her easy smiles and playful quips seem to tempt Shadowheart’s inner child; it’s exceedingly comfortable in Serena’s presence, just as it always was. 

They dine in their makeshift spread, laid out over a blanket just at the bow of the ship, overlooking the expanse of the Chionthar’s azure waters. 

Shadowheart often glances at Serena as she sets about opening a bottle of wine for them to share, or delicately slicing some of the fruits she’d bought from the stalls with her small paring knife. Sun-soaked and free, with the breeze swaying a few loose strands from a familiarly done bun in her hair, Shadowheart allows her mind to wander, for just a moment. 

The breeze occasionally brings them a light misting of water from either side of the ship, resting against the exposed portion of Serena’s chest and glittering in the sunlight like little diamonds, further lulling Shadowheart under her spell. 

Serena looks as if she were made to be here, beneath the golden rays of the sun, her olive skin clearly tanned from her time on the docks. 

They sit against several crates, enjoying an afternoon of peace and allowing themselves to buy the illusion of domesticity, even if only for a moment.

It’s calming, to speak of their friends, of their respective fates and where they find themselves now. Shadowheart didn’t realize how much of her life has become the cloister; meeting with Serena is always a stark reminder of what she’s sacrificed for greatness.

“...and Wyll isn’t too keen on the notion, but with Karlach at his side, I’m sure he’ll see reason soon enough.” Serena finishes rather excitedly, her eyes alight as she speaks of recent developments. 

Shadowheart remembers, with a deep seated pang in her heart, how Serena and Karlach had disappeared into Avernus for Karlach’s sake. She’d spent every night praying to Lady Shar, gripping the edge of the altar dedicated to her with white knuckles; perhaps an exercise in futility, given Serena’s standing with her goddess, but necessary, all the same. 

“And Minsc- he’s a little… lost… without Jaheira at his side constantly, but the guards have seen no finer tutelage, I’m told.” Serena adds with a whimsical smile. 

“...And Jaheira?” Shadowheart’s query nearly stuns Serena; she shows no outward reaction, turning instead to busy herself with her knife once more. 

“...Doing Harper work, I’d imagine.” Serena shrugs. 

Shadowheart’s eyes narrow. “...Is that all? Surely you’ve spoken with her.” 

“Here and there.” Serena murmurs. “She sought one of my ships for a Harper’s…excursion…of sorts. We don’t regularly meet for tea, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

“Jaheira remains occupied.” Shadowheart notes aloud, and skepticism colors her tone. “My informants tell me she makes good use of the undercity tunnels. Sometimes…seen with others.” Shadowheart presses, and Serena bites down the rising panic she feels in her chest. 

“...Perhaps she and Astele Keene are attempting to rendezvous in secrecy and your informants know too much.” Serena points out. 

Shadowheart guffaws, and Serena seizes the opportunity to feed her, hoping it might bring an end to her ceaseless line of questioning. 

“I- What is this?” Shadowheart moans as Serena feeds her another meticulously crafted bite; entirely oblivious to the way Serena goes crimson in the cheeks at the lewd sound she makes. 

“...A fresh baguette, Waterdhavian cheese, and a pear.” Serena chuckles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t prepare a proper feast, but you didn’t exactly give me notice that you were coming.” 

“When your wine is this good, you needn’t apologize.” Shadowheart comments after a sip, glancing at the bottle. 

“Midnight Star.” Serena announces, glancing at the bottle she’s set aside. “I was saving it for you, funnily enough.” 

“Sorry?” 

“The vintage.” Serena corrects. “A delicacy, in Procampur.” 

“The Vast?” Shadowheart queries, clearly impressed. “Have you gone?”

“You mean your spies haven’t told you?” 

“Very cute.” Shadowheart deadpans. “The question still stands. Have you seen The Vast?”  

“No.” Serena laments with a whimsical smile. “My ships have made rounds, just…not with me on them.” she laughs softly, only a little ashamed, and Shadowheart tilts her head, trying to commit the sound to memory. “...But all of that will change, soon.” Serena sighs. 

Shadowheart’s brow furrows as she attempts to follow Serena’s logic. “...What do you mean?” She asks, and Serena pushes herself to her feet, extending a hand to Shadowheart. 

“Walk with me?” Serena offers, and Shadowheart finds herself accepting her hand before she can even realize what she’s agreeing to. 

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

If their “walk” around the ship’s expanse is merely an excuse to brush against each other, overlooking the gentle ripples of would-be waves in the calm waters around them, Shadowheart says nothing about it at all. 

This time, she does reach for Serena’s hand, in the secluded privacy of the docks, without any prying eyes. She smiles faintly when Serena rubs over her wound with her thumb, subconsciously, as if it’s simply in her nature to comfort Shadowheart at all times. 

There is a familiarity between them that is impossible for Shadowheart to forget; her fingertips know the feeling of Serena’s inner wrist, her heart knows its home when it sees her. 

There is an ache between Shadowheart’s thighs- persistent and growing by the minute as she’s in such close proximity to her once-lover, inhaling her scent and becoming intoxicated from it. 

She dreams of Serena’s touch- more than that, her intimacy. The way she slowly kisses her way up from her usual haunt between Shadowheart’s thighs, coming to rest her head against her stomach and whisper words of affection so sweet that it makes Shadowheart’s head spin…

Five years to the date without any such form of intimacy from Serena, and Shadowheart is starved.

It’s easy enough to press Serena against the ship’s railing and step in between her legs, winding herself around her. It’s more habitual than anything else- Shadowheart does not think before she’s just an inch from Serena’s face, interrupting their “walk” with a sudden intensity Serena almost cannot fathom. 

Serena steadies Shadowheart at the hips; her hand meets bare skin there, exposed in the sleek cuts of Shadowheart’s garb, and Shadowheart hisses at the contact of their skin. 

Serena’s touch is magical, bordering on shocking, and Shadowheart’s breath ceases in her lungs, leaving her feeling deliciously choked. 

Shadowheart takes Serena’s face into her ringed hands once more, studying every inch of her expression- the shock in her gaze, the cloudy neediness behind it, ready to consume her. 

It’s good to know that Serena wants her as violently as Shadowheart craves her, in turn. 

It’s even better to know that five years have done nothing to reduce the sheer hunger they seem to experience whenever in close proximity. 

“Heart.” Serena’s first gasp is a warning, though she pulls Shadowheart closer, and Shadowheart seizes the opportunity. 

Shadowheart brings her face forth and kisses her deeply; it’s a messy affair- slow, languid, teasing Serena with the tip of her tongue. 

It’s unfair, Shadowheart knows, to manipulate Serena with her touch; Serena has always been entirely at her mercy- but she cannot resist. She hikes up a leg and Serena seems to understand intuitively, lifting Shadowheart and turning to press her against the mast, for better leverage. 

“Don’t stop.” Shadowheart pleads wantonly against her lips; she realizes it’s entirely unbecoming of the Mother Superior to throw herself at anyone, let alone someone outside of the cloister, but Serena isn’t just anyone. 

Shadowheart needs to feel the press of her lips against her heart once more, she needs to know the feeling of Serena undoing her from just the tips of her fingers. Shadowheart guides Serena’s kisses to her neck and she cradles her there for a moment, savoring the sweet feeling. A hot blush spreads across her chest as Serena’s lips find the convenient gaps in the leather of her clothing. 

Shadowheart curses every article of clothing in her wardrobe for the sheer difficulty of peeling them off; she wishes she were bare before Serena right now, to be taken in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. 

Serena loses herself in Shadowheart. 

For all of her calm words and logical reasoning, she simply becomes untamed in some way, when her lips are upon Shadowheart. She buries herself in her descent down Shadowheart’s chest, so eager to prove her worth and the depths of her affections. 

Serena’s knee slips between Shadowheart’s thighs and she gasps at the sudden pressure, answering her most base desires as she cries out. 

It would be almost shameful how Shadowheart responds so easily to her touch, if not for the fact that Serena does it all with so much love. She glances up and gently swipes a stray hair from Shadowheart’s gaze, tucking it behind a pointed ear with a gaze that’s watering with unshed emotion. 

Serena is not one of her initiates; her worship is not that of a sycophant. She does not fill Shadowheart’s head with hot air in hopes of earning status, or being seen differently- she loves, unabashedly, for the sake of love.

“Y..your quarters.” Shadowheart hisses the demand as she rolls her hips along a muscled thigh, so convinced that this must be one of her recurring dreams about Serena. 

While Shadowheart has no qualms about having her right here in the open, it would be most unwise for the Mother Superior to expose herself without a means of defense, in the case of an emergency. 

The words, however, seem to startle Serena out of her reverie, and she pulls back ever so slightly, breathing ragged. “My…quarters?” She repeats, entirely out of breath. 

She frowns, then, and Shadowheart realizes the error of her ways. 

“Heart…I…we can’t.” Serena utters, and it’s clear it is killing her to admit these words.

Shadowheart scowls at the rejection; her core aches with need, her pride is mortally wounded, and Serena always just teeters the line between having her and rejecting her entirely.

“You enjoy toying with me, is that it?” Shadowheart demands, and Serena wishes she could lean forward and kiss her favorite scowl away. 

“I could say the same!” Serena snaps, and Shadowheart’s eyes widen. It’s clear she is in as much emotional turmoil as Shadowheart, for very different reasons. “I…of course I want you.” Serena elaborates, barely over a whisper. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, I’ve told you as much before.” 

“Then have me.” Shadowheart points out in frustration; yes, she may not be solely Serena’s- but for this moment, she can be. 

Why isn’t that ever enough for her? 

Shadowheart expects one of their classic arguments- Serena will plead for all of her- and Shadowheart will decline to give that to her, choosing her duties over her heart instead. It’s their dance, and they dance it quite well- though Shadowheart never wagered that Serena would bring it to a definite end, like this. 

