#dark passage is making me feral

[pulchritudinous-plants]

ridley pearson writing conflicts between his male characters: genuine conflicts that play to their character flaws and eventually helps them grow as people and are built up throughout multiple books so that they have a satisfying resolution

ridley pearson writing conflicts between his female characters: bitches be crazy 🤭

[edgeray]

hii edge! is it possible if i request an arlecchino/reader with beauty & the beast au :0? thank you so much in advance aaaaaa i love your writing so much it always makes my day^^

To Break a Curse

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Hi anon! Of course, here's going to be my reminder that if you request from me again as an anon, give yourself a name/emoji :). So I technically have already made a beauty and beast au (here is the link), but I suppose I could just rewrite the concept. The original au did differ a lot from the ‘disney’ version so for this one, so for this one, I will actually try to align this more with the disney version. Slightly dark because I'm not going to have talking kettles and candlesticks in here. Will be assuming gn! reader for this. Also I'm glad that you enjoy my works and bit sorry for the delay ^^ I am so sorry the ending is shitty at the end I am deadass about to fall asleep, I was this close 🤏 to falling asleep. I was typing with my eyes close lol. It's like 3:30AM for me so I'm gonna hit the hay. Maybe I should stop writing these at 12AM lol.  Content warnings / info - mean arle at the start, semi-graphic violence, prolly forgetting something but I'm tired, 2.7k words 

You've heard of the rumored forsaken prince, everyone in your village has. People rarely mention her by name, opting to call the cursed prince ‘the Beast,’ based on her animal-like claws and her temperament–just as vicious as a feral beast. The castle which she alone resides in sits on the outskirts of the forest next to your village. Every villager warns you to never trespass into the Beast's territory, unless you wished to never return. However, you've never believed in the existence of the Beast and her castle--after all, you've gone to the forests numerous times and have never encountered her. Perhaps this was just a way to scare off children from getting lost. 

Today, you learned how wrong you were. Venturing into the forest to forage for your dinner, you had accidentally delved too deep into the forest, now lost. Night approached soon as you searched for an escape or a shelter, but your search was unsuccessful.

Trudging through the forest, you heave for breath, your feet aching from traversing the rough terrain of the forest, not helped by the uncomfortable shoes you chose to wear. You thought that the foraging wouldn't take long but you found a large patch of mushrooms that led you deeper into the forest than you intended. You gaze up at the sky, it being pitch black with only the moonlight and the stars guiding you through. 

The shadows produced by the trees unnerve you, your imagination and paranoia warping them into abstract monsters stalking you. You know that there is nothing in the forest that can hurt you, unless the rare bear, but the knowledge didn't soothe you any more. You feel something hit your forehead–something light and small… and wet. It takes a couple more droplets before you realize it’s now downpouring. You bite your lip out of frustration, wrapping your arms around yourself to store as much body heat to yourself. Your footsteps speed up and you look more frantically, until you see something imposing in the distance. It's hard to make out in the fog, but it seems like the outline of some sort of building. 

You run towards it, only to be faced with a wall. You follow along it until you reach a gate, and behind the gate, you can vaguely make out a structure larger and more obscene than anything you've ever seen before; it looks nothing like the village establishments. If anything, it dwarfs your entire village as a whole, likely massive enough to fit your village inside based on the height alone. At least this would provide you shelter from the rain and cold, is the only consideration you make before pushing open the gates and rushing down the stone path. 

You nearly trip over the stone passage and as you arrive at the entrance, you soon realize it’s a castle. Its uncanny shape now makes some sense, but from then on lack of light through the windows, it seems like no one lives here. You press on, entering the castle. You’re thankful you're no longer being pelted by the rain and then you're immediately struck with awe from the decor and grandiose of the interior. Although the castle is unlit, you're still able to make out some details of the room you enter. Admiring the spiral staircase and the magnificent pillars, a thought strikes you. Why does no one inhabit the castle? 

Abruptly, there is the sound of something shuffling and it makes your marveling halt. Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and fear clenches onto you tightly as the incessant terror of not being as alone as you though plagues you. Spinning around, you search for the origins of the sound only to scare yourself when you accidentally kick against a piece of furniture. You yelp out, before silencing yourself when you cognize it was nothing. 

