#clan golden guardian

[pestilentbrood]

will you accept this offering?

[flaneur001]

14 Days with you Royal Au (ongoing series) [Pairings- Enemy Duke! Redacted x GN Reader]

[Word count- 3172] [CW- Angst, Smut, Knife play] [A/N- Previously posted in the 14dwy discord server. Redacted belongs to @14dayswithyou]

[part 1] [part 2]

Part 2: The Evasive Enemy

You sat picturesquely at the ornate oak desk, absentmindedly twirling the quill in your hand as you stared blankly at the parchment resting before you. 

‘Whatever will I write?’ You mused silently as you dipped the tip of the quill in the open ink pot and scribbled the first words that came to your mind after an hour-long of dilly-dallying.

The dimly lit marital chamber was quiet save for the occasional scritch-scratch of your quill. 

Dearest Father, I am in good health. I know you have been worried about my prolonged silence to your lettered inquiries. But I find myself at a loss for words at the way I have been so utterly taken care of here.  We were mistaken to assume that he would fall for such baser fancies. A week has passed by and he has not visited since. Never laid a finger upon me. Always quiet and busy with his own devices. I am at a crossroads. The azure-eyed Duke seems even more mysterious now that I live under the same roof as him. Father, I have been granted permission to peruse his archives, without any surveillance. This seems suspicious, almost like a well-set trap. Though he is yet to show any animosity towards me. But I would be foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth. Keep your worries at bay father. I shall always keep myself and my safety first.  I have received the information about the article through your trusted aide, and I will bide my time until it's safe to infiltrate his study.  Until then, take Care. I will keep you informed.

Sealing the letter and putting it in the drawer, you stretched languidly and gently pushed the chair back. Your long robe billowed behind you as you trudged towards your four-poster bed and plopped upon the welcoming plushness of the pillows. Unbidden your face lolled to the side and your eyes landed upon the golden ring that rested atop the pillow on his side of the bed. The ring that he had left behind for you. It was the only evidence that he had actually been here. In flesh. 

The whole week, you were treated to rich meals, dressed in the finest of silks and jewelry, yet amidst all the niceties something constantly felt amiss. At first, you brushed it off to mere homesickness, but as time passed a cruel understanding dawned upon you. 

On those rare occasions when you caught glimpses of the Handsome Duke walking in the hallways, you felt this forlornness tug at your heart. Even back at your family residence, although you were loved, the brunt of all the responsibilities fell upon your shoulders after your mother’s death. You were always expected to be the guardian and the responsible oldest child for the five of your younger siblings. 

So gentleness and affection were seldom directed towards you. Hence when the Duke showered you with so much tenderness that first night, in his warm embrace you felt like you belonged. Like you had finally found a tether for your wandering soul.  His cold gaze slowly travelling the length of your body like a hidden caress, still lingered fresh in your mind and you felt guilt simmer in the back of your throat.

You were not here for this. Your life was far from normal and he was the reason why your great noble house had perished. Yet you simply couldn’t will yourself to forget the touch of his hands, the graze of his warm lips on the sensitive spot on your neck, or the way he hugged you when you slept. You hated to admit it, but you were downhearted to find yourself alone the morning after. The whole estate was abuzz with the news of the Duke consummating his marriage with the oldest child of the rival clan.

You were not a fool, nor were you naive enough to avoid the snarky gossip that always bubbled under the pretense of politeness in your presence. 

“His Grace has not visited them after the first night…”

“Maybe he was not satisfied?”, the servants chortled as they flitted about your room while cleaning or serving you meals.

You let them babble because your target was something else entirely. The Duke had something in his possession. Something that linked him to the murder of your mother and the conspiracy that destroyed the reputation of your house. Your initial plan was to seduce him and distract him enough that he began trusting you to let his guard down. Yet here you were, trapped in a golden confinement, with every treasure in the world laid at your feet. He even went ahead and granted you access to his archives and his office, without even batting an eye. This gnawed at your mind and slowly chewed you up on the inside. 

‘Does he not care?’ You wondered. 

You were named, ‘The prized possession’ by the people in the estate. Compared and downgraded to the several expensive objects that the Duke won and then instantly got bored with. Lay in some deep recesses of the estate gathering dust and forgotten. They said that you will soon be treated like that. And somehow this line of thought added to your insecurities.

“Or Maybe I’m not as important as I thought myself to be…” you murmured, suddenly regretting not putting in more effort that night. Regretting not begging him to stay. 

A flurry of activity and noises caught your attention breaking this downhill stream of thoughts. Rising fluidly you walked towards the bay window and nudged it open checking for yourself what all the ruckus was about. The young maids giggled and chattered under your window, pointing towards the practice grounds for soldiers. 

“Look, the Duke is out sparring today” The ladies squealed and peeked from behind a bush. Your interest piqued, you walked towards your balcony and leaned on the vine-covered railing to get a proper view. Surely enough, the young duke was in an intense sparring match. He was wearing black leather pants with high boots, his torso left completely exposed for all to see. You gulped unconsciously, eyes traitorously following the way his muscles rippled when he threw, blow after expert blow with his war sledgehammer. His long black hair swished around and beads of sweat rolled down his pale skin making you shiver involuntarily, at the way your degenerate mind imagined him sweaty and panting atop you in bed. 

Before you could make a hasty exit, the Duke’s eyes flitted to the balcony as if sensing your presence and his mouth lifted in a half smirk like he somehow knew what was going through your mind. Blood rushed to your face and you quickly ducked inside.

Evening fell. You were bathed and dressed by the chambermaid Iansa. She was very sweet and you two had bonded over this last week, getting familiar with each other through the little interesting anecdotes she shared about the Duke’s estate. 

As she took your leave, you began your daily routine. Sitting half-dressed in the center of the bed like some common whore waiting for the Duke to visit. Only that he took much pleasure in keeping you on your toes and never visiting.

A beat of silence passed. The oil lamps lining the walls flickered. Until the last shred of your patience cracked and you rose from your bed. Putting on the lush slippers you pushed open the giant double doors and walked outside into the cold and empty hallways of the Duke’s mansion. You marched towards the Duke’s office throwing all caution to the wind. 

“This is enough, I’m done waiting” you mumble as you neared the entrance to the office. Slowly, you entered inside finding it absurd that nobody was guarding the entrance to this room. You smirked to yourself, reveling at the idea of seeing the surprised expression on the Duke’s face once he realized how you, whom he thought so insignificant, was the one responsible for putting him in his rightful place. The tyrant deserved nothing but to rot in a prison. Strangely enough, the thought of getting revenge helped keep this gnawing urge to kiss the smirk off of his smug face at bay.

“Serves him well for treating me like a plaything” you mutter under your breath as you eagerly work through the rows and rows of documents filed neatly for your tampering. A chilly air from the open window, nipped at your exposed skin, the scant lace outfit not providing much to shield you from the cold temperatures. You suppressed a shiver as you grabbed a few files and took them to the window to get a better look at, under the moonlight pouring in through the glass window.

As you skimmed through the documents, a warm hand snaked around your waist, spinning you. Surprised, you were about to let a scream fall from your lips when another hand pressed tightly on your mouth, muffling it effectively. 

“Shhh Angel, we don’t want to alert the guards now, do we?” A husky voice asked. Moving from the shadows, the moonlight bathing his figure, Duke Ren smiled down triumphantly at you, like a predator who had just caught his prey.

Slowly, he released his grip on your mouth only to rest both his hands behind you on the desk effortlessly trapping you between his arms. His face inched closer as his ice-blue eyes burned into yours, “So you finally grew weary of waiting, I assume” he purred. His deep baritone made you think of unspeakable things.

You clenched your teeth, staring back at him defiantly, “Why ask me to wait if you were never going to visit” you hissed, mulish and miffed.

His eyes widened by a fraction, warm chuckle spilling through his cherry-tinted lips, bringing your attention to them. 

“Why, Angel such…temper” he tsked, “One would think you missed me.” His hand shot out, trailing a slender finger on your temple, down your cheek, only to come to rest at your chin. His calloused hand cupped your jaw, bringing his thumb to your mouth to trace the shape of your lips. 

Your breath hitched in your throat, as he rubbed the pad of his thumb across the seam of your lips, pushing and prodding until it entered your mouth. His thumb moved around, exploring the warm wetness, as his face came impossibly closer to yours, “Let me in, Angel” he breathed.

And you don’t know if it was the curiosity or the way his eyes held your gaze so enticingly, that made you want to obey everything that fell from those lips. Closing your eyes you opened your mouth wider, wide enough for him to push three fingers in, pumping them in and out as your greedy tongue lapped against them. Unbidden a moan escaped you, and his other hand grabbed your hip, fingers digging into your flesh as he roughly pulled you closer to his body, thrusting your cores together.

“Look at me love” he whispered in your ear, nipping the shell playfully before his mouth descended to your neck, to leave open-mouthed kisses.

You groaned and opened your eyes, breath already coming out in shallow pants.

“For someone who claims to hate me, you sure love me touching you. You like to think of such debauched fancies don't you?” he snickered with roguish pride, “Driving you wild. Taking you to the depraved depths and back…defiling you” he spoke hotly in your ear, his erection tenting temptingly in his leather pants.

“Please” you begged, not knowing if you wanted him to release or ravish you. 

“Please what Angel?” He challenged smirking cruelly as he, all too soon, removed himself from you, and folded his arms across his chest, regarding you with thinly veiled amusement.

A wild blush rose to your cheeks. He waited in silence as if he expected you to actually utter the vulgar words. Your chest still heaved, body warmed up with his skillful ministrations. And suddenly your mind painted an image of him in bed with other people. Jealousy like never before threatened to take over you. 

‘How is he so skilled? Has he been going to others every night?’ You mused darkly.

“Let me go” you whimpered, angry tears pricked your eyes half from humiliation and half from longing. Pulling the lace robe tighter to cover your modesty you whispered, “I do not belong here” carefully avoiding his eyes.

“Hm, I see” he began, as he leaned down, slowly sliding a dagger out from his leather boot. He balanced the blade on his fingers as he almost toyed with the weapon.

“You are right about one thing, Angel”, he drawled, as he stepped into the moonlight giving you a good view of the dagger in his grasp. Its silver blade glinted sinisterly in the dark, bejeweled hilt looking magnificent, fit for a person of his stature.

His blue eyes flit to yours silently daring you to break eye contact, “you don’t belong in this room” he murmured, pointedly staring at the scattered documents around you. 

“Bu-but you gave me access to your archives without surveillance” you sputtered, licking your lips as you felt cornered by his unrelenting gaze. A quiet dread filled your guts.

He tilted his head, regarding you with an inscrutable expression, and you took him in for the first time this evening. He was wearing all black like always. A silk shirt with the laces half done that exposed his broad chest. Tight high-waisted bottoms that accentuated his shapely midsection. His long black hair was loosely tied in a plait, making him look like a vision. 

But something about the way his sapphire eyes glimmering with that melancholic look, made him appear vulnerable in this moment.

A beat of silence passed, and he waited, the air simmering with the heavy tension between you both, as he looked at you with hopeful anticipation. For what, you didn’t know.

Slowly, tentatively he walked, closing the distance between you both again.

“Angel” he breathed. And somehow that one single word broke you. For it was spoken with such disappointment and fragility you never expected from this tyrannical Duke.

“I gave you access to my archives because I trusted you.” He ground, “I went against my advisers, against the whole estate, vouching for you, marrying you. Why do you think there was no guard stationed outside this room?” With each uttered word he stepped closer until you both were hairsbreadth apart.

“So tell me, was it all for naught?” He stressed, and the accusation stung like he had slapped you.

But you couldn’t lie to him. Not when you have been so perpetually lying to yourself. 

“This was a marriage of convenience between our households and nothing more, your grace” you replied curtly, ignoring the way his grip tightened around the dagger or the way his gaze darkened at your blatant aloofness. But you pressed on, delivering the final blow you knew would break him.

“You were and will continue to be nothing to me”

A snarl escaped his lips, and he was on you in an instant. You could feel the cold metal of the dagger pressing against your neck as he hissed, “Go. Take it all away. Whatever you were here searching for, take it. But do not lie to me Angel” his voice cracked, gaze softened, eyes searching your face desperately. 

“Not when the longing in your eyes so plainly mirrors the longing in my heart”  

Maybe it was the way the dagger pressed into your throat, a slice away from stealing your life, or maybe it was the way your face reflected in his ocean-blues, as if you were the only thing his eyes saw, that you yanked him close, pulling his mouth to yours in a needy kiss.

A low groan escaped him, sending a shiver down your spine. His hot tongue slipped into your mouth roughly entangling with yours in a sensual dance. 

You arched into him. The metal of the dagger sandwiched between your throats,  pricking your skins, was an ironic symbol of the enmity and the dark lust that often surrounded you both.

Every caution, every coherence fled your mind when his other hand raked through your hair, angling you into a deeper kiss. As the scant distance between you diminished, the blade broke your skin, sending you into a frenzy of pain and pleasure.

The heady aroma of mint and cherries invaded all your senses, mingled with the scent that was uniquely his. You were drunk off of him, intoxicated and utterly lost in depravity.

But when his teeth clamped down on your bottom lip, a whine reverberated deep in your chest and your hips involuntarily bucked forward, rubbing into his engorged arousal. He groaned and your eyes snapped open at the loss when he stepped back and moved the dagger away from your throat. 

Your mouth involuntarily chased his, earning a soft chuckle from the man.

Catching you by surprise, he suddenly dropped to his knees. He grabbed your wrist, placing the dagger in your open palm, as he stared up at you. 

“I am at your mercy now, beloved” he whispered, hands coming to rest at your thighs as he blinked at you, azure eyes glinting like precious gems in the dark.

“So slice my throat and reduce me to nothingness. But do it while you hold my gaze. For that’s the sight I want to remember when I die” he spoke with a rueful smile upon his face and a fierce anger bubbled inside you at the sight.

You were angry at the way he toyed with your emotions, angry at the way you were lusting after a man who was responsible for your family’s destruction. Angry…at the way you were falling for him.

‘Why did you have to meet me like this?’ was the last thought that flashed in your mind as you flung the dagger across the room vehemently, shattering the ornate mirror adorning the wall. 

You gave him one last searing look before marching to the door, not wanting him to see the lone tear that had rolled down your cheek.

The moment your hand reached for the handle, his slender fingers wrapped around your wrist spinning you around, as he pulled you flush to his chest. 

A hand cupped your cheek as he leaned in kissing the tears that fell traitorously from your eyes. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He simply rocked you in his embrace peppering kisses on every inch of your face. 

Then his head ducked down, languidly licking the little wound left behind by his dagger. His own neck held the same marks as yours.Just when you thought he was done, he tilted your chin making you face him fully as he whispered against your mouth, “Poor choice to keep me alive. Now I shall remind you every passing second of the day, that you are mine” he purred, “Mine to love and mine to ruin”

[iguanodont]

How do birgs stylize their artwork to make the subjects seems ‘divine’ or ‘angelic?’ Like how in earthen cultures, wings, halos, golden glows, and sometimes other animal features and extra limbs are added to make something seem ‘godly.’ What’s the birg equivalent to that?

Depends on the culture. The central Twowi religion believes all gods and spirits originate from an “inverted world” that hangs above the material world, and represents this by drawing divine entities with upside down faces. Perfectly round faces also invoke the forms of celestial bodies, considered the heads or eyes of these beings peering through the vaulted ceiling of the sky. Many satellites of the Twowi also use the upside-down head motif, but it is usually only a seasonal aspect of gods that change form and role with the shifting seasons.

Lower right depicts a “moon consort” priest, which I hope to expand on in its own post eventually. Their garb resembles the body of a black avian, and they serve as astrologers and guardians of hibernating clans.

The “centaur” god is a common and versatile figure in Kakroum belief systems, embodying strength, protection, and virility.

[noirandchocolate]

It's the winner of my poll, so I hope you'll enjoy a nice big post about...

Yiga Clan Mask Culture and Traditions Headcanons!

History

The Clan adopted the practice of wearing masks fairly early on after their founding 10,000 years ago. Veils were already worn by powerful Sheikah monks as a symbol of martial prowess (being able to fight with hampered or absent sight), wisdom (being able to "see" what others could not, despite or because of a self-imposed "blindness"), and asceticism (being humble and near-anonymous). Those among the ancient Sheikah who worked as assassins, spies, guardians, and interrogators for the Crown also tended to wear masks covering at least part of the face. So, when the Sheikah who decided to defy the ancient King's genocide banded together to form the Yiga Clan, taking to wearing masks and veils to obscure their identities was a natural choice. The early Clan's face-coverings were among the first items they painted with the Inverted Eye that became the symbol of the group's defiance of their prior role as Hylia's chosen protectors and servants of the royal family.

The original Master Kohga, who had been the Chief of the Sheikah settlements around Satori Mountain, never actually wore a mask! (The practice of doing so had not fully standardized yet.) Instead, he took up wearing a veil to honor his grandfather, Monk Mogg Latan, and as a sign to those who would ask him and his people to shed their heritage, that he would not back down.

However, the First Master did provide the origin to one aspect of his successors' masks: While Sheikah who were considered masters in their chosen fields (including monks) traditionally wore a hairstyle featuring five long ornamental sticks, the First Master chose to wear six, as a symbol of a) his people's split from the Royal Family (cut an arrayed set of five sticks straight in half and you end up with six sticks--the formerly central one broken down the middle), and b) their continued claim to the power associated with the number three (note that the Sheikah monks found in Shrines (and Maz Koshia) all wear/display six golden bracelets). As you know, the current Master mask now features three horns on each side!

As time went on, in addition to providing protection and anonymity to Clan members particularly when traveling outside their main "hideout" base in Karusa Valley, the masks also became a unifying aspect of membership and family within the group. In other words, the masks are not only meant to hide one's face from outsiders, but to signal to insiders the bond between them. All within the Clan may don the mask, all may wear the same "face." All carry the symbol of the Inverted Eye. All are working together, all are playing their part. The Clan as a whole is quite a collectivist culture; the masks are one very obvious aspect of that.

The current mask designs have been in place for several millennia now, but it did take some time for the style to "settle" into this level of tradition and immutability. The Yiga have quite ancient scrolls and artworks depicting their ancestors wearing different styles of masks, including curved rectangular ones mimicking the shape of ancient monks' veils, and more complicated and demonic or deity-looking masks for Masters. During one period a few centuries into the Clan's existence, another Hylian monarch (this time, a Queen) sent troops across the kingdom to search for any remaining Sheikah (remember, Kakariko Village was "hidden" to most) to eradicate them. The Yiga began to appear "out of nowhere" to wreak havoc and sow discord among scouts and military camps, wearing masks painted with the inverted eye and large, red, smiling mouths. Quite unsettling!

How They're Made and How They Work

Masks are crafted of wood and, in the case only of the Master, an overlay of molduga bone. All those taking up the job of craft-work among the Yiga learn to make masks, but there have always been a few specially trained masters of the art who create masks and associated ornaments for the Master, Right Hand, presumptive Heir, and any spouse (Mistress or Consort) of the Master. These in particular are expected to be perfect, both in their specially-measured fit to the wearer's face and in their symmetry of shape and inlaid, painted design. And so, training to make them goes beyond the ordinary mask-maker's education, involving a great deal of practice but also meditation. A keen eye for detail and steady hands are paramount. These crafting masters are highly regarded, and often take on new names related in some way to their teachers', when they achieve their new position.

Yes, the masks are solid wood. Yiga are able to see "through" them using magic. The vast majority of current Clan members share a heritage that allows them to use magic (a subject for another post!) at least to some degree, and this Sight skill is one of the very first things Yiga are taught--whether as young children or as new additions if they join as teens or adults. As with many Yiga abilities (again, to be discussed in the future!), Sight has an accompanying rune/talisman that will keep it going perpetually. This is etched into an "active" mask when it is given to its owner. So, the owner puts on the mask, instantly starts the...for lack of a better word "spell," and then the rune keeps the ability "flowing" for as long as the user wishes.

Those vanishingly few Clan members who are completely devoid of magical ability must ask someone else to activate the rune for them. Unfortunately, their Sight through their masks is impaired by the fact that none of their own energy is being used to power the rune as it "flows." Such members do not take on/are not assigned to roles that will take them outside the Karusa Complex, as masks are absolutely required for such positions. Instead, they stay home, usually wear veils instead, and work within the Clan in other vital ways.

Current Designs

All Yiga masks save those for the Master and Right Hand share the same basic curved oval shape that contours around to cover the sides of the face, again for anonymity and conformity. Really the only difference about those two, too, is the addition of horns. All masks are marked with the Inverted Eye.

One other slightly different mask is that worn by the Heir, which is additionally marked by a curved slash of red down the sides of the face (most prominently visible in profile). This marks the Heir as one who is working to grow into leadership and one day wear a horned mask.

The horns on the Master and Right Hand's masks have that curved shape because they are meant to not only be horns, but flames. As in, flames of righteous fury against those who betrayed the Clan's ancestors, and the purifying flames of destruction they've hoped would purge the Kingdom of its ruling class! The red inlay of them of course matches the red of the Eyes, but also symbolizes the burning core of the Clan's intended vengeance.

The Master has three horns per side, and the Right Hand has one, so perhaps you've wondered: is there a two-horned mask? Why yes! I headcanon that there is! It is reserved for a Right Hand who is also the Heir. Which is not a very rare occurrence, since a Master would likely hope to rely on their Heir as their second-in-command, once they're of age and they've proven themself to be reliable, skilled, and powerful enough. (Great training to be Master themself one day!) Our current Best Guy Kohga remembers this mask as the one his father wore during his early childhood before his Nana died and Dad became Master. Kohga himself was also eventually given the two-horned mask when he became his father's Right Hand.

He was very proud to wear it.

He did not get to wear it for long.

The metal side ornaments on Yiga masks are meant to resemble fangs, and are meant to add an edge of ferociousness to the Clan's appearance. Even members who are not actively working in more martial positions wear them--a style similar to Footsoldiers', but with the subtle difference that the center ridge of their three-ridged design is red, instead of the top one.

Footsoldiers' ornaments are straighter and dagger-like, evoking their prowess with smaller, more concealed weapons and bows. The top ridge colored red indicates that they are in a martial position and their work--and if necessary, their bloodshed--protects the more "civilian" population of the Karusa Complex.

Blademasters' ornaments are curved and sharper, a show of their ferocity with larger, well, blades. Although usually hidden by their hoods when in they're in full uniform, their ornaments do still feature the three ridges with the top one in red.

The Right Hand's ornaments share the basic shape of the Blademasters', but are segmented more smoothly down their whole length, with the final, sharp segment at the tip in red. These show that the Right Hand is at the top of the martial hierarchy of the Clan, at the forefront of the Clan's protection and ready to stain their weapons ("fangs") with the blood of their enemies.

Finally, Master Kohga's ornaments' more hooked shape are similarly meant to represent curved fangs, but the more rounded, shiny red end-pieces are meant to evoke skill not only with weapons but with the special arcane techniques only a Master is trained in. The larger, round, red center of their five-ridged design shows that Master Kohga is the central figure for the Clan--not just the Chief or "top banana," but someone who lives among their people and keeps them together. Powerful, deadly, but also a unifying force.

Traditions Surrounding Masks

As suggested above, Yiga children start wearing veils and practicing using the Sight technique pretty young, so they're prepared for donning their masks when the time comes. Kids officially get their first masks at the very start of the year during which they'll turn eleven. Depending on the Clan's birth rate for a particular year there might be only a few getting masks or there might be a big group. Getting one's mask involves...

A trip to Satori Mountain with Master Kohga! The Mountain being a very important place for the Clan, it has been chosen for the children's (usually) first time leaving the relative safety of Karusa Valley. The Master takes them to the sacred spring among the sakura trees near the top, where they remove their veils and put on their first masks. This ceremonial part of the trip is fairly short, and involves a pledge to stay safe beneath the mask and to work to the best of one's ability for the Clan. Then, the kids get to have some fun exploring, doing some fun little tasks set by the Master--things like "pick four different kinds of mushroom" or "find the tree marked with the Eye." This is meant to give the children not only a chance to practice using Sight out in the open, but the opportunity to get to know the Mountain...and...well, to run around being kids rolling in grass and climbing trees, out in the world under the sky, using the basic tracking and stealth skills they've been learning through their childhoods. (This is truly another of the current Kohga's favorite days of the year. Man loves the kiddos.)

Once you've received your mask, you're also considered old enough to start doing more involved chores around the Complex and figuring out what jobs and roles you might want to start really training for. So it's a Coming of Age kind of event! Children's mask ornaments are again the same as footsoldiers' and civilians', but they have the lowest ridge painted red. Under the protection of everyone else. They'll have these until they turn sixteen--another milestone.

Clan members are expected to keep their faces covered or disguised even at home, once they have been given their first masks. I've said it before but it belongs in a post on this topic: one's true face is, after that age, reserved for one's very immediate family. Parents, grandparents, siblings, spouse, and kids/grandkids. So, when a child goes up Satori Mountain at the start of their special year, the moment between when they take off their veil and when they put on their mask may be the last time they see the real faces of their friends with whom they share an age. Honestly, it's quite poignant, a sort of shedding of one's childhood self and taking on of a new identity among the Clan.

After death, a person's final mask is kept for their family's area down in the Clan's ancestor shrine halls. Masks are cared for by family members as part of specific festivals and are brought out for various events like weddings and funerary rites within the family. Since so much of a person's energy flows through their mask over the time they wear it, it's believed to still carry a part of their essence. So it's felt that ancestors are especially "present" and watching over you, when you visit your family shrine, or when their masks are made a part of your special days.

Yiga masks are quite tough, and broken and outgrown ones are burned at home. Those who are assigned to jobs and missions outside the Valley must be adept at the disguise technique, but if one's mask is broken to the point it can no longer be worn and it is at all possible to break away from one's task, one is supposed to return home to retrieve a new one right away.

((Sooga's insistence on wearing his cracked mask is considered quite unusual and odd. It's honestly only permitted because he is the Right Hand and thus his horns and uniforms already make him stand out. He did have it reinforced and repainted after the incident. I gave his stated reasoning for keeping it in a prior post, but...it's also because he was initially ashamed at having broken the work of a master craftsman so shortly after he received it. To this day, years later, if pressed he will say that his mask is serviceable so there is no need to trouble anyone. Of course, now more than ever anyone would love to make him a new one, but...that's Sooga for you. T-T))

Married couples traditionally remove each other's masks on their wedding night, before shedding any remaining disguise. This is a profoundly intimate show of love and trust. Even within a marriage, consent must be given before taking off one's spouse's mask.

Once you turn sixteen, in fact, no one is allowed to remove your mask without your express permission. Even when you're disguised under there. That includes parents and romantic partners. It's considered incredibly rude and childish especially after that age, to grab at someone else's mask to try to remove it.