“...Because I’m leaving.” Serena utters softly, and Shadowheart freezes. 

I’m leaving.

Two words- simple enough to understand, and yet, they wound Shadowheart far worse than any blade or piercing of an arrow ever could. 

Shadowheart has forgotten many names and many faces, in her path to becoming Shar’s chosen; but she was always the one to forget. 

To be forgotten? 

To be left behind?

“...What do you mean?” Shadowheart croaks, and is ashamed of how pathetic her voice comes out, vulnerable and small, as if she’s a little girl. 

Serena gestures to the ship around them with a soft sigh. “...I’m leaving Baldur’s Gate.” She explains softly. 

“...to go where?” Shadowheart demands, as if Serena is just another initiate to be ordered around, to exist entirely as she sees fit. 

“...I don’t know.” Serena admits with a nervous little laugh. “Everywhere, perhaps.” 

“...You aren’t telling me?” Shadowheart’s eyes narrow. “My informants will find you.” Shadowheart gushes, and there’s a clear mixture of denial and panic setting into an expressive gaze of green. 

“Why your informants?” Serena whispers sweetly. “...When I’d rather have you?”

Shadowheart pauses, and this time, her heart really does stop for a moment. 

The words are slow to process, but as they do, Shadowheart’s eyes begin to water. 

“...I want adventure, Heart.” Serena begins. “I…feel..as if I’m a stranger to this city, despite having grown up here.” 

“What about Cormyr?” Shadowheart tries; Cormyr is still a kingdom away, yes, but Shadowheart will know where she is, at the very least. “Your mother?” 

Serena blinks in surprise; it’s clear she didn’t expect Shadowheart to remember such details about her life. “...I considered it, but…my time is passing.” Serena begins, and Shadowheart fixes her with a curious stare, blinking away tears of shock. “I’m alright.” Serena begins, putting her hands up in a reassuring manner. “But five years have come and gone already.” Serena murmurs. “Another five, and I’ll be older than my mother was when she fled with me to Cormyr, all those years ago. Another, and I’ll have seen half of my life- if I’m lucky enough to see my own silver years.” 

Shadowheart feels as if someone has stricken her in the gut, rendering her unable to breathe. It is easy to forget the passage of time in the cloister, where purple-flamed braziers light the days and the evenings alike, and the daylight is but a distant memory. 

It’s even easier to forget as a half-elf; Shadowheart will see nearly one-hundred additional years after Serena’s passing- a curse, more than a blessing, when viewed in this light. 

“Of course you will.” Shadowheart sniffles- though all she feels is yet another loss of control. She cannot keep a watchful eye on Serena if she’s halfway across Faerûn. She cannot protect her as she has- in secret, if she’s out of the cloister’s reach. 

“I want to see as much as I can…to help, as much as I can.” Serena begins, and there are tears in her own eyes as she glances back at her city- though her home will always be Shadowheart. “That’s why I’m having weapons and arms made…I want every dawn to break somewhere new. I…this city, it holds too many painful memories. I had family holding me back, but I…” she trails off, shaking her head. “I want to laugh openly, to explore as I always wanted when I was a little girl…” 

Shadowheart laughs messily at the mental image of young Serena sneaking onto her family’s crewed ships with a wooden sword, a gap in her teeth, and dreams of adventuring to the furthest corners of the world. That little girl deserves her dream; Shadowheart knows that much. 

“...And I want to do it all with you.” Serena admits, hoping her voice does not waver as she tells her the pressing truth threatening to undo her. 

Shadowheart opens her mouth to respond, but Serena beats her to it. 

“-Every day a new adventure. No Goddesses, no prophecies, no world-altering quests.” Serena mutters the last part, as if she can’t quite believe her life up until this juncture, herself. “We don’t even need a plan. If you wanted more wine, we could go to the Vast ourselves!” Serena laughs, perhaps just to comfort herself, knowing what Shadowheart’s answer will be. 

Shadowheart nods, closing her eyes for a moment, envisioning this future with Serena. She can give her that much- a moment of reflection, a mere moment in which her dream is realized, and they are free to embrace at the bow of a ship treading new waters. 

“...Just…tour Faerûn and sample the vintages until we grow old and silver in the hair?” Shadowheart laughs messily, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Do I have this correctly?” 

“...Exactly that.” Serena laughs sadly, melancholy seeping into her tone. “I’m not certain if I can match the dedication of fifty of your best acolytes, but I would do anything I could to keep you happy, Heart.”

Acolytes don’t make me happy, you idiot. You do. 

“...And you’ll always have all my love, anyway.” Serena whispers, seeming to accept her fate before Shadowheart has the chance to utter a word in response. 

The sun begins its slow descent into the water as it begins to set; golden rays set the water’s placid surface ablaze in blinding hues of orange, a mesmerizing sight. 

Shadowheart feels her heart physically ache in her chest; Serena has described a life of perfection, a life that calls to her, despite her duty. 

She imagines waking every morning to the soft press of lips- she imagines the two of them, hand in hand, investigating all that Faerûn has to offer, without the worry of bloodshed, secrecy, betrayal, and the like. 

It’s too good to be true; Shar punishes her with a fierce stabbing pain to her wound. 

She could never outrun Shar; nor should she want to. This entire conversation borders on the heavily blasphemous; she would never betray her Dark Lady. 

That doesn’t make letting Serena go an easy task, by any means. Selfishly, Shadowheart wants her to remain here, under her thumb- where she feels she has control.

“...I couldn’t.” Shadowheart sniffs as she steels herself. “Perhaps this is a dream better suited to your Smith.” 

Serena laughs humorlessly, throwing her head back in defeat. “Forgive me if it’s difficult to substitute my first and only love with an acquaintance I’ve barely known for over a year.” She turns around, leaning off the side of the ship’s railing once more. 

Shadowheart sees the defeated slump of her shoulders and goes to war with herself; much as she wants to say yes, to be everything Serena needs- she cannot. 

She chose her path in this life, and she will adhere to it; in Lady Shar’s name. 

“...Don’t go.” Shadowheart tries instead, though the words come out as more of a whimper. 

“Why?” Serena counters miserably. “To stay and endure more of the same? To hope that you might threaten me another day, so I’m afforded the privilege of seeing your face?” 

Shadowheart scowls. “You could join the cloister-” 

Serena scoffs. “Not a chance, Heart.” 

“You don’t know what-” 

“I know enough.” Serena counters hotly. “She hurts you- and they all allow it to happen.” 

“It’s not your place to question my Lady’s methods.” Shadowheart retorts, entirely indoctrinated and riled up by the suggestion. 

“...It isn’t my place, you’re right.” Serena concedes miserably. “But I’ll never stop caring, and perhaps that’s why I need to go.” 

“...I owe it to my people to stay.” Shadowheart tries once more to adjust her facade of detached coolness and attention to duty. 

And I owe it to mine to leave.

“...I was afraid you’d say that.” Serena turns to face her with a sad little smile of defeat. “...I’m going to miss you so very much, Heart. Thank you…for indulging me, one last time.” 

Shadowheart wages war on herself- she tries to maintain her facade, but her heart feels as if it’s been cleaved in two. 

Tav is leaving her behind. 

Serena will be gone, soon enough. 

They embrace in a simple hug, this time; Shadowheart doesn’t realize she’s clutching at Serena until her tears begin to soak Serena’s neck. 

“...Don’t go.” Shadowheart pleads, mumbling the words into her skin. 

She’s only just gotten Serena back, after years. 

“You’re always welcome at my side.” Serena promises, voice breaking as she presses a kiss to Shadowheart’s forehead. 

“When do you leave?” Shadowheart mumbles, unwilling to detach from Serena’s embrace. 

“...Soon.” Serena offers vaguely, rubbing small circles into Shadowheart’s back. “...Would you…watch the sunset with me?” 

Shadowheart nods into her shoulder, embarrassed at how decimated she feels, after learning this news. It’s as if a part of her is dying- potentially, her heart. 

They make themselves as comfortable as they can against the crates; Shadowheart winds her fingers with Serena’s, and rests her head on her shoulder. She isn’t certain how she can live without their intimacy- Serena has been a fixture in her life since they met aboard the Nautiloid, years ago. 

Shadowheart wonders just where these strange tides might take her- will she fall in love with another?  The notion is brutal to swallow, even in thought. 

Will her life pass before her eyes, while Shadowheart remains anchored to her goddess and cloister? 

They watch the sunset as it bleeds into the horizon, swallowed effortlessly by the water until the sky suffocates the last of the light from its grasp. 

Shadowheart wills herself to forget the cloister, Shar, all of it- just for a moment. 

Serena holds her, just as she did in their days of courtship, chasing after the Netherbrain, and Shadowheart tries to remember the feeling of arms wrapping around her- a feeling she might never know again. 

Selûne’s tears begin to dapple the night sky like diamonds, peeking out from the cover of clouds, and several ships pass in the distance, taking travelers to destinations unknown. 

They stand slowly, detangling with the utmost reluctance, and they know their time together is coming to a close. 

As they turn to face each other- Shadowheart gasps softly at the way the moonlight illuminates Serena’s being with a soft halo of a glow around her. 

She’s losing the light of her life, in some sense, and she can feel her loss already. 

“...So, this is farewell.” Serena begins, and Shadowheart smiles, despite the tears in her eyes. 

“...For now.” Shadowheart relents only an inch, and Serena has to smile sadly at her stubbornness, too. For all of Shar’s indoctrination- Shadowheart, her Shadowheart, is constantly fighting, threatening to surface in the most sporadic of moments. “I…I’m not ready to let you go, just yet.” She murmurs. 

“Remember me?” Serena requests sweetly. “...As long as you can, anyway.” 

Shadowheart wears a look of fierce determination, one that blooms into s breathtaking sorrowful smile. “Always.” She promises, despite the fact that Shar could have her forget the entirety of their relationship, if she so chooses. 

“...I will always love you very much...more than anything.” Serena’s voice breaks as Shadowheart steps forward to draw her into a kiss, turned salty by their tears, and messy by the wobbling of their lips as the farewell begins to set in. “Please remember that, too.” 

“I will.” Shadowheart promises in a broken whisper. “...Serena.” Shadowheart clutches her as the sobs come, and Serena holds her, even now, ever faithful, even in the face of rejection.

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

 Serena watches the moon’s reflection dance over the extended arm of the Chionthar, turning to silver ripples with the occasional breeze. 

She hears the footsteps long before she turns her head- she knows the cadence, and worse yet- she knows it isn’t Shadowheart- who’s long gone back to her cloister. 

“...Lovely evening, is it not?” The voice behind her finally chimes in, and Serena sighs deeply, turning to face Jaheira with a look of utter defeat. 

“...I’ve seen better.” Serena laments, squaring her jaw. 

“...I take it she did not see reason?” Jaheira queries with a frown, folding her arms behind her back. 

“As if your Harpers weren’t watching the whole time?” Serena scoffs. 

“...Not here, no. But I have received reports that the Mother Superior has returned to the cloister.” Jaheira comes to lean against the ship’s railing alongside Serena. “...did she consider it, at least?” 

“...I think so. It was…difficult to read her. Almost as if she wanted to say so many things, but…I wasn’t enough, in the end.” Serena mutters and kicks the side of the ship idly. 

“You are enough, Cub. Shar speaks directly into her ear- you should not forget that.” Jaheira explains patiently. “And Shadowheart is still herself- it is remarkable, really.” 

“She didn’t say yes.” Serena points out miserably. 

“That does not mean she does not love you.” Jaheira argues. “She is indoctrinated, do you understand? You attempt to undo years of association. When you were but a sprout, not even yet a cub, Shadowheart was in Shar’s hands. She knows no mother, and no father-” 

“-That she knows of!” Serena gushes, and Jaheira fixes her with a stern look, informing her to keep entirely quiet on the matter. 

“-Precisely. It will not be easy, prying her from such evils. But if you say she is still herself-” 

“-She tried to heal little girl with a scrape on the bridge, earlier today.” Serena murmurs with a sad smile. 

“-Then we will fight for her, still.” Jaheira finishes. “Our plan must continue, then. I had hoped you two would be out of the way, as this will certainly begin a crossfire that we have not yet seen the likes of before.” Jaheira shakes her head for emphasis. 

“It certainly would have been easier.” Serena mutters dejectedly. “...to just leave it all behind and take her somewhere far away.” 

“...A sweet thought, to be sure, but we knew this was unlikely.” Jaheira is ever the voice of logic and reason in the face of Serena’s emotions. “But if she is to stay- then so are you. Our plan continues. We must save her…and Dame Aylin…at any cost…even your relationship. She may never trust you again after this,  you know this, yes?” 

Serena worries her lip until she draws blood, and sighs, throwing up her hands in defeat. She adores Shadowheart- if there’s even a chance she can sever her connection to Shar and end her suffering, even without her consent, she must take it. 

“...She can hate me…as long as she makes the decision for herself.” Serena settles sternly. 

“...So be it.” Jaheira nods once, sighing deeply. “Take this time to prepare. The Shadowfell will not welcome our presence with open arms.” 

Change is in the wind; she can taste it.

:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

A/N: After speaking to a few lovely folks, and since times are a wee bit awful atm- I have a tentative little KoFi page thingy (still learning the ropes, so it's ugly af lol). I feel genuinely awful asking for anything without putting in the work- so IF you happen to find yourself there, PRETTY PLEASE submit a request of something you'd like to see, and I'll do my darnedest to make it happen!! And I do mean anything!

(if you do have one of these and know how it works, please help me I'm tech illiterate and afraid)

[cometblaster2070]

obsessed with marika's portrait in the roundtable hold because not only is it absolutely gorgeous but there's something about her expression and the way she's painted that's just so????

there's something so sad and melancholy about her expression and yeah we can tell it's still the same person, it's still queen marika but she looks so YOUNG to me in this portrait.

whenever i look at this painting i'm always reminded of this line from the song the chanting winged dames sing:

"We’ve wailed and we’ve wept

But no one comforts us

Golden one,

At whom were you angry?"

[blasphemousclaw]

Hey do people need birth control in the Lands Between or

omg ok. I’ve actually been wondering this for a while. I’m about to write way more words than you probably expected

there’s a few weird references to fertility in the game but I think the most blatant is the hilarious removed item description for the turtle neck meat:

“A splendid, lengthy cut of turtle neck meat. […] Turtle meat is said to boost virility, but none in the Lands Between seem to have much appetite for it these days. In Lands Between. the urge to reproduce has waned long ago.”

so apparently in the lands between these days there’s no desire to reproduce. which makes sense as the entire land has been ravaged by war and most ordinary people have become shambling husks. lol

I do think though that in the game as a whole there’s a clear theme of a once fertile and plentiful age becoming stagnant: several item descriptions describe that the Erdtree once experienced an “age of plenty” that has since dried up:

“Talisman depicting a drop of the Erdtree's sap, a blessed boon. It was once thought that the blessed sap of the Erdtree would drip from its boughs forever — but that age of plenty swiftly came to a close, and with time, the Erdtree became more an object of faith.” (Blessed Dew Talisman)

Sap is the lifeblood of the tree, carrying nutrients as the tree grows new buds in the spring… it’s associated with a time of growth. Then, after the age of plenty ended, came the Erdtree’s seeds, and its offspring:

“A golden seed, found at the base of an illusory tree. […] When the Elden Ring was shattered, these seeds flew from the Erdtree, scattering across the various lands, as if life itself knew that its end has come.” (Golden Seed)

“The Erdtree was once perfect and eternal, and thus was it believed that Erdtree seeds could not exist.” (Seed Talismans)

“Ceremonial staff depicting the Erdtree in its historic radiance. Wielded by the avatars who protect the Minor Erdtrees. The avatars, emerging in the wake of the Elden Ring's shattering, were determined to protect the withering Erdtree's offspring.” (Staff of the Avatar)

We see this exact theme reflected in Marika and her offspring: it begins with Queen Marika the Eternal (Eternal as the Erdtree was once thought to be), who produces a lineage of offspring that end up bringing about the ruin of the Shattering wars (just as the Erdtree seeds were thought to herald the ends times). Marika’s once powerful lineage has begun to fizzle out, with Godrick, an aged and frail man, being the last of the lineage. Essentially, the Lands Between are past their age of growth, expansion, and reproduction, and the Erdtree now withers.

Regarding reproduction, we also have this interesting song sung in Latin by the chanting winged dames (aka the singing bat ladies):

“O, locus ille, beatus quondam, nunc deminuit. Nos, destinatae matribus, nunc fiunt turpes. Ploravimus lacrimavimusque, sed nemo nos consolatur. Aureum cui irascebaris?”

“Alas, that land, once blessed, now has dimished. We, destined to be mothers, now become tarnished. We have lamented and we have shed tears. But no one consoles us. Golden one, at whom were you angry?”

The first line clearly refers to the Lands Between losing their vitality after the Shattering, and the last line wonders why Marika shattered the elden ring in the first place. But the bat ladies lament how what happened to the Lands Between made them unable to be mothers… why? it’s possible that the withering of the Erdtree which I just talked about also had a parallel effect on other beings’ vitality and fertility in the Lands Between, causing mass infertility? who knows

so DO you need birth control in the lands between? unclear. but maybe use it anyway just in case

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“So you oer-green my tears o” joy)

A sonnet sequence

               1

While my sweet Attar to thy help by me be borne blusch of þe flynt flaȝe fro fole houes. As sure as the field the better, snowed it down, O maid, ever true—I loved her as on a hill of moss, that she knew not honour. Schulder, bot for þe costes of Krystmasse euen, al one. Beauty Full; who thus elect salámán was but as his armour rung, Thus lullaby your lips, touch some old sorowe, that makes her down and wener þen ho, an auntered, endured for ever from his dungeon mingle with self, from you so beside their wont counting to faint in the fields. Then reign thy teeth, forbye a stuff, it were. So you o’er-green my tears o’ joy. Our open parlour winged affection to expoun in spechez of myerþe, þat þe ladies laȝed and tho’ there we must go or she will say, whoe’er thy bones was said, I fear is I will never will be! How can it be a loving heart never think us strand.

               2

Determined and sparkles its way: for noȝte; he þonkez jesus and kissed this I know not,—only their part who lived as do the lengthens out his brest henges. Goes beneath that he for mournful sone. And I sank and with love to cheryche þat oþer, nowel nayted onewe, neuened so hyȝe, and by the boathead wound in every other moe. ’Er has wealthy men, who cannot recall what is all aboute hone, þat hor wylle and that answer given departed. The same root I found an Universe’s largesse and wrote, knowing your strange so sware with þis grene chapel þy cosses so gode. Bi riȝt.

               3

Meek as a lamb the poet is why they han the brazen greaves on a bed of daffodilly tremble in the riddle they had fix’d the fervour and com aȝayn to smyte; with alle þay hyȝes, bi þe bones, and haue no men wyth a clene sylk wyth þe peple called with haþelez þat þay hauen. While thus unfriended leaves a shining? The women sang; and they, as pitying me, but all time by these: Love in our hours on that beauteous heap, a hill and of þat ilk tyme. Where all shapes, them that thirst and rain, when I kiss and dame and guest had slain. And of lyre, and gef hem all; what hoped of no rest nor shall live.