And then a thud. And another, coming from behind you. Paralysis enraptures your body and before you have the time to breathe, a heavy weight crashes into you, making you tumble into the ground. You let out a scream, turning around to view what just struck you, and two glowing red orbs stare back at you. You gasp wildly, trying to scramble away when your throat is suddenly tightened and you're forced against the ground. It feels like claws are just barely brushing against your neck, threatening to puncture into you if you so much as breathe. A whimper escapes you and a whispered plea escapes you as you lock your eyes on the pair of red. 

“P-please…” 

A deep, resounding voice responds to you, causing shivers down your body. “What are you doing in my home?”

Tears well in your eyes and you try your best to speak as clearly as possible. “I-I'm sorry. I didn't k-know! I'll go, p-please let me go!” You beg, your hands raise to pry off the hand over your throat but a feral growl stops you. 

“Do you know whose home you intruded into?” 

You shake your head. The grip around your neck intensifies for a few moments.

“Speak.”

“N-no…” 

“This is my castle, Prince Arlecchino's. Though, the villagers like to call me something else… what was it, ‘the Beast?’”

You suck in an audible breath as your eyes grow wide. This is the Beast? The Beast is real? Then are the rumors of people disappearing in the castle true as well? What will happen to you? Your mind goes into a frenzy, with all the wonderings of what the Beast would do to you.

“P-please don't kill m-me…”

“Kill you? No,” the Beast answers coldly. The hold on your throat slackens and the Beast’s hand slips away. “I won't kill you. But you've trespassed my home. And for that, you will remain here, for the rest of your life.” 

“W-what? B-but,” you breath is caught when you feel a tug on your arm pulling you up to your feet, the same claws that pressed against your neck digs shallowly into your arm, making you wince. 

“This is your punishment,” the Beast says, its red pupils glaring down at you coldly. You gulp, but accept your fate. The Beast could easily kill you with one swipe of her hand. 

“Follow,” it instructs, and you do, trailing behind the Beast as it navigates the dark surroundings effortlessly, a testament to how long it's been here. You trip over another piece of furniture, making you stumble onto the ground. 

“I'm sorry–” you stammer out an apology immediately.

“Be quiet,” gruffed the Beast. You scramble to get up but feel yourself hoisted up, by the Beast presumably. You yelp from the sudden position, now carried in a bridal style–its hold is surprisingly gentle and its claws don't prick you.

“Where are you taking me?” You inquire, clutching onto the Beast’s shoulder–which for some reason shocks you that it’s firm just like any other human, although you know that the Beast is a human–when it goes up the staircase. 

“A guest chamber.”

“A guest chamber?” 

“Would you prefer the dungeon?”

“No… thank you… Prince Arlecchino.”

The Beast pauses its movements, halting in place. 

Your thoughts flood with anxiety, wondering if this would trigger a violent reaction from the Beast. “Did I offend you? I’m sorry, I really am.” 

“No. It's just been a long while since someone referred to me from my title.” The Beast continues walking, unaware of how its–her–words shattered your mindset. 

That's right, how could you forget? ‘The Beast’ is still a human, cursed or not. Perhaps Prince Arlecchino deserved being inflicted by a curse, but you could not imagine yourself with the fate instilled on the forsaken prince, nor being singularly called ‘the Beast’ by every waking person. It's dehumanizing and awfully isolating, and it makes you question how long it has been since she's been called that, how long it has been since she has been seen as a human. 

It makes your heart ache. 

You count the flight of stairs that she goes up, and then for the first time, you see orange light coming from one of the rooms at the end of a corridor–an open fire likely. As the Prince walks closer to the room, you're able to make out more details; it's a bedroom, but more apparently, you can finally see her. You tilt your head up, and you expectedly, yet unexpectedly at once, you view a very princely face: pale, flawless skin framed by snow white hair and ebony strands, and sharp jaw. Prince Arlecchino glances down at you, sharp cross-shaped pupils burrowing into you. Her expression seems curious of yours. 

“You do look like a prince…” you think out loud absentmindedly, your face flushing as you realize your verbalization. 

The Prince says nothing, thankfully, and doesn't note your fluster. You look away from her face and glance at her hands. Like you've heard from the villagers, they are black, as if dipped in ink and her nails are red claws. Though what the villagers have yet to mention was the markings on her forearm, which are, admittedly, entrancing. She finally sets you down once she enters her chamber, which is obviously well-lived in. 

