#crypt crumb

[bam-stroker]

The Heart of a Dragon's Hoard

Fuck it, have a slice of my dragon/royalty romance story Royal Rogue.

This character study is about my lovely dragon Asrir musing about his hoard/friendship. (also for those who read my bug fairy romance, The Courting Web, Spark got his gender transed by Dewy - who also gets mentioned in this snippet)

If there is one thing most people assume about Asrir, it is that he is a romantic with his heart on his sleeve. It isn’t an incorrect assumption, but it also isn’t entirely the whole picture. Asrir has, and always will be, a hopeless romantic, dreaming of soft sighs and adoring words. One must have some sense of dreamy hope to have a hoard such as his; collecting the first drafts and failures of artists, to treasure and remember.

To a cynic, they’d pin him as optimistically naive to find anything salvageable from the often messy application of his many collected manuscripts. Or, at the worst, they’d call in to question his ethics. Why collect such things, if not to laugh at the expense of those who failed?

Sometimes he isn’t quite sure himself anymore. What the truth of it all is.

When he runs his claws over the cracked spines of books stored along the endlessly upwards climbing shelves carved into the yawning chasm of his home, each point of contact sings to him with a song of connection. To be heard. To be seen. To find some meaning in this world, and for the fellow bleeding hearts to find one another. To feel less alone.

Loneliness, is something Asrir understands all too well.

At a young age, he’d learned quickly through the sneers and quips of his peers that a tender heart is best used to the advantage of others. It’s the kind of easy joke to get a harmless laugh out of, often at his own expense. Or at the worst, easy prey to take from until there’s nothing left to give.

In a world of fierce dragons, someone like Asrir is an anomaly. Soft, tender, and romantic, is not the stuff of legends that dragons are built from. While the others felt power in their sharp teeth and swift talons, Asrir found himself holed away dreaming of fairytale’s and true love. While the other dragons built their skills to collect their mighty hoards, he created stories in his mind and hid from his ancestry.

The act of creation, is not what dragons are skilled in. To give, is not what they are meant to do. Dragons, are meant to take.

With time, he came to despise the very sight of his mighty claws, teeth, and wings.

As the seasons changed, so too did his appearance—growing into all the sharp edges a dragon should be proud of. He grew into his body with the disdain of a gnarly root waiting to be ripped from a garden bed. But what was to be done about it? It simply was what it was, and Asrir was a dragon. He could not change that truth.

When he finally came of age to pursue the romance he’d dreamed of, there was none to be found. Instead he soon found a tender heart is an open door for a sly thief.

What he had thought were kind smiles, quickly turned sharp and hungry. The brilliant eyes of a new love meant only for him, never held true devotion, instead they searched to see what he might give. And he gave. What ever they asked, he would gladly serve his heart up on a silver platter. And once they had their fill, time and time again, through the processional march of seasons, his lovers would dissipate into the far off mists of time, to only be memories.

Asrir found no lack of bodies in his bed, but the gaping wound of his heart bled and bled until he feared the river of his love would run dry.

There comes a point when an open book must be shut. If every page is torn from it, is there any story to still tell? And so, Asrir hid himself away to live in his dreams, rather then risk the chance for the fragile remains of himself to be scavenged. Safe in the seclusion of his mountains. Safe from the expectations of being a mighty dragon.

For a brief time, he thought solitude was true freedom.

The dream he had held on to all his life, to share a home with someone he loved, instead became a hideaway. Safe behind the mighty stone walls of the mountains, the roots of his dreams crept out into the nearby forest, like twinkling stars, as his magic weaved itself into the home he’d found. Like stubborn roots cracking through cobblestone, Asrir’s magic longed for more.

It was through those magical roots, that he’d met the person who changed his life. Knocking on the massive doors littered with signs to stay away, a bold pixie stormed into his life complaining of magical ley lines creeping into his yard—like a curmudgeonly gardener.

With a double set of transparent dragonfly wings, a black hue to them like the night sky with veins that shimmered like the stars above captured in his wings—stood Dewy Dewdrop. His skin was a cool dark brown, with a feint shimmer of verdant green and blue in the afternoon light. Dewy struck Asrir from his stooper like an icy winter night with an endless clear sky of stars.

Standing at a proud four foot high, with sharp green eyes, sharp teeth, and an even sharper personality. In every sense, the other man should have fit the bill to match everyone who had ever hurt Asrir in the past, and yet… there was an uncanny sense of honesty to him. There was no hiding behind a sweet smile to ease the rough edges, Dewy was who he was, other’s be damned. He would not bend for a single soul to stop being his authentic ornery self. But he also would not demand others to hide their truth, in turn.

The world of the faeries is not too dissimilar to that of the dragons. Friendly faces are just as quick to flip, once a fairy has what they want. But there was no trick to Dewy, at least not at Asrir’s expense. The man came to his door and simply requested for the dragon to help prune the stubborn magical roots creeping into his home from Asrir’s forlorn longing.

To repress oneself to the level Asrir had, that kind of unconscious magic can be a beastly thing to wrangle alone. And so, their time together stretched the span of weeks, which then became months. Not once did Dewy demand for the dragon to give him something in return. It was a job to be done. “Fix the messes you make. If we all spent our time ignoring that shit, then the world is just gonna be one big pile of garbage!” Dewy had barked at him, while pointing the end of a gardening spade his way.

The situation was so strange, it had been the first real laugh Asrir had given in ages. Dewy only waved him off with a flare of grumbles, but in the end, a small smile found its way to the edge of the pixie’s lips as well.

Such a strange man. And yet, Asrir began to look foreward to their time together.

As the two of them worked side by side over the months, dredging up the deep roots of Asrir’s unconscious dreaming, a comfortable sense of companionship bloomed. All the while, Asrir listened to the daily complaints and stories Dewy had to tell, but he never offered to share his true self with this strange pixie. He simply nodded and listened.

As they worked, Asrir came to learn quite a bit about Dewy. The gruff veneer Dewy maintained, was concealing his own kind of vulnerability. Magic amongst the fey, is weaved in their words. It’s all about the turn of phrase that holds power. Often, that power is used to lead the nonmagical into precarious situations, for the fey to inflict their magic upon. Those are the rules of it, after all.

Dewy had dedicated his life to becoming the greatest magic practitioner of his kind.

Dewy was good at what he did. The best. The most magically skilled pixie anyone had ever known. At least… that’s what he proudly boasted to Asrir quite regularly.

The thing is, fey were boring. They liked to cause mischief and illusions to trick the mind. But that’s all it ever was—a short trick. Dewy wanted to create! He wanted to mold and make magic into something that lasted forever. So he gave up on the cheap tricks early on.

But even through the bravado, Asrir could see a fellow bleeding heart.

“I don’t spend much time with other pixies. They say I’m boring,” Dewy scoffed while stabbing his spade deep into lush green earth, “Fine by me. I don’t like most of them anyway. Flighty bastards. They’re all too busy giggling with their creepy bright eyes, little freaks… Always trying to find the next joke to pull.”

He digs his hands into the dirt to take hold of a magical root. “What I make is real. I’m about the real things, Asrir.” And with a harsh tug, the very real root of Asrir’s lonely dreaming was wrenched free.

Friend of the fey. That’s what the people who came to Dewy were called.

Like gravity, Dewy’s magic pulled the lost souls that would run away to the fairy forest to him. The kind of people who were looking to leave their old lives behind. To run from the lives expected of them. To run from the expectations they could never meet—to be the good daughters, sons, wives, or husbands they were born to be.

Birth is hardly the vessel for truth. In the face of magic, why should the man born a woman not be able to be reborn? Dewy could mold the truth to become real.

And that’s what he did. He made deals with the nonmagical, to make their truth real. To finally let them feel at home in their bodies. For men to become women, and women to become men, and every other variation under the sun to come true. Fairy magic is built on deals, but who’s to say the deal can’t benefit them both? Dewy got to practice his magic, and they’d get a shot at a new look.

Of course a deal is a deal and fey has its rules, he couldn’t just give away freely. So he asked for the promise of a first born, when clearly the person wasn’t planning on having them. For names, when they never wanted the name they were given in the first place. And even pronouns, after Dewy was done—people wouldn’t even be able to think of the old ones around them anymore!

He played his game and flexed his skills, with no repercussions, in proper fairy workarounds.

Truly, a fascinating man.

“I do it for the practice. That’s all.” Dewy had huffed, as they sat side by side in what seemed far more like two friends enjoying an afternoon in the countryside, then a job needing to be done. There wasn’t a single root left in sight to upend.

Though his gruff walls stayed up, the way his eyes lit up with pride describing magical grounding lines of olive branches along chests, shimmers of stretch marks like gold, rosy cheeks and hair of the most verdant greens, and the moment when someone would See themself for the first time, well, Asrir would hardly call any of it cold.

There was more then just pride from Dewy, when people reacted to who they wanted to be became real. He would never admit it, but Asrir saw the kindness and care behind it. Lives were changed, all because of his magic. What a great gift that is to give.

“Well… I suppose that’s the last of them.” Asrir had murmured as he looked over the rolling fields of wildflowers, no sign that there was ever a disturbance caused by his magic. “I apologize once again for ruining your landscaping. I’ll be sure to keep my magic in check, so that it doesn’t disturb you again.” The unspoken admittance of, So that I don’t disturb you gain. And yet, he lingered. For the first time in a long time, Asrir wanted to open himself up. To trust again. But, he could never outright impose that on to Dewy.

Scratching the stubble along his cheek, Dewy squinted at him like a stray gray cloud on a sunny day. “You know… I’ve been having trouble with my garden lately. Can’t get the strawberries to grow right. Think you might wanna take a look at ‘em for me?”

The walls Asrir had put up to save his heart tumbled like dandelions in the breeze.

With a broad reptilian smile, Asrir bowed his head with joyful relief. “I would love nothing more… Friend.” And the two have been friends ever since. Even if Dewy pretended to grumble at the word from time to time.