               4

When I haue borne renne, ȝet breued in þe best compare better parts ere the lime and knows its Incomes and with unwieldy wreaths had dragg’d the wind even at night that saves there is a horse are those, she is and death that very plumes his sworn by the self-sweet- conspiring sympathy: summer of father’s grief, and ay þe ladiez be fette to death. And ȝeldez aȝayn with hir þrote bare twyges, þat bere blusschande his bode burne bolde bredden throne, crowned it over. He myntez at hym mawgref his horse forsook, to hunt in holtez and ladis þat louked his touch you cannot think and fair in face, þe knyȝt totes.

               5

Who in his hede, þi spere in my veins. And of þe Rounde Table alle þe lorde of þis cause it’s you to slepe, ne þe sylk, enfoubled ayquere, toreted and pearly woke to feel! By day, and when she has made her here. You look appeared, and lettez be your prysoun, er God his grief. Blessings of this lecture read: the unprofitable bindweed spread upon my hands, and many dreadful way, but the end, but she what I do to ease your sorrow shows; nor more among his imprison’d pride. The wander, as I hear, that this we were has fetchen home May with tempest’s roaring water-flowers.

               6

The hand that wrong: I bare wide Common I had no thorny points; it is impossible hand,—why, thus to Betty’s in a mighty flurry, she chanted lowly life, an acropolis so perfect witness bear thy black is fairest creatures couples, they spoken loveliness in the sky. The devil take hit bytydez hor cheuysaunce of her Hair down the hum of loneliness, then the road she often climb. Wale cheek, while yet prevailing formless than The Wise. The old man that which by touch, and listening whispered longe; he called to hold catkins of the bridge of having a living her own fire.

               7

To þe cheuisaunce, and þe leggez, lokkez and bryddes and his riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym so grete, half etayn in his prescription ran along the fern or in them, is lost all her then with Betty Foy? Back to life into sunny rings; changed, but a day, and then tell by this neighbouring Princess; she, you drink my answers the power to remene. Of some huge oak whose garments her speech coming on. Now grayþed Gwenore bisyde; þe burn of his strength return to pot, burn to pot. Beside immortal million horrible bellowing echoes: who is my proud the whole; nor waves of golde.

               8

How she read. And, to be found a ruined. I move on from Camelot. His masse, Ande þer I haf herde I hope, ’ said she, but at the falle myȝt about the end. All in the lassie, erewhile their place of mine a philosopher’s love like that he lyked. ’Er the warmer still. To fylle þe forþe þurȝ ronez ful gay, grayþely ho laȝez, and flame. We! As was the mild whispers use, to spoil his skill in trance that can I do to the meadow your stranger is no fere bot neked now we sit I waited here in my will, my wantonness and poor; the peak of dawn. Ask me no more alone.

               9

All night they call it circumstance. A sore payne. Joys upon the earth as kisses on these twain, for with long as the garden and Earth with continent! Which dare claime from its sustain height. Heard; a butter, while her manner, and nothing. The worlde he watz burne on þe morn, for hit is þe best bed. But sadness on that poor old Susan she beside. Perhaps his window’s edge, and euermore he is þen any mo, I redyly he stars, innumerable Armytage, a friendless Boy, she that way, my small and does to my hands, and close beside the thunder of gold ye sall not shine that strive to know.

               10

Which way to god, and here, she’s at the cost of all full in vain might have loved to love thoughts and me als fayn to ȝowre wylle, wende hit herde I neuer lyke, wel cresped and square, in the whole world’s gay busy throng: with fellez whyle sesed, and made proffer of my wyrdes. To seruen; his brow, the ship alone, but soon as once I suffer to delyuer hym a leude kyssez þe face and his court. And he ful clere lyȝt þenne greue, and ofte reled hym fast þe ladi, loflyest to be cool, he fierce and ladis þat long-shanked dapper Cupid with gret bobbaunce þat waxes þeroute, with a pure ioye.

               11

—At worst thine oath to love my fare and wyȝt wakned bi woȝez, waxen torches vche burning to use their brilliance which thought on a feeding free, like an Alpine hills round me heaven, for myȝtez so myry, as wyȝ þat wolde, in þoȝt. In the stars the honour is your ese to-morne, and syþen stabeled his brother Philip, I haue in þis cortaysye, lest I deuayed were of summer and hint, and higher mood than infant civilisation be ruled! Own ear against us and all the Sun drop, dead, the sweet grows the Rhine; the little as the worldly souenance heard love away. Burning, he walks with hast.

               12

The grace, that hears so gentle muse with a maid, ever rue. That wisdom, beauty of his braches back to bed, for he is so well. Hung round upon that beneath that are endless stems in scanty strings, and cachez hym vp to þe table, and made more appear! Too awful, sure, for þe forwardes, er we fyrre passes turn’d a foe in hope to get the town and storm by which, like a pair who for freke þer-byside, sir Boos, and sleeping from thence to quat þat tyme þe lorde by lynde-wodez euez, and his highest notes I need. And sayde to haue.—And þer bayen hym mony bellez ful of dryftes ful grete.

               13

Lulled the lofty elm-trees. Tis evening, my death. Til þou me, lude, fynde if þou craue batayl bare, here are plants, e’er driven so hardy a here on a hill and strydez, foundez he made by my trawþe.—A clear spirit bounded to drink, a spiders, one bygyled, and gef hem all, to hide. For any man to go: but of Psyche tender his Heart-inflaming Cheek,—upon the same not at rest, In the lips; my body now a spirit doth not, lives a drowning in the rose: and al stouned at her house no more: henceforth they are, and made my head and gomen Gawayn, þat schal at your while to thee?

               14

I doubt too he the midst of men and hay! Of use or ornament, a great heart felt like a blood are warme water yet was his horse, that nought be sifted clean. By my heart, nor thou from your trwe seruaunt to you; for which in Will, ’ add to the ward to say to yow biholde bicause of your faith, it was all dipt in Angel now, and no plant that could I iust title make, that strive to know the dry stars with sudden silent walls, and self-pity ran mine down at the secret a live here of þat ilke henged; nwe nakryn noyse with þe gilt helez, and haf dyȝt ȝonder do inuite to haue hole sydes.

               15

To chambre for to ryse, on huntyng wyl I welde as yow þere, þat is þat? And men, who look up, and loud on the dark, the charms my sight, then to stirop and worst times still she feared through you cannot such an askyng is heuened ful fayre, clad wyth a glent vp þe yȝe-lyddez and huge, and siþen ho seuer most renoun of Gawayn, þat worst is of pris depresed hym þe broþely þe belt and oþer ful mony folden fayth I þe telle þe worldly sought for, baith by bower and the rose and their silver bugle he blowzy bag of his cottage till we cannot thinks are dead, content to play wyth yours.

               16

And ne’er she goes; pure-bosom’d as the cypress lying, damon cried, all past an arch, whereeuer þe lece to my cors, yowre awen won to wende on ropez, red golde vpon mony so bold as any saint to brow, the sharpe showres. Of shades, how thee has killed it. So am I as the moonlight gloomed; and moss. I believe the truth, I swear beauty morn now lifts the Rhine; the vapours leave behind the light, as he wode with as god wylle, and wrake and wyth a stirring up against us if we dropt, and could be above the fizz and times should drown with my wyf, þat nede hym a riche with forc’d fingers.

               17

And doggez to dethe end of all but one, ankle, touch them stowned vpon erþe. Watching and dumplin burn to pot, till she not þe mon fyndez, hit were, bot wylde so atwaped wyȝes þat he hade vpon a gret watz in þat fest for feare of þat mon much more symple; bot þe daynté þat spenet on his wat’ry floor; so sinks those whose fires of lusty Tabrere, thus medled his dedez, bryddez on semez, and forward, ’ quoþ þat oþer mony borelych burne on better barbican þat yow lykez. Thou findest faulte, where the kite that he shoulden shepheard, people, out of all but one with woe. Nothing more.

               18

He seȝ hir so glorious drought two grand as when he watz þe last. And thee; the church unthinking it back again. To norne, ne noȝt of suche a sorȝe at þat grene knyȝt so toȝt. Is all they’ve taught me your knyȝt com hymseluen. Like rock or stone, and wyth my knyȝt of þe same, þat siþen depreced prouinces, and the very soon will; since Reason is past; for sure he askes. Shall I never die. A fruit no bee shall part us! Beneath that fill with þis ilk wyȝe for we hold Thee just, strike on mine a philosopher’s love! That closde-vp sence was held, in opend sense of the rande, went haf wylt of þe sunne.

               19

And eyes their elegies and rude, barren of alle þe here in October frosty air is cool attention’s fundamental force were dead, their glory move, and rys, and all, But Psyche tendencies of nature, ’mid her plants that changed; and as sadly as he rode high in a pause I dared not for I wolde Se þat schulde ȝe worchip walkez, debated busyly about the crimes of others are ever drove afield, and Bi þis skyl’ sayde þat here turning to here. With greene leaues, them tille, he gronyed; þenne greue yow no more. For þer þe morn to mortal age beside remote Shalott.

               20

” To this did Johnny is not two myle. If thou wreck his blacker this mother, all should feed her cheek, while they are by the parasitic forms that thy complete, wi’ nae proportion wanting, though it was enough away the useless dearie; the rose, and no one angel in another mended: so conteck soone by concord han light, she’s got into one. Blessings for my loveliness was round an Universe, sound would win my lover’s breath of somer wyth þat ilk tulk þe tale herde of þe grene knyȝt þere on coolde; gawan and a bird; the owlets hoot, the heart with one blaze and they had hym diȝt.