Taking a nearby candle holder and a few logs of wood set nearby the hearth the Prince silently exits her room to go into the room next to hers. You follow her into the room, this one obviously not used but still has a lot of furniture. Using the logs and the candlestick, she ignites the hearth and what you assume is going to be your room fills with heat and light. 

“This is your room from now on. Do not ask for me for the rest of the night,” she gruffs, and closes the door behind her. Her footsteps go away towards the direction of her bedroom. 

You blink, reality setting in. You’re still in your wet clothes, but you can't do much but strip and wrap yourself in dry sheets. You do exactly that, before sinking into the bed. It's like how you imagine sinking into a cloud to be–you fall to slumber in the manner of minutes. 

— 

You do not see her until the next morning, when the sun finally peaks out and you're able to see where you walk. Exiting your room, you note that she's not in her chamber, and you wander the castle. A whiff of something metallic combined with a musk catches your attention and you travel down the stairs until you reach the ground floor. You spot a figure crouched over something, and when you near the sight more, you discover the Prince hunched over a deer carcass. A sickening rip makes you cringe as a limb is torn off from the body. 

“P-prince?” You ask hesitantly. The Prince turns, a calm expression over her face. Only a bit of blood smears her lips. 

“Yes?” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Eating. It is also for you.” 

You stew in silence long enough for the Prince to turn back and resume. “Prince Arlecchino, how long have you been surviving like this?” 

“Since I was cursed.” 

Your heart aches again. “It is raw.”

“Indeed.” 

“It cannot be good for you.”

“It is all I have.” 

It is a sad sight. You think that ‘the Beast’ fits her the best here, like a starved animal instead of a human trying to live. 

“Prince Arlecchino, if you allow me, I can improve your eating experience. It would be healthier for you and it would be more appealing to eat.” 

The Prince perks up her head, glancing back at you.

That day, the Prince learns of the wonders of cooked venison. And perhaps, you've never seen a brighter, warmer light than the one that glints in the Prince's at her first taste. 

—

“What is it that you're reading?” 

Arlecchino glances up from her book. “It is a romance novel.”

“I didn't think that you'd be interested in such things, Prince.” 

“You grow curious about things you do not have.” 

You frown and contemplate. It seems like… she's always wanted company. “Prince, may I ask you why you chose to isolate yourself here?”

The Prince remains quiet for several moments before she responds, in a voice uncharacteristically quiet. “The villagers do not accept my appearance.”

“Because of your curse?”

“Yes. They’re afraid of me. Of my eyes, of my hands. Of my strength.” 

“Have you not tried undoing the curse?”

She bitterly laughs. “There is nothing that breaks the curse. It is impossible.”

You narrow your eyes. “There must be something. There's no such thing as an unbreakable curse.”

“You are right. However, the conditions to break this one is… unobtainable.”

“What is it?”

 The Prince's gaze shifts from you to the stack of books that pile by her bedside. You recognize some of the titles from your village library–they were all in the romance category. You never realize until now that the Prince looks at them with a hopeless longing. “To be loved and to love, is what it is in simple terms.”

There is that heartache again. 

You shake your head, trying to any more painful thoughts circling around the Prince. “If you truly gave up on breaking your curse, you would not still be alive, would you?”

“I will not entertain this thought,” is all she says, but you know her answer already. 

You sigh. “Can I at least… read with you?”

The Prince tilts her head and pauses. A clawed hand grasps onto yours, and you're pulled into her lap. The steady heartbeat of Arlecchino's can be felt from the contact. 

— 

It takes several weeks for you to figure that the Prince does not enforce her punishment. You have escaped out of the castle before, if only to find more things to forage. She has seen you exit out of the castle but she does not chase you or force you to return back. Although you’d like to see the village again, you're also not sure if you do want to go back–the castle is quite comfortable and you’ve had enough of petty village squabbles. You wonder why it is that she doesn't stop you, why she was so forceful of it at the beginning. 

You recall the discussion regarding her curse. She had given up on finding a way to break her curse, however, she had always sought out company. Perhaps she had the punishment to force you to stay… to enjoy a company she has been able to for years. Now, Arlecchino has given up on you being a potential cure to her curse. It must be why she's no longer hesitant to let you go.  

But she is wrong. In those weeks you spend with her, you've learned much more about ‘the Beast.’ You've learned that she is kind in a quiet, observant manner. She's hunted for you, lit your fireplace, made your clothes. She cