#crones in space verse

[mothiir]

yknow what??? fuck it. im not even gonna turn on anon. IM NOT EVEN GONNA DO IT!! because at this point you'd clock my ass a nautical mile off for who it is just bc im gonna ask for exactly what you caught me for on anon LAST TIME.

SO,,,, haha,,,, heyyyy mothiiiiir,,,, pllllleeeasse more nasty ass rabbit/emp headcanonnns OR writing or anything,, you always cook and im one starving ass loser.

thank you ily and your writing once again ok ok ok BYEEE

cw: angst, not what you intended but this got me thinking about the emperor and then uh. we got this. not set in the little rabbit verse, which will soon become obvious. playing loose with the canon timelines because i don’t know exactly how the burning of monarchia went down.

—

—

Monarchia burns — and three days later, Guilliman and his sons make planet fall.

—

It takes a great deal to surprise a Primarch, and yet here Guilliman is, blinking at the charred rubble of your former capital, struggling to find words.

“Say that again,” he says, at length. You sit up from your prostrated position, lifting your head just enough to address his shins rather than the ground.

“There is no penance great enough for the crime we have committed against the Emperor and the Imperium,” you say, your voice soft, but ringing clear. “There is no punishment that we do not deserve for such blatant defiance of the Imperial Truth. I can state that we were misled — which is true — and that we were ignorant, but that is no excuse. All I can say is that when I discovered that my Lord Husband was acting in defiance of the Emperor’s wishes, I acted as swiftly as I could to remedy it.”

It makes even less sense the second time around. The once-glorious city is wreathed in flames; the sun blotted out by a miasma of smoke. The same story is repeated across the entire planet. A revolution almost overnight — temples torn down, idols cast into the sea, believers put to the sword. The few Word Bearers that remained had died at their posts; they had slaughtered thousands of their kinsman, but died all the same. Bears torn down by hounds.

“You did this,” he says. You shake your head minutely. Your hair — once a glorious braid almost to your waist, always ornamented with some fancy that Lorgar had gifted you — has been chopped into an unkempt bob around your shoulders. Guilliman vaguely remembers a tale amongst Lorgar’s adopted people: of a queen who had lost a great battle, and shorn her locks in penance.

“No my lord. I did nothing. My people acted against the rot in our ranks. They carved it out.”

“Millions have died.”

“It is no great loss that those who would espouse the evils of theology perish,” you say, your voice as flat and featureless as a windless sea. “All I ask is that those that remain…”

For a moment, emotion returns to your voice, colouring it.

“All I ask is that some of them be spared. Please.”

You lift your face for the first time since his arrival. Your lips are lined with blood, shadows hung beneath eyes sunk deep into their sockets. In the space of three days, you seem to have aged decades — from a fresh-faced woman in the bloom of youth, to a crone who has seen the ending of all that she loves.

—

The seas do not boil. The sky does not burn. Another battle is brought to a shuddering, decisive end as the Ultramarines join on the side of your rebels — no, you cannot think of them as such. They are not rebels; they are vindicated. They are fighting for the truth, for what is right and good. They are crusaders.

You — you are not a crusader. You are not sure what to call yourself. Lorgar called you a goddess; a title that always disquieted you, but you accepted it, for his eyes shone so when he looked at you, and he made love to you as though you were the only thing that mattered. Now, you have lost count of the number of men and women who have died for referring to you as such.

You are not a widow either. Your husband lives, though you do not know where he is. Once, Lorgar pressed his hand to your chest and felt the thrum of your heart against his palm and said that no matter where you went there was a golden cord that bound your heart to his; that no void nor fire could split asunder what was joined in love.

You dream that you wind a golden chain around your hands, pull it taut, and bite until your teeth chip, until your tongue bleeds, until it frays into dust on your lips.

—

When you meet the Emperor, you press your forehead to the cinder-warm flagstones that used to be a marketplace, and you wait for death. You know, in a distant dreamy sort of way, that you should be afraid, but you are not. You accepted your death what seems like a lifetime ago — in reality, it is less than four days since you gave the order to start burning the temples.

The irony of it all. People answered your call to arms, to not-so-holy war, because you are Lorgar’s bride, because you are the woman once called goddess. And what did you do with the power that he gave you? You ordered that his greatest works be destroyed.

But what else could you have done?

Colchis is your home. And in his arrogance — in his endless childish arrogance — Lorgar would have let it burn to ash rather than do as he had been bid. Did he truly believe his father a god? If so, why would he not obey his commandments as soon as they were given?

Thinking this way hurts you — not only because it stirs anger like a wounded animal in your breast, but because it throws into stark relief how Lorgar’s mind contained chasms and corners you never saw. How even though you gave yourself to him as completely as a woman can, he always kept parts of himself hidden from you — but you will not waste time delving into that labyrinth. His beliefs are inconsequential. Only the facts matter. Lorgar worshipped his father as a god. Lorgar was told to stop. Lorgar did not.

You visited the day of judgement upon Colchis before the Emperor got the chance, betting everything on a single desperate gesture. You do not regret it, though you will dream of the dying wails of your people until the end of your days. If you had not acted, all would have died. Now, maybe — just maybe — some may live.

“The girl acted in the best interests of her people,” the Emperor says, and it is only then that you realise precisely what was happening: he was rifling around in your head, subtly enough that you could not see the intrusion; mistaking his exploration for an ill-timed moment of navel-gazing. All at once, pain rushes into your knees and thighs, knife-like cramps. How long have you been kneeling there?

Then, inexplicably, a wash of frustration: girl, he calls you. Girl. You are staring down your third decade of life — nothing for one such as him, of course, but really.

Girl. You carved out your still-warm heart and laid it on a flaming altar and he refers to you as girl.

“Stand,” he says, and you obey, fighting the hysterical urge to snort with laughter — you’re exhausted, swooning, and starting to feel the after-effects of the universe’s most powerful psyker reading your thoughts. Blood drips down your chin. “I am satisfied with the efforts of your loyal Imperial citizens against the primitive cultists.”

“Thank you my lord,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground — thus missing entirely the swift, puzzled look Guilliman gives you, for ‘I am satisfied’ is more praise than the Emperor normally gives anyone.

(And perhaps it is just a trick of the light, or the wild shadows cast by the afterglow of battle, but Guilliman swears that just for a moment his father smiles.)

“Heracles,” says the Emperor, addressing one of the gigantic golden sentinels standing to attention beside him. “You will escort her aboard the Bucephalus. We will speak further when I have dealt with my son.”

The golden sentinel inclines her head, and you try your best to stay upright, your legs shaky as a newborn colt. You do not think of what the Emperor will do to Lorgar; you cannot.

“It goes without saying,” says the Emperor, almost as an afterthought. “But your marriage to him is annulled.”

Eight years. Your life; your heart; that golden cord. What love has joined together, none may tear asunder - except that is not true, was never true.

“Yes my lord,” you say.

[saessenach]

3 & 20 📚

hiiiiiii so I actually had a mini essay all typed out for this and tumblr decided to eat it up, which means that it took me a hot second to type it all again 🥹

3. What were your top five books of the year?

Tied for first place, it'll have to be Ursula K. Le Guin's Space Crone, and Jane Austen's Persuasion. Both were deeply impactful for me and had me sobbing like a child, and I couldn't choose between them with a gun to my head.

Space Crone dug its claws into me from the first and titular essay, and Le Guin's writing was utterly fascinating - incisive, reflective and yet so kind. She's got such a sharp voice, and I could read and reread her articles and essays and learn something new everytime. Seeing her inquiries into aging, gender and societal issues evolve throughout the years was so special, and I particularly loved that she was fearless about changing and revising her opinions. I can't thank @missmungoe enough for the rec, because it was life-altering literature.

Persuasion was a book I had been waiting to read and I think this year was precisely the right time for it. From the characterisation, to the social commentary, to the slow journey of Anne finally allowing herself to see the world and be seen by those around her in return, Persuasion had me in a chokehold. I get inordinately emotional while thinking about it, especially in the context of when it was written in Austen's life, and I don't think I'll ever recover from The Letter.

Second to them was This is How You Lose the Time War, by Max Gladstone and Amal El-Mohtar. You have to understand - I love my SF with a hearty dose of worldbuilding and my enemies-to-lovers romances as smaller pieces set in a wide, wide world. This book has neither, and yet I fell deeply in love with it. The letters between Red and Blue are so honest, the candour between them fucking heart-melting. The ending had me sobbing, and this truly was the year of love letters for me!!

After that, it's Joanna Glenn's All my Mothers, which took its time charming me, but once it did, I was a goner. It was such an interesting meditation on motherhood and identity, and incredibly complex relationships between women. The story was also deeply anchored in its locations, and I was left with an incredibly strong urge to visit Córdoba - love for that city was pouring off the page, and it's strange to be half-in-love with a place you've never seen before but alas!!! Also, this was an audiobook for me, so please picture me having an emotional menty b in the vegetable aisle at the shops. fun times!

Now it all gets a bit muddy because I am shite at picking only five things at once and leaving out any of these books feels plain wrong, as they each scratched a very different itch in my brain:

Daniel Keynes' Flowers for Algernon came out of left field for me, bc I read it a decade ago and hated it to bits, only to find it ridiculosuly compelling on my reread this year. My book club had a deliciously in-depth discussion about it, and it was so refreshing to find that I can not only change my mind, but also find new things to appreciate in unlikely places.

Both of Heather Fawcett's Emily Wilde books were an utter delight - they left me giggling like a loon, and the characters charmed my socks off. The visuals were so lovely that my fingers were itching to pick up a pen and draw (which is rare and wonderful for me) - I haven't gotten to that yet, but they're always in the back of my mind, so I can only hope inspiration will be kind to me soon! Maybe when I reread them this winter hmmm

Finally (this time for real), I need to yell a second about Emily Wilson's Odyssey, because it was captivanting and gorgeous and I rotate verses and images from it in my head far too much for it to be healthy. It was so lovely to revisit my childhood love of Greek myths, but this time with the real deal! Can't wait to get my hands on her Illiad as well, hopefully next year!

20. What was your most anticipated release? Did it meet your expectations?

So I haven't been following that many series recently?? But the only release I'd been waiting for was Mimi Matthews' new Belles of London installment, and The Lily of Ludgate Hill was everything I hoped it would be! I love this romance series, they are incredibly lovely and comforting, and strongly rooted in that time period. There's a delicious amount of historical research that goes into establishing the world and the way the heroines occupy it. The books follow a group of friends who are all on the outskirts of polite society, for various reasons - they're all distinctive and fun and their respective romances are delightful. I can only say, Bridgerton wishes it was this series, and I'm always up for a reread. I think the final book in the series will come out soon and I can't wait to read it hehe

Thank you for giving me an opportunity to ramble about books I loved !! And sorry for taking so long to get to it ahh 🫶

end-of-the-year book ask meme here

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Meteor Shower (Part 18)

How long has it been?