So was Asrir truly an open book? Only for the right ones. With an entire life left to live, Asrir had learned the art of patience and that listening can be keen and sharp, in its own way. That self-induced loneliness was not the answer, but to instead keep guard. To stay watchful.

But most of all, he had learned that it is worth trying.

Life is full of risks. If one hides away, to only dream of it… can it actually be a life well lived?

The cynics can say what they will, but Asrir truly treasured the failures and flops of his hoard. Because in his own life, he certainly has his own fair share. So why should trying not be honored? Why should it not be regarded with celebration?

To try, is a very brave thing.

[angebluee]

CELEBRATORY ART FOR SEASON 2 NAME DROP RAHHHHHHHHH

LESS

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[grouper]

thanks again @kingdeath000 for sending these in !! 1982 tales from the crypt. tell me he doesnt look like matthew lillard here LMAOO

[cathartic-crypt]

casper always loved swimming ^_^

hi yeagh so in other words this is something i drew wayyy back in late july and just never got aorund to posting it. i also decided to be silly and copied the colour palette from whiteboard fox :-D

oh and the og pic

[wakeofvultures]

Chapter 17 of my kinda historical Volturi oc fanfiction is out! Myrtis talks with people and deals with the fallout of last chapter! The author remembers that there are other people in Twilight canon other than the Volturi Royals! And the author’s note is bloated af because I wanted to infodump about a historical figure only alluded to in the chapter (I don’t even namedrop him!)

[bam-stroker]

Writer edition

Ok so I've decided to do this for October and I have little snippets either queued up or I'll write when inspo strikes from the prompts

BUT! I'm going to have it all be for my characters from Royal Rogue since it's high fantasy. So you may have little crumbs of them~

✦ Feel free to join! ✦

[planetquest]

FOR MEEEEEEEEEE THEYRE DOING IT FOR ME

[danger-bird]

Touchstarved Demo Music

Decided to have a productive weekend and search for every song in the ts demo bc I’m a hungry bird and I need my crumbs🐤

Some were easy to find, others required manually going through artists’ discographies that might have the song I was looking for help (in order of appearance)

Sonata to Melancholy – Crypt of Insomnia

Fabric of Night – Crypt of Insomnia

Suspense Drums Trailer – ARCHIMUSIC

Dance Macabre – Crypt of Insomnia 

Reverie – MARiAN

Mystery – EightBallAudio

Medieval Harp Ambient – Orchestralis (all 3 versions are used)

Cold Dark Place – Crypt of Insomnia

Shards of Night Light – Crypt of Insomnia

Late Night Ode – Crypt of Insomnia

Rivendell Sunset – Crypt of Insomnia

Love Will Never End – VICTORMUSIC

Tango – Blacksmith

Fadeless Memories – Crypt of Insomnia

Slow Baroque Strings – Orchestralis

Once Upon a Dark Time – Allen Grey

Scorched Earth – Crypt of Insomnia

Ethnic Ritual – Nuclearmetal

Dark Ethnic Suspense – Allen Grey

Persian Beat – MARiAN

Deserted – Crypt of Insomnia

After Dark – Crypt of Insomnia

Beautiful and Tragic – Crypt of Insomnia

The Harp – SilverHoof

The End of the Journey – Crypt of Insomnia

Individual routes:

Ais

Unearthly Love - Crypt of Insomnia

Dangerous Middle East – iCENTURY

In The Time of Romance – MusicDog (also in Kuras' and Mhin's individual routes)

Kuras

Pizzicato Comedy – Orchestralis

Sorrowful Storytelling – Crypt of Insomnia 

Mhin

Rains Will Come – Andrea Baroni

Vere

Sad Tango Violins – Korolkov

Delusion – Crypt of Insomnia

Bonus:

Gothic Emotional Suspense Riser - Allen Grey (homescreen music; edited)

Horror Atmosphere - Orchestralis (ominous music; when Soulless/threat is nearby)

[julibf]

Sansa Stark connection with

the Blue Rose

A GAME OF THRONES 

We all know that the Blue Rose has a very important significance in the story of ASOIAF and many readers seem to believe that Sansa story has nothing to do with the Blue Rose, but George managed to sneak in some hints that the blue rose will be a big part of Sansa story. We start to see the connection right in the beginning of the story, when King Robert is visiting Lyanna in the crypts of Winterfell. 

"I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." …….."I bring her flowers when I can," he said. "Lyanna was … fond of flowers." (A Game of Thrones - Eddard I)

We have George telling the reader how important flowers are for Lyanna storyline. 

THE HAND’S TOURNAMENT

"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. (A Game of Thrones - Sansa II)

Sansa is experiencing her first Tourney, this is even greater than her dreams. Now, we all know that her aunt Lyanna Stark was crowned Queen of Love and Beauty in the Tourney of Harrenhall. She received a crown of frosting blue roses from the beautiful Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and if you read Sansa’s chapter you would think those events have nothing similar, yet, if you pay attention, you can see the crumbs that George have left for us. 

Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd….. Sansa never saw it. Her eyes were only for Ser Loras. When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst. .... To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. (A Game of Thrones - Sansa II)

Ser Loras, the KNIGHT OF FLOWERS, gives Sansa a red rose (different from the white ones he was giving to the other maidens). A few chapters later, on Eddard VII, Ned notices that the flowers in Ser Loras armour are covered in sapphires making the flowers all blue. 

When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and he heard Sansa's fervent whisper, "Oh, he's so beautiful." Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Ned that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires. (A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII)

First, we have Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, who wears an armour covered in blue flowers, giving Sansa a rose and telling her she is beautiful. Later we have Lord Baelish telling Sansa that she has her mother ‘s look and tells her Catelyn was HIS queen of beauty. For last, we have Sandor Clegane the champion of the lists after protecting Loras from the Mountain, having been named champion by Loras, escorts Sansa home.

Sansa was the Queen of Beauty and Love of the Tourney, only the author deconstructed the events in tiny little pieces. Again, George is literally giving us a puzzle with tiny little pieces that we must put together in order to get this story right.

A CLASH OF KINGS. 

In this book, we are going to read a tale about the Blue Rose of Winterfell in one of Jon Snow chapters. The author is going to intercalate the chapters giving us a foreshadow for the end of the story. The chapters 51, 52 and 53 are going to be very important for the story.

A CLASH OF KINGS CHAPTER 51, JON VII

In this chapter Jon Snow captures Ygritte and while she is his prisoner, she tells Jon and the audience, the story of Bael the Bard, who stole the maiden of Winterfell and left in her place a blue rose. 

She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. "And she never sung you the song o' the winter rose?" "I never knew my mother. Or any such song." "Bael the Bard made it," said Ygritte. "He was King-beyond-the-Wall a long time back. All the free folk know his songs, but might be you don't sing them in the south." "The Stark in Winterfell wanted Bael's head, but never could take him, and the taste o' failure galled him. One day in his bitterness he called Bael a craven who preyed only on the weak. When word o' that got back, Bael vowed to teach the lord a lesson. So he scaled the Wall, skipped down the kingsroad, and walked into Winterfell one winter's night with harp in hand, naming himself Sygerrik of Skagos. Sygerrik means 'deceiver' in the Old Tongue, that the First Men spoke, and the giants still speak." "North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark's own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he'd made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell.'" "Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished . . . and so had Lord Brandon's maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain".(A Clash of Kings - Jon VI)

In the song, Bael calls the maiden of Winterfell the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens of Winterfell and stills her for himself. The Lord of Winterfell thought he meant the winter roses from the glass castle gardens, but it was the girl that Bael wanted for himself.

The next chapter of the book, chapter 52, is SANSA IV

In this chapter Sansa will get her period and be ready to give children to the king. A winter rose (a maiden Stark of Winterfell) is flowering and blooming. 

"When she woke, the pale light of morning was slanting through her window, yet she felt as sick and achy as if she had not slept at all. There was something sticky on her thighs. When she threw back the blanket and saw the blood, all she could think was that her dream had somehow come true. She remembered the knives inside her, twisting and ripping. She squirmed away in horror, kicking at the sheets and falling to the floor, breathing raggedly, naked, bloodied, and afraid. But as she crouched there, on her hands and knees, understanding came. "No, please," Sansa whimpered, "please, no." She didn't want this happening to her, not now, not here, not now, not now, not now, not now...... The sight of the food made Sansa feel ill. Her tummy was tied in a knot. "No, thank you, Your Grace." "I don't blame you. Between Tyrion and Lord Stannis, everything I eat tastes of ash. And now you're setting fires as well. What did you hope to accomplish?" Sansa lowered her head. "The blood frightened me." "The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You've had your first flowering, no more." Sansa had never felt less flowery. "My lady mother told me, but I . . . I thought it would be different." "Different how?" "I don't know. Less . . . less messy, and more magical." Queen Cersei laughed. "Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman's life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you'll learn that soon enough . . . and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be messiest of all." She took a sip of milk. "So now you are a woman. Do you have the least idea of what that means?" "It means that I am now fit to be wedded and bedded," said Sansa, "and to bear children for the king." (A CLASH OF KINGS - SANSA IV)

I must admit I was always surprised that so many readers never notice how Sansa chapter where she flowers comes right after the chapter where we hear the tale of Bael the Bard and never put the two together. If the story follows the end of the show, Sansa will be the last maid left in Winterfell, since Arya is sailing in the sea and Jon will be the King Beyond the wall. 

A STORM OF SWORDS

Finally, my favourite foreshadow in the entire serie!!!!

This was it was noticed by https://www.tumblr.com/nattyslove22 please go check her gorgeous post here in this link!!!!

To catch the little crumbs that George left us in this book, we have to go back to book 1, A GAME OF THRONES in order to find our clues. In that novel, Catelyn kidnaps Tyrion Lannister and takes him to the Vale, to her sister castle the Eyre and while she is there, she mentions that Lysas apartments are close to a small garden of blue flowers.

Lysa's apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs. It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods. (A GAME OF THRONES CATELYN VII)

Later in A STORM OF SWORDS, we will have Sansa leaving her apartments and finding the entire garden covered in snow. We know that it’s the same garden because George made sure to point out the sculpture of the Weeping woman in both chapters. 