That said, poking at or rapping on someone's mask is just silly behavior between friends, and caressing a masked cheek is loving. Also, touching masked foreheads together is a gesture of closeness between family, friends, and partners. Especially with a romantic partner, it's like a masked kiss. Yes. It's true. Yiga bonk foreheads like kittycats. (/silly, not really)

Because Yiga tend to spend a lot of time with their faces--even their fake faces--covered up, as a culture they tend to be quite expressive with their bodies and vocal inflections. They don't have facial expressions to rely on for communication purposes all the time, so head-tilts and hand gestures and other body language are adopted from an early age to get one's point across. Of course this doesn't mean they don't know what facial expressions are and mean (don't be ridiculous)--they know those things too, for when they're using an unmasked disguise and for dealing with other races. Just...they tend to talk with their hands a lot and can tell another Yiga's intent or emotion by how far they're tilting their head or how they're leaning their body. In fact, not gesturing as much or using subtler postures is just as much considered "reserved" or "quiet" among the Yiga as simply keeping one's volume down. There's nuance in these things, that outsiders might not realize.

Yiga doing espionage have to sort of mitigate these instincts/learned behaviors; they can sometimes come off weird or unsettling, otherwise! Think of those travelers you may have seen on the roads...how they wave and call to you a little too enthusiastically, and smile just a bit too wide... But surely they're just friendly! You should go over to them and talk. If you're lucky, they might even sell you some bananas, at very fair prices!

And the last thing you see, will be the blood red of the Inverted Eye.

And there you have it! A whole bunch of headcanons about Masks! Hope you had a good time reading!

[mirrormazeworld]

Twst Analysis and Findings Why Crowley isn't Malleus's Dad, Unpopular Chapter 5 Diasomnia Twst Theory

While 99.9% of people seem to be convinced that Crowley is Levan, I'm that 0.01% who is still not convinced yet because there are some things that I found really odd if Crowley is Malleus's dad. So odd that this post itself has become a long post.

If you search for something and want to read where Crowley isn't Levan/Malleus's dad, then this theory and analysis is for you because here I'll explain some points for your considerations before jumping to conclusions, though I'm not sure if anyone will care about what I write and hear this small opinion at this point.

1. Heavily implied "another dragon from another country"

In Diasomnia chapter 4, it's said from Lilia's dialogue that "Draconia clan are the descendants of the dragons". All this time we might think that "Draconia are the only dragon in Twisted Wonderland" but in chapter 5 it's revealed that Draconia aren't the only dragon in Twisted Wonderland because there are other dragon clans from faraway country.

Malleus's dad, Levan's title is 竜眼公 in Japanese and it can be translated literally as "Dragon Eye Lord" or "Longan Lord". (More about his title, you can see it in my previous post)

If we see it the way like how longan fruit is named, (龍眼) either 龍眼 or 竜眼 still have the same meaning, but the only difference is 龍眼 is from Cantonese while 竜眼 is from Japanese.

But the main points in common are : They are both "Dragon Eye" and "Eastern Countries"

Which means there's a high possibility that Levan is a dragon from the longan clan/eastern dragon clan.

What's more interesting is that Lilia seems to be very fond of this "Long/Eastern Dragon" that he wants to spend the rest of his life there in their homeland. Out of all the countries he can and had ever visited, why did he choose "Red Dragon Country" in particular?

In first Halloween event Diasomnia also went with the theme of Long and it's revealed that it was Malleus's idea himself with Lilia providing more information about the Eastern Dragon Country culture and the Longs. And then there's that one dialogue said by Lilia himself in the Halloween Event :

"In fact, one such Long became a family's guardian spirit"

It is somehow similar to Levan who has been like a guardian to Meleanor and his draconia family, as her husband, her Left General alongside Lilia (Right General), and her most trusted person (Meleanor's Eyes and Limbs)

If it's not a subtle information but also kind of important that it's heavily implied many times just like Malleus who froze the time in Endless Halloween then I don't know what it is.....

2. Discarded Character Concept (?)

In twst exhibition there's an initial concept art of Crowley where he seems to have a similar theme and is somehow grouped with Diasomnia. It's because he had the same color as that of Diasomnia, even you can see the thorns on his leg and arm which as we know, is the symbol of Diasomnia/related to Draconia family (Sleeping Beauty Squad)

However, if we compare Crowley's old design and his original, usual one, in the design of the Crowley that we know now, twst seems to actually change every Diasomnia/Sleeping Beauty concept out of him and replace it all, from "thorns" to "mirrors" and "golden keys", and leave only the "corvid" part of him.

The question is, Why did Yana and twst team go into such trouble to change him all the way?

In Diasomnia Chapter 4 it's revealed that "Briar Kingdom has two castles : Black Scale Castle (Briar Valley's Main/Capital Castle) and Wild Rose Castle (Meleanor's Castle)

Diasomnia chapter is heavily tied with Wild Rose Castle rather than Black Scale Castle and places the main casts of Diasomnia chapter in Wild Rose Castle rather than Black Scale Castle and wrote Meleanor as Princess rather than a Queen. I know Diasomnia chapter was written with Sleeping Beauty as its story frame, and Meleanor is supposed to take the role of Maleficent in that story, but the question is why they created two castles and used Wild Rose Castle as the main background of the story rather than just create and use one castle, and give the title "Princess" to Meleanor and not a "Queen" since Maleficia, Malleus's grandma is the Queen? In the original and older version of sleeping beauty by Brothers Grimm, "Maleficent" is depicted as a Queen who is jealous of Talia (Sleeping Beauty) and not a Princess. It's as if they want to separate what is "exclusively Diasomnia chapter" from Briar Valley/Briar Kingdom itself.

This is honestly only my personal opinion, but based on these facts, the only logical, possible explanation I can think of is because they want to give this Diablo/Diaval's role to this Lord Longan so that Crowley can play a more bigger role rather than just a diplomat/messenger, and thus, discarded the old Crowley concept and made it invalid.

Thinking the old design as the valid source of information means that you want to tell people that "Epel with skirt and Idia as the little brother are canon" but are they now? Do twst used that concept in the end? Does Epel wear skirt in game and Idia is Ortho's little brother? Of course not, and you already saw it yourself that Yana already discarded that idea completely.

3. A seemingly Disastrous Chronology if Levan is Crowley

With the given information from in game, I want you to think with logic here :

Lilia is 700 years old. NRC gave him a letter of acceptance 500 years ago, but then he ripped it, and then Levan taped it back and stored it in royal archives. Silver said they are in Lilia's dream from 400 years ago and as we know this is when the war between faes and Silver Owl occurred, and at that time it's said that Levan was missing.

Now what I find odd is : if Levan is Crowley, then who sent the NRC acceptance letter to Lilia? We all know the Headmaster is in charge of student admission just like how he permitted Yuu and Grim to become NRC students, sending letters to people acknowledged by dark mirror, persuading Kalim's family, letting Ortho enroll even though he is an android and so on. And if Crowley is Levan, he wouldn't be able to do his job as Headmaster in Land of Dawning because he would need to be present in Briar Valley by Lilia's side to tape back the letter Lilia had torn to shreds.

Keep in mind that there are no official exact years and number from twst itself how long Crowley had been headmaster of NRC yet but from Diasomnia chapter it's clear that NRC already existed back then far before the war between humans and fae.

This one is just my personal opinion, but I'm more convinced that Crowley was the one who cast complex, ancient spell on Grim and therefore, know something about the extremely rare overblot incident that seems to always happen in NRC (and so we heard his voice summoning Yuu and said "we are all running out of time" in the prologue") and so he is tied more heavily to book 8 (Ramshackle/NRC) after Diasomnia if it does exist in the future than book Diasomnia.

Both The Watcher from Island of Woe (Idia's family) and the primeval spell that casted on Grim which seems to be similar to Shroud family's curse were from when the nature of overblot was not known yet and was considered as natural disaster, dated back to the "Age of Gods" which is approximately 1000 years ago.

But then you might think "Oh maybe Crowley had lived that long and pretended to be Levan to play his role." This is impossible because Lilia, Meleanor and Levan are childhood friends and well, Lilia said it himself that they were still children, besides Lilia is 700 years old and not 1000 years old.

Therefore I don't think Crowley is Malleus's Dad, Levan. But if someone said "Crowley was Maleficia's (Malleus's grandma) subordinate, then I can believe them because that way it will be possible for him to exist since the Age of Gods.

And perhaps this is also the reason why Yana and twst teams purposely wrote Diasomnia story with two castles and used Wild Rose Castle as the main background scene in the story rather than just created and used one castle, because they do wanted to separate it and created a place exclusively to tell Diasomnia story so it wont disturb the other plot of the other story and create a plot hole as a whole.

And so that's all the many reasons why I don't think Crowley is Malleus's Dad. Unless someone can answer the questions that had been swirling around my head because of how absurd Crowley is Malleus's Dad theory is which I had been marked with red color in this post and explained it logically or the official told it themselves then I won't be convinced.

[rackartyg]

“Flowers? For the Dread Wolf?” Dorian said. “I’d imagine he'd demand blood. A good marrow bone, perhaps?”

Sulahnmi scoffed, but was gentle as she laid the flowers between the front paws of the statue. “According to shemlen tales, the Dalish make a human sacrifice to wake up in the morning and two to go to sleep at night.”

She got to her feet, took a step back, and bowed. Her voice turned wistful. “My clan also makes offerings of jerky, but I don’t have any to hand. We say the tough meat and fragrant spices keep his mouth busy and nose full, so he won’t come after us. But….

The same kind of spiced jerky is brought along by the hunters on long trips away from camp. They often leave some for the Dread Wolf’s statue as the last thing they do before they set off. Is that simply convenience, since we put up his statue at the very edge of camp, or is there something more to it? Sometimes I wonder. We place him there to not have him among us, but also because he keeps away evil spirits, we say.”

She looked up at the underside of Fen'Harel's stone muzzle, staring out over the valley. In tapestries, newer pieces, he was mangy and skinny, cackling or snarling, so twisted he hardly resembled a wolf at all—in stone, older pieces, he was fluffy and well-conditioned, like a hound that curled up each night in his master's lap to be brushed and plied with treats.

“The Emerald Knights fought alongside a wolf companion,” she mused. An impulse to lay a hand on Fen'Harel's shoulder flitted past, but she didn't dare. “And have you noticed how his statues here often flank doorways and such? Like a guardian, almost.”

Still looking up at him, tracing the soft curve of his cheek that someone once had shaped with such care, she said, “Wolves don’t want to be alone. Their packs are their families. In nature, a lone wolf is only on his own because he’s searching for a mate, a new family. Either he finds one, or he succumbs.”

The expression on the statue's face—the long stare out into nothing, over the ruins the shemlen had made of Dirthavaren—struck her as sad, suddenly. She stepped forward and ran a hand down the side of his neck. The stone had been sanded smooth, once, but was rough from lichen, wind, and rain now. Pulse quickening, she pressed her palm flat against his chest, imagining the beat of a mighty heart there.

She took a breath and shook her head, turning away from the statue. She didn't look either of her hangers-on in the face, though. “Ir abelas. The last time I was in the Dales, it was with my clan, as a young child. I only saw the wonder. As an adult, it’s… making me melancholy.”

“A forgivable offence,” Solas offered quietly.

She glanced at him; he had both hands wrapped around his staff, leaning on it a little, and a carefully blank expression on his face. But he refused to be grateful for his lack of argumentation—she had not made him witness this. She picked up her staff from the ground and began to walk back to camp.

“You realise the flowers will simply wilt, and jerky be carried off by actual wolves?” Dorian said dryly, following after.

As she picked her way down the hill, she considered telling him that most sacrifices were like feasts: prayers would be spoken over the cooking by the Keeper, the meal dedicated to the gods, but eaten by the clan. The Creators were locked away, after all—the point was the sentiment. The Dread Wolf was free to come collect his offerings for himself if he wanted, but if his sacred animals got to it first, what was the difference?

But she didn't have it in her to defend herself right now. All she'd wanted was to take one measly little moment to herself, one measly little ritual, without unsympathetic voyeurs. It was too much to ask for, it seemed.

“What a poor god yours is,” she said, “and how miserly his worshippers, to give him only words.”

“We do build some excellent cathedrals for him,” Dorian said wistfully. “You should see the Argent Spire in Minrathous. More gilt than the Golden City in its prime, I'd bet.”

“How ironic, for a building called the Argent Spire,” Solas opined mildly.

“The outside is silver. The heart of it is gold, which, yes, you're absolutely right, over the centuries has been used in far too much, intolerably sycophantic poetry about the Divine.”

“Most of that silver,” Solas said, still mild, “was originally stripped from elven temples after the conquest of Arlathan.”

“Oh,” said Dorian.

Sulahnmi sighed.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 65

Clammask gives birth to three healthy mollies not long after Halibutdusk gets greencough. Worried, Clammask decides to name them early.

[Image ID: With Halibutdusk in the background sporting + CONDITION: GREENCOUGH under them, Clammask faces three newborn kits; one red tabby, one white tabby, one black tabby. Under the red tabby, it says NEW PLAYER: POTTERYKIT, 0, FEMALE, SELF-CONSCIOUS. The white kit says NEW PLAYER: MOONKIT, 0, FEMALE, QUIET. Lastly, the black kit says NEW PLAYER: VERVAINKIT, 0, FEMALE, FEARLESS. Under Clammask, it says - CONDITION: PREGNANT, + CONDITION: RECOVERING FROM BIRTH.]

Somehow, giving birth to three kits was more exhausting than five. Perhaps it was all the stress of recent moons; Scrubmask’s death, three of Clammask’s four kits coming down with food poisoning, casually seeing Halibutdusk only to become pregnant… that was a lot for one molly to handle! Add in the fact that the moon did not shine over the Clans on the first day of autumn’s third moon when Clammask felt a familiar pain in her gut, and Halibutdusk was stuck in the quarantine den with a loud case of greencough, how could she not be stressed?

This kitting was shorter, thank StarClan. It was still nightfall when Clammask cleaned off her last little kit and helped her snuggle up to her belly. Oilstripe, Tallowkit, and Slushkit had vacated the nursery for a while to give Clammask room to kit, but Lemmy, her belly fat against her thin frame, still slept inside, dreams undisturbed by the new life born to the Clan. The only other cat in the nursery was Troutpool (Clammask simply couldn’t ask her own son to help deliver her kits, it felt so strange!). 

The head cleric carefully examined the three mollies at Clammask’s side while the golden molly caught her breath. The first was red with markings that reminded Clammask of her father. The second-born kit was white, with pale gray rosettes along her back. Although she was still slick from birth, Clammask could tell she would be long-furred in the future. The youngest looked so much like Drumtooth that Clammask was taken aback for a moment.

“They all look very healthy,” Troutpool said, stepping back. She placed her dirty bowl (once full of strengthening medicine for the kitting) and the broken stick Clammask bit into a basket at the den’s edge. “I don’t notice any deformed limbs or other issues. I… I won’t try to predict their future this time.” Clammask licked each kit’s head. None of them looked like her lost golden daughter. Perhaps that was for the best. “Do you still want me to perform that ceremony we discussed?”

“It would make me feel better,” Clammask sighed. Troutpool nodded and stuck her face into her basket. She took out a tiny jar; the gouges carved in for teeth holds left little room on the inside. She peeled off the thin leather lid trapping the contents. The jar was full of dirt. Troutpool sprinkled a bit of dirt over each kitten’s back. Each was too caught up in the shock of being alive, mewing and nursing, to really care.

“Dustfur, Celestial of the Newborn,” Troutpool prayed, setting the jar at Clammask’s head, “you taught the Clans not to mourn the stillborn and those taken before they even got a chance to see the faces of their kin. You were the one who revealed to us how StarClan accompanies litters on their way to the Clans and return to Silverpelt when their time is done. One of Clammask’s kits was one of these StarClan guardians. We do not know what awaits these kits in the coming quarter moon, but we ask you, give them souls of their own. Allow them to grow into strong and proud individuals who will make RippleClan proud. Do not taunt Clammask once more by taking a kit away. Allow them all to live, Dustfur. Give us your celestial blessing.” The ritual done, Troutpool licked the dirt off the kittens, sneering at the taste. 

“If one of your daughters is a StarClan warrior,” Troutpool explained, “performing this ritual so soon after their birth may allow them to become cats of their own, rather than a protector for the others.” Clammask nudged her little mollies back to her belly, purring as they cried outrage at yet another grooming. “When you feel strong enough, we can move you to a fresh nest and get rid of all this dirty moss. Do you need anything else?”

“Maybe a leather pelt over my back?” Clammask asked. “It’s a cold night.”

“I’ll also have Mosspounce build a fire outside the den when he wakes up,” Troutpool promised with a nod. She touched noses with Clammask and trotted off. 

With a few moments alone in the nursery, Clammask stared at her daughters. Halibutdusk’s daughters too. Scrubmask wasn’t one to hold grudges, Clammask doubted she would be mad at her for finding another mate. But was she right for Halibutdusk? Her feelings for them were not a perfect match to her relationship with Scrubmask. Perhaps it was because she grew up alongside Halibutdusk, shared every heartbreak and celebration alongside them. Scrubmask was a whirlwind that pulled Clammask into a new life, a new family. Halibutdusk had just… always been there. They were the ocean, forever licking the shore, something whose absence Clammask could not imagine.

She prayed she would not have to live in that absence soon.

“I’ll warn you now,” Troutpool said, entering the den with a stitched-up pelt thrown across her back, “your sons are chomping at my tail to see you.” Troutpool threw the pelt over Clammask’s haunches.

“Send them in,” Clammask purred.

“We can come in? Finally!” Honeybuzz and Splashtuft shoved their way into the nursery, bumping shoulders to get a better look at their new siblings. Leathermask and Drumtooth lingered behind them, trying to catch a glimpse from the side. Honeybuzz and Splashtuft almost knocked Troutpool over.

“Is that all of them?” Leathermask gasped, squirming between his two boisterous brothers.

“They’re all mollies,” Clammask purred. “How funny is that?”

“Big brothers for little sisters,” Drumtooth hummed, finally managing to get into the den by shoving Splashtuft’s big flank to the side.

“I don’t suppose you can let me out?” Troutpool chuckled, slipping her basket around her neck.

“Sorry, Troutpool,” Splashtuft chirped. He moved to the side and knocked Drumtooth against the den wall. Troutpool left before she became the next victim of the litter’s excitement.

“How do you feel, Mom?” Honeybuzz asked. His clerical eye studied Clammask’s messy nest and the newborn shine on his sisters’ pelts.

“Very tired,” Clammask admitted, “but very happy. And I'm a little nervous if I’m honest.” Clammask nuzzled her daughters once more. “I want to do something, but I’m afraid you may judge me a little, Honeybuzz. I know I should wait to name them, like Scrubmask and I waited to name you four, but I don’t want to do that this time around. I want them to have names now.” Clammask was right; the enthusiasm in Honeybuzz’s face froze as he tried not to let it drop.

“Don’t do that,” Drumtooth huffed, appearing on the other side of the pack and shoving Honeybuzz’s shoulder.

“If you want,” Clammask sighed, “you can help name your sisters. We can keep it between the five of us for now.” 

“Really?” Leathermask gasped softly. “Honeybuzz, let’s name the red kit first!” Honeybuzz squirmed a bit, but joined his brown-furred brother in study of their red-colored sister.

“Could we call her Redkit?” Honeybuzz suggested.

“That’s such a boring name,” Splashtuft scoffed. Clammask couldn’t help but laugh at that. He looked so much like Scrubmask in that moment.

“Troutpool left something behind,” Leathermask pointed out. The small jar with the ritual dust still sat at Clammask’s head. “Huh. The jar is the same color as the red kit’s fur. What if we called her Potterykit?”

“I approve,” Clammask purred. “Let your other brothers name the white molly.” Drumtooth squirmed closer to Splashtuft and they turned their gaze to the long-furred kitten.

“I want to name her Moonkit,” Drumtooth said.

“But our Clan’s guide is called Moonpaw,” Honeybuzz reminded him. “That feels… wrong, in a way.”

“StarClan isn’t going to ban the use of a prefix for the rest of history just because of one cat,” Splashtuft scoffed. “I like it, Drumtooth. Potterykit and Moonkit.”

“But what in the world do we call the last kitten?” Leathermask sighed. All four brothers leaned so close to the black molly, they were practically touching Clammask’s belly.

“I can’t think of a single good name for her,” Splashtuft muttered.

“Nightkit?” Leathermask suggested.

“How many black cats in history have been named Nightkit?” Drumtooth said. “Don’t we want our sister to stand out?”

“Stormkit, Butterflykit, Oysterkit…” Honeybuzz muttered. “Hootkit?”

“Hootkit?” Splashtuft laughed. “Do you want apprentices to make fun of her at Gatherings?”

“Hear me out, hear me out,” Drumtooth said, his soft voice catching his brothers’ attention. “Vervainkit.”

“But vervain is purple,” Splashtuft said.

“And drums are brown,” Drumtooth pointed out. “Vervains are pretty flowers. Something about their color reminds me of her.”

“Potterykit, Moonkit, and Vervainkit,” Clammask declared. She leaned over and nuzzled all of her kits, toms and mollies, newborn and adult. “Welcome to the family.” All four toms purred deeply.

“Do you think Halibutdusk will be upset that we named the kits without them?” Drumtooth wondered. 

“To be fair,” Splashtuft chuckled, pulling back, “we don’t have to tell them.”

“I know you all said you were happy for me,” Clammask said, shuffling tighter around the newborns, “but I want to be sure here. They aren’t a replacement for Scrubmask. I wasn’t trying to do that.”

“We know, Mom,” Honeybuzz promised. “We’ll still love the kits. We’re happy to have little sisters to care for.” Clammask’s purrs took over her entire body. Her sons gathered around her and groomed her tired pelt as she soaked in the joy.

(Clammask: 59, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Halibutdusk: 57, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Troutpool: 26, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

(Honeybuzz: 13, male, cleric, daring, constantly fiddling with tools)

(Splashtuft: 13, male, historian, adventurous, fast runner, student of art)

(Leathermask: 13, male, warrior, nervous, great speaker, good fighter)

(Drumtooth: 13, trans male, caretaker, loyal, great hunter, clever)

(Potterykit: 0, female, kit, self-conscious)

(Moonkit: 0, female, kit, quiet)

(Vervainkit: 0, female, kit, fearless)

Lavendertwist works with the AshClan historians to make a proper record of the Rippling Ashes (Darkkick, Weedfoot, and Paleseed) and their exploits in the Dark Forest.

[Image ID: Lavendertwist and Splashtuft face a black rosette apprentice. Under her, it says NEW PLAYER: MITEPAW, 7, FEMALE, INSECURE, QUICK TO MAKE PEACE.]

---

“It’s hard to believe our former leader would grow to hate us so much…” sighed Minkshine, an AshClan historian. She and two other historians, Blackmist and Comfreytoe, sat along the AshClan border while Lavendertwist and Splashtuft lounged on their side, sharing tongues with their forest counterparts. It was sunhigh, after all, and if the group was going to spend most of the day describing the official story of the Rippling Ashes, Lavendertwist and Splashtuft were going to relax.

“When you’re stuck in your ways like he was,” Lavendertwist sighed, “friends can quickly become enemies.”

“So Autumnstar used his Dark Forest powers to curse AshClan…” Blackmist muttered, grooming Splashtuft’s long fur as he spoke. “So many of our friends and family died because of him… their names have to be recorded in the story. All of them.”

“Ah, name memorization,” Lavendertwist chuckled, squirming. “My old nemesis.”

“I can handle that,” Splashtuft chirped. “Start listing out names, Blackmist.”

“Actually,” Comfreytoe groaned, glancing back into the trees of AshClan, “we’re still waiting on someone. She should be here before we continue.”

“Who’s our special guest?” Lavendertwist asked, leaves crunching underneath him as he rolled onto his back. 

“Someone who needs a fresh start,” Comfreytoe sighed.

“It’s still hard to believe Eelstar and Barkfur agreed to this,” Blackmist muttered, letting Splashtuft take a turn grooming him, “but if Mitepaw can find some peace from it, so be it.”

“Mitepaw?” Lavendertwist hummed.

“I’m here!” a young voice gulped. While Lavendertwist heard the cat crunching leaves under her paws and panting, he only saw her once she stood in front of a pale bush. She was one of the blackest cats Lavendertwist had ever seen, with even blacket rosette markings. Pale yellow eyes bounced between Lavendertwist and Splashtuft. Bouldersong, one of AshClan’s caretakers, joined the small apprentice.

“RippleClan,” Bouldersong purred, placing his tail on the apprentice’s back, “I would like you to meet Mitepaw. She would like to join your Clan.”

“What?” Splashtuft gasped, sitting up so quickly that his head smacked Blackmist’s jaw. 

“Both of her parents died as a result of the chronic frostbite that kept infecting our older Clanmates,” Minkshine explained as Mitepaw rubbed a paw deep into the leaf litter. “She’s struggled in our Clan ever since. We believe that in order to give her a fresh start, she needs to leave our home for another. Since RippleClan’s developed a reputation for accepting wayward apprentices, we thought she would fit in well with you.”

“Eelstar is letting one of his apprentices join RippleClan?” Lavendertwist scoffed. “I thought he hated us.”

“His opinions are more nuanced than you’d think,” Comfreytoe insisted. “Mitepaw is an artisan apprentice. She has a knack for woodwork and should take to your Clan’s crafts well.”

“You really want to join us, Mitepaw?” Splashtuft asked. He risked crossing the border to approach the small apprentice. Since no one clawed his ears off, he kept going. “This isn’t a decision you can take back.” Mitepaw hesitated, words getting caught in her mouth. She looked at her Clanmates, as though waiting for someone to snap at her. She swallowed hard.

“I don’t like AshClan,” Mitepaw said. “Everyone is grieving. It makes it hard to breathe. I don’t want to grow up in a Clan that’s carrying such hurt with them.” The AshClan historians grew lost as Mitepaw explained herself. No one countered her claim.

“I’m sure Downstar will welcome you, then,” Splashtuft purred, touching noses with Mitepaw.

“You can always talk to your old Clanmates at Gatherings, Mitepaw,” Bouldersong sighed. “I hope RippleClan will be better for you than we have been.” Bouldersong licked Mitepaw’s ear. The young apprentice purred softly. She left Bouldersong’s side and joined Splashtuft.

“So you’ll take her to your camp when we’re finished here?” Minkshine asked.

“Absolutely,” Lavendertwist promised as Splashtuft led Mitepaw across the border. “We have just the mentor for her.” 