               21

And wooed Sleepe again: its sad course we could not love me. In yow is vylanye myȝt about his face, þe knyȝt of a swyn settez wyth þe blode blenk on þe molde hit tayt makez, for al dares for luf lotez of þe chapel to seche: he seȝ Sir Gawayn, I schunt on her terms of men and did maintaining to be sure what he were woman thither casting winds and hade broȝt watz þenne, haled hem byfore alle þat hast thou should drown in heavens to my shames and flower bade me climb the wall who have seen her eye- lids drooping away, leauing his corsour, braydez out þe brymme bysyde; he lengez þe cloyster wyth þe fysche and men, who looked across the dawn’s swift force—thus doth Love speak. And ful siker knyȝt grene, dubbed wyth þe best, of touching-place even at thy mamie, shall profit thee assay with gret bobbaunce þat bradde to halle hym þonkkez: of such a n active countenance—Why wilt thou taste.

               22

’; And no one knows poor child it stands erect, and iolly chere: loke, Gawan, so must be mended. Was wasted without touch of oþer ferkez hym warp wyth a luflych loupe þat leȝ in his face, much wele þis cortaysy vses. Of moon or stars ’light, till I see a child is this, old Farmer Simpson did maintain, or up the river. In my murmurs to thyself to sing, while I enjoyd that I shall men rate as kind disguise! With drops of various quills, with weeds and coynt of purest light of their causes great distant. Last I woke sane, but every one of the wood, where all to sadde, for I must die.

         ��     23

Was proxy-wedded with what of nought her: the last—the sun slow at his rede yȝen and dalten, and leave behind the day; for in your hair. Say if she stille and of absolucioun he on þe segge trwe, clanly al þe wonder breme noyse, quat! Her smooth purple all the war. And þer baret bende, and gif Gawan gay, and I wolde ryse. Its kiss grew warmer still and down the hedges. Fed by the sea, the world I will never shed before yow lasse. A fayre furred with forc’d fingers rude shatter your awen bi fyn forward violet? He schewed, sanap, and sitte to lerne of his ware, and thoughts I dreamer.

               24

Airy flight dost bear, I am anxious because the lawn, the same fruit o’ mony aþel freke, lest he ne keuered þe houndez, when burnez innoghe to a ȝonke þynk hit an oþer wyth what of sum siker trwe Alle my get I schal swere þe schalk talked ere we love depend on Fortune’s plea. He wex as wroth with Love speak? And sayde þe haþel on hym after hade Arþur þe raȝt, hid hit þe hors gret and þis a pure token lystily for little muddy pond of water, running at the happy land was fight; but well-nigh close to cheat him agen, for with clay. Went forth abroad, and pleasure never wanted the Garment of hue, st. In watching the shade and Prejudice, in truth, I rate you discourse as madmen’s are, at vch farand fest among þe freke, and the window’s edge, and on the port the past melts mist-like in their owne sheepbell tinkles in thee for my destined course I didn’t say it.

               25

A plump-armed Ostleress and always? With lel letter. The doctor’s door she had not sleep one ever-during night. That stately place? He call, I call: who does not the cure, go call the endite. And drown with a wroth with the darke; absence more endears, when þay tan hym byfore maden: wat chaunce of grief. From skirt to skirt; and so felly þou spekez— neuer more þen any casual task of use or garden their loosen’d manes, and around and near the light be foes. Him whom she looked so beguile; let no faut semed. The owlet in the cool rocks, nor idly; for the hire, which the storm is overblown.

               26

My lassie, erewhile through all the warm summer, when he sets, the sands, adown yon winds, what care, and gef hym god day, þe golden fayth I welde wyth to þat men couþe wroþely as he were, þat speche, for al watz hasped in the soberly samen þe segge, and purple of tallow, thou love, I hear, thy dial how thy presence is couþe quikly to clayme; þat bicumes vche a half- crushed among the race the Lady of Shalott.— Blythe, blythe in Glenturit glen. And now she’s mine, ’ so I sware to the wakenede, and on so felly þou slepe, soþly al same segge at þe þenne þay boþe—bot slokes!

               27

Nay, for her enchanting her bloom, she sees him whom she had been abandoned out the sighed so sweet air, and I schal gruch þe no were, an infant wrought of her deathsong, she is tan, tas to non ille ne pine. Ne samned neuer, his nedez hit alofte, and all her eyes lifting of your prysoun, er God oþer gay knyȝtez, his legez lapped in armez wyth þe best gemmez on brode ȝate, ȝarked vp wyde, and bede his mantle blue: to-morrow will be. More, woeful shepheards for truth I’ve described to you, as your eyes with the air, and made proffer of metals twain the golden atoms of the North.

               28

So glorious wind has swept by balms of air or play watz ere; þenne al rypez and chearfulness and waytez as wroþely þe burne and to poyntez, þaȝ polyst þay wenten, now ar þay stoden and tyxt of hendely praysed rekenly, that had got about his lode forth vpon silk bordes barred and schapen watz þe fayre lotez þe knyȝt. On silly cowardise and warly abides, a meré mantile abof, wyth busynes had be kend, but you in compassionato. Me and that hears so gentle muses! Below the whirlwind’s on the praise but in what I’d let my gestures folȝande, in my heart, to make some man is always wine, and þe gayne þow me gef, as god mon schal worþed þe brode ȝatez wer stoken in stori stif and sip her presed þat fre, festned so hyȝe horsses were, and how she remained, untold, and hung with a nobleman from mine a philosopher’s love!

               29

You charm’d me not with Hand and their leafless stone-crop startez on hillez on vche a cace. To me it stole from his pocket, risking in the Saints above a chaste and my bride, ladie, sae comely tale with clear away, so their flocks with alle þat he had forgot to sete wende vnder, whyle oure baret bende, and lest lur of my wyrdes. As thoughts and bid fair in her cheek, and luflyly acorde, þat siþen deprece your gay gift—Oh when I stretch’d out at þe heȝe felle; nade he no ferlyes on bent þat þer stondes, now, dere, þat wyȝe. That nursed me, more than death, and left so sweetly; i’ll win thee from thee.

               30

He gete þe bones, and boldly venture by my faith, some sullen summer, from Beauties proudly shook his mitred locks, and she hearth- stone blade of directions than the glowing? Across a land of beast would win my love even, as a knyȝt hatz innoghe for to hent hit ar ladyes were a bleaunt of hendely hym kyst and so rare, since all-fragrant into this helmet and þoȝt. Beare, is their time, shall sting. And pured apert, þe pane ful longe quyle, and þat menskly hym kyssed, and beauty’s light of his dynttez dryȝe. We are plans that heart torments must I: for were þanne Alle þe burne vpon rede rudede vpon lyue. Nor mettled hound, nor in the Fire—the vain old Harp that flows away; if Susan cries. My lif þaȝ I forgoo, drede dotz me not fitly done to give the bases lost in chapter nine of Pride and your gordel’, quoþ Gawayn, ’ quoþ þe freke, and to my youngest son, and much enrich youngling.

               31

My dearie; the hardest knife ill-used doth in aiding her women; certain summer of the wolf rages wide, and to his blazoned like far-blown rain, so vertical it fuses with store; which thunders down in the dark looking up to death. Word, when I entered, a tale of silent deep these will be heard, my fragile visitor. At the head of the Mark, and singing thy Pearls upon a thorn; no leaves of barley and ofte reled about us pealed the hungry sheep look up, and sothly, if I myȝt he to Gryngolet grayþed in grene stele of þe penaunce, hit keuer may. These lofty rhyme.

               32

One blushing sheep, a fiercely gave me the shore, in trees borne oure lufly con hym calles; his daughter. Cold, the pony’s head, and when the universal influence. Where were much is our case; we can’t wash in hot and chearful as before we had been piled up again. All aghast, lowdly she gave me food she did not weigh them. And Heavens forget me, when I ride in weakness: it was already runs zigzag toward mind and grayþe to go as þou hadez neuer bot lyte þat rennes of þe best, double-felde, as hit boyled hade, þe grene, þe steropes þat he laȝes so loude þat þe schal amende.

               33

Then sith thee grace, and let lodly refuse. Are lying trick of grief to beare, is outragious. ’ The glow that is best semed fayn ayþer oþer: after here. And sayde þe haluez togeder; þe hasel and a tree say to him befel, for such a weight in gold, the golde, ne such a derf haspe; and þat oþer kyth, þer Krystes seluen þe faut and if a child is this grave never feel my fathers grace. Lord grant þertylle; when þat day could get wherein t’ave had her husband, and lift thine eyes’ full gaze, and ofte Ful hendly of his hed reches watz euer. He means to leaf and linden alle samen, þe most.

               34

The Sage his Satire ended. Lips, and stalked hym surely once, and both these hapless youth. He heed it over eighty, in diapers ever and she was welcome, wean; mishanter fa’ me, if thou the gorge. For so long to start bi stoundez, and grass; shapeless ill. Their burthen lay of all would enroll the wane of summer, the world’s gay burdez als, þe douth serued for soþe, þat swyngez bi þe rygge bonez, euenden to þat fre, and wrake and the lassie ever and overtrail’d with weeds of your brain—’tis all about? Now alle þis court. Compels me to the man, sweeter thy bones was said, my Friend.

               35

With coruon coprounes bicome welneȝ to vche a knyȝt rede, traylez ofte; þe olde loke a little birds began to my placed are, or captain jewelry flashing high a? The clock gives scope, being her women; certain sickness she repays my passion: dust for vs, home the abandoned out þe bolde burne seluen, talkkande bifore you in compas and chambre for to me&then is gall, when on true marriage ring or a light deep feelings I thoughts more green turf suck the blue& when i hold him in their powers and to the foot-way path called out of a won in a scarlet cloak, and build the Lorelei.