In this scene, we have Sansa being kissed by the SNOW on her lips in a garden of BLUE FLOWERS, reviving her dreams of love and innocence. The entire chapter feels like a dream, where Sansa longs for home, for the dreams that she used to dream. 

She awoke all at once, every nerve atingle. For a moment she did not remember where she was. She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya. But it was her maid she heard tossing in sleep, not her sister, and this was not Winterfell, but the Eyrie. And I am Alayne Stone, a bastard girl. The room was cold and black, though she was warm beneath the blankets. Dawn had not yet come. Sometimes she dreamed of Ser Ilyn Payne and woke with her heart thumping, but this dream had not been like that. Home. It was a dream of home. …….. Snow was falling on the Eyrie. Outside the flakes drifted down as soft and silent as memory. Was this what woke me? Already the snowfall lay thick upon the garden below, blanketing the grass, dusting the shrubs and statues with white and weighing down the branches of the trees. The sight took Sansa back to cold nights long ago, in the long summer of her childhood.

We are going back to her childhood. 

She had last seen snow the day she'd left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands. It hurt to remember how happy she had been that morning. Hullen had helped her mount, and she'd ridden out with the snowflakes swirling around her, off to see the great wide world. I thought my song was beginning that day, but it was almost done.

We have now Sansa for the first time in the novels, mentioning HER SONG, the song she thought it was going to happen in Kings Landing, the song that she now believes has come to an end. But what if, her song is just about to start???

When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath, unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. All color had fled the world outside. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet, she stepped all the same. 

Ghostly silence is very on the nose. 

Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.

SIGH, this will NEVER not be the most romantic chapter of the books.

THE BLUE ROSE AND SANSA STARK

Many of you, will say that the Blue Rose is not Sansa, its Jon Snow, which I agree somehow. The books point out to Jon as the blue rose, but the books also point out as the maiden of Winterfell as the winter rose. 

A very interesting point to notice is that this time, George is making the story a little different. You see, in the tale of Bael the Bard, Bael is the singer who enchants the Winterfell maiden, runs away with her and gives her a son; the same thing with Prince Rhaeger, who stole Lyanna and gave her a son, Rhaegar, just like Bael was a singer and played the High Harp, we have several characters in the books mentioning what lovely singer the dragon prince is that he even made Lyanna Stark cry with his sweet voice. With Jon and Sansa, the story will be a little different, because in this story, Sansa is the singer!!!!!

CREDIT https://nobodysuspectsthebutterfly.tumblr.com/post/716900314509361152

Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. (A Game of Thrones - Arya I)

Well look at that, the same instrument that Rhaegar used to play. 

Margaery’s kindness had been unfailing, and her presence changed everything. Her ladies welcomed Sansa as well. It had been so long since she had enjoyed the company of other women, she had almost forgotten how pleasant it could be. Lady Leonette gave her lessons on the high harp, and Lady Janna shared all the choice gossip. Merry Crane always had an amusing story, and little Lady Bulwer reminded her of Arya, though not so fierce. ( A Storm of Swords - Sansa II)

And of course, Jon only mentions Sansa a few times but he makes sure to mention Sansa singing.

"Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow.". (A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII)

It was Sansa who bewitched Jon Snow with her songs, right in the beginning of the story. Which is why I believe that Sansa first child will be a girl and not a son, like Lyanna and Rhaegar. 

THE POWER OF SONGS

Its with a song that Sansa saves her life during the battle of Blackwater. We all know that during that chapter Sandor Clegane abandons Joffrey guard and goes looking for Sansa in her room. He is drunk and angry and Sansa believes he will either rape or kill her, she is terrified of him, but instead of screaming or crying, she sings for him and her song calms him and makes him cry. 

Later, in the next chapter Sandor Clegane comes looking for Sansa in her room and threats to kill her, Sansa is terrified of him and instead of screaming or crying she starts to sing and her song calms him and makes him cry. 

His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life." Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

She had forgotten the other verses. When her voice trailed off, she feared he might kill her, but after a moment the Hound took the blade from her throat, never speaking. Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. A CLASH OF KINGS - SANSA VII)

Yes, Sansa is no warrior and can not use swords, but she was still able to defeat the great Sandor Clean by using a song. I love that detail in her story. This is a Song of Ice and Fire and my baby girl is one of the singers of the story.

OK, this is getting long, so I am finishing here. I am a re reading of all the books this year, expecting for a release date of WINDS (we can dream right?) but I am getting surprised at how many little details I am finding this time. The books are full of little surprises. 

BTW, I am planning to do a thread pointing out the parallels between Sansa and Rhaegar and let me tell you, the singing its not the only one I notice so far!!

[fangsandfeels]

Despite my continuous game criticism, I can't say I don't enjoy how Alruna is shaping up.

The crumbs of fraction interactivity (and companion reactivity) made it possible for her to be that friendly, yet sometimes awkward necromancer who has to learn on the fly and remember that people outside Nevarra have a very different understanding of necromancy, spirits, and magic.

Of course, once Emmrich joined the group, Alruna instantly reverted to her nerd mode, happily theorizing about the Lighthouse, the Fade, and gushing over Manfred until Harding pointed out that she speaks a lot more differently when she is with her colleague.

"I do not do such a--I don't do that"

(that was a nice addition, not gonna lie)

Alruna is certainly not ashamed of her background. She is proud of being part of the Mourn Watch, of what they do. However, she just knows that people won't get any more comfortable about her calling if she keeps talking about it all the time, so she prefers to be the listener, not the talker most of the time. Surprisingly, Emmrich wasn't an exception: Alruna didn't expect him to confide in her about his fear of death. And she wasn't sure how to comfort him.

She truly doesn't worry about death: she was found as a baby nobody expected to even be alive. Not crying, not breathing, going cold - with clear and bloody traces of somebody obviously trying to cut her open. She wasn't supposed to make it.

She doesn't remember it at all.

A couple of times, she eavesdropped on some of the Watchers, arguing about her origins in hushed tones: some theorized she was supposed to be someone's unethical experiment, but that someone might have gotten interrupted and decided to hide her deeper in the crypt.

Some said she might have been a result of an affair that some noble tried to bury in their family crypt - quite possible, the poor sod who was sent to do the deed, got themselves lost in the Grand Necropolis.

It doesn't matter to her, really. The Grand Necropolis was her home in life, it will be her berth in death - and that thought was comforting enough. In her life tending to the dead and performing the rites, Alruna found peace in the thought of joining that cozy alley one day. Maybe, becoming one of the curious wisps, messing with the newbies and following Watchers. Wouldn't that be nice?

Also, from her studies Alruna knows that there are things much worse than death. The kind that keep you suffering, contort and twist your body, while not letting you go. Never letting you go.

This is what truly terrifying to her.

But, she decided she will do what she could for not just a respected colleague and a fellow Watcher, but also a good and kind friend who reminds her so much of one of her mentors in charge of her training.

(Helping Emmrich also means keeping Taash and their juvenile prodding away from the good professor. Literally grabbing Emmrich's elbow and nudging him away for some urgent consultation, while giving them the "Don't talk to me or my great necromancer uncle or my skeleton cousin ever again" glare.)

[talesfromthecrypts]

7 Comfort Movies

tagged by @crumb (hi crumb!) to list 7 comfort movies

Near Dark

Malignant

Aliens

Paterson

The Company of Wolves

Tales From the Crypt: Demon Knight

Nightbreed

tagging @hellboys, @andtwelfth, @losthavenmine,@pascow

[bam-stroker]

Grrrrrrrrr I love my dragon OC so much!!! *rips shirt werewolf style* ASRIR!!!!

For context, his hoard is made up entirely of unfinished stories, art that got ruined by cats running across paintings, weird fantasy fanfic, or those human faces on medieval cat art style paintings.

Just all around, he adores the things that an artist might toss aside to be forgotten

Love this guy :')

[justacatiguess]

Sad Rook noises.

I may be the only one disappointed about crypt baby! This is a quick little bit I had thrown together for a possible rook in the mourn watch before we knew about the backgrounds. Oh well.

---

Seph set down the tea tray with a clatter, sending tomb dust into the air. The ancient stone chamber was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, casting eerie shadows on the crumbling walls adorned with faded Nevarran runes. Cobwebs hung like delicate veils in the corners, and the scent of musty earth permeated the air.

"Tea time!" she announced. She dusted her seat before sitting down. The crow on her shoulder fluttered down to the altar, eyeing the pile of tea cakes with keen interest.

A skull on the altar glowed faintly from the recesses of its eyes. "What is the occasion for this most unexpected visit?"

"Tut! Manners. You haven't asked how I am."

The skull sighed, its faint glow flickering. "Very well. How are you, dear Persephone?"

"Very well, thank you." Seph broke off a piece of a tea cake and offered it to the bird, who cawed happily before pecking at it.

She pursed her lips and stared at the skull, tipping her head towards the crow.

"Oh for all the-" The skull sighed. "And you, crow?" The crow cawed as it pursued a crumb rolling away.

"Tea cake?" Seph set a plate next to the skull.

The glow in the skulls eyes shifted as the skull watched the crow. "Did you name this one?"

Seph brushed a strand of her pale hair from her face, hiding her face from the skull. "Of course not, don't be silly. It's just a bird." She fed Maestro another bit of tea cake.

The skull was not convinced. "If you can name a bird... You know I can't remember mine. Why can't I have one?"

Seph waved a hand in the air, causing the candle flames to dance. "Nevermind that. You asked why I am celebrating. Don't you want to know?"

"I'm dying to know," the skull replied dryly.

Persephone grimaced at the pun but settled in to tell her story.

"Today marks the anniversary of my escape from Tevinter. Did I ever tell you how it happened?"

The skull's glow dimmed slightly, signaling its attention.

"That day... Usually, I woke to a swift kick on the side from Talil to get to work. But when I woke, the shadows were long in the room, and I was alone. I rolled off my mat freezing, as the big oven wasn't even lit."

She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "I panicked. If Talil didn't get breakfast out soon, we'd get a switch or two for sure."

Seph's voice trembled. "Then I heard the master's voice and followed it through the service hall to the dining parlor."

The skull's glow brightened, "Your master? I didn't know you're a slave."

"Was." She corrected.

Her eyes darkened as she continued. "I saw him there with one of his friends. Then I saw Talil. All propped up on a chair as if she had joined them for a late-night chat."

Persephone's grip tightened on her teacup.

"She was riddled with knife marks, her eyes gouged out."

The skull darkened in sympathy.

"Then I noticed the demon. They had it bound in some sort of spell. Blood magic, I wager. Took me a bit of a moment to realize they were trying to settle a bet."

Seph lowered her voice and spoke in a drunk slur. "'The last one stood taller than the door frame." She mimicked.

She then leaned a little to the side and said in a snivelling voice reminiscent of her master:

"Pfaw, this one is only a hair shorter, but look at that girth. The size of those claws."

She tilted back to her original posture and took a sip of her tea before continuing.

"Master said he would get another slave to continue the game."

The skull's glow flickered, "Did you kill them then?

Persephone's eyes met the skull's empty sockets. "No, I was too afraid. I hid. Eventually his guest left and master went to bed. Stabbed his sleeping body until it had more holes than Talil's."

"How'd you end up here of all places?" The skull asked.

Seph laughed. "When I was younger the kitchen maids would tell me ghastly things when I misbehaved. Usually it was how the master would make me a mummy in Nevarra and have me tortured for an eternity. I wanted my master to suffer like that."

Persephone looked down at her hands, as if seeing the blood again. "So I sawed his head off, with much difficulty, of course."

The skull's glow dimmed. "His head? You took his head?"

"Yes. I went into his boudoir, picked out a nice outfit, cleaned myself up, found a bag to pack him in, hid my ears with a ridiculous hat—still have it. And now here we are, having this lovely little tea party, a year later."

"What... er, what was his name?" the skull asked quietly, dreading the answer.

"Hmm?" Persephone shook her head as if to dislodge the memories. "Oh dear, you think your-?" she leaned back, pealing with laughter. 

"No, no, his skull was beyond rotted out by the time I made it here. I found you in a collapsed alcove in this tomb."

"Oh, well, that's a relief."

Persephone lifted her teacup and took a ladylike sip. "Needless to say I was quite disappointed. The kitchen maids had made it all up. Nothing here but dusty sorts that go on about honoring the dead. A shame, really."

"Personally, I prefer the honoring to the torturing," the skull said.

Seph shook her head, as if to return back to the present. "Well, chores to do, and all that." She stood and stretched her back. "I don't suppose your going to eat that tea cake?"

"Ha. Very funny."

Seph rearranged the teaware on the platter. She motioned to the bird. "Come on, Maestro." The crow hopped obediently onto her shoulder.

"I knew it." The skull glowed indignantly.  "Might want to remember that whole honoring the dead bit, hmm? Give the ol' skull a name?"

"Perhaps next time. So much to do! Toodles!"

[requiesticat]

Celebration of Twilight update

Planning to finish COT sooner or later. I've changed my mind about playing LGTS so will likely get that game as well. Not sure of whether I should change the Strange Boy's name or not since he got a canon title (Ozzy).

In the process of penning Lisette's next chapter, Death Drive. Here's a short preview:

At the very end of the table, where Goldia had once been bound with rope, surrounded by guests permanently invited, a lone figure sat hunched. Cautiously, Enjel moved closer. Lisette's double was not a captive, but remained in place, violet eyes glittering in the low light, face unsmiling and haggard. She didn't move, even as Enjel stopped a safe distance away, and cleared her throat. Bread crumbs decorated a soup dish surrounded by crumpled napkins.

"Hello," said Enjel, for lack of a better approach to friendly topics. "Can you hear me?"

The golem took ages to nod, but at least it was reciprocation. Didn't turn, or even flinch at the sight of another person, staring blankly forward.

"Pardon my interruption. I… wish to speak with your creator. But it doesn't look like Lisette is here. Could you, ah, provide directions, please?"

Chapped lips moved, cracking like worked, dry clay. She was saying something. Enjel leaned in, strained to listen.

"What?"

"She's right behind you."

Heart hammering in her chest, Enjel jerked around like she'd seen the devil, and was still trying to process it when a boot slammed down with the force of a thunderclap, echoing across cobblestone. Even Lisette's movements seemed to be amplified, stiff and haughty, as she approached from behind a pillar like a corpse shambling out of a dank crypt.

She certainly knew how to make a memorable entrance.

[rulebaetannia]

Parties? On HMS Victory? Oh, the shame of it!

There is nothing funnier to me than this piece from some years ago, in which the Daily Mail tries to lazily fear monger about allowing small and respectable receptions and dinners on the over two hundred year old warship, HMS Victory.

"The Great Cabin, where Admiral Lord Nelson plotted his strategy during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, is available for fine dining by a group of 20 people for a minimum cost of £30,000." Trying to make it sound so grandiose and therefore undignified to have a dinner party in the room that Nelson planned his battles in! And that Nelson lived in. And that Nelson invited people into to come visit him. And...had dinner parties in.

"[. . .]dinner on the Lower Gun Deck – where the lower ranks survived on stale biscuits and ale – starts at £240 a head." What an affront to history! Eating fancy food where battle hardened sailors once survived on dusty crumbs! Never mind that Nelson constantly went out of his way to make sure his sailors ate well, but no one writing this actually cares one whit about Nelson or Victory.

"The use of the vessel – which led Britain to victory against the French and Spanish fleets – will dismay traditionalists who believe treasured parts of the nation’s heritage should not be exploited for commercial benefit." The money is specifically going toward the on going restorations of Victory, of course. Unfortunately these traditionalists don't seem to be aware that Nelson loved dinner parties so much that his two closest companions, Captain Hardy and Lady Hamilton, were both known for their knack and grace when hosting dinner parties. Honestly, eating overpriced food and pretending to know about wine is probably the most historically accurate thing you could do on this ship.

Also funny, they quote people who have much reason to care about the ship--a descendant of Nelson's, the Nelson society, the National Museum of the Royal Navy--all of whom were generally of the opinion this is fine, as long as the ship is taken care of and respected. But surely the dignity of Victory shouldn't be the site of some brat teenager's 16th birthday! Or a hen night (bachelorette party) oh, the indignity of penis shaped candles on Lord Horatio Nelson's hallowed ship!

But then they have a quote from the man who books the parties saying that they are very selective and have strict rules regarding allowing parties on the ship. Most of these are to do with preserving the ship's condition, though they say they are also careful about choosing what to allow on the ship. They even specifically rule out 18th birthday parties and the aforementioned hen nights. It's nice when conservative rage bait pieces helpfully debunk themselves.

But my friends, this is the best punchline to this article:

You can have a party around Nelson's crypt! He's entombed in the black marble sarcophagus above the plinth in the centre. They even gave him lovely lesbian lighting.

[jessilynallendilla]

Dylan Hollis Baking Quotes Without Context Part 6

“We’re using it in linguini form, which I’ve never seen-eugh" 

“Dates are inevitable” 

“I don’t know where this is going, I don’t think I want to” 

“You mix this up to make it all green and disgusting. Charming” 

“This is just not right” 

“Now we’re going to plate this monstrosity” 

~”Peaches and linguini. Hearts of palm. Dates too~” 

“Now on goes our frozen swamp cream” 

“These are fresh eggs. From the business end of the chicken” 

“Ooh it’s wet!” 

“This is roughly four cups of crumbs and tears from artisan bread makers” 

“Now into a separate bowl goes two chicken eggs. Well, thank heavens you specified, I was at risk of using my locally sourced ostrich eggs” 

“We start with two large packs of lemon Jello because one would be too easy and three’s a felony” 

“Once you get to this color you are severely dehydrated” 

“Lemon lime fever dream” 

“Pour this into something, preferably the garbage” 

“This person has been to a dark place.” “Ugh it lingers.” “Seen bad things.” 

“You hear that, Henry?” tosses skeleton. “Long live Christmas!” 

“Make sure to take off the diapers, not very nutritious.” 

“Optional cup of chocy chips. Optional my ass!” 

“If you leave it in too long you risk pregnancy” 

“I call that a cup. No need to be precise, your in-laws will still find a way to insult you.” 

“We don’t cook with pot hash anymore for the same reasons we don't attempt to cure indigestion with lobotomies” 

Sheri is the popery of liquor. It was once very fashionable back when people bathed once a week and wondered why there were rats in their wigs.” 

“Smells really festive, like Febreze in a crypt” 

“Just a tablespoon of rum.” pours whole bottle, proceeds to drunkenly stumble into oven. 

“This looks like I microwaved a squirrel.” 

“Are you supposed to eat this for Christmas or for punishment?” 

“I’m sure people loved it back then when they ate lead paint and wood chips.” 

“You don’t have to use the whole box, you can beat a few and suck on the rest.” 

“Sorry I’m late I took the wrong exit at Cape Canaveral and ended up getting probed for free.” 

“Oh boy it’s butter on butter, nobody tell Paula Dean, she’ll bust in like the Kool-Aid Man” 

“Apparently these are named after the seed of the Buckeye tree which kills humans and cattle. Ohio you do you.” 

“Oh, the fifties, where when breakfast was a verb, baseball was relevant, and I would have had to have a wife” 

“Pinch of salt-”spills it-”Screams” 

“This looks like 10W40” 

“You can still buy powdered creamer if you like the taste of wood glue” 

“Finally alternate adding the dry and the motor oil” 

“For years I have searched for a gelatin mold that is edible and for years I have done so in vain” 

“C’mon Pepto!” 

“This book contains five secret cornbread recipes believed to be the lost sacred texts of Nebraska. Bake them all, die!” 

“Two boxes of cornbread mix. By the power of the Midwest!” 

“Sprinkle with water to avoid dry spots. What type of Nebraska voodoo is this?” 

“It reeks!” 

Stressed laughter “My house smalls like Hidden Valley.”