She can’t remember. 

But it has been a long time.

At the very least, it feels like it has been.

But she is holding a microphone again.

She is looking out at an expecting crowd again.

She tells herself that it will be fine. All of the Trix’s practices have gone well.

She tells herself that, even if they do terribly, they will not do worse than whatever Samantha had been doing. Rather attempting to do. She almost feels bad for the witch. But not quite; Samantha’s failure is a safety net for the Trix. No matter how bad they are, Samantha’s improv comedy sketch will be the talk of the school.

“Hello Cloud Tower.” Darcy greets. “We hope that you are having a delightfully dastardly evening. We’d like to start our show with a little ritual. Just a little something to set the ambiance, if you don’t mind.” 

She didn’t know it then, but that is how they would open every show from then on out. No matter how their sound may change…no matter how the Trix themselves may change that is how they always open. It just feels right.

Icy lights the first candle. Darcy the second. Stormy the third. They take turns until the stage is aglow and smoky with incense. 

“Join hands and close your eyes. Clear your minds…”

This is where things tend to differ depending on what their intentions are for that night and that performance. Tonight it is a chant for success. For longevity. 

And then, for the first time in ages, a space is filled with Icy’s voice. Low but light. Darkly spellbinding. The voice of a frozen, cracking pond glimmering glossy under moonrays. Like frost fringing a black rose. It is, she realizes, so very different than anything Kyanite has ever done. Kyanite who had a voice like waking up on a December morning to see a blanket of snow that hadn't been there the night before. A cadence and a equity akin to the jubilance that comes with hearing that classes have been canceled for a snow day. Icy’s voice isn’t so cheerful. She takes comfort in that. In how something as simple and subtle as a change of tempo and lyrical subject matter can set her voice so far apart from Kyanite’s. 

And in that realization there is power. 

Confidence.

Victory. 

She had two conquests that night; defeating each and every other student who had taken the stage that night and putting Kyanite in the ground once and for all. 

And as Kyanite dies once again, something comes to life. Something is reborn. A love of music, a desire to string ordinary words into ornate verses and choruses. 

She hadn’t realized just how much she had missed music. 

Along with Kyanite, fear and trepidation die too. And it becomes easier to work her way through each note. Easier to harmonize with Darcy and contrast with Stormy. Easier to put sound to words that had formerly only been on paper. Easier to sing of the four elements and triple spirals. Easier to musically recant a tale of the mother, the maiden, and the crone.

Working with the guitar is tricky. It still feels very heavy in her hands.

She thinks that she had plucked one or two wrong strings. But no one seems to have noticed. Her voice has a pull to it, they watch her lips not her fingers. And so clumsy fingerwork is forgivable. 

She closes her eyes and holds her final note. 

The spotlight is warm on her face. Tonight that doesn’t matter. Tonight Icy remembers that she still loves singing. Tonight she has a third conquest. 

Valtor doesn’t know it and she doesn’t realize it yet; but she doesn’t think of him anymore when she performs.  She thinks of Darcy and Stormy and of the music itself. 

.oOo.

The Trix had changed their sound before, she recalls. They hadn’t started out as deathrockers. They had made wicca music before that with death rock influences. Darcy had written much of their music then and had added her hippie, new age sort of touches. It worked well enough for them. But it couldn’t last because it was too sweet, too melodic. The music had its dark and witchy undertones and by all means that sound, that atmosphere did suit the Trix well. But it had come with the same issues that their new witch house and ethereal wave era comes with now; that type of music required a lighter, higher vocal quality. The sort that Kyanite had always been known for. And so it had to come to an end. Death rock was perfect, it required a deeper, lower vocal quality and left room for some more grating, growling vocals. The type that Stormy has mastered quite naturally. The type that Icy had to train her voice to achieve. But when she had mastered the that art she could finally feel safe making music again. Secure in that her voice had become so far removed from what it had been that she wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

But she is thinking about it again. 

More than ever. 

“You doing okay?” Darcy asks.

Icy nods “well enough.” But the tightness of her grip around the neck of her guitar is more indicative of her mood than anything that comes out of her mouth. She isn’t shaking with fear. She is beyond that. The truth is that her nervousness has reached a high so elevated that shakiness subsides for rigidity. 

She remembers the first time she had played a live show. Her stomach had been fluttering then too but with anticipation and exhilaration. She supposes that there was a touch of nervousness, the sort that was typical of her at the time—typical of a dork who hadn’t yet realized that people found her attractive. Mostly she had been jittery with excitement. Chalcedony and Diamond had been giggling amongst themselves. Ruby and Topaz had given each other fist bumps for good luck. And Goldstone had slung an arm over her shoulder and asked her if she was ready.

She was. 

“Mmhmm, let’s go.” 

Three words. Technically two. 

Kick started what would become the worst  thing to happen to her.

But she didn’t know it then

She wouldn’t know it for a long time afterwards…

It is quite cruel that they had picked this particular stage. The very stage that she had given that very first show. The stage that she had been so delighted to stand upon. She had been so bright then; optimistic and lively. It was all smiles and laughs the first time that Dyamond had seen her. 

Dyamond had loved her…

The Winx are about finished with their show and the Dyamond crowd is sufficiently hyped. All she has to do is not fuck it up. Not let her nerves get the better of her. Not let howling ghosts of past mishaps and humiliations take the stage with her tonight and haunt her performance. 

“Sounds like we’re up.” Stormy mentions. And Icy’s stomach flops. 

Stormy gives her an encouraging little nudge. 

She feels ridiculous. She has never been this anxious about a show; not her first one as Kyanite, not even her last one as Kyanite had been so nerve wracking as this. As her first time performing in Dyamond as Icy. 

And Dyamond welcomes her back to the stage with very spirited cheers. It is, she reminds herself, a very different crowd than the one that she had looked upon when MeTor took to the stage. A different crowd, a different scene. Leather clade deathrockers and witches rather than starry-eyed tweens wearing frills and bows. 

The claps die down and Icy holds the microphone to her lips. She opens her mouth to speak. The words don’t come as soon as she would have liked. It is the slightest of hesitancies, completely unnoticeable to everyone but her. “It is…” certainly not good “...a pleasure to be back on stage.” She pauses. “It has been a while.” 

They murmur in agreement. They don’t know just how long it has been.

“Thank you for welcoming the Trix back to the stage, we apologize for leaving you with the Winx for so long.” This draws laughs mostly from the witches but some of the faeries titter along too. “I’m certain that they’ve already apologized for abandoning you to us.” More laughs. At least some of the fluttering in her belly settles. “I hope that it hasn’t been long enough that you’ve forgotten how we do our rituals…”

She leaves room for a response. The crowd swears that they remember just fine. She will take their word for it. “Well then I suppose that we shouldn’t waste anymore time. Darcy…”

Darcy nods and steps forward. “As you all know, the Trix like to begin a show with a ritual. Just a little something to set the ambiance, if you will.” She gestures for Icy to light the first candle. One by one until the ambiance grows familiar. And comfortable in its familiarity. Another bit of dread slips away. 

Icy sets the final candle down upon their prop hedgestone, next to the case of incense sticks. They have decorated their stage well if she does say so. There are several fake gravestones and a panel of rusted fence posts that Stormy had demanded that they stop their tour bus to retrieve from the side of the road in some small town in Darcy’s home realm. Many of their candles find homes in the many lanterns that they have foraged from various antique shops. Icy finds herself a seat on the couch that they had hauled onto the bus. It smells like mothballs and she hadn’t bothered to remove the cobwebs, they suit it just fine. 

She raises the microphone back to her lips as the synths and drum machines begin their droning. She alternates between sitting properly and splaying herself across the sofa as she makes her way through different verses. Darcy stares at her through a lacy black veil. 

She is drowning in ruffles and petticoats so when it comes time for her to stand back up, Stormy offers a hand. 

She finds herself wishing that she had more practice dancing in such a plentiful, layered garment. She, come to think of it, has never tried to dance in something so restrictive. A corset impedes on many of her usual moves and so she finds herself mimicking Darcy who has undoubtedly danced in huge ballgowns many times before. Although tonight’s outfit looks much more like a tattered wedding dress than a ballgown. Stormy moves quite freely, refusing to wear a dress that has anymore than two layers. 

At this point dance is entirely improvised. Everything she had intended to do cannot be done in this particular dress. It is just as well, she doesn’t think that dance is meant to be planned. Dance just happens. When it is planned it feels stiff, manufactured, soulless. 

She is not a flouncy popstar. She has no need for painstakingly practiced choreography. Nobody is here for that anyways. 

They are here to listen to music. Dance and cinematography are bonuses. 

And they do listen to her voice. They listen quite intently. 

She listens quite intently to her own voice. 

A voice that is like Icy’s and like Kyanite’s at the same time. Light and breathy as ethereal wave and this particular witch house track call for. Tonight her voice is like a soft winter wind. Those tiny, peaceful puffs that come before a blizzard.

Her voice is the sound that snow makes as it gathers on a gravestone.

And when it comes to playing their older tracks, her voice comes like brushing webs and dust off of an old bookshelf in a manor ten years abandoned. It is the creaking of stairs that only spirits ascend. 

She gives a flick of her wrist and dips into some sort of half bow only to rise again and toss her head back to get her hair out of her face. She dreads, for just a moment, that her hair extensions will come loose. But they hold steady. She holds steady and she reaches for her guitar. 

She has missed her guitar so very much. 

It is light in her hands, fits them just perfectly. 

Her fingers slide up and down the fretboard with an artistic ease. 

A collection of silver rings and finger armor glint and flash under the spotlight. 

And as the song grows in intensity so to do the shadows and the falling of snow. So too does the breeze that flutters the curtains. She closes her eyes a second time and calls for the snow to swirl around her. She sings of a crown with frozen wings. It cannot fly. I had never been truly able to do so anyways. It is a broken thing, the crow. But it looks so beautiful in the throes of death. Darcy’s voice so perfectly conveys what it might sound like to be on the brink of death with feathers brushing against cheeks. 

And Stormy, her voice cuts like a blade dragged upon a gravestone. It is a unique voice. One of a kind. And the Trix have learned to utilize it sparingly so as to really make it count. 

Their final song ends in a peel of thunder and a sweeping of skirts. 