(Lavendertwist: 31, male, historian, playful, great singer, good storyteller)

(Splashtuft: 13, male, historian, adventurous, fast runner, student of art)

(Mitepaw: 7, female, artisan apprentice, insecure, quick to make peace)

[Image ID: Rapidleaf, Asterpaw, and Elmsprout stand behind Mitepaw as she listens to Rattlepelt say, “It will be better for you to live in a Clan that is loyal to its members. You’ve escaped a rotten place, Mitepaw.”]

Later that day, as RippleClan buzzed with sunset activity, Mitepaw took in the sights of her new home. The shipwreck was so tall! Despite the late autumn cold, the sand felt warm from the sun. Even the air felt lighter in RippleClan! This was the right choice, Mitepaw was certain of it. There was a glimmer in everyone’s eyes as they surrounded her following her new apprentice ceremony. She soaked it all in as she stood beside her strange and famous new mentor; Rattlepelt. 

“Mitepaw!” A long-furred gray molly made her way to the front of the crowd of unfamiliar faces. A brown molly and a silver tom followed close behind.

“Hello,” Mitepaw chirped softly, bowing to the strangers. 

“No need to bow to your Clanmates in this Clan!” the silver molly said. “You’ve probably heard about me. I’m Elmsprout.”

“Oh, Eelstar’s daughter,” Mitepaw gasped. She took Elmsprout in a second time; she could see Eelstar’s color in Elmsprout’s darker tints. “Your father’s told the kits about you.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Elmsprout chuckled. “He and I have… an awkward relationship. I wanted to make sure I could talk to you after your ceremony, because I’ve been where you are. We all have. We’re a bit of a Clan-within-a-Clan, you could say. We’ve all left our original Clans to join RippleClan. This is Rapidleaf and Asterpaw.”

“I’ll show you how to adapt to life in RippleClan,” Asterpaw promised, raising his tail high.

“Leaving my Clan was hard for me as well,” Rapidleaf said with a nod. “Like you, staying in LynxClan would have been too painful. RippleClan has built itself on second chances. Elmsprout befriended me as we both recovered from a bought of food poisoning a few moons ago, and we’ve both looked after Asterpaw since his arrival. If you need help, we promise to look after you, too.” 

“That’s…” Mitepaw purred, her whole body rippling, “that’s amazing!”

“It will be better for you to live in a Clan that is loyal to its members.” Oh, right! Rattlepelt was still standing there! She was so unlike any other cat Mitepaw had ever seen. Who else would have the courage to wear a fox pelt? She looked more like a fearsome warrior than the talented artisan Lavendertwist and Splashtuft made her out to be on the walk to RippleClan. “You’ve escaped a rotten place, Mitepaw.”

“I’m excited to learn under you, Artisan Rattlepelt,” Mitepaw said, bowing once more.

“Mitepaw, we don’t bow here!” Elmsprout laughed.

“Leave her be,” Rattlepelt scoffed. “If she wants to bow and use honorable titles, let her. It’s nice to be respected. Now Mitepaw, how would you like to learn the intricacies of leather-making from a master?” Mitepaw’s eyes sparkled. Learn to craft a leather pelt with the quality and skill of Rattlepelt’s fox fur? Learning in a Clan so bright and welcoming, under a mentor that was clearly wise and strong and clever, better than her old mentor in every way?

“Yes please!”

(Mitepaw: 7, female, artisan apprentice, insecure, quick to make peace)

(Elmsprout: 32, female, caretaker, charismatic, helpful insight)

(Rapidleaf: 84, female, warrior, lonesome, prophecy interpreter)

(Asterpaw: 12, male, caretaker apprentice, thoughtful, has lots of ideas)

(Rattlepelt: 48, female, artisan, bloodthirsty, leather artist)

Tallowkit reminds himself it will all be okay while Slushkit chews on a stick.

[Image ID: Tallowkit says “She won’t choke, she won’t choke…” as he watches Slushkit. Under Tallowkit, it says + NEW SKILL: SPLASHES IN PUDDLES. Under Slushkit, it says + NEW SKILL: QUICK WITTED.]

(Tallowkit: 1, male, kit, skittish, splashes in puddles)

(Slushkit: 1, female, kit, polite, quick witted)

Scaleripple and Tempestshade officially become mates.

[Image ID: Scaleripple and Tempestshade face each other. Under Scaleripple, it says + MATE: TEMPESTSHADE. Under Tempestshade, it says + MATE: SCALERIPPLE.]

---

Scaleripple couldn’t help but be in awe of Troutpool and Honeybuzz’s skill. When he had found Tempestshade half a moon prior, leg encased in a shimmering silver jaw, he had been certain it would have to come off. Yet there they were, half a moon later and still possessing four legs, even if one was so bandaged and slathered in ointment that it could hardly be called a leg. Honeybuzz had changed the bandages not so long ago, but Scaleripple could already see dots of blood leaking through. Not that Troutpool and Honeybuzz would notice; no, when Scaleripple visited Tempestshade that day, the Clan had a bit more exciting news to swallow.

“Our instincts are never more controlling than when a queen is kitting,” Troutpool explained to Mosspounce, waiting eagerly outside the den as she and Honeybuzz collected a few supplies into a basket. “Lemmy will know what to do with her kits, but she’ll need spiritual and emotional support. We’ll be with her the entire time, Mosspounce.”

“Are you sure Tempestshade can’t join us?” Mosspounce groaned, glancing around Troutpool to Tempestshade, whose nest sat in a quiet, warm corner of the medicine den. Scaleripple sat beside her, ice-faced and observant. “I want my kits to meet all of their kin.”

“Mosspounce, your kits won’t be able to meet anyone for a while,” Honeybuzz laughed. He slipped the basket around his neck. “They’re born with their eyes and ears shut. They’ll get to meet Tempestshade in the future, don’t worry.”

“But I wanna meet them,” Tempestshade whined. They laid sprawled across the nest, mangled leg carefully frozen on the edge. Their dark green eyes lacked some of their usual sparkle, devoured by the pain.

“You will, I promise,” Mosspounce said. Honeybuzz joined Mosspounce outside the den and the two trotted to the nursery. Troutpool, however, lingered, eyes wandering to Scaleripple.

“Will you be okay while we help Lemmy?” Troutpool asked.

“I won’t die,” Scaleripple growled. He laid in a loaf against Tempestshade’s nest, ignoring Troutpool’s gaze. Tempestshade chuckled, a soft, almost feverish sound. Troutpool shuffled her paws about.

“I didn’t want to have that vision,” Troutpool gulped. “I thought revealing it would spare Tempestshade a guilty verdict and protect RippleClan. I wouldn’t use StarClan to hurt them.”

“Did I say that’s what you did?” Scaleripple scoffed, daring to look up, even if Troutpool’s awkward expression made his skin hurt. “You don’t need to explain yourself. You just have to live with making Tempestshade a living omen of death.” Troutpool bowed her head low, closing her eyes. She followed her former apprentice and Mosspounce to the nursery, where Scaleripple could already hear Lemmy panting with the effort of her kitting.

“You showed her,” Tempestshade mumbled, purring. Scaleripple stared at Tempestshade. Why were they seemingly the only cats who truly understood the other? Scaleripple’s family loved him, he was certain of that, but did they know him like Tempestshade? Did they understand the strange way he worked, which separated him from everyone else? And did anyone else in the Clan dare to face the blunt of Tempestshade’s curse just to spend time with them? Did they appreciate their youthfulness, their honesty, their loyalty? From everything Scaleripple knew, two cats who were as close as he was to Tempestshade could only be called one thing.

“Tempestshade, are we mates?” he asked. Tempestshade cocked their head. A little life came back to their eyes.

“Haven’t we been mates since the summer?” they laughed. Oh. Well then.

“Maybe so,” Scaleripple purred. He rested his head on the edge of Tempestshade’s nest, a whisker length from their nose. Tempestshade hummed happily. They stretched and quickly touched noses with Scaleripple.

For once, Scaleripple didn’t mind.

(Scaleripple: 18, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(Troutpool: 26, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

(Mosspounce: 26, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Honeybuzz: 13, male, cleric, daring, constantly fiddling with tools)

(Tempestshade: 26, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

Mosspounce wants to be a father with different motivations than his own, and feels proud when Lemmy delivers four healthy kits.

[Image ID: Lemmy and Mosspounce watch four newborn kits; a tortoiseshell, a black molly, a silver molly, and a gray tabby. Under Lemmy, it says - CONDITION: PREGNANT, + CONDITION: RECOVERING FROM BIRTH. The tortoiseshell says NEW PLAYER: WEEVILKIT, 0, FEMALE, BULLYING. The black molly says NEW PLAYER: RAVENKIT, 0, FEMALE, SWEET. The silver kit says NEW PLAYER: SILVERKIT, 0, FEMALE, DAYDREAMER. Finally, the gray tabby says NEW PLAYER: WOLFKIT, 0, FEMALE, POLITE.]

(Mosspounce: 26, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Lemmy: 41, female, codekeeper, cold, deep StarClan bond)

(Weevilkit: 0, female, kit, bullying)

(Ravenkit: 0, female, kit, sweet)

(Silverkit: 0, female, kit, daydreamer)

(Wolfkit: 0, female, kit, polite)

Downstar is almost intimidated by the knowledge Asterpaw has gained in his short time in RippleClan and confidently names him Asterblaze.

[Image ID: Asterpaw, now Asterblaze, is an adult! Under him, it says LEVEL UP! ASTERPAW -> ASTERBLAZE, HAS LOTS OF IDEAS -> CONSTANTLY FIDDLING WITH TOOLS.]

(Asterblaze: 12, male, caretaker, thoughtful, constantly fiddling with tools)

While Troutpool and Honeybuzz are on patrol, Troutpool sees strange shimmers in the distance. They encounter a kittypet who grew up with old stories of RippleClan and wanted to raise her kits in the wild. Troutpool and Honeybuzz help welcome five more kits to the nursery.

[Image ID: Troutpool and Honeybuzz approach a brown and white molly and five kits; one light brown, two red, and two brown, all with white markings. Undee the mother, it says NEW PLAYER: HARVEST, 53, FEMALE, NERVOUS, GOOD FIGHTER. Under the light brown kit, it says NEW PLAYER: ANCHOVYKIT, 0, MALE, CHARMING. Under the upper red kit, it says NEW PLAYER: CURRENTKIT, 0, MALE, POLITE. The second red kit says NEW PLAYER: ROBINKIT, 0, MALE, UNRULY. The first dark brown cat in the upper corner says NEW PLAYER: YARROWKIT, 0, FEMALE, NOISY. The last brown kit says NEW PLAYER: BILLOWKIT, 0, MALE, BOSSY.]

(Troutpool: 26, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

(Honeybuzz: 13, male, cleric, daring, constantly fiddling with tools)

(Harvest: 53, female, queen, nervous, good fighter)

(Anchovykit: 0, male, kit, charming)

(Currentkit: 0, male, kit, polite)

(Robinkit: 0, male, kit, unruly)

(Yarrowkit: 0, female, kit, noisy)

(Billowkit: 0, male, kit, bossy)

[nobody65sworld]

(picture to order. Wonderful Motya painted this picture for me)

My Samurai

The Heian era. The era of warriors, the rise of the empire from its knees and the flourishing of art.

War is pain, fear and loss on both sides, but unfortunately this is the part of people that cannot be changed. No matter how much people say how terrible war is, wars will continue because people do not learn from their mistakes. Brother against brother, clan against clan.

***

Although the sun shone with soft warm rays brightly illuminating the earth, but still a cool wind weakly harmoniously sways the heavy branches of the beautiful sakura. The sunlight dances through the cherry blossoms, creating a mesmerizing spectacle. The petals flutter gracefully, like snowflakes from the sky, against the background of a clear blue sky. A light breeze carries their aroma, a sweet, delicate aroma that fills the air with beauty. This is a garden straight from a dream. A beautiful garden decorated with cherry trees, each of which is bathed in the warmth of the golden rays of the sun. Their delicate, pale pink petals dance gently in the wind, creating a shower of flower petals that float through the air like a gentle pink snowfall. The trees themselves, their branches gracefully extend outward, their slender trunks standing tall and straight, like guardians watching over the garden.

Shinden-zukuri was a modest structure compared to the palaces of the richer samurai or shoguns, but this is the estate of the "White Whale" clan, so it would be a shame to insult my home estate by comparing it to more stately homes.

But it is beautifully and properly arranged. Cold stones in the form of a path for travelers or guests leading directly to the doors of the estate. Labyrinths of beautiful sakura, neatly trimmed bushes, and if you go deeper into the garden, you can freeze in peace watching how white-orange, brightly colored fish splash and play in a transparent blue pond. This beautiful garden can already be safely called the pride of the clan, because it personifies the clan's closeness to nature and art, which many are not given to achieve or understand. But after all ... from the garden you can not determine what kind of clan structure inside the estate itself, you can not appreciate the beauty of the forest by one tree. This rule works not only for the forest.

The halls of the estate were filled with quiet but ringing giggles of young girls in kimonos, with powder on their faces and a traditional hairstyle of cunningly spontaneous hair, the hairstyle of geishas, ​​which they were not. The three girls giggled quietly, gossiping quietly, knocking wooden geta so as not to disturb the silence of the corridors of their native estate. Their clan was famous for its discipline and obedience to its leader, if the leader told everyone to wait in their rooms behind closed shoji, then so be it, now the corridors were suspiciously quieter.

There were no grown men and boys training in the backyard of Shinden-zukuri, their curses and mocking laughter could not be heard. There were no other girls running along the corridors playing tag or walking around the saloon with their lovers. There were no small children who briskly ran along the corridor playing tag or hide-and-seek, cleverly hiding in secret places of the estate.

No. Only these three girls dared to go out into the corridor in the midst of tension and the threat of an escalation of the situation. The estate was plunged into the silence of expectation and not understanding what would happen next. Only recently the entire clan had arranged a feast in honor of the end of a long-term war with the clan "Beasts", as just a week later the corridors of the estate were plunged into silence, people hid in rooms, in the kitchen or even went to the city under the pretext of buying goods.

The oppressive silence of the walls, the empty deserted corridor illuminated by the rays of the sun, some melancholy from the disappearance of people and some despair without hope did not frighten the girls. Impudence. But these three girls can desecrate the silence of the estate at such a tense time. After all, they had just escorted the young son of the head of the clan to his majestic and authoritative father in the rooms, closing the shoji behind the young guy, condemning him to a fatal and turning point in his life conversation with his father. The young ladies giggled, gossiped and waited for what would happen after the conversation, whether these Tony girls would have to calm down and tell their master that everything would be fine and he would soon get used to the idea that he would soon go down the aisle with an unloved and unfamiliar person.

***

The room was spacious, the only furniture was a small low table with two small cups of green tea that calmed the nerves, which smelled fragrantly in the room in the hope of somehow easing the tension in a seemingly ordinary room with closed shoji, rays of sun and between two close people.

The room, surprisingly, was also quiet. A tall, long-haired blond man of middle age, with a long, bright white, as if made of whale bone, mustache on his upper lip, although it is hard to believe that this is a natural mustache. His strong arms were folded on his chest, over which was a dark green kimono. Gray eyes with a sense of guilt and seriousness darted from the floor to his own blood child, a son who modestly and as befits him sits on his father's knees. It is hard to believe that the formidable head of the "White Whale" clan, who has authority among his clan and some other clans, now looked like he was cowering like a child when he was shamed for a fight by adult girls. Although Whitebeard is sitting in front of his own son...

Whitebeard is clearly ashamed and disgusted by what he has to say to his son, feeling in his soul how the claws of cats are scratching, which are tormenting the conscience of the long-haired blond, making him think that he is giving away his son, as if he were a cow or a mare at an auction. He just hoped that his young son would react, more or less calmly, although it is unlikely... Neither of them has yet risked breaking the silence, pressing on their souls, making their palms sweat, and the spacious room narrowing, making less and less space

"Crocodile, son, do you know why I called you?" Whitebeard sighed heavily, looking with tired eyes at how his son, Crocodile opened his violet eyes, looking at his father with a hint of coldness and calmness.

Crocodile held his palms on his broken knees. His face was slightly powdered, making the cola even paler, his lips were weakly, barely noticeably painted to add a small, but noticeable volume. A dark silk kimono, an expensive overseas fabric, no other than from a reseller from the very near east, over the dark blue kimono was worn a dark green haori, there were no patterns showing the modesty and coldness of a twenty-seven-year-old man. As if he did not give hope to men he did not like, keeping his heart and virginity under a shell of coldness and sarcasm. Crocodile was certainly proud of his youth and beauty, but years of studying etiquette and proper upbringing had made the brunette's ego weaker and less noticeable.

"No, father," Crocodile answered meekly and submissively, politely and respectfully, but seriously, looking at his father. For the violet-eyed brunette, every conversation with his father was irritating and causing nervousness in Crocodile's soul

Whitebeard sighed weakly. He bit his pale thin lips unnoticed, thinking and not knowing how to answer his son. Words got stuck in his throat while he was silently building a constructive further dialogue with Crocodile. It would be difficult and the possibility of hysteria from his usually calm son was not excluded. It was time to tell, for a week now the long-haired blond had been silently preparing how to tell Crocodile. In the end, he could not avoid it, sooner or later he would find out, so it was better to tell his own father if Whitebeard wanted to avoid rumors.

The tense silence in the room was broken by an uncertain whisper, which tried to sound serious and more authoritative:

“Son… listen to me carefully, this is important… You understand that it was difficult to agree with the head of the Beast clan about peace?” Whitebeard asked hoarsely and with a leading question. He needed to mentally prepare his spoiled son for the upcoming tension and fatal change in life.

Crocodile slightly frowned his thin black eyes. He sighed softly for a couple of seconds, closing his eyes.

The war between the White Whale and Beast clans had its beginning since the beginning of the Nara era. No one remembered how the conflict between influential clans began, people who knew about the beginning of the conflict grew old and died, the scrolls were burned by enemy people who invaded long before the birth of Crocodile, his father, his grandfather and even his great-grandfather. Much blood was shed for the senseless hatred of only two people, all this was year after year. While the Goons attacked the territory of the Japanese Empire, then inside their native country, blood brothers killed each other without sparing each other. Only a week ago, two innate clans lowered katanas and other cold weapons onto the bloody ground soaked in the blood of their ancestors. Perhaps the hands of especially bloodthirsty warriors were itching to kill people from another clan because of the imposed hatred. But finally, Crocodile's father and the formidable barbarian who is the leader of the "Beast" clan were able to stop this and finally get out of the circle of hatred and pain.

But on what terms?

— Crocodile, you must marry Kaido's adopted son, Donquixote Doflamingo... — Whitebeard lowered his head in defeat and despair, closing his eyes. His heart sank and with a grunt the old man fell silent, letting the room sink into the silence of despair and helplessness again.

Crocodile's heart stopped for a moment, life from birth in his mother's arms to adulthood at the age of 25, where he had recently gossiped and giggled with his three maids, as three beautiful girls dressed him in a kimono and brought Crocodile rumors about every attractive guy who flirted with the son of the head of their clan. Is this the end of all this? The end of a free life, a life full of fun and carefree time spent in his chambers or flirting, or even elegantly refusing attractive guys, not giving them hope for a relationship with the brunette. Now Crocodile will be forced to become an obedient husband, he will be torn from his native estate, he will be separated from his maids, forced to cook and bear children, especially to whom Crocodile is given? To this tough warrior who is no better than his adoptive father!

The brunette looked at his father with fear and indignation. The Crocodile silently moved his plump lips painted with bright red lipstick. Indignation and anger replaced the stupor in the man's soul. How dare his father use the brunette as a pawn, as a bargaining chip in peace negotiations? He is not a cow at an auction, but a person with his own character, thoughts and feelings. The brunette desperately looked at Belous, wanting to somehow convince his father to cancel the engagement to the man he did not love. The Crocodile looked at his loved one, who instantly became a stranger, a stranger who ruined his life. The brunette finally managed to squeeze out of himself, as if despite the surprise, shock and growing anger.

- Father... Don't you feel sorry for me?! I'm your son... - The brunette, confused and trembling, not expecting it from himself, crocodile's gaze darted from side to side, trembling and lost, looking at his father

Whitebeard silently continued to bow his head in humility and silent protest to cancel the upcoming wedding. The Crocodile swallowed, a slight chill ran through his body, his breathing quickened, and his throat tightened, making his attempts to sigh heavy. His heart sank and squeezed unpleasantly, the brunette understood that his father would never cancel the political engagement of his son and the son of the head of the enemy clan for the sake of a peace treaty. His own biological father wanted to give his only beloved son to some ... Barbarian, a warrior who did not know the word "mercy" in the war, Doflamingo was famous for his bloodthirstiness, he is a warrior and a weighty argument - he is the adopted son of Kaido himself, these facts are unlikely to make the blonde a desirable groom.

Especially a groom for Crocodile who is accustomed to tenderness and care, a husband like Doflamingo can be rude and even raise his heavy hand on the brunette.

Their marriage will not be for love... they will both be unhappy, although the blond will not care, he will constantly disappear at war, taking sin on his soul. The only unhappy one will be Crocodile, who will definitely be forced to bear a child under his heart from an unloved man, an unknown... Why exactly a brunette? There are so many beautiful young girls from their clan who could be suitable for the role of an obedient submissive wife of Donquixote Doflamingo, why exactly Crocodile?

He does not even know the blond, only on quiet evenings of peace, when everyone dozes in their sweet dreams and dreams, not suspecting danger, when the night cicadas try to sing with their nasty buzzing a semblance of a cradle for people, somewhere in the distant chambers of Crocodile three maids were preparing him for sleep. Carefully and gently they removed the expensive haori fabric and then the kimono from the young gentleman's body, then wrapped his body in a white nightgown. With their fingers they gently removed the hairpins from the brunette's head, signifying wealth and status, and with a comb they combed the Crocodile's shoulder-length hair. Before going to bed, the room was lit by a dim, lonely flame from one candle, trying to illuminate all the corners of the room, which did not work out well. But even in an atmosphere of silence and peace, the brunette, lying on the futon, in no hurry to sink into sleep, listened with a gloomy grin as his three servants brought him gossip and rumors from the estate. Quiet giggles echoed throughout the room and the soft, half-voiced whispers of the maids, while the Crocodile silently listened to the gossip.

There were mostly gossips about the guys the maids were already trying to match Crocodile with, while the brunette himself dramatically rolled his eyes with a smirk. All these boys were not worthy of the head's son, especially the brunette, who was famous for his beauty. He was more beautiful than any oiran in the red light district, his skin was white as if freshly fallen snowdrops had landed on the ground in a dance, his jet black hair emphasized the elegance coupled with his pale skin. He was a desirable groom, but Crocodile did not like anyone. He needed a man who was ready to do anything for him and who was gentle with the brunette, serving as a strong shoulder for support, and these boys were not fit to hold a candle to the son of the clan head. No matter how beautifully the guys courted him, no matter how many compliments they showered him with, they were not what he needed. And these three naive fools were already arguing and gossiping about imaginary candidates for the grooms of their young master. Naive. Sometimes in these rumors, Crocodile caught gossip about a cruel warrior who does not spare his enemies, the adopted son of Kaido himself and the heir to his throne even though the head of the Beast clan has a biological son, a certain Yamato, a recognized outcast of the clan. The maids whispered about Doflamingo's cruelty coupled with his handsome appearance. But these were fleeting whispers about him that could be safely forgotten.

But not now...

After all, the only thing Crocodile knew was rumors and gossip! How could he marry a man he didn't know? And Doflamingo, does he at least know anything about his future groom? Although it would be enough for this barbarian to know that he will have sex with someone on his wedding night.

The brunette looked desperately at Belous again. The long-haired blond still silently bowed his head, pressing even harder on the atmosphere of despair and helplessness of his son, the father seemed to silently apologize, saying that there was no way back. Either peace, through a wedding, or blood will flow again and people will senselessly kill each other for long-forgotten goals in the heat of war. There was no choice. But Crocodile did not want to put up with this, he did not want a life without a choice, with an unloved, unhappy person. The soul itself ached for itself, rushed about in a fit of suffocation with despair and disbelief, the heart gained momentum in the rhythm of the beat, echoing in the devastated body, rushing and causing panic. From this, the already quiet, full of tension and unspoken thoughts room narrowed, pressing what seemed like free walls on the brunette.

- Father, please... I don't want to! - Crocodile barely squeezed out of himself. Soft waves of indignation began to roll over him. Previously unnoticeable anger and resentment began to manifest themselves. Fear and confusion began to give off a little glare compared to the feeling of indignation.

Why, why couldn't his father tell the brunette himself? Why is Crocodile now forced to give up his old free life for a life with someone so unloved? This old man does not even want to consider the option where his son does not ruin his life with an unwanted marriage and at the same time preserve the world without this doomed marriage. Why was the brunette not given the right to choose?!

The Crocodile is not a weak-willed cow to silently endure that a choice, a choice on which his life depends, is made without him. This... this is disgusting, disgusting that his father, with whom the brunette, although not on the best of terms, but still his own father, did not even bother to ask Crocodile whether the brunette himself wanted this.

And resentment. The insult was still stronger than the feeling of disgust. The insult that Crocodile was considered only a pawn in the game of politicians. He was just a rag doll that could be thrown from hand to hand, dressed up and admired until it became worn out and eventually thrown into the trash. The marriage with Doflamingo would fail? No matter, his dad would clearly get a taste for political marriages and marry Crocodile to another barbarian or a spoiled offspring of rich parents from a powerful influential clan. Does Whitebeard seriously think that he can use the brunette as his puppet for political marriages?

- ... The wedding will be in 4 months. Tomorrow you will meet Donquixote Doflamingo, - the long-haired blond cut off distantly. Whitebeard still bowed his head looking at the floor.

No matter what Crocodile thought, no matter how angry he was at his father now, it was hard for the head of the clan too. It hurts him in his soul that he is forced to give his only son into the hands covered in the blood of their blood brothers, the adopted son of the beast, from whose ancestors a bloody war began that took the lives of many young men, many burned villages with children, a war that forced so many wives and mothers to shed tears for their dead husbands, sons, brothers and fathers...

The long-haired blond was tired of seeing new graves in the cemetery of their clan estate, silently standing, accusing and reminding that the head of the clan, Belous, was partly responsible for the senseless death of many people. It was already painful for him to look at the cemetery where, partly due to the fault of the old man, the dead lives lay who should have lived and smiled, smiled with immortal smiles. Looking at these cold tombstones, faceless and silent, his soul involuntarily contracted from the thought that those buried rotting corpses used to be people, happy and not knowing grief. They should have had life and freedom, which did not become a reality.

The soul aches, and the heart slowly and like a requiem for those deceased souls echoes with a rhythm in the silent body of Belous as soon as he returns to that cemetery again.