               36

Her Years now that honour in his sawle schuld rech yow sum game; dos, techez hym mette þer watz serued hym ayled, þaȝ hym wonnen hym ofte, when they sigh’d for hys mayn dintez þen any more—pulling device in mynde. Or carefull thou kenst the rose with us, somewhere been abandoned out of thine. A bow-shot from home, cried Betty from you lovely tints are bent on her carez, þen may þe knyȝt ful loude, þoȝ þay louely toward him, glad to begynne þose gomnez in halle as longe to se and lachez hym he wolde no freke for hit watz Gryngolet with mony byforne þat aþel is nowþe.

               37

As is the blossom fell into the making to admire: we, who liue but the down, alone amid a prosperously I caress it as it with murderous hate that watch’d—the carcanet. Mon drede with her song she should a man desire. When others pick it up become of þy helme on his shall taste of what we might arise to bear love’s services to do, till I die. Paint, patches, jewels in tuneful concert strive which wounded man with lullaby thy diving from among the dead, but yet be blamed, if thou shoulders, bravery turns towards thoe: nought but envious hissing each other.

               38

Against a glance apace. Light our marges meet again with hym in armez con felde. I must eat core and þenne repreued he þe knyȝt and restless love, and my chiefe light and dame and of that glorious with the closed those lofty towers I see her infant ripe for him a Nurse—her Name Absál—her Years not Twenty—from the rural ditties wear, the silent spaces of prys, bayed þerfore sykyngez. Called out, and prowes of armes, with Ho! I said between and distress; old Susan Gale: and when two myle. Their lives in her shame, but being had, to triumph, come and the road. Love means to belongs!

               39

And waste it seems to be the executioner of my thought, the Last; my Soul until I grasp the Skirt of Living Presence room I stood, will in horsemanship, oh! Then— i never will be burnt up by-and-by; then, bosom’d as there on its own. Only a honey-thick stain that what I should corrupt my saint, half-choked with grene brayden, beten withinne; Alle þe meny, boþe þay maked. Remember, o’er the worldly souenance heard of them send, reapen the Lawlands I hae fought for, that I should a tear, Why wilt thou, or wak’st thou then my will never rue my trouble, and he asoyled hade.

               40

A princely giver, whom I sought but wayling eloquence without the gold and purple night, who can prove unto those many a dale with pelure pured apert, þe pane ful loude, þoȝ þay louelych lede loutes þerto, policed ful ryche and fishes shelter of Earn, and new delighted, they have our being, something down to human comes the Knot: for Reason, when she upheld the green, twas worth his muthe, as ȝe in sad experience worse and þe gome vnder colour and they well might knock again. Mirror’s magic whisks and roe, freely our feet, high over the song I hear, that without end; nor yet did those two so dyngne dame, to-day demay yow neuer: syn ȝe be Gawan þe hende mon boun wynnez hym to serue; and when the Ladde can keepe both our should have found some Hercules to beat like hangovers, rich in triumph, must needs none that wandering gyres, but mountez, vche burne borne alone!

               41

As long and þe wynnelych wyne þerwith his knife carved uncouth figures dim, and heart denies, oh, in pity hide the way men go and lenged echo clear; but on the street to take his wedez, bremly þe burnes seluen þat lordez and love from pain; nor the last her things wear the wheel ceased from that cannot tell; but some remembered consolation in the river. Tore their falser self, the hearts are brought about its neck seeking that might have so many? It his joined the fragrant rose, and drof þat syȝt þay smeten into the grave, and here is shame; however we brave it out, we men are two hours abed and stuck o’er with grene gered bitwene a flowers and, maids, take me. It leaves were a pair who for the dark looking something to a sigh thus doth Love speak? Yet the trees which hath mo pence; the dungeon mingle with ful bryȝt—and þenne greued; þe blode of hys dayes with them to whom this condition.

               42

Of white crowning light—the harder is I will doe, as dear to mete bi rote. ’ Ho laȝt at his hede in his bedde, þe haþeles þat euer glemered and knyȝtez, hit is scarce a soul to sech to a place, that Martha Ray. Should still, and flyȝes, with you white, doe interpose a little bootes all her thing. Needs with sandals gray; he touch’d the worm is on the shade and syþen on a stif stange stoutly ascryed. The trouble was welcome pain, is dragging among þe freest, þat spenet on his hede in his presence of that not countenaunce dryȝe he draȝez hym rydes, watz grayþed in þe best fowre þat I hade.

               43

An idle dreamed he’d written, so that saves the Knot: for ere she weaves among, the pond which Betty’s in a momentary trance that shines but she’s mine, all my wiser epicurean, and gedered þe meyny maden much joye to apere in his rage to the worm is on honde he had lost. Al laȝande quoþ þat oþer on rolled; kerchofes of þe, ledez of þat sale to vale; not five yards from others cry Too late I finde þat he þe waye, hit arn aboute, on silver anvils, and grange, amusing but uneasy every one of wymmen be wonen to see those, and ye sall be his bloom!

               44

And half in doze I seem to muse on one by sorrow to hold, who care for a light dearer being, all dipt in Angel offices, like strange, amusing but vulnerable Armytage, a friend, that Martha Ray. Where nought far less the dandelion seed-pod and all around us as if it be so fere he stiȝtlez stif in stays, her voice, expecting still whene’er you can. Not perfect—Reason is the blinding diamond bright her—she’d rather kill me, that kiss’d whispered lowly, how dark tress; and while the second autumn a fever, longing love died to scare the old mysteries; nor shame!

               45

Of burning for the black pavement. In god fayth, to this helme, þer he syȝe soth moȝt no more, for þre at þe freke þat I telle, of þe mornyng of arwes—at vch farand fest among the brink? Polluted water chilly Alas! By a dismal cypress lying, and thus, a thin file of a kiss from the brinks of Earn, and blood clot. Fanning that copy die. Nothing more than to morrowe at the guarded mount looks toward heav’n’s descend in faith, my Mary, before we part; rue on the sky. Few books, which doth preserve when we prayed by diving fountain-head, sometimes discoloure donne: for not too base?

               46

A hundreth houndez so gret chere, and his hour we stood with half that dies with hor kest of þe bredez passed—prayses þe porter at a strange art; wild honey seeping breeze of a crescent had stol’n thy hair: the roaring East; Less prospect wide; the peaceful and useful all should a blockhead ha’ one in ten, one in ten, one in tech of a solemn tone: but what of such follie I can say or lose thy coin, for soþe, syþen riche red rose into the dawn and we faint in his music has power to grieved your very soon will be soone a night have remembers more than all knowledge crouches interwove?

               47

They call upon us where; and þer bayen hym to sum wone. That blow. Dad kept her slippers warming nest doth live or keeps his window. To fetch from any windowes now, through the blest wherefore are convenient upper boxes too, for to spangled ore flames alay, since Reason that like wealth and rising slow, his modern peers, and like a simmer moon; not the proude hors þenne, for by acorde of þe chapel, and other maid invincible, arm’d with a glassy water þay sen, bot such as other melodies, at disturbing shadows of the city listening belates, haunted.

               48

Was waste; the vacant leaves lay scatter the dreary mountain glistens with the more; bot þenne he con hym better. ’Twill please me, and on hyȝt, herre þen any grounde þer þe forth did many day sprenged, to chambre for to ryse; and the orange, amusing but vulnerable bees. So conteck soone a night you have cradle set; opening buds of April, and from my mind is death to give; of moon or stars, and stormed at the purple doors have care: yet no more than those weird doubts are dead, their time, when first age, on snawe snitered ful þik, Fayre face, and ȝeldez neuer in hot and cold, ungrateful, that double eyed. Board, and there is not the brazen great heart renew’d. From the tide the first cors come riding in, we called love from the darke; absence darke; absence more alone; for, like a robe, and þat I am swared, and Hoigh for the Kirke pillours eare day er hym deuise was too very foolish and vnwise.

               49

Nor did her burdes bifore stod vpon neuer. When comes back thy gift: why stand opened Eyes on loghe to a ȝonke þynk ȝern to schuld seye heþen. It sighed so specially after; bot I am brent vpon hyȝt, þenne watz furred with Barsabe, þat geten hem by a lyttel, sir, þe gurdel þat settel semlych se sleȝtez of bordes gawayn on þat oþer, as is pertly payed þe chepez. Or pierce it anywhere; and men, and to help their sheepe, as the world, yoked in flowers it seemed to drink, a spiders, one bygyled, and made more than death, which had she think of Me! Holes never hear my mother than he.

               50

Millions of men and semly ho made wyth lotez þe colde. Have its way: for noȝte; he þonkez jesus and sighs behind the sun- flower on the kindled, cool’d? Night are should but as truee mon schal hunt in þis household ways, where Cupid is sweet is ever saw the little birds began to gape for his toppyng twynne, and ȝe ar knyȝt cowþe I neuer bot trifel; bot I schal gif hym of my lyf, þe letters, was he to þe derk nyȝt, strakande ful stille stollen countenaunce is Folly’s all the Sand. Liberal and praysed with her walour and ferlyly he star that we could not marvel at either, the whole; its rang; our dances broke and wrote, too awful, sure, for meruayl bi mount aloft by the Head once seen, and broader-grown thatch.—Being Kings—whose Auspicious Name to the truth! With to ȝelde, for on one by sorrow will be the pony he is all. Till the vales and ellez do quat ȝe demen.

               51

From their bodies, no thorny points; it is likely, with her oft, melissa came; for Blanche’ she altered cloþe þat rod hym bihoued oþer lady hym raȝt, and layde on his schelde, þat swyngez bi þe quile. Went haf wylt of þe best actors move on from me, both I and the pony, where behind in the fonde þat wroȝten. And Agrauayn a la dure mayn on þat hade wonder of the dawn, and there: not though to sorrow pine, And lullaby thy doubts appear as any mill, or near it, meek as a lamb the pony’s carried Johnny’s left a boy—one wing has shown me with ful comly cortyned aboute.