Snowflakes linger beneath the spotlight, drifting lazily even after the Trix depart. 

Icy’s voice keeps them company for just a few precious seconds until the echo too melts away. 

She forgets to fret over whether or not the people of Dyamond have recognized that voice. She forgets to dread anything at all. For a moment, as the crowd claps for them, she forgets that she had been anxious at all. Forgets that she is still quite tired, that her body is still fighting to recover fully. Forgets that there had been any hiccups or arguments at all. 

Stormy’s arm drapes over her shoulder and for once she doesn’t think of Goldstone. “Well I think that, that was our best show in a long time.” Darcy remarks. 

It certainly wasn’t short of theatrics. 

They ought to make more shows like that. 

Yes. They can end their brief witch house era and try for something with classical and operatic roots. 

Maybe they can go back to their earliest sound and make wicca music again. 

Maybe they can just throw everything together and see what comes out. 

Icy wants to make music again. 

For the sake of music.

Not for competition. Not for fame. 

For music. 

“It went well.” Icy agrees. She wipes a tear before the other two could notice it. It had gone well. After everything, after all of that stress and distress, the show had gone well. And well enough for her to feel alive again. 

Well enough for her to consider that it might not matter if they know that she is Kyanite. Might not. There is still a large part of her that clings to the hope that she can put Kyanite behind her once and for all, forever this time.

The Trix join the Winx in the dressing room. 

There is no bickering tonight. No banter.

The show had gone well for all of them and they are all so overcome with relief. 

It had gone so well that nobody has any qualms about going out for dinner.

No qualms about letting witches and faeries be seen together. 

Nobody says a thing when things finally become too overwhelming to keep down. She has gone through a breakup, several heated fights, had damn near lost her friends, had suffered through withdrawals and the resurfacing of old pains. All of that and this is the thing that makes her cry. She isn’t even sad. 

In fact she thinks that she is happy. Happy and relieved. 

She feels ridiculous for it but nobody laughs, nobody sneers, nobody taunts. Darcy rubs her back and Stormy looks rather confused. Nobody speaks ill of her at all.

But, when things are not so fresh and raw, she knows that Peters won’t let her hear the end of this one.

[houseofhyde]

Tell us about The Sun Came Crashing Down 👀

hey, thank you for your ask <3 here, have a snippet of & the sun came crashing down ! wip ask game.

if a lone tree within a deserted forest falls with not a living soul around to bare witness, is there any noise to be heard?

this question began to plague the young girl’s very existence from the moment she had stumbled upon it, tucked neatly between paragraphs on the dangers of mankind and their eternal thirst for bloodshed and war, bound together by the golden silk and blackened leather of a book entitled the silent enemy: a history of warcraft off the battlefield and at the dining table.

written by one archmaester croll, a man dubbed the copper crone for the representative metal of his expertise and his fair age, the book encourages any who dare to read it to take reflection upon the lords who’d unknowingly welcomed their allies to break bread and empty their cups at their feasts only to be betrayed with schemes and political backstabbing.

with age and with knowledge, the girl’s answer to this enigma changed.

when she’d first read it, a mere seven years (and nine moons, as the small girl had desperately reminded her father between his endeared laughter) old and already filling her delicate mind with all the knowledge she could cram into it, she’d proudly proclaimed that no, there would be no noise.

when her father asked why, she claimed noise was something created for ears to hear and, thus, if no ears were around, noise could simply not exist.

when age ten rolled around, just as the girl’s father was setting their table with a feast for two, she startled him with the sudden exclamation of yes!

“yes what, sweet pea?”

“the tree! it makes noise.”

“you’re still on that?” he seemed amused. then again, he always was when it came to the young one’s studies. more often than not he’d raise his eyebrows as she listed off the books she desired to read, shocked to find his small babe so fascinated by stories of bloodshed and politics. the shock never stopped him from fulfilling these demands however and, thus, the small pile of books that lined the cottage walls grew more and more with each of his travels. “what made you change your mind, hm?”

“love!” it was certainly not what he’d expected to hear, never having believed his daughter to be well-versed in such a thing. then again, she’d long proved herself wiser than most her age. “i love you when you’re here and when you’re not. it’s not something that’s relative to time and space. and neither is sound! so the tree will fall and make noise, even if no one is there to listen.”

“very good, darling. now, can we pleases eat before the food is cold?”

for the years to follow, her answer jumped from yes, to no, to maybe, and even to “perhaps the tree never even fell, maybe it grew horizontally instead of vertically!”.

with no real way to decipher the truth, the girl had made peace with the fact that the rest of her days would pass her by and she’d still have no definitive conclusion. it became a comfort of sorts, a question she could ponder when the storm raged a little too loudly and rattled the windows of the lonesome cottage; or when she ran out of messes to clean and crops to pick; or when her father returned from his travels, arms filled with more books for her pile and ears ready to hear what new theories she’d come up with.

by the time she reached womanhood, the girl lost all want for a true answer, finding the real enjoyment came from the not knowing right from wrong.

until one night, a noise was heard.

she’d been stood at the very edge of the cottage’s land, right between the meadow and the great dark valley of trees, head tilted up at the stars. it was the early days of winter, leaving the nights longer and colder than ever, and while she typically would have been found curled up in the comfort of her bed and a good book, she’d been lured outside by a flash of light.

like nothing she’d seen before, this light was not the familiar ice cold white of a lighting bolt cracking through the air, nor the twinkling of a shooting star traveling the night sky. this was red, angry, foreboding. it terrified her to see, fire lighting the up the night sky, just as one of her books had foretold.

“and there will come a day, when the seven are tired and our sins are too many, that the stranger will rip the sun from it’s place above and let it crash down upon us, flames and all.”

[mxhlon]

He liked that answer, liked that she was willing to play into it and indulge. The bartender leaned forward, and Mahlon repeated martini, adding, "an old fashion, too. And a round of shots. Surprise us." The man nodded, and Mahlon sank back into the booth. "'Cause fuck it, why not?" That was his mentality for most things. Consequences came either way: the choosing or the unchoosing, motion or stillness. It came all the same. Might as well have a little fun on the way.

"They make an, uh, absinthe drink, but y'can't really get the same shit they used to use anymore. So they use etheroid." So Mahlon had been given some fuck-ass directions here to make a delivery, much to his confusion, as he wandered around the alleyway for a solid twenty before a couple opened up the cellar doors.

Mahlon enjoyed watching Greer, seeing the way she perceived the world. It was hard to read her sometimes. Expression clouded, closed-off, so when he caught a glimpse beyond or beneath, it was a special thing. She was looking at the walls, at the collection amassed here, and he too was looking at art.

The crone of the music set a warm blanket over the space, and he hummed along eyes wandering, familiar with the song. "They play this shit on the rebel radio," Mahlon mumbled. Cat and Nano and their illegal broadcast -- felt like a lifetime away. "Y'know my favorite part of it? Y'can hear them breathe," he listened for the gasp between verses, the gulp of air the singer took that just felt...real. Capitolite music didn't have that. It was so edited and polished that you could barely distinguish it from AI, from something entirely computer-generated. A song, and not.

"Martini," she answered decisively. It wasn't her usual drink, but it struck her as something more fitting to the venue. It was an unusual place, and Greer felt like it called for something a little outside of the same old whiskey on the rocks she'd get at the Tower Bar. "And a round'a shots? 'Cause fuck it, why not?" She added, testing to see if he was willing to indulge her. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She asked, swiveling her gaze to the art that hung over them, trying to piece together the things she didn't recognize.

[sayitwithsarcophilus]

good morning to space-traveling community college professors, astrophysicists who drink too much, people whose best friend is their alternate self from a parallel universe, trans botany students with great hair, middle-aged goth ladies who own metaphysical shops, earnest teens trying to apply US-centric social justice concepts to extremely unfamiliar cultures, space-gerbil gamblers, and green alien beefcake wood elves

[yautjalover]

I’m here to deliver the custom commission that I offered @spookigh0ul for winning my raffle of the 150 follower special! They requested a female Yautja x female human with the human being witchy and into the paranormal. It was by luck that I’m a former Wiccan, now Norse Pagan, and am versed in just these sort of things! I hope you like it! Writing a female Yautja was definitely a fun exercise as I always write with a male in mind. 😁

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Witchy 🔮 Female x Female Yautja

Her Yautja mate, R’kai, helped to display her myriad of skulls, old apothecary bottles, glittering crystals, a small cast iron cauldron, and a statue of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone — this Kathi displayed in the center of her shelving set on the black metal wall. On a lower shelf she put away her Wiccapedia, Moon Magic, Queer Magic, Ghost Sightings, Book of Shadows, and many more occult and pagan books. She made sure to squeeze in her encyclopedia for herbs at the end of easy finding. Every book and item had been very near and dear to her heart, each one required to take with her in this new segment of her life.

At last, she was leaving Earth for a life in space with R’kai, a female Yautja who was now her life mate; a life mate was the equivalent of a husband or wife. She was joined with this gorgeous green and brown mottled alien for life. Upon first meeting R’kai she had mistaken her for a male, at least until she noticed the slight curves and widened hips. Those first few weeks had been scary but they had grown close together and fell hard in love. The interspecies thing had taken a while to get used to but they both made it work.

Moving her stuff had been quite humorous when her mate, a being who hunted creatures for glory and honor, found Kathi had a collection of her own, one that she had recovered from animals that had died to natural causes rather than kill them herself. Kathi had to explain that hunting the ones she had found was illegal and dangerous.

“Bhu’ja.”

Kathi swiveled her head in the direction of R’kai, to find her carefully flipping through a book on hauntings. A large hand stroked the silky pages of the hardback tome as she squinted quizzically at the grainy images of supposed ghosts caught on film. The bands in R’kai’s dreadlocks tinkled together as she leaned forward to inspect the human language.

“What’s that mean…bhu’ja?” She scooted closer to her mate who lowered the book so she could see it better.

The large female hummed to herself, “Bhu’ja means spirit. A…spectre. One who’s spirit has not yet passed but lingers.”

They had tales of ghosts in R’kai’s culture — that she knew. This was one of many things that they had bonded over. She hadn’t heard their actual word for them, though. It was the first time she had voiced it.

“Boo-juh…” Kathi repeated. The j was pronounced like the j in “jug”. The word was thankfully simple like other Yautja words. She would have to be a fast learner so she could understand others if they came across more.

“Sei’i. You have interests in the after. Such things are…taboo to Yautja.” R’kai flipped forward in the book and stopped to inspect a drawing of an apparition in an old opera house. “Yautja fear nothing unlike oomans. Bhu’ja are talked about in whispers. Legends. Tales to scare sucklings.”