But it hurts him even more to see how Crocodile is scared, like a puppy lost far from home. The brunette is still young despite his 25 years, he is young and beautiful, but naive and compassionate. The Crocodile has only recently begun to be interested in guys, to go out to receptions with other members of the legendary clans and high-ranking officials of the empire, he is young and does not quite understand the meaning of life, the brunette is having fun and having fun as he was suddenly pulled out of his comfort zone, already forced to become the husband of a still unknown person.

The old man's soul shrinks seeing how the brunette is scared and confused. How Crocodile now does not know how to treat his own father, to continue to love? To be submissive and come to terms with Whitebeard's decision? Or to fight, to make Doflamingo himself cancel the engagement citing the disgusting character of the brunette? In any case, whatever decision Crocodile makes, nothing can be changed, it is unlikely that the engagement can be canceled, because even if Doflamingo does not want to marry the brunette's happiness, the blonde's father is unlikely to listen to this. But Kaido is hard to convince, it is unlikely that he will be open to negotiations for the second time.

But still, the old man hopes that those 4 months will be enough for the young people to like each other, and maybe even fall in love with each other before the wedding? Maybe this Doflamingo will turn out to be not the barbarian warrior he is according to rumors, but a rather soft person in relationships and Crocodile will like him? But Whitebeard did not dare to express his assumptions to his son out loud. Now he does not want to say anything at all. Moreover, what should he say to calm the brunette?

Reproach the fact that Crocodile does not think about the clan? Try to somehow support his son with unnecessary words? And in general, is it possible to say something now, at least mumble something so that the brunette will rest? Unlikely. Any word from Belous will either be ignored or force Crocodile to start a scandal, torturing himself and his emotions, trying senselessly to convince his father. And in general, can the old man say anything? He himself now blocked the air, his heart gave in from pity for those who died in a senseless war and compassion for his son, Belous seemed to be between two fires, understanding that peace is necessary even through a wedding and pity, the desire to cancel the wedding so as not to ruin Crocodile's life and not see him unhappy.

Although what is the life of one person worth when behind him are a million lives that also have the right to life ...

Belous could not stand it first. The atmosphere of fear and despair fell on his shoulders from the very beginning of this meeting, it was time to stop this. He slowly but a little confidently got up from the floor, the old man still looking at the floor and not risking to see his son's face left the room so that the silence would not put pressure on the feeling of shame and despair in Whitebeard's heart. The old man left carefully and almost unnoticed so that Crocodile could be alone with his own thoughts. Only the wooden shoji creaked a little when they were pushed, giving the brunette a place to be alone.

The feeling of resentment finally put pressure on Crocodile so that he could not hold back the sobs and warm tears slowly flowing down his cheeks, erasing the white powder on his cheeks. He rarely cried, almost never, only in childhood when he was humiliated and he ran into the old room hiding from the offenders so that they would not see him in a vulnerable state like now. Now the brunette is vulnerable and broken. Therefore, he is glad that his father left, with his useless words of consolation. Now Crocodile had better be alone until the three maids found him broken and completely in tears.

The rest of the evening the brunette cried in his room on the lap of a woman, hiding his head from the two other maids, who did not gossip or giggle in ringing voices as before, bringing satisfaction to Crocodile. They only silently consoled him by offering fruits or simply stroking his hair and back to show their young master that he was not alone in this difficult situation. Although this would not help Crocodile.

Tomorrow he would already see Doflamingo, his future husband in reality, having begun his beginning of the end by meeting him. And this drove the brunette into despair, knowing that only a miracle would save him from a miserable marriage.

P.S. link to my fanfic. English is not my native language poets may have mistakes

[the-pea-braned-warlock]

Do you like Setra's title?

Great King

the Imperishable

Khemrikhara

The Great King of Nehekhara

King of Kings

Opener of the Way

Wielder of the Divine Flame

Punisher of Nomads

The Great Unifier

Commander of the Golden Legion

Sacred of Appearance

Bringer of Light

Father of Hawks

Builder of Cities

Protector of the Two Worlds

Keeper of the Hours

Chosen of Ptra

High Steward of the Horizon

Sailor of the Great Vitae

Sentinel of the Two Realms

The Undisputed

Begetter of the Begat

Scourge of the Faithless

Carrion-feeder

First of the Charnel Valley

Rider of the Sacred Chariot

Vanquisher of Vermin

Champion of the Death Arena

Mighty Lion of the Infinite Desert

Emperor of the Shifting Sands

He Who Holds The Sceptre

Great Hawk Of The Heavens

Arch-Sultan of Atalan

Waker of the Hierotitan

Monarch of the Sky

Majestic Emperor of the Shifting Sands

Champion of the Desert Gods

Breaker of the Ogre Clans

Builder of the Great Pyramid

Terror of the Living

Master of the Never-Ending Horizon

Master of the Necropolises

Taker of Souls

Tyrant to the Foolish

Bearer of Ptra's Holy Blade

Scion of Usirian

Scion of Nehek

The Great

Chaser of Nightmares

Keeper of the Royal Herat

Founder of the Mortuary Cult

Banisher of the Grand Hierophant

High Lord Admiral of the Deathfleets

Guardian of the Charnal Pass

Tamer of the Liche King

Unliving Jackal Lord

Dismisser of the Warrior Queen

Charioteer of the Gods

He Who Does Not Serve

Slayer off Reddittras

Scarab Purger

Favoured of Usirian

Player of the Great Game

Liberator of Life

Lord Sand

Wrangler of Scorpions

Emperor of the Dunes

Eternal Sovereign of Khemri's Legions

Seneschal of the Great Sandy Desert

Curserer of the Living

Regent of the Eastern Mountains

Warden of the Eternal Necropolis

Herald of all Heralds

Caller of the Bitter Wind

God-Tamer

Master of the Mortis River

Guardian of the Dead

Great Keeper of the Obelisks

Deacon of the Ash River

Belated of Wakers

General of the Mighty Frame

Summoner of Sandstorms

Master of all Necrotects

Prince of Dust

Tyrant of Araby

Purger of the Greenskin Breathers

Killer of the False God's Champions

Tyrant of the Gold Dunes

Golden Bone Lord

Avenger of the Dead

Carrion Master

Eternal Warden of Nehek's Lands

Breaker of Djaf's Bonds

Which one :)

[ap-kinda-lit]

Saiyan Squad AU (part 1) ⭐️

The Saiyan homeworld is Sadala (because Planet Vegeta is ridiculous), but its capital city is Vegeta, where, of course, the royal family resides. Sadala itself is a conglomerate of Australia, Asia, and Africa and the Saiyans are a mishmash akin to the Spartans, Celts, Aztecs, and Mongols. Sadala is pretty much like a space version of Australia: it’s a chaotic death trap from its climate and wildlife to its inhabitants. The Saiyans are made up of clans and have a feudal system, but they all serve the one ruling monarch.

Saiyans act as mercenaries and hunters. Like Predator, they are best known for traveling galaxies to find worthy opponents to fight. They’re feared and reviled as a race of barbaric savages.

They also look more animalistic: they have pointed ears, sharper teeth, claws, and some fur on their bodies.

Saiyans have had a feud with the Cold Empire for a very long time. At one point, they were allied together but the Cold Empire looked down at the Saiyans and began to subjugate them, so the Saiyans started resisting which led to all out war. When Frieza came to power, he amped up the war. He killed King Vegeta III but spared his young son, Vegeta III, to make the boy his puppet king/child hostage.

The city of Vegeta’s center is where the royalty live, while its outskirts is made up of the slums the third class inhabit. This is where Raditz and Kakarot are born and live with their parents Gine and Bardock. Gine serves as a cook to the troops and the residents while Bardock is a captain of his own troop. Gine and Bardock both teach the boys about hunting but Bardock is mostly in charge of their combat training. The boys start their formal training at five-years-old and are put in the same unit as young king Vegeta.

Raditz is the atypical rough and crass Saiyan boy, but Kakarot is another story. He inherited Gine’s kind heart and good nature, making him seem as weak by most Saiyans. He’s unfortunately treated as an outcast and subjected to bullying from his peers. However, he’s passionate and hard-working and wants to become a great and strong warrior, like his big brother and dad, so he’s committed to training hard. It pays off and he makes enough progress so that when his father Bardock talks with the higher-ups he’s able to convince them to put Kakarot on the same unit as Raditz and Vegeta under Nappa, Vegeta’s guardian.

The Saiyan-Frieza feud reaches its turn years later, when Vegeta approaches age fifteen. By then, he’s old enough by law to rule on his own and he’s determined to break free from Frieza’s grasp. As Vegeta begins to secure his independence and throne and wiggle free, Frieza has become fed up with the Saiyans and sees them as a genuine threat. The final nail in the coffin is when he and his men consult the Kanassans on the future of Frieza’s reign. A Kanassan oracle foretells that Frieza will meet his end at the hands of a golden warrior, presumed to be the legendary Super Saiyan. Frieza straight away comes up with a diabolical plan.

To everyone’s surprise, Frieza not only agrees to Vegeta ruling independently, he also agrees to signing a truce with the Saiyans and ending the bad blood for good. In celebration, a formal coronation is held for Vegeta along with ecstatic festivities all over Sadala. Every Saiyan is recalled back to homeworld for the momentous occasion. However, Bardock and his troop stumble upon Frieza’s real plan: to get all the Saiyans together in one place, make them vulnerable, and destroy them all along with their planet altogether. Bardock’s team is attacked and killed to quiet them but Bardock survives and despite being wounded he races to tell everyone and save his family.

Bardock barely makes it back in time. Just as he’s warning the others, Frieza’s soldiers attack and Frieza himself forms a Death Ball to strike at Sadala. Saiyans desperately try to fight back and escape, but many are killed by Frieza soldiers and many more as the Death Ball collides and the planet begins to destruct. Bardock fights on while trying desperately to find his family.

During Sadala’s destruction, Gine and teenaged Raditz and ten-year-old Kakarot manage to find a pod, but it can only fit two of them. Gine makes the boys get in and go without her, assuring it will all be fine (she knows she’s probably not going to make it, but at least her children will be safe). Sadala finally explodes into oblivion just as Raditz & Kakarot make it to safety. Bardock barely makes it out in time. Gine doesn’t make it.

The Saiyans are thusly reduced to the brink of extinction as only a few thousand remain. Surviving Saiyans flee to a desolated planet to recover. This includes Vegeta, Nappa, Raditz, Kakarot, and Bardock (who barely made it out in time). Because of his wounds, Bardock is put in a comatose state in a healing tank for a few days.

In spite of the loss of Sadala and the majority of the Saiyans, Vegeta swears revenge on Frieza. All remaining Saiyans are ordered to group up and spread out across the galaxies. The war against the Frieza Empire is to continue by any means necessary. Saiyans resort to whipping up secret settlements on planets and fighting back via piracy and guerrilla warfare. The endgame is to tear down Frieza’s empire brick by brick and, ultimately, kill Frieza himself.

Vegeta calls on Raditz and Kakarot to join him and Nappa on his quest to hunt and kill Frieza. Vegeta initially doesn’t want to include Kakarot, whom he deems a liability, but acquiesces.

Frieza puts out a bounty on each and every remaining Saiyan, most of all on the “so-called King of Saiyans” Vegeta.

And so, the Vegeta Force moves out. But they become known as the “Saiyan Squad”. Vegeta and Raditz don’t like it, but Kakarot thinks it’s a cool name.

[snapmite1998]

Nightsister Great Mother: Syla, the Enchantress of the Abyss

Background:

Great Mother Syla is a venerable and powerful Nightsister who sits alongside Mother Talzin, Klothow, Lakesis, and Aktropaw. Her mastery of the dark arts and her profound connection to the mystical forces of Dathomir set her apart as a formidable leader and wise counselor within the Nightsister hierarchy. Her ancient knowledge and exceptional sorcery make her a guardian of the Nightsister clan's deepest secrets and most potent spells.

Appearance:

Syla exudes an aura of otherworldly power. She is adorned in a flowing robe of deep midnight purple, almost black, decorated with intricate patterns woven from golden threads. These patterns depict mythical creatures and ancient runes that shimmer with dark energy. Her headdress is crafted from the bones of ancient beast lizards and adorned with obsidian-colored feathers that cascade down her back, adding to her commanding presence.

Her eyes glow with an ethereal light, shifting between hues of green and violet, a testament to her deep connection with the arcane. Her skin carries the marks of ancient rites, with glowing tattoos that represent her bond with the spirits of the Abyss. Her long, dark hair is often braided with talismans and enchanted stones that amplify her powers.

Powers and Abilities:

Great Mother Syla's abilities are vast and formidable, reflecting her status as one of the foremost practitioners of Nightsister magic:

1. Abyssal Sorcery:

- Syla has explored the darkest depths of Dathomir's magic, allowing her to wield spells that can control shadows and channel the primordial forces of the Abyss. Her sorcery can create portals, summon dark entities, and envelop enemies in shadowy tendrils.

2. Ancient Rites and Rituals:

- Syla is the keeper of ancient Nightsister rites and ceremonies, ensuring that these powerful rituals are passed down through generations. She conducts dark ceremonies that can enhance the abilities of her sisters, bind spirits, and unleash catastrophic spells.

3. Spirit Conjuring:

- Syla possesses the rare ability to commune with and summon powerful spirits from the Abyss. These spirits can serve as guides, protectors, or harbingers of doom, depending on her needs. She can also channel these spirits to heal or empower her sisters.

4. Mastery of Illusions:

- Syla can create powerful illusions that deceive even the most perceptive foes. She uses this ability to conceal her clan, create false images, or terrify her enemies with nightmarish visions.