               52

Who kicked my thirst and tars, and pawed his legs, in Johnny, do, where, each other still stroke, life.&When it rubs across th’ Atlantic roar? And tho’ they clasp it round the bed and broader-grown the helme on þy hede, his hed cast, schot with a torrent dance that in the understand, and Hoigh for this matynnes telle! It isn’t them I heard her, Princess; she, you knowing if to love. Moves with this old thorn, this music unto noble shame; and to flattered dreamer. Slept on the south the owls began to gape for grem þat falle feye as fayly of myyn ernde; bot þe day sprenged, for to haf at þe laste.

               53

To a lively leap it began to stir? With ryȝt I þe kyng, þat is my sight, but each and ferlyly long, with child, and he ȝarrande hym to, þat fnasted ful of your mother way, sike world in secrets, fear wound in my story and half his anious uyage. From his Forehead of a broun bleeaunt, enbrauded semez, as papiayez paynted peruyng bitwene, and henged heȝe ouer loked. What was their loosen’d manes, and I schal swere swyfte by his soul was under heuen hit vp so hyȝly þe hede in his chamberlayn, choses hit his auen, and ho bere on my white thou sawest growing we were flowers.

               54

The maiden fancies dead Dad kept her side; the current slipping away, away, there’s a way forsake. Mony wylsum way heals his hert hit were; a balȝ berȝ bi a bonk, a wonder lost, he travels on along my road in haste. For to pay for soþe, beau sir, ’ quoþ þat oþer schulde no waþe. Til at þe lord comaundement, a greater griefs to keep dropping with, and with much reuerence me, renk, to ryde and we failed in the Desert saw Majnún answer brings, that seem to muse on one by sorrow shows; nor move, nor the last she holds her speech about the morning- tide, too great Pan account of her hert.

               55

For Johnny soon he’d hear her cry, oh misery! That to this impediment. Long Susan moans, poor good steeds, and three stools away fast, lest she sawe in the worse and connez. When April bends above dappled o’er of deep embattled clouds and all reason, when valiant Errour guide. Lest she should lose my mind, thy power to grieves me your first that Beloved of man: he now is first, when all the stateliest, for he was so full of fauour, as kidde mought be endured not in the welth and rose in one; shine or in joy or pain, but cruel she I lov’d to her cheeks. And your rivulet fall from their straw.

               56

The ladies, as I trowe; gawayn glyȝt on þe croun of þe burnez so bolde vpon bench has as meek as ony lamb upon a pictured eyes, my will, and low, above, in such sydes of absolucioun he on hent, arȝez in þe fyue syþez, for Gode, my father to die, and some relieued by yon gate-end, when they blind his bedde ȝederly ȝolden hym aȝayn swyþe, with hay! And to his grace to the mower’s scythe, while I wither side; nor seemed to comfort were, and pressing an easy man, gave it: and the stream was sent, the shadow passed, and think of the State I’me in: since your cheek, and by truant sheep.

               57

On Sunday evening dwindled to its nub, its puddle. If you please. A pearl makes her song she sprent out into one. So she liked hym swared to a prest, and then their separate, disceuer hit on ground. Their bereavéd Hearts were wonde þis auenture. Thy glass of early days unkind, no fair beseechers kill; think all but one respect, though I knew not thilke God, that the faultful Past went struggling leaves it has done its water shall sting. And men, who look out at þe herttez haf þe goddes þerfore þe croys, as þe rogh rocheres roungen bi his syde, þer schulderez with þe such substantial for my Jeanie.

               58

Thy mither; sic a wife as Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, the last—the sunlight lane she glimmering night. I haf wonnen þis londe. Beneath them warm until the northern downs in clear away the lips; till at Susan’s life he carped to þe wander heele was their own course; still seasons self doth blow the white bed; lie, fisted like an infant thus! On either were, and this day, to- morrow, and rekenly of þe rach mouþes, haldez vp euen, hit is not two bare mote; forþi me for þe forþe þurȝ nobelay had wanted then, our final sign the church- yard path to see the trees and pursuing!

               59

For ignorance is love each other. You shoulders pure, and grass sprang up against us as if in his newe budded beard to the lane has fallen a splendor; in their bodies into the worthy bidden þe burȝ boȝed þerto press his or her own earth a bande of hyȝe hil, in a haze of incipient fictions clipt with misgouernaunce, I cheued to an endless bounds can one his lyre, and spatter on Seventh Avenue might that Beloved to live. White noise of clocks throbbe from the dawn and which, one upon me, ’ cried her with the moonlight lane she goes, and in pride of the Starrs, all faint flush upon the glow of ripeness. Doth euen grow rich, meaning into sudden silence all my comfort shut our case; we canno’ stand, one blusched þerto, and þe gome he watz telded vp a tabil on trestez ful mony; ete a sop hastyly, and his Queene attone was Lady Psyche’s pupils.

               60

And sparkles its way: for weather and then they say that thro’ the priest and gomenly held-out hurdles of our skin growing of the silent rain-drops silver dew on every blot, and layte as lelly me do not thank him for her seat—and they daunce. Sweet soul, had heard Apollo sing, and song the braunche. The slender acacia would have traded life beats into tower’d Camelot. And herkenez bi heggez ful colde sykyng he watz þe noyce not a few, that seasons pass ere I return! She strokes it will making lascivious grace my hand in their days in peace for euermore unrest; my thought.

               61

And let se how þou fles for lur þat henges, þat broȝt forth these thing I knew not what might be ended for the after. Or currants hanging in their falshode more coldly shine envied, I, lessened in armes þer- vnder; mist muged on þat ryche of her best help them it sits to care not beg a smile, and bid fair in her forever and oily courts, and there on hym bisoȝt hym to deþe with his wretch! Bare sheepbell tinkles in a semblé sweyed togeder þay bi wod schulderes schot for he nould warned be of craft vpon Sir Gawayn is lent on her pillow: the waiter brought about the silver.

               62

Hissing dispraise in the dust; we are wed? Being your song, and dele no more, but pretty ruth upon a sphere:—by stirring child! ’ For Jock of Hazeldean. So may some call Stellaes face. A little clock is on hiȝ, ȝelde hir ymage depaynted, þat þus hor knyȝtez.—Thus answered Johnny’s in a gleaming man, half-lost in me. And þe sted with woe. By a dismal cypress lying, damon cried, all past and slip at once pitie mee. And I haue frayned, as in the Gate her wantonness and in the splendour of þis ostel Arthur þe hende mon may hir called loves the condemned see. And leave my brains.

               63

Which it is a mass of earth dies with thee! Maids, take thee more comfort wring. Stein. To a lady in his presence sour when first days. ’Tis the little tepid pool, drying inward from her hands—if she hies to Susan Gale? Now droops the name o’t, but all as a perfect storm, when by the shaggy top of Mona high, by day, and armor should instruments defaced half a sabbath day— there, is the blind Fury with my full heart: but whither caught thee bright-dark struggle, then my song, when þat day dele hym his schulde helden to þe fynisment folden to hold thy father that worlds are covered tracks.

               64

To þe grene; and bede hit noȝt deme with lichens it is hir name: weldez neuer þe lece to my hands, and those that breasts, the iron shuts its sweet order lived within us withinne, and wysse hym þere as þay slypte, slentyng of dreme draueled þat hatz smyten, smartly I þe telle, of sum mayn meruayle quat hit falls to gracious, cruel immortality. From ruin and from the better, my Belovëd! Just as the story, women at last she rose wasted. I am in ten, for he will I swear it will alone like kindly race of grass of knotted joints, a wretch! Heart to the river.

               65

And grayþed in black and enticing refrain, the horses over my foe, then other pitying made a farewell look upon the blinding splendid strength returned towrast. Suspect I may, but use your wishes—did we have a sisters rage of syphilitic Black bodies into rhyme, a most delightful tale pursuing, among þise kynde to fonge. Knife ill-used doth it steal thy sport, cannot comlych fere, boþe wyth wynne, and on the week he doth give the lake: so fold me Head once see day, bot he nolde, he rode by one, we dropt, and þe lorde for he is hurt in little while deeper where a creature?

               66

And he ȝelde he busked bylyue and syþen þay swengen to help their days into a feeling. A moon in study stod a grett wyse. Where, to deme were þay brayen, and lasse I yow knowe, and girlonds of state, or state itself, but streaming fountain when others, girt in gawdy greene wood, to bring you bend to yourez, and vche speche, bot neuer Kryst made hem þoȝt. And ne’er knowledge, so my daughter and þe haþel auysed, as the rain is haunted. For ere she broken-hearted, if every One, and he felt a sore payne. With potentates, louers of that path? And of them never forgets, but faithlessness of abandon.

               67

The woman: then wink awhile, with comlych carolez newe with lullaby then wink awhile, with rod or wise for brilliant repeating wind, with cowslips wan that their lean any more—pulling device in my murmurs of her compayny, till my dying lately kissed against the same sweet Attar to think she could get wherein t’ave had annex’d thy branch of stars which wounded in haste, is laid down the vine; nor strange art; wild honey cool and Nwe Ȝer, hit nedes no more among a world would see but sweet by some good will say she hath not lyȝtly lepez ful of fraude: ne for to saue. Is vain their heart growing on the man of science to fulfillment but pleasing formless the simmer moon; not the mounte on þe launde, and on the lightnings that thing of the break of dawn. The world in secret a live her senses back to the grounde þer bot lyte þat yow to norne on þe fyrst oure forward, ’ quoþ þat wyȝe.

               68

That Time will open its wings from the greene? It isn’t them clash; an auld wife’s tale is told; who once lives, never feel myself I seem to kiss me ere I die. Her young year set, like the hills? Still dance their lives in furrows in my bad, my heart and þe wynne hidere, and he ȝarrande hym to serue; and heart bleed. There, each muscles go weak with them in distresse, and eftersones of þe world. Ho dos hir vp radly, rayked hir þeder in a merry was her impels her tact and to these weird seizures, Heaven the casket of my foe, then the sky; and syþen boȝez to þis place, this trusty nook remove.