“Humans are curious and don’t understand ghosts so we try to speculate just what they are. Some people believe in an afterlife while others seek a more scientific answer to their existence. Ghosts, I mean.” Explained the human woman, tucking her long black hair behind her ears to expose her red pentacle earrings, the color nice against her tan skin.

The Yautja female purred in understanding and set the book back in its place. Her keen orange eyes inspected the other books before plucking a Citrine crystal cluster off the shelf, turning it around in the ambient light of the room where glimmers of orange-yellow reflected on the wall and R’kai’s rough skin.

“That’s called Citrine. It’s supposed to bring joy and abundance in one’s life.”

“A rock brings a gift?”

“Yes,” smiled Kathi, enjoying how the crystal almost perfectly matched her mate’s eyes. “It’s not actually useful, but if you put your mind to it then it will bring you those gifts. It’s like…you put the work in or it won’t help you.”

R’kai cocked her head to the side, her tusks clicking together while a finger petted the object. She was silent as she returned it to its place on the shelf.

“A’ket’anu.” She pointed to it and an Amethyst cluster. “Beautiful in ooman.”

“Yes,” agreed Kathi, “beautiful. They’re very beautiful…like you, mate.” Her fingers trailing down the fine musculature of R’kai’s back.

The Yautja female purred, her orange eyes sidling to watch Kathi as she put away various additional objects. Her rounded rump was raised giving R’kai a full view of her mate’s luscious buttocks. She fought the desire to show Kathi just how beautiful she really was.

Together they finished the task and Kathi set about gathering gemstones for a ritual she insisted on. R’kai was skeptical of what Kathi had in store for her but she wasn’t about to back down because she didn’t know the complexities of human religion.

R’kai found herself lying on her back, nude and bared for Kathi to do as she wished. Her keen raptor eyes watched as Kathi set fire to a tiny conical object that began to smoke when she blew out the flame. She did this to three more and placed them on the corners of the bed.

Smoke curled into the air, tickling the scent receptors in R’kai’s mandibles. The cones smelled of an earthy spicy scent that was quite pleasant. She breathed it in, letting it fill her lungs and relax her further. Her skin tickled as Kathi trailed a feather down the hard planes of her stomach.

After the feather, Kathi squeezed droplets of an oil down R’kai’s chest and abdomen, rubbing the liquid into her hide with soft yet sure hands. The Yautja enjoyed the tender touch of her mate as she thoroughly oiled every inch of her skin. As she worked, she chanted words in a soft voice. The human words apparently meant something but R’kai was too relaxed to care.

“Flames of passion, romance grow. May this passion burn within, from me you will never part. Let this spell fuel passion and love. From me to you, so mote it be.” Recited Kathi, reading a spell she had created a few days ago.

She dropped a touch of oil on her finger and swirled it in the space between R’kai’s brow bone before repeating it on herself, tying them together. Stripping her own clothing, she lay atop her mate pressing their bodies together, the oil rubbing on her own skin. The warmth of her Yautja mate felt pleasant, even more so when her muscled arms wrapped protectively around her small body.

Humming to herself, she pressed a kiss to R’kai’s rough hide. She couldn’t wait to show her many more things as they lived together. A life in the literal stars would be the biggest adventure of her life and with R’kai by her side…she would love every minute of it.

[tewwor-a]

* & HOT HOT POTATOES, GETTEM WHILE THEY’RE HOT — MORE TEST MUSES !

this is mutuals only.

verse . banshee . vanessa k.irby . ??? yo . cis female . orphaned from a early age, taken by some old church, was seen as cursed the first time she predicted death in house with her death song, chained and locked away with no intentions of being freed, ‘if it’s a villain they want.. then it’s a villain they get’ trick to run away, wanders in search of entertainment, known to bother griffin crone and work with chinmae on occasion.

lewis sharpe . necromancer . richard a.rmitage . 40 - 50 yo . cis male . hails from a renown convenient primarily known for their influence over earth & healing magic, got greedy when he got his grubby hands on some particularly tasty lore of barghests and the wild hunt, not only managed to participate ( like an idiot ) but also survived and outwitted their ploys, continued to participate until his own ego tangled him with a particularly nasty sorcerer, is now cursed to appear as beastly as his soul is.

hunter turned werewolf . 30ish yo. cis male . from a big family of hunters, got married young, had a child and loved his wife to bits, both of their families took on a pack that outwitted them, some were purposely changed as punishment while the rest were killed, he struggled alone until caught by another tag tram of hunters, self preservation won out in the end and he ran away with too much blood on his hands.

jin yunseo . pigeon shifter . kwak d.ong yeon . 25 - 30 yo . cis male. no one knows why he does it, but yunseo takes it upon himself to enact as a messenger for the dead. he finds the spirits wanted audience and relays their last message ( in the deceased’s own voice ) before delivering them in peace. works closely with chinmae and verse alike. very loud with his clothing, very retro and messy ( shoes are almost always untied, shirts unbuttoned, jackets unzipped ). he doesn’t really care about how the living feel in regards to the dead’s message. he’s just there to give the spirits peace. not the other way around.

gargoyle . 30 - 50 yo . gender undecided . quite the hot topic for hunters to capture, take a piece of a gargoyle when in slumber as stone and they’ll be bound to do your bidding until the piece is returned ( that does not mean they’ll roll over to every wish without some amount of hatred ), so far they’ve managed to escape such a fate and continues to thwart any that try, also very knowledgeable about random things and runs a horror podcast.

sorcerer ( hydromancer ) . 30 - 40 yo . cis male . rootin’ tootin’ goth livestock haulin’ farmer, got a knack for everything water, personable and innovative and welcoming of any stray souls that wind up on his hard earned plot of land

space chef . 30ish yo . gender undecided . loud and sunny dude that’s a part of an intrepid crew, the suave designated chef, everything they make looks `redacted` but always taste horrendously delicious ( make it make sense? ), background details are a mystery and they’re all too keen to keep things that way

wang hoseok . wizard ( aeromancer ) . lee do h.yun . 27 - 30 yo . gender undecided . proud line of x,y,z wizards, grew into terrifying control over air with quite a cankerous personality while their younger sibling is surprisingly placid and steady with abilities over fire ( no, the swap of personalities isn’t lost on them ), both of which are barely on speaking terms with their parents, very much a show of generational trauma, probably has a dog

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth isn't startled when she feels his presence before she even lets herself in her own front door. It's funny really. The Crone's cloak falls over the six floor building, shielding it from prying eyes. Only those who need to find it do and never anyone who intends her harm. At the same time there's a war going on inside her head; one side is the exhaustion that prevails at the end of a fourteen plus hour shift on the emergency room floor, and the other is a sudden tension constricting her belly, nerves that so easily sink claws into her. She knew it. Her faith in Matt is resolute whether he was his costumed alter-ego or his funny, warm and most genuine self. She leaves her shoes at the door. Hangs her work bag and coat in the foyer and pads barefoot into the dark confines of her cavernous apartment. Before she can choose what to say, how to act, if she wants to throw her arms around him or throw him out the window for having scared the life out of her...

...he tells her to stop. To give him up for dead just as everyone else has. Strips her very bones of agency both as... As someone who cares about him with no strings and no ulterior motives which is a far cry than she can say about...her. But also as someone who is more than capable of protecting herself and him, too, if need be. "I like f' see 'em try," she murmurs knowing he will hear her plain as day. Matt knows she is a healer, that she is a wellspring of vitality so strong that it envelopes all living things around her. He doesn't know that like a coin, there's another side to that power, one she is no less versed in. But what really makes her angry is the last little bit which in turn seethes into her voice, making it tremble a little. Her pulse pounds. Her blood all but roars in her veins. "You don' get t' decide dat. Especially when you..." she bites back that rush of hurt that rises up in her, a wound that goes bone deep. That hurt blooms into motion and she crosses the space between them. "When you know...how much I...I care about you." Her hand raises, but instead of a stinging slap, all she can manage is to cup his cheek.

@brooklynislandgirl liked for a starter

In what was supposed to be his death, he had expected his friends - or who used to be his friends - to move on quickly. Mourn possibly for a few days before remembering they had been on the outs with him, fed up with lies and refusing to accept this is who he was. It seemed like the perfect way for them to be set free and for him to finally be with her again, especially since Foggy and Karen didn’t seem interested in forgiving for trying to keep them safe. They would be better off this way, anyways. Safer. Safe from him, the things he hunted, and the ones who would try to stop him.

Though, Beth apparently had a different opinion on the matter, determined to prove he was still alive since his body had never been found beneath the rubble and concrete.

“Beth, you need to stop searching for me.” His voice cut through the darkness of her apartment the moment she set her things down, sticking to the shadows between the living room windows. The road she was walking was dangerous and she was drawing unwanted attention to herself, it wouldn’t be long before the wrong person started asking questions and found her name. “You need to stop before you get yourself killed. I’m not worth it.”

[tewwor-aaa]

* & PLOTTING / STARTER CALL — TEST ADJACENT MUSES .

like & comment which one(s) you’d like! mutuals only. if you don’t specify i won’t be inclined to write a starter.

lee yoona . 29 years old . actress (?) . canon divergent from drive m.y car

yoon jiwoo . canon divergent from my na.me.

kang suyeon . 45 years old . lawyer . canon divergent from my na.me

cho yeongun . 38 years old . International Security Intelligence Service agent / geumga plaza owner ( verse dependent ) . canon divergent from vi.ncenzo

verse . banshee . vanessa k.irby . ??? yo . cis female . orphaned from a early age, taken by some old church, was seen as cursed the first time she predicted death in house with her death song, chained and locked away with no intentions of being freed, ‘if it’s a villain they want.. then it’s a villain they get’ trick to run away, wanders in search of entertainment, known to bother griffin crone and work with chinmae on occasion.

lewis sharpe . necromancer . richard a.rmitage . 40 - 50 yo . cis male . hails from a renown convenient primarily known for their influence over earth & healing magic, got greedy when he got his grubby hands on some particularly tasty lore of barghests and the wild hunt, not only managed to participate ( like an idiot ) but also survived and outwitted their ploys, continued to participate until his own ego tangled him with a particularly nasty sorcerer, is now cursed to appear as beastly as his soul is.

gargoyle . 30 - 50 yo . gender undecided . quite the hot topic for hunters to capture, take a piece of a gargoyle when in slumber as stone and they’ll be bound to do your bidding until the piece is returned ( that does not mean they’ll roll over to every wish without some amount of hatred ), so far they’ve managed to escape such a fate and continues to thwart any that try, also very knowledgeable about random things and runs a horror podcast.

amaro jara . sorcerer ( hydromancer ) . pedro pascal .30 - 40 yo . cis male . rootin’ tootin’ goth livestock haulin’ farmer, got a knack for everything water, personable and innovative and welcoming of any stray souls that wind up on his hard earned plot of land

amant jolicoeur . space chef . yahya ab.dul-mateen ii . 30ish yo .cis male . loud and sunny dude that’s a part of an intrepid crew, the designated buff chef, everything they make looks `redacted` but always taste horrendously delicious ( make it make sense? ), background details are a mystery and they’re all too keen to keep things that way.

wang hoseok . wizard ( aeromancer ) . lee do h.yun . 27 - 30 yo . gender undecided . proud line of x,y,z wizards, grew into terrifying control over air with quite a cankerous personality while their younger sibling, Jiah, is surprisingly placid and steady with abilities over fire ( no, the swap of personalities isn’t lost on them ), both of which are barely on speaking terms with their parents, very much a show of generational trauma, probably has a dog

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 37: A Trevelyan’s Word

Tristan and Dorian spend some much needed quiet time together. Some fluff, a tiiiiny bit of angst (blink and you’ll miss it), and some important conversations.