Role as Great Mother:

Syla’s role within the council of Great Mothers encompasses both leadership and mentorship. She oversees the training of young witches, passing down the darkest and most potent spells to those who show promise. Her wisdom is sought in matters of strategy, magic, and the spiritual well-being of the clan.

Great Mother Syla is often consulted in times of dire need, particularly when the Nightsisters face threats that require the most powerful and forbidden of spells. Her calm and composed demeanor belies the immense power she wields, making her a central and stabilizing force within the clan.

Legacy:

Syla is deeply committed to preserving the Nightsisters' heritage and ensuring their survival amidst the galaxy's tumult, more so after the Nightsisters' previous massacre at the hands of General Grievous and his droid army. She works tirelessly to safeguard their secrets and to empower her sisters through knowledge and magical strength. Young witches look up to her not only as a mentor but as a symbol of the depth and mystery that embody Nightsister magic.

Through her leadership and guidance, Great Mother Syla, the Enchantress of the Abyss, remains a pillar of strength and knowledge, ensuring that the Nightsisters remain a formidable and mystical force within the galaxy. Her presence within the council of Great Mothers reinforces the Nightsisters' unity and their unwavering resolve to protect their way of life.

[pestilentbrood]

holy Crap is that the purple g

[ringleaderising]

@avalonianrising You might want to up your security.

"He surely can't be far now, we just caught his trail near shadow two days ago, Pig- at this rate we're going to miss the girls' first godfall-" "it's fine, we've got weeks before then- of course, we could just call it here an' let him terrorize every clan he stumbles into-" "No, no, we'll find him." "Then stop hasslin' me! the boy can't be far, I just need to focus on sniffin' him out in these here woods."

Though occluding mist might be a pitfall for his father, it's hardly a stopping block for someone short enough that the mists hang above his range of vision, and finding his next hideout seems to be just as simple as following desire paths cut through towering trees. He's no stranger to Nature's forests, learning how to climb and eventually to fly in an effort to ensure he could keep up with his stronger sisters meant quite a bit of time spent in the Viridian Labyrinth- but this clan is new! Runt supposes Pig's distaste for meeting any strangers extends to avoiding the dragons who populate even the wooded safety of the lush greenery Runt remembers from when his siblings were his size.

So maybe it's just luck, that in the face of having never been here before, Runt finds a tavern not unlike the one at Vaudemire Way- he'd stopped there before, and the guardian barkeep in shiny white armor was a far cry from what he's seeing now. He's barely tall enough to reach the counter, stood on tiptoes and balancing on his tail as he attempts to get the attention of the imperial behind it- but over the din of the visitors, it's easier said than done.

"hey! hey mister!" He puffs his cheeks, as he finds it impossible to get the stranger's attention- but his attention is quickly taken by the presence of a pile of shiny golden treasure left behind on the counter as Vanadev walks by.

He's got sticky little claws on the coins a moment later, knocking them into the floor and smearing red on the countertops before he realizes the imp bartender's attention is now decidedly on him.

"Thank you! I can buy my cleaver with this! I'm gonna get- get a big one. One... one even bigger than Daddy's- with flames. oh oh! made out of obsidian-" ignoring the morality of small children entrusted with giant knives, that is Vanadev's tip- so maybe it's no surprise when he's soundly shooed out of the tavern doors.

But they should really lock their back ones. It's the smell of something tasty that lures the little menace back inside, and into the comfortable embrace of something to eat- he appears from a barrel of fish just in time to come nose-to-nose with who certainly seems to be the chef of the tavern, the Coatl clearly a little alarmed at the presence of a dirty little circus clown in their ingredients.

"You have good fish here-" He declares, spilling bodily out of the bucket, rounder than he'd been when he entered it. He expects to be shooed off again- but he's quickly offered a proper meal- something he'd probably take Cahir up on, if he didn't hear the bartender conversing with someone with a familiar, rough cadence.

"looking for a guardian hatchling. about yay-tall." "Clown paint?" "...that's the one." "I just shooed him off for- HEY WAIT- He stole-" "Lady above- Sow, pay the man."

"Oh boy- Thanks for the fish! and the tea! I gotta go!"

[northirish]

Hey Mike you should drink some water today! Big font! 💧

I, Settra, the Great King, the Imperishable, Khemrikhara, The Great King of Nehekhara, King of Kings, Opener of the Way, Wielder of the Divine Flame, Punisher of Nomads, The Great Unifier, Commander of the Golden Legion, Sacred of Appearance, Bringer of Light, Father of Hawks, Builder of Cities, Protector of the Two Worlds, Keeper of the Hours, Chosen of Ptra, High Steward of the Horizon, Sailor of the Great Vitae, Sentinel of the Two Realms, The Undisputed, Begetter of the Begat, Scourge of the Faithless, Carrion-feeder, First of the Charnel Valley, Rider of the Sacred Chariot, Vanquisher of Vermin, Champion of the Death Arena, Mighty Lion of the Infinite Desert, Emperor of the Shifting Sands, He Who Holds The Sceptre, Great Hawk Of The Heavens, Arch-Sultan of Atalan, Waker of the Hierotitan, Monarch of the Sky, Majestic Emperor of the Shifting Sands, Champion of the Desert Gods, Breaker of the Ogre Clans, Builder of the Great Pyramid, Terror of the Living, Master of the Never-Ending Horizon, Master of the Necropolises, Taker of Souls, Tyrant to the Foolish, Bearer of Ptra's Holy Blade, Scion of Usirian, Scion of Nehek, The Great, Chaser of Nightmares, Keeper of the Royal Herat, Founder of the Mortuary Cult, Banisher of the Grand Hierophant, High Lord Admiral of the Deathfleets, Guardian of the Charnal Pass, Tamer of the Liche King, Unliving Jackal Lord, Dismisser of the Warrior Queen, Charioteer of the Gods, He Who Does Not Serve, Slayer off Reddittras, Scarab Purger, Favoured of Usirian, Player of the Great Game, Liberator of Life, Lord Sand, Wrangler of Scorpions, Emperor of the Dunes, Eternal Sovereign of Khemri's Legions, Seneschal of the Great Sandy Desert, Curserer of the Living, Regent of the Eastern Mountains, Warden of the Eternal Necropolis, Herald of all Heralds, Caller of the Bitter Wind, God-Tamer, Master of the Mortis River, Guardian of the Dead, Great Keeper of the Obelisks, Deacon of the Ash River, Belated of Wakers, General of the Mighty Frame, Summoner of Sandstorms, Master of all Necrotects, Prince of Dust, Tyrant of Araby, Purger of the Greenskin Breathers, Killer of the False God's Champions, Tyrant of the Gold Dunes, Golden Bone Lord, Avenger of the Dead, Carrion Master, Eternal Warden of Nehek's Lands, Breaker of Djaf's Bonds… and many, many more titles… Do not need water, I look great.

[halenhusky309]

I know JC stans are very stupid, but this is very funny because if you think this is gotcha to help Jiang Cheng get out of that life debts scot-free, you are greatly mistaken.

By the way, when we said JFM shouldn't expected WWX to repay his life-debts to the Jiangs clan, it can also apply to Wens siblings as they shouldn't expect Jiangs clan to repay their lift debts to them. However, from the outsider's perspectives like us, we would gear admire and praise the folks who choose to repay their life debt to their benefactors as well as look down or condemn on ungrateful folks who ignore or forego their life debts.

This is the same with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, as Wei Wuxian actually attempted to repay his life-debts to the Jiang clans by sacrificing his Golden Core to Jiang Cheng, destroying the enemies that burned down Lotus Pier and murdered his benefactors, helped their sons to gain power and glory through Sunshot Campaign and then help their son to pay their life debts to the Wens siblings; but in the meantime, Jiang Cheng not only refused to acknowledge his life debts to the Wen siblings, he looked down and treated Wen Ning and Wen Qing like trashes because he let his hatred and resentment prevent him from being decent to his benefactors.

P.S. to that one dumb JC stan, when people say parents/adoptive parents/guardians shouldn't expect the children to show gratitude/repay their life debts, no one said Wei Wuxian shouldn't be expected to repay the Jiang Clans. Also, people direct this sentimental to Jiang Cheng (and even JC stans) for expecting WWX to sacrifice everything for the clan (and in general, for him) when he barely did jack shit for WWX, and actually made the situation worse for Wei Wuxian.

[palushiemalis-fr]

dergtober -- day 17 -- Lost

Sabrathan’s tail flicked to and fro as she craned her neck over the window ledge, the rest of her long body reclining lazily on the chamber floor. She shook out her antlers, they tinkled with the small bells and the festive streamers she had tied to it for the celebration. She sighed, she was beginning to tire of them now.

She watched her clan mates fly and twist in the cloudless sky to the tune of ecstatic horns, flutes and drums below. The sun was setting on the last days of the Mistral festival and soon they would return to the light territory. Sabra didn’t feel ready to leave.

She glanced at the satchel she had brought over, once heavy with sunbeam fig treats, dried sour strawberries and pelagas bark tea. She had brought a lantern fashioned from painted paper and filled with glowing Reedcleft Sparklers. There had been golden tortoise shells and ferret pelts strapped to to her bags that had clinked and flapped the entire flight over. Now all traded for scrolls.

She had read every one of them as soon as she could; poems, treatise, hatchling doodles and all sorts of wonderful insights into the Cloudsong’s ways. Yet she didn’t recognise a single one. No poems about abandoning hatchlings or apology letters to her directly. She was a fool. All she wanted, she had to admit, was two words. Just two words. ‘Moon Road’.

“Scuse’ me.”

Sabrathan lifted her heavy head to see a little Spiral fledgling tugging at her mane. She smiled, it was one of the little ones of the Wind clan who were hosting them. She was covered in swirling colourful face paints and smiling with a toothy grin.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Ondran said that Lea said that Amble said you had sticky june bug sweets.” She handed over a scroll smudged with facepaint, “Can I trade you for some?”

“Of course you can!” Sabra laughed and pulled out a small bag of dried june bugs coated in toffee, “Here you go...!”

The Spiral beamed and immeadiately began crunching on it before scampering out the chamber, returning only to pop her head through the chamber door to thank her and scurrying away again.

Sabra idly toyed with the seal on the scroll; maybe it was better to leave them unopened, she thought, she wouldn’t leave on a disappointed note. She looked out the window and saw the spiral now clumsily flying through the air, sharing out her toffee bugs to her nest mates. She gave her a wave and Sabrathan chuckled.

What’s the festival without trying to take a chance and have a bit of fun?

She broke the seal and unfurled the bamboo paper. No doodle or spring haiku, just a map. She furrowed her brow as she read over the blotchy green ink, it wasn’t easy to parse but the location wasn’t that far off from where she was staying. She checked her compass, South-West on an Islet in Singer’s Brook.

She strapped on her satchel and jingled her antler bells again for good measure before leaping from the window into the air. Soon a small party of her clan mates and hosts joined her as she sailed in the air. The face painted fledglings looped around her until they waved her off. What better way to get into her home-flight spirit than take off on an adventure...?

After she had left the Cloudsong, the melodies and drumming became distant and she could only her the gentle tinkling of her bells. An hour or two passed and the sun had sunken into twilight. Reedcleft sparklers lit up her descent, disturbed from their perches but the gust from her large wings.

“Here we are...” She whispered to herself.

The islet felt like a whispering place. A place didn’t demand quiet, but inspired it.

Statuettes of spirit guardians sat on the edge of the brook that forked around the islet. Frogs, axolotls, cranes and kitsune, all eyeing her in the luminous nightfall. A small shrine lantern covered in moss sat nearby, long abandoned and worn. She ought to leave an offering before she took off, she thought. She curled up under a willow and caught her breath from the journey. Its fronds hung over her and formed a little shelter, it felt cozy under the dimming skies.

She wondered if there was anything special about this islet, other than the fact it was as serene as it was. She laid her head down, perhaps flying out so late wasn’t the wisest idea. But she could lay down to sleep in this unclaimed territory until morning.

The Moon rose over head and the stars began to wink into focus. Then, a fwoosh. A blue flame woke in the shrine lantern. Sabra almost jumped up before she noticed another then another all lighting one after another. She hadn’t noticed the other lanterns encircling the islet, some were broken and half sunken into the moss. Yet they lit up all the same.

She got up and wandered to check on them, perhaps this was a sacred place and she ought to move on with an apology to the spirits. Then, she spotted the tomb stone. An upright stone, covered in chickweed and sandcreeper. Perhaps she could make amends by clearing it from its face to allow it to be legible.

She pulled off the foliage gently with her claws, trying to mind the stone beneath.

- Tomb of the Moon Road Clan - Our Souls rest before their journey into the stars, carried on the Great Singer’s winds...

Sabrathan’s mouth fell open. The silence that had haunted her life where her family should have been wrapped around her in that moment. Every prayer for a memory of understanding beyond the words left to her as a young hatchling, ‘Moon Road’, had been answered by the silence she was engulfed by.

She read the names by starlight. Of course, she recognised no one, she had been so young after all. To be found carried on a storm to the Hewn City ruins, the only words she knew was ‘Moon Road’ she had parroted until she was ready to learn to read.

She had her answer now. A heavy, thudding, painful answer, a heavy burden to carry home. She wept, throwing herself at the bottom of the tombstone. She sobbed until the crickets stopped singing. Sabrathan finally ran out of tears and heaved a rattling sigh.

She didn’t feel heavy at all. Something had lifted from her chest, and the journey home would be the easiest it had ever been...