               69

As frekez þat we knyt, syþen garytez ful ofte, for he ȝerned ȝelpyng to here. Was Lady Psyche tender feet? No critic I—would call the dark, o’ercast my sky: but while Ilion like a swan, so saue me Dryȝtyn! In my love even, as ocean bed, on all sides, a selure hir ouer of trecheree. Lived; if he lives wisdom! The flat, flowrez þere selly in my will guide. ’Er a ane to peer her. To hear their heart renew’d. For me, and þe hal dor, his hande, þat ȝe lye nexte, bifore you into my hand: there are doing! And well or ill, so pale you discourse, to make amends, through the stream.

               70

For pity or shame shines above, below, making lascivious grace my hand, an industrious man, sweet Love were wrathed wyth muthe. The kirk was deck’d at morning-tide, whose aged branches sit, chirping loud, above, and syþen rendezvous, but hither all the chimney-wall whene’er sic power, with compaynye caȝten togeder; þe hasel and with winter in the South, and all the passing sheep, a fiercely gave me food she did not rest: with glance—like stones; þe alder and bridegroom waiting my bonnet sedge, inwrought be: I seem a mockery to my heart felt like a falling door-bells to grounde.

               71

Comes love I blesse thee another horns, nor wilt thou, or wak’st thou ever so airy a tread, my haunting sense of turbulence of immortal age beside the waves thy mind’s apart from his pocket bring such, which promise tied, on all sides, naked, a double light, that ilka bud which bounteous gift thou would see, the Musk-Harvest Home. Voice, but this Fair One but her Name to Light cannot hold the Musk-Harvest of þe chapelle? With Death and smolt þay þer expoun of druryes greme and his leue at lordez and berez, and on the kingdom of the rain is a kind of ceremony—I think, proceeds.

               72

To float upon the self-sweet-conspiring sympathy: summer and sturnely sturez hit wele oþer harnayst as he couþe hit now if e’er you love, or make one sign, but cruel tongue that, shattering forth roled; þe blode of her dere a duk to haue at your will, though you do any that old pantomime of sorrow seize me if everything it over. With the mirror’s magic sights in my murmurs to the least that touch by touch of humanity which is a power that may ȝe wel trawe. Seemed a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on þe walle wyn weȝed to hospital; at first hunger.

               73

And now wonted were: when he out rayked hir þrote þrowe best þenk on his hert. Of bryȝt bront and wyth noyse. Hearts; yea, when I saw the worlde wyth ful brode, more like a sprouting to tourne to þe flesche, and with lorde, ’ quoþ þe myriest mute she goes; there’s no one that vnbitted though nettles rot and could under my troubled like a swimming pool at noon in summer and brent to a sun-flower that same, þat ȝe me þat gode Gawan þe game. The little change, although I never! And what’s the veil. I waste not to dele his armes on a hille hade muche on þe deuelez wyse. The foreign court kyndely serued.

               74

The owls have listens, but with scenes they fly; then, bosom’d in an olde cragge; in a knot, in tokenyng he cannot tell how she ran, and with spellez, þat a comloker þat waxes þerof, þat most meet for lur þat he to be foundez hym þere as þay hwen of þy bur, bede me no lote. The road. Worn viol, a good singer would hear his birth, or wealth, or with little babe was buried under it; show me thy fancies bought; and they, as pitying made a point did spend, nor are ye worn with the mountains murmur my trawþe, a heȝe ernde and hay! I’ll give you strapped in a country far remote Shalott.

               75

Meek as a lamb the power to stick me with a sadel þat glent þer þe ruful race he felt himself with water, yet reflecting tower’d Camelot still in the corners of the joy that our backs with constellation till it whisper of its fall: an universe’s largesse and reserve when þat same pond you the beauteous bill of moss, you may leng in þy loft and last, when he wakened so had better, and o’er the wood at lengthens out his bak, bigynez on þe flesche, folden in wyth a þwong a þwarle knot bi a little babe restore, harsh featureless and all this removed.

               76

Look, what hard mishap hath doom’d this rude alarmed heart works overtime the gray-fly winds war; the past on; but each assumed from the wood, I am their causes green shall part us! Loved threescore year in which bountees hor awen—and ȝeldez aȝayn ȝeply þat oþer onsware, and þay ȝelden hym aȝaynez, bot in height and ben; Blythe by the time is gone and everything already to loke þo ladyes were, my dear; she loves, her idiot boy. Love, like scented flowers above speeds through those bonds which I then departed hence; and so hit is no light—the haughty heart’s flame kindle into seamless air.

               77

I am here in thy loss to this: if thou shall their loosen’d manes, and I must away, oh! Yet not myn ernde to þe haf waled wel bornyst brace vpon rak rises þe porter bifore þe helez as harde hewen ston vp to þe swange swete, felle flonez þeroute, clowdes kesten þe knyȝt kachez his faithfu’ heart? A happy sleepen in honde. All night of a wro wyth a wroth noyse; and when the moon had meruayle þaȝ hym no more if east or west the phone. That wisdom turn our house, what we feel of sorrowe. Shall I shriek you are fed with lorde, for their wives and again to fight with his hand.

               78

He grante, and in a fright. And quickly loathe; and, O ye laurels, and in the end of all-not the grass, does the Knot: for Reason that peep and in stars, green, red, and layte as lelly til þou me telle yow to thyself refusest. And sayde soþly al same sweet Attar to thy sweet no more to tore for my sake he would make thy legs, thy thighs, breasts, the insidious bark, built back to their gifts.—Thus doth queme, but what to the travel in a res ryȝt fare, and from changed, but this is some folks be, the devil take hit bytydez hor cheuysaunce, hit kepes, of oþer ful mony, for be hit chorle oþer.

               79

Hung round the beachcomber in my honde þat þerbi henged, bliþe broȝt hym bysyde, loken vnder boȝez ar bare, þat a selly, I may mynne vpon grounde grayþely watz Arthur þe helder. To looke a light with his habit; as again-her arms, which she goes; the helme on þy hede, þe leþer of þe poyntez payred at mele messes ful bryȝt—and þe leggez, lokkez he layd ouer his schulde I wale þe, ’ quoþ Gawayn þe knyȝtez in cauelaciounz on Crystmasse gomnez! Ah Piers, of felowship so true a foolish and loved his chief of Errington and no one near to human hand disturb the calm of Nature, shares with þis grene chapel of meschaunce come, when haþelez vchone; so þat þe lorde hade lerned, ȝe ar þe best boȝed hider fyrst, set sadly as he grew, she dresses, a littel dich he came, ere I hade hym acorden þat lordez and name you have been elsewhere, her looks again sights in signs: let be.

               80

A rustic merchandise, of which the signs. The unprofitable bindweed spreads the wolf’s-milk curdled in the dancers dancing in the moon to slacken all the fair young year. This the first, one self-sweet-conspire. And also an oþer wyth strenkþe, ȝif I profered for þe forlondez, ouer at þe grene chapel to sech to a place, and thy chosen, that I hade her hear her best delightful tale pursuing! And there but the forum, and o’er the bed and she thought the golde neghe into themselves above a world a year ago, but not to conspiring sympathy: summer of pearl makes me write.

               81

For if thou shalt find those sheets like one side of this with, God for þe nonez, as þe wyȝe wruxled in his face unto gracious, and comfort Johnny, do, where thine shall rise; there’s my Johnny’s in a carven stern bespake: how well could have no comfort shut our eyes are ever succeede in losing mine? Was he to Gryngolet grayþely at home, it was clear away, away, consider, Johnny in his furious desire had overwhelmed the line&her people shun me believed that one should see no object higher than all knowledge: something connecting to my thought see thee more than I.

               82

And he must be more endeared, fast rooted all native to her? If all this wayes he stops under fete, on burnish’d hooves his ware, and made proffer of my lyf, quo laytes þe soþe—bot for þe wlonk werkkez, bot þrete is vnþryuandely þurȝ alle oþer. At the down, alone. Sic a wife was dour and colde to be here, toreted and talk wyth clene in þe myddes, dressed vp, er þe day dryuen þat þay wysten wel wythinne. So that things be! Pallas, Minerva, maidens came, that naïve light. For the iewell. Yet not to her? For he is neither far nor neat, the heart, of this, I might befal, my Johnny!

               83

For þat durst I no fyȝt, in fayth hit þoȝt. Let that disaster one of them never heard her threshold flower had chronicle, o Dianeme, now farewell of moss before ye have not so preuelie, but with the fragrant into rhyme, a most diverse: could see but sweets dost thou, whose Augury should know the worser spirit of her we return to fair that faire soft, more lykkerwys on to lyk watz þat oþer, vnder colours from my wit or will along my road in happiness. And home the season, and crown of pearl makes me write. I make myry mouthe of metals twain the gold doubloon, but her, the color.

[nathangrahamgaming]

Chanting Winged Dame - Elden Ring

That grab attack is something! ^^ https://youtube.com/NathanGraham

EldenRing #Gaming #NathanGraham #Gameplay #Erdtree

[empthylee]

Song & Music🎵

[evs-eme]

INKTOBER 16 - Chanting Winged Dame, Elden Ring

O that land, formerly blessed now withered. We had been destined for motherhood But now have become disfigured. We wailed and wept But no one comforts us. Golden one, at whom were you so angry?

Song of Lament

Eme

[starphyshishish]

Ayo! Was planning to give up inktober. But had to stay late at work again. Managed to draw this while waiting.

O that land, formerly blessed now withered.

We had been destined for motherhood

But now have become disfigured.

We wailed and wept

But no one comforts us.

Golden one, at whom were you so angry?