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

Libraries had always been one of Dorian’s favourite places to be, ever since he could remember himself.

After having lived in so many different Circles, and having worked and studied in many more, gravitating towards the nearest library wherever he happened to be was something like second nature to him. He remembered the layout of every one he’d visited in startling detail: the neat rows of bookcases of the Carastes Circle; the circular library tower of the Circle of Trevis, with its tinted glass windows that had been specifically designed to protect the priceless tomes from the scorching sun and the dust; the vast Library of Minrathous, where one could easily lose themselves in unless they had a chart, a compass, a detailed floor plan and perhaps said a prayer or two. Regardless of the size, layout or method of archiving, finding what he was looking for had always been a swift matter, each library’s secrets revealing themselves to him readily after one brief sweep of the many rooms and shelves.

Never once had he encountered a library as reticent as the one in Skyhold.

After several months there, he still could not figure out the organisational system that the books had once been stored in. He’d assumed it was because of all the different kinds of people that had once resided there, but even in the oldest and most dilapidated libraries he had visited there was some method to the madness. In Skyhold, however, there was just madness.

Books on Pyromancy, which he had personally moved to the top floor - where they belonged, alongside the treatises on Primal magic- would magically appear on the lower floor shelves, alongside the tomes on Entropy magic. The scrolls of ancient Tevinter glyphs and spells, which he had found after sorting through the multitude of Chantry books that seemed to be practically sprouting out of the soil in that place, and that he had painstakingly cleaned from dust and arranged in alphabetical order in the booth next to his own, had now disappeared into thin air. The apprentice archivists, when he’d asked them, had simply stared at him with the sparkling gazes of well-fed heifers. One of them had had the audacity to look him straight in the eye and unironically say:

“If it’s Spirit glyphs you’re interested in, why don’t you read Former Second Enchanter Muriel’s research? Those scrolls you're looking for are outdated, anyway.”

Outdated? Outdated! The very notion had had Dorian grinding his teeth. As if seeing Former Second Enchanter Muriel’s sour visage every day, and listening to her endless tirades about Tevinter and anything else that displeased her wasn’t enough. He wouldn’t touch that tiresome crone’s research with a ten foot pole— no, make it twenty feet. One could never be too safe.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance as he shoved the book on Alchemy he’d found lying forgotten by the side of the wrong bookcase back in its proper shelf. If he’d known the level of ignorance and buffoonery he would be met with in the South, he would have seriously reconsidered ever leaving Minrathous. Oh, certainly, his homeland was a nest of vipers, but at least Tevinters knew how to organise a dratted library.

Now, if only he could find who in the Maker’s dratted name had gone through his dratted scrolls—

A glance at the research table across the rotunda promptly answered his question.

“Helisma,” he grumbled through clenched teeth as he stomped towards her. Priceless scrolls and documents were gathered willy-nilly in her arms, as well as the arms of the two apprentices that trailed her. The Tranquil looked up at him calmly when he barred her way.

“May I ask what on earth you have been doing with all the scrolls? You are the one who snatched them away, and don’t you even try to deny it.”

“I moved them to the underground storage rooms.”

That she could deliver those lines without an ounce of emotion was entirely bewildering, despite the fact that she was, indeed, a Tranquil. He forced his lips into a tight, sarcastic smile. “Why would you do that, pray tell? What have the poor things done to offend you so? Surely whatever it was could have been resolved over some tea and crumpets, instead of banishment to the nearest dungeon.”

She simply blinked at him, her tone completely flat as she informed him, “The upper levels of the library are reserved for leather bound tomes and codexes. The underground storage rooms are where scrolls, manuscripts and loose documents should be kept.”

“Helisma, my dear,” Dorian uttered tightly, trying his best not to lose his composure and start yelling in the middle of the library where everybody and their aunts could hear, “we have been over this. There is no reason for the scrolls to be there. They are needed here, where they can be used. The storage rooms are as damp as it gets, certainly you must be able to see that keeping ancient and fragile scrolls there is not the wisest course of action?”

“The humidity in the storage rooms is less than forty percent. That is lower than the Circle of Amaranthine’s storage rooms by five point two degrees.”

“And you’re saying it as if it’s a good thing? If the humidity in the Minrathous library was half as high, the master archivist would be having an apoplexy!” Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep breath. There clearly wasn’t any way of making sense of this, and he would sooner teach a mule to dance than talk Helisma out of her ways. “Very well. Have it your way. I’ll see what I’ll be able to salvage from this mess.” He sniffed and tossed his head back in defiance as he turned around and stomped back the way he’d come, leaving a blank-eyed Helisma behind.

The chill in the lower vaults was unmistakable, cutting through his many layers of clothing and piercing him right to the bone. Dorian resisted the urge to frown as he gathered his cloak around his shoulders. Any more of that, and he would getting wrinkles before his time, and he had enough as it was. Ever since coming to the South, he had noticed a few more around his eyes that he was sure had not been there a few months before. If this went on any longer, he would be looking like a shrivelled up prune by the time this entire Inquisition business was done.

The stray thought made him stop short, there, in the half dark and quiet of the vaults. Part of him wasn’t sure if he wished the Inquisition business to be done, he realised. Of course, he wanted Corypheus and his Venatori to be defeated, more than anyone. If this were done, the world would have a chance to recover, and with it his country’s reputation. Still… the thought of the future brought with it a certain amount of trepidation. Trevelyan would ultimately be the one to face all those dangers, and no one knew how he would be affected. His life was on the line, day after day, and Dorian more than anyone could see how it was stretching him thin. Even if everything went according to plan though, even if they both survived this ordeal, no one knew what the future held for the two of them. For the time being, they were bound by this common cause. Beyond this… only time could tell.

The worry and unease that he so often tried to brush away slithered to the surface. Dorian took a deep breath to quell it. There was no point thinking of the future, when everything about the present was so uncertain. Trevelyan was alive and well now, as much as he could be, and that was all that mattered.

Brushing the thoughts aside, Dorian turned right as soon as he’d reached the storage room he was looking for. It was the farthest down the corridor, with only a lone torch burning.

Torches. Amidst all this paper. The horror.

The sounds beyond the door of the storage room quickly revealed that there was someone else there, shifting through the many scrolls and documents in the cramped space. At least she had the sense to conjure a small ball of light, which was now hovering above her as she searched, its halo glossing her cropped black hair. She gave a small start when she heard him entering, her large blue eye widening.

“Lord Pavus,” Grand Enchanter Fiona breathed, pressing her palm to her chest. Or was it just Fiona, now? “You frightened me.”

“My apologies,” he said. He clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at the scrolls she had been shifting through. “I see I wasn’t the only one who has found the scrolls Helisma has banished down here useful.”

“Ah, yes. She does have some strong opinions about where everything should be stored. I’m not entirely certain I agree.”

She gave Dorian the barest hints of a smile. Their interactions had always been kept serious and professional, both of them taking care not to linger in each other’s presence too long, despite them practically sharing the same workspace. At first, it was because Dorian wasn’t quite sure what to make of her, and he had the suspicion that his presence made her just as uneasy. However, he had soon found out that she didn’t particularly invite any interaction beyond the typical. The former Grand Enchanter and Grey Warden had kept a low profile ever since joining the Inquisition, more so after they had taken permanent residence in Skyhold, and Dorian didn’t blame her for that. There had been enough talk about her, even without her stirring any sort of trouble or gossip.

Even so, the fact that the former leader of the mage rebellion, who had —unknowingly, allegedly— struck a deal with the Venatori and had been banished from Ferelden because of it, could go by largely unnoticed at all was an impressive feat. Still, she managed to do just that. Most days.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for? Can I be of any help?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. You’re much better versed with those scrolls than I assume I am.” A compliment? That was promising. “I’m searching for Magister Domitius’ research on reanimated undead. I do remember seeing a copy a while ago, in loose papers, but it disappeared before I had time to properly bind it. Have you perhaps seen it?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes in thought as he looked around the stacks. It didn’t take long for him to spot a few sheets of paper hastily rolled and bound with a leather cord. “That seems to be it,” he said as he dragged it out carefully and handed it to her. Fiona inclined her head in gratitude, unwrapping the document with slow, careful motions.

“Thank you. That was most helpful.”

“Anytime.” Dorian took a step back, giving the mage some time and space to inspect the discovery. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly as she read, her lips pursing in thought. She was short in stature, and could easily be overlooked if she wished it to be so. Yet there was something about her, a commanding presence and a stubborn streak that was hard to define, and to hide.

“I studied this one many years ago," he mused, crossing his arms before his chest. "It’s a rather interesting treatise, although some of the glyphs for releasing the spells that bind the undead are quite crude.”

“Crude, but effective. That is just what is needed right now. I hear the undead have claimed many lives all over Thedas, and will likely claim many more.”

“So grim, so early in the day? Grand Enchanter, I expected more from you.”

The elf glanced up at him, her lips quirked in amusement. “Former Grand Enchanter, if you please. Or you can just call me Fiona, as everyone else does these days.” The smile faded away as she looked down at the scroll once more. “One does learn to be grim after seeing as many deaths as I have. It is a hard thing to shake off.”

The silence that followed between them was somewhat awkward, with her carefully studying the writing on the yellowed and musty pages. Still, if there was something Dorian was good at, that was filling the silence. “So how come you’re studying the undead? I wasn’t aware that necromancy was your field of study.”

“It is not. The Inquisitor reported a large number of demons and undead in Crestwood, and some of the Inquisition mages were assigned with coming up with strategies to defend the villages until the Inquisitor is able to close the rift. I have experience battling the creatures, so I volunteered to investigate the matter further and to train the new recruits.”

Dorian’s stomach tightened ever so slightly. There were so many issues that demanded Trevelyan’s attention, he often wondered how the man found time to eat or sleep. He certainly seemed to be doing much less of both these days. That he found time to spend with Dorian at all when they were in Skyhold was a marvel in and of itself. Even before leaving for Crestwood, before the ordeal they’d both been through with the demon, he'd seemed so gaunt and pale, wrung out. The Inquisition was stretching him thin. Dorian wondered if ever the time would come that it would break him.

He took a deep breath, trying to swallow past the knot in his throat. He wouldn’t let it come to this, not if he could help it. He would stand by him, help him as much as he could. That was what a partner did, after all, wasn’t it?

“It is very noble of you, to offer to help with the matter,” he told her, in an effort to distract himself from his thoughts.

“Not at all. It is the least I can do to aid the Inquisition’s efforts.” She let out a soft sigh as she rolled the scroll back up carefully. “The way things ended in Redcliffe, the Inquisitor could have demanded anything he wished. Instead, he offered us a full alliance, and our dignities back. That is not something I am about to forget.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose he could have ordered you to become the Inquisition court jesters, as I hear the Orlesians seem to be doing with their mages.”

Fiona stared at him for a brief moment, until she realised he was jesting. She let out a chuckle then, shaking her head lightly. “I am glad he did not.”

Dorian joined her in laughter, the awkwardness between them dissipating somewhat. Affection and a strange sort of pride blossomed within him when he remembered Trevelyan in the hall of Redcliffe castle, only the bearer of the mark back then, with no real authority to his name, standing tall and proud before the King of Ferelden himself and declaring the mages equal partners of the Inquisition. Everyone had thought him mad, Dorian included. Looking back, perhaps it was around then that Dorian had fallen in love with him in earnest. A fool he certainly was, but a brave, beautiful, extraordinary fool at that.

“He has been known to make some interesting choices,” Dorian said, not quite able to hide the tenderness in his voice. “Some of them correct.”

“I dare hope it’s more than some.” She glanced up at him, and the pale light of her spell danced in her eyes. “The world has taken much from all of us, I suspect most of all from him. Still, I have faith that if anyone can see us through it all, it’s him. Not many would have done what he did. To declare an alliance with the mages, to shun the Chantry, to forge a new path, a new way of doing things... that takes courage. Or madness.”

“He has a fair bit of both.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “He is… an odd character. His ideas are odder still. Quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” She tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, and Dorian thought he saw something in her eyes, something akin to sadness, even more akin to sympathy as she regarded him. “I suppose it’s the same for you, yes?”

Dorian straightened, preparing himself to deflect the comment, to deny it, but something stopped him. He let out a soft breath instead, gazing at her levelly. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

A brief silence stretched between them. Fiona smiled fleetingly before looking down at the scrolls in her hands once more. “Thank you for your help in finding these. It is much appreciated.”

Dorian stepped to the side to let her pass. She left, her footsteps barely making a sound.

He let out a sigh into the quiet of the small storage room. Fiona’s words about Trevelyan had been kind, almost fond, and certainly much nicer than what many others he’d heard, yet even she couldn’t hide the depth of her expectations, her hopes. Dorian didn’t envy Trevelyan the power of his position much. The world expected so much of him, sometimes it did feel like it was perched upon his shoulders.

The scrolls stared at him sullenly from their shelves. Dorian pushed his shirtsleeves up and summoned a bright ball of light above his head. There was plenty of work for him to do. If everyone was doing their part to help the Inquisition, Dorian would do twice— no, three times as much.

When he lifted his head from his desk and looked out the window of the small nook in the library he called his office, it was already dark.

Dorian frowned back down at his own notes, sprawled before him messily like a blanket of autumn leaves freshly fallen from the bough. He had been poring over them for the better part of the day, after finding the scrolls he had been looking for. He was sure the copies he had made from the Venatori ritual in the Emerald Grave were correct, but they made no sense. Surely whoever had come up with those glyphs knew what they were doing, to some extent, but Dorian just couldn’t make out what they were trying to do exactly. The ritual itself was eerily similar to the one he had remembered finding years ago in the Minrathous library, but there were some fundamental differences. The Venatori had tried to control the power of the spell by tweaking central parts of the glyphs, but those they’d used for the binding clashed with the glyph right across from them, which was a bastardised version of a well-known affliction hex to weaken the subject’s mental defences. No wonder the poor people the Venatori had used the ritual on were turned to drooling, unresponsive vegetables; their mind was turned to jelly long before the actual mind-control spell was cast.

And it would be quite fortunate if that was the only problem he’d encountered. Trying to figure out the logic behind it was giving him headaches. There was something here, something that eluded him, Dorian was sure of it. That certainty only made him more intent on finding exactly how the ritual worked, and for that he needed resources that were not available to him at present. Tilani’s answer to the letter he had sent her regarding the original scroll was yet to arrive. It probably hadn’t even reached her yet.

Dorian suppressed the urge to curse the South and their terrible postal system, and reached for one of the dusty tomes he had managed to find in a forgotten part of the library instead. There was a glyph amongst those he had managed to copy that reminded suspiciously of Disthenes’ version of a glyph of paralysis. Now this, this he could work with. He had studied the Tevinter’s work extensively while he’d been holed up in the Circle of Marothius, and his memory was still fresh. If he used Disthenes’ theorems and altered the glyphs enough to make them work, in combination with Enchanter Hallesis’ equations in order to fix those horrible spirit-manipulating spells he’d seen the Venatori using...

Dorian let out a soft sigh. He probably should leave the matter alone, he knew that. There was little chance of figuring out how the ritual worked, or rather, didn’t work, without the original scroll he had asked Tilani to find. Yet, he’d already been working on this too long to let it go like this. If he was able to make some modicum of progress on his own, or better yet, find a way to work out some of the kink and errors in the glyphs he’d copied from the ritual, then he might be able to find a way to reverse it as well. The Inquisition needed knowledge like this, if they happened to chance upon a Venatori ritual like that again. Knowing what weapons and spells the Venatori had in their arsenal was half the battle, wasn’t it?

He half jolted out of his seat when he felt warm lips brushing the shell of his ear, a hand skimming his waist. “Four hundred and twenty two.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, smiling at the sound of Trevelyan’s voice. How that man could walk up to him without making a sound, he could never understand. “Four hundred and twenty two, what?”

“Minutes. I’ve been counting.” He leaned forward, catching Dorian’s lips in a gentle kiss. The library was empty at that hour— Dorian thanked the Maker for that. He sighed as he turned around in his chair, his hand finding its way to the back of Trevelyan’s neck to deepen their kiss. He tasted of spiced, honeyed wine, with a mild undertone of the sweet and tart dried apples he always kept on him.

“Have you, now?” he murmured teasingly.

“Yes. I told you I would, didn’t I?” Trevelyan’s smile widened. “My word is my bond.”

A flush crept up Dorian’s cheeks with the warmth in Trevelyan’s gaze. He was peering at him with so much tenderness, and with their proximity Dorian could smell the warmth of his body, the faint smell of his soap. He realised then, that although they’d only been apart since that morning, he had missed him. And the fact that Trevelyan had come straight to him after finishing with his duties, with the black ink from signing his reports still staining his fingers, made him feel warmer still. He suddenly couldn’t wait to be alone with him again, to touch and kiss him freely without worrying about who was to see, to avail himself of the body that hid beneath that snugly fitting dark blue coat.

With his heart beating with a strange sort of giddiness, Dorian turned around and gathered his papers, placed them in the drawer of his desk and locked it securely. “So,” he said, standing up, “shall we retire to your quarters? I’d rather not spend another minute here, thank you very much.”

Trevelyan took his hand, threading his fingers through his. “There’s something I want us to do first.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[ddagent]

from you iotd: Radio DJ Brienne hosts an early hours show that Jaime, suffering after the loss of his hand, always listens to.

I know this was one of my ideas, but even I had to do a twist on it. Also, all my radio knowledge is pretty much from watching Frasier, so apologies for any inaccuracies. I hope you enjoy it all the same, Anon! Prompt #92!

“Well, it’s coming up to two-thirty am, listeners. We’re going to play the new track by Arianne Sand, and then take a few of your calls. You’re listening to Renly Baratheon on Shipbreaker FM, 89.20.”

In the booth, Renly cued up the latest track and slipped his headphones down when the off air light went on. Through the glass separating them, he offered Brienne a warm, easy smile that made her stomach flip. And then, as it always did, Renly’s gaze slid away and he busied himself prepping for promos or checking his phone. There would be another song after this, some cheesy pop track from Essos that they would roll their eyes over, and their shared moment would disappear in favour of the handful of callers waiting to tell Renly exactly why they were up at this time of the morning. 

Brienne tapped her pencil on the desk as she waited for the switchboard to light up. When it did, she grabbed the phone and said, “Rise with Renly, can I take a name and number?”

“It’s Jaime. I think you’ve already got my number.”

Her fingers hesitated on the notepad in front of her. She swallowed, then, “Yes, I’ve–I’ve got your number.”

“Show seems quiet tonight. Not many callers?” 

“Um—” Brienne glanced towards the booth, saw that Renly was otherwise occupied, but still swivelled her chair to hide her flushed cheeks from view. A silly thing to do: Renly was in no way her boyfriend, and it wasn’t as if Three Am Jaime was, either. But still, she hid. “It’s always quiet in the New Year. It picks up around Maiden’s Day, though.” 

“I’d say that’s good, but it means I’ll have to fight to get through to you.”

Of course, Three Am Jaime didn’t mean her specifically. He meant the show, Rise with Renly. And even if he did – which he most certainly did not; no one called these shows to talk to the producer – Three Am Jaime was just a voice. A pleasant voice, true, but there was as much a pane of glass between her and Jaime as there was between her and Renly. 

And yet: “I’ll always put you through. You have my word.”

“Good to know.”

The Arianne song had wound up, and the pop track from Essos was on its last verse. Brienne turned her chair around to face the glass, before putting Jaime on hold ready for him to talk to Renly. Despite working in radio since university, she’d begun to loathe this part; the switch-over. It felt as if Renly was taking something that was hers. But none of this was. Not the show, not the callers. Not Renly, and certainly not Three Am Jaime. 

The pop song ended, and a despondent Brienne cued Renly in. “Welcome back, listeners. If you’ve just tuned in, this is Rise with Renly on Shipbreaker FM. We’re now taking a few of your calls, seeing what you’re up to this time of the morning. Brienne, who do we have first?”

She leaned into the microphone. “We have one of our regulars, Jaime from Storm’s End.” 

Renly mouthed ‘again?’ but still took the call. “Nice to talk to you again, Jaime. What is it, the third day this week?”

“If you’ve got another caller, by all means.”

Dead air punctuated the booth. Eyes wide, Brienne waved at Renly to fill the empty space. Despite calling during every show, Three Am Jaime didn’t seem to like Renly very much. Brienne entertained the notion that Jaime called to hear her voice, but she brushed that away almost as soon as she’d thought it. He was probably up early to check in with the Braavos stockmarket, or because his third child with his beautiful wife was awake and needing feeding. He just needed something to listen to. 

No need to imagine something that wasn’t there. 

“We’re always happy to talk to you, Jaime. So, I know why Brienne and I are up this early. How about you?”

“Storm kept me awake. Not used to it.”

Renly chuckled. “What, this spit of rain, that little gust of wind? You’re not from the Stormlands, are you, Jaime?”

“No, I’m originally from the Westerlands. I moved here a few months ago.”

“What brought you east?”

“Frankly, Renly, that’s a little personal for this time of the morning.”

“Sure, sure.” Through the glass, Renly rolled his eyes, and Brienne pinned a thin smile to her features. She understood the appeal of anonymity to some radio callers, but others just didn’t feel comfortable sharing their lives on the airwaves. She got that. “So, have you got a song of the week, Jaime?”

“I liked Brienne’s choice.” She couldn’t hold back her smile this time. “Give me a Blackfish song any day of the week. Arianne’s not bad; she’s certainly better than your choice last week.” 

Renly huffed. “I don’t want to drive listeners away, Jaime, but if you’re not a fan of the show—”

“—the first few episodes I heard were really good. Back when I first moved to Storm’s End, I couldn’t sleep, so I put on the radio and listened to the show. It was just after Crone’s Day.”  

Brienne’s head snapped up. She remembered their show just after Crone’s Day: Renly had been taken ill on-air and, with no one else to cover, she’d hosted the show until Balon Swann had taken over from her at six am. That was the first night Jaime had called. She’d been distraught, barely keeping it together, and he was the only one who called not asking for an update about Renly. They talked about Tarth FC and Lannisport City for twenty minutes until she decided she really needed to play a song. 

“Thank you for calling; you have no idea how much you’ve helped me tonight.”

“Funny. I was going to say thank you for picking up, for the exact same reason.”

“You’re a fan of Brienne’s then,” Renly said, one eyebrow raised as he stared at her through the glass.

“Who wouldn’t be?”

For once, when Brienne’s stomach fluttered as she looked into the booth, it wasn’t because of Renly Baratheon. 

[hackexe]

HC pt 1/?

Here is a list of random or general HCs for Glasik:

▽ The hacking group Glasik founded is called “Cúis” which is Irish for reason, motivation, cause.

▽ Glasik’s alias is “Aisling” which is Irish for vision. Glasik has discovered their visions often are tied to technology in some way, shape, or form. Old or new.  

▽ Glasik’s visions are extremely abstract. I imagine it is similar to the “stereotypical” acid trip.  Colors everywhere, smells, tastes, textures, but very specific features stick out. Most of their visions occur while they sleep but is experienced with them sitting in a white chair where they’re in a box that is surrounded by walls that constantly move in color and shape, but you can still tell they’re “flat” walls. Random items float, but a specific color, often, lime green, can indicate a specific object being important. This is far too abstract to put into a HC post but I will probably ramble about it another time.

▽ Glasik partakes in their own “study of dreams.” AKA: Oneirology. They journal any and all dreams, and all visions too, hoping they can find a connection to why they have said visions.

▽ Since Glasik is tech savvy, they find themselves to have a particular affinity for Technomancy.  Technomancy in “modern verse” not really meaning he can warp or “control” computers with their mind, but that Glasik finds a particular spiritual energy from their work as a hacker. Glasik has hypothesized in their journals that perhaps the visions are fueled by their technological work, and the visions furthermore encourage Glasik to continue their work. 

▽ Glasik has “abnormal” dreams compared to others. We all have weird dreams from time to time, but those random and unexpected dreams are Glasik’s norm. Glasik having dreams that mimic reality as close as possible are basically nightmares. 

▽ Glasik expresses affection mostly with gifts and praise. Platonic or romantic. Not everyone is warm to touch at first but Glasik is not huge on being touched, and only lets those close to him touch their arms, shoulders, or back. To Glasik, since they’re a Crone: touching is a very personal thing, regardless of romantic intention or not. Glasik touches their Coven members for spells and healing rituals and as a result finds touching very intimate and personal. Glasik knows that others may not perceive touch like they do, and that’s fine. Glasik is human at the end of the day, and does enjoy soft and small acts of platonic touching. Some may perceive him as abrasive or cold but Glasik just views personal space and touch differently. If someone expects a hug from Glasik at first visit they won’t be offended, as that said person is probably use to handshakes or hugs at first greetings, but will take awhile to allow others to touch them even casually. 

[babylon-crashing]

(... from, Philip and Stephanie Carr-Gomm’s The Druid Animal Oracle, pages 50-53)

The card shows a tawny owl in an oak tree covered in ivy. A full moon shines between the winter-bare branches of the trees. Hung on the tree are votive offerings to the Cailleach (crone or hag-goddess) of a Celtic head and the spiral of death and rebirth.

Cailleach-oidhche teaches us the wisdom of turning a disadvantage into an advantage. For most birds, the coming ofdarkness renders it impossible for them to feed, but the owl's exceptional hearing enables it to pick out and swoop on unsuspecting prey during the night. Twilight has been described as owl-light, and going for a quiet walk in the woods at this shimmering time of twilight is an excellent way to develop a sensibility to the Otherworld and the inner soul of Nature. You may feel drawn to a study of esoteric lore or clairvoyancy. Working with the owl as your ally will help you to do this.

Dawn reversed, this card may indicate that you need to be wary of withdrawing too much from the world. An ability to be detached and discerning is an asset, unless it becomes a defence against being fully alive with all the vulnerability this entails. Perhaps there is not such a need for secrecy or holding back. The owl can signal a time of change, of initiation, of new beginnings. It can portend the death of one thing, but also the birth of another. An old Sussex saying is, “When owls whoop at night, expect a fair morrow.” Expect a bright dawn and it will surely come.

THE TRADITION OF THE OWL

I am coeval with the ancient oak

Whose roots spread wide in yonder moss,

Many a race has passed before me,

And still I am the lonely owl of Srona

(Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh)

The Bardic colleges survived in Scotland until the beginning of the eighteenth century. A collection by Maclean Sinclair entitled, “Gaelic Bards from 1411 to 1715,” includes the poem, “The Hunter and the Owl,” one of whose verses is quoted above.

The idea that the owl is ancient—that “many a race has passed before me”—is also found in Welsh tradition. In the story of Culhwch and Olwen, the earliest of tales to speak of King Arthur and his knights, Gwrhyr Interpreter of Tongues—a man who could speak the languages of birds and beasts—together with three others, goes on a journey to seek the Oldest Animals, in the hope that they will know where the Divine Youth Mabon can be found. They come first to a blackbird, who directs them to an older animal still—the stag. The stag leads them to one who is even older—the Owl of Cawlwyd. Gwrhyr speaks to the owl, saying, “We are King Arthur's messengers. We have come to you since we know of no animal older than you. What can you tell us of Mabon?” The owl replies, “I know nothing of Mabon, but I will be your guide and will lead you to an animal that God made before me.” The owl then leads the party to the Eagle of Gwernaby, who in his turn leads them finally to the oldest animal of all-the salmon, who them to the castle where Mabon is imprisoned.

THE BIRD OF WISDOM

The owl is shown in this story as one of the five totem animals central to British tradition. Arthur's party encounters first the blackbird Druidh Dubh and then moves ever closer to the source of wisdom—the salmon. As a fish, the salmon swims in the River of Life, the Ocean of Being—his wisdom comes from an intimate participation in life. The owl imparts a different wisdom—one of objectivity and detachment. Like the figure of the Hermit in the Tarot, the owl watches and waits—in mined castles, in church towers, in barns, in ivy bushes. Adept at disappearing from view and favoring the night, the owl is the animal that symbolizes esoteric wisdom and secrecy.

Because the owl is sacred to the Goddess in her crone-aspect, one of its many Gaelic names is Cailleach-oidhche (Crone of the Night). The barn owl is Cailleach-oidhche gheal, “white old woman of the night.” The Cailleach is the goddess of death, and the owl's call was often sensed as an omen that someone would die. It was seen as a bird that calls for the soul, or that catches or takes it away. From Berne in Switzerland there comes a belief that the screech of an owl foretells either the birth of a child or the death of a man-pointing to the owl as a bird of the Goddess who is both taker and giver of life.

Knowing of an impending death or birth suggests that the owl is able to foretell the future, and the owl is indeed the totem bird of clairvoyance and astral travel. The veils which surround the normal boundaries of space and time can be pierced, if you take the owl as ally.

THE SECRET FAITH

In later times, all that was sacred to the Goddess and the, “Secret Faith,” was denigrated and labeled as evil by the Church in an attempt to convert people from their traditional ways. We see this process of denigration clearly in the folklore of the owl. Originally a embodying wisdom and discernment, it gradually came to be seen only as a bird of ill-omen. Farmers would nail their bodies to barn doors or walls; the fern owl was named “Puck” or “Puck-bird”—an old word for the devil; and owls in general were called “constables from the dark land.” It became a common saying that the owl was a transformation of one of the servants of the ten kings of hell.

The owl features strongly in the Welsh story from the Mabinogion, Math, Son of Mathonwy. Because it was written down from oral tradition in the twelfth or thirteenth century, it is hard to disentangle the pre-Christian from the Christian influences. Certainly in this tale the owl is considered an unfavorable bird. Arianrhod, the mother of Lieu Llaw Gyffes (the Bright One of the Skillful Hand), swears that Lieu will never take a human wife. But, eager for a companion. Lieu and the magician Gwydion fashion from the flowers of oak, broom, and meadowsweet, a woman called Blodeuwedd. A while later, Blodeuwedd falls in love with a hunter, and together they attempt to murder Lieu, who escapes in the form of an eagle. Gwydion eventually finds the eagle and, striking it with his wand, returns Lieu to human form. He then pursues Blodeuwedd, and rather than killing her, transforms her into an owl, saying: “And because of the dishonor thou hast done to Lieu Llaw Gyffes thou art never to dare show thy face in the light of day, and that through fear of all birds; and that there be enmity between thee and all birds, and that it be their nature to mob and molest thee wherever they may find thee; and that thou shalt not lose thy name, but that thou be for ever called Blodeuwedd.”

The owl is a bird set apart. She stands on the threshold of the Otherworld, reminding us of the ever-present reality of death. But death is the great initiator and as the owl hoots to us from the trees we may come to realize in the depths of our being that our death in reality marks a beginning and not an end.

[shiftingsupport]

About

.::General::.

Name Phoenix Dahana

Age 16/37

Place of Birth Chersky Russia

Current Location Musutafu Japan

Nationality Russian

Education Current UA Student/???

Occupation Student/Villain???

Quirk/Individuality Whole Shapeshifter (Quirk Info!)

.::Physical Appearance::.

Eyes The windows to the soul, these are viewed through angled and sharp pupils much like a snake or cat, framed by green and amber shades, the colors altering at times depending on her physical health. The brighter the better, and the larger the dilation of the pupil, the more attention she’s giving or an indication of good mood or excitement. Respectively, regarding with needles in the gaze suggests lack of interest, or heightened disdain.

Hair Is it long? Short? Wavy? Feathery?! One will ask that almost with each meeting until one learns about her quirk. Most often however it is long, smooth and silky and a reddish brown in color. If you touch it, you'll find each strand oddly thick and pleated like a bird's feather. She'll even puff up on occasion.

Body As a child until around seventeen eighteen years of age, Phoenix appears rather emaciated, under oft baggy clothes are visible ribs and taut skin, no matter how much she eats. Her ability drains that physical energy it takes to change shape so completely. She fills out as she learns to better pace her abilities though remains rather small. It's a start of her body, coupled with short height and stranger anatomy. A combination of reptile and avian, her skin is marked with iridescent stripes paler then tanned skin, a narrowed chest, fingers ending in curled claws and digitigrade feet with long 'talon' ended toes. (See gallery for examples.)

Distinguishing Features Her stripes are certainly one feature, they flick and even glow under certain intense emotions. (IE Instead of blushing she'll flicker.) As an obvious one aside from bird like hair and animalistic limbs.

Not so obvious, most of Phoenix's body conceals a layer of 'under armour' beneath her skin. Scale, cartilage? You'll have to ask, it can only be seen when she's stretching, exercising, and fighting if one can spot the jutting indents or dips.

Reoccurring Accessories Tailored clothing, a pouch or bag under either arm usually containing food. She doesn't seem keen holding onto most material objects though, important things are kept hidden. Her best friend does like to occasionally pair her with jewelry that compliments her though.

.::Personality::.

Speech Frankly in her time as a student she will not speak often, not unless it's needed. Selectively mute, but when she does open her mouth, she's firmer then one would expect, a tinge of Russian accent dulled a little after the years with a growling undertone. Sound aside, she can be descriptive and analytical, and honestly it never dawns on her to 'shorten' her words at times. (Can't will become cannot)

Posture Phoenix either has incredible, ramrod straight posture, or she's as hunched as an old crone, with rarely an inbetween. Something does cause this, in both existing verses however you'll have to learn why by getting to know her.

Common Gestures Hands often twine behind her back, her head tends to tilt openly in curiosity or interest. She'll click her clipped tongue at a variety of things. She's never really still, animated in her interactions with both hands and hair and ears the more she gets to know somebody. With strangers she simply dials down, with subdued rise and fall of shoulders and hands.

Likes Tea (almost any kind), Flying, Traveling, Dancing, Loyalty, Pomegranates, Art, Piano.

Dislikes Cheating, Closed spaces, Loud/sharp noises, food with chalky or grainy texture. Soda.

.::Family::.

Father Synodic Dahana ~ Alive|???|???

Mother Saros Dahana ~ Alive|Pro-hero|67

Siblings ???

Friends

@lurksinshadow Best Friend/???

____

Updated 01/27/2020

Key

Slashed (/)answers pertain to first her main and young verse, followed by her antihero verse.

[nighttimepixels]

ok but fell!maddie owning a bunch of goats as pets? sounds kinda passive-aggressive towards the former royal family of... goat-looking individuals... (or is it just me???) also wanted 2 say im, as always, in lov with your designs and backstories. i wonder what the worst of both maddies has been? the experiments leading to their soul/weapon obssession have been kinda vague and it's like. please elaborate more on them--? all your characters are super great, my heart be calm. ty for your time!

✧∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

It absolutely is a minor flipping off towards the former royal family, heh. Fell!Maddy just also happened to really love those tiny goats in the end though, unironically, so she’d also completely murder anyone who threatened them. Then again, they are curiously strong and capably pygmy goats so - really, even trying to mess with them behind her back might be a bit of a death sentence before she even catches you >v>;;;

Also, oh man, bless you anon, I’m so happy to hear that ;v; I’ll post Fell!Maddy art soon, I think you might like the twists with her design, heheh.

As for the worst of both Maddys- ooo, that definitely depends on whether we’re talking pre- or post-surface. I did leave the experimentation things a little vague, it’s true, didn’t want to wax on gayly if no one was interested-

To begin to broach it, well, let’s just say both Maddy’s have a higher LV. Maddy’s is higher than most Underground with the exception of the Queen, a wizened turtle crone in Waterfall, and her old fiery bartender friend, but Fell!Maddy’s is astronomical.

More below the cut! :D

Maddy had to make some hard decisions and fast. EXP is a tricky thing to measure sometimes - while gaining it via murder’s obvious, there’s philosophical debate amongst monsters as to whether letting someone die in front of you by negligence counts. So she was already a bit hazy... but after the accident where Alph died and she was only able to save the perseverance soul, a lot happened... fast.

With all but one of the souls gone, monsters began to Fall in droves. They’d held out so long, and yet now, the thing that was so close - well, they’d effectively lost nearly all their progress, and it took a harsh, sudden toll. Maddy, already overexposed to human soul magic, already snapped over the edge...

She made some decisions.

Whereas Alphys in UT tried to experiment to save monsters that would’ve died otherwise regardless and then turned recluse when it all went to hell, Maddy - with concentrated perseverance strapped to her back - didn’t do that. But that didn’t mean her first experiments went well... Or prettily.

She still sees the dust on her hands. It’s part of why she doesn’t take off her gloves any more - the grit of it between her phalanges... the screams, the melting of monsters she had known for years, the haunting whispers that echoed in her maddened skull...

Hundreds of monsters went through her lab before she at last was... successful. To a decent degree... not even entirely. She didn’t stop, and it was a blessing and a curse - for years, no one wanted to venture close to her new lab in Snowdin for fear of being forced to hear the screams that had been so common in the beginning...

There’s more detail to be had there, of course, but it was at that point that she started to expand her work, to restore and improve power and eventually literally construct a mini sun to power and light the Underground and turn it into a technological paradise. By that point, though, she truly earned the mad part of Mad Scientist - while chaotic good in alignment, there’s true chaos there. She’d do anything for the betterment - had done horrors for the betterment, the survival of monsterkind. There’s so much unsaid there but... as a taste... well, when someone’s done that much just to cure what was effective a plague of Falling, what else might they do...?

As for Fell!Maddy, well, she already lived in a kill or be killed world. It wasn’t about snapping and throwing away her morals - though, by all means, she did have them... just in a way that suited her world. She was loyal to her sister and their bond was unbreakable, and to those few that earned a decent measure of her trust she repaid in kind. She’s got her own fiery bartender that acted as partner in crime, and is now that and business partner as well. A few scattered allies - friends was pushing it, but you do what you can. She was always good to kids, or at least gave them the proper chance to get out of the trouble she’d find them in by running away with a kick to the butt and a gruff shout-

But after the accident, well...

See, the only soul Fell!Maddy saved was Kindness. Not perseverance.

To a monster in a Fell!verse, especially to someone like Fell!Maddy who’d always craved that unattainable, compassionate connection with someone, something just for her and soft in comparison to all her world’s hard edges...

Nothing could be more covetable.

Fell!Maddy guards the soul she saved fiercely. No one else can touch it, and since then literally no one has seen her without that soul near her.

With the souls lost, rather than a plague of Falling monsters, her underground faced a sudden civil war. Riots were everywhere, any semblance of tenuous ‘peace’ lost as no one agreed on what to be done. Her experiments began quickly - taking monsters on the brink of death or Fallen, and experimenting. Seeing what power monster souls could have, and what exposure to a human soul might do- what tech she could develop, how she could test the limits of space-time with even just that extra boost... For a long time her lab was more secret and impossible to find, but there was a part of Snowdin even the most grizzled of monsters didn’t dare venture to for the sheer horror of the screams and the darkness of the atmosphere under the exponential EXP increase.

In the end, Maddy was able to develop tech, weapons, means of manipulating space-time that allowed her sister to throw a coup from within the ranks of the Guard, toppling the monarchy and wresting control for herself. The civil war was put to a bloody and tense end, but in it’s wake she purposefully allowed a black market/underground to rise - secret fights and games of strategy played, dust spread in back alleys - in a world like theirs, malcontent was inevitable, so her sister used it to focus on the lower echelons and the harsher proclivities rather than turning up to the overarching leadership.

Fell!Maddy, of course, took up her own position as people learned they could turn to her for all manner of things done... for a price.

Her lab and home in Snowdin is connected by a terrible warping of space-time to her sister in the Capital; such a broad instantaneous reach keeps Fell!Maddy’s sister’s grip on the Underground ironclad and even begrudgingly respected. Meanwhile, Maddy’s lab is more visible, with a ‘lobby’ of sorts for business fronts with her fiery bartender friend.

No one wants to visit the depths of her lab- not lightly.

Her technology is magitech, and unlike anything the Underground had ever seen - and she develops some of it at the cost of soul power itself... of course, not her own, and not at the expense of her precious, protected soul. No, making a deal with her is far more intense than a blood debt. You’ll get what you ask for, and the impact of her work is all over the Underground - the place is practically cyberpunk now.

But people, when they’re not calling her the Mad Scientist of Snowdin, have a tendency to call her the Reaper in her position as mob boss. After all... she’ll come collecting, should you fail to pay the life debt you owe her.

~~~~~

And of course, that’s just underground ;D both of them get up to more and even wilder experimentation above ground once their respective barriers are broken - but I’ve rambled enough for now, so feel free to send more asks if you want more info on either of these mad skeletal scientist ladies  _(┐「ε:)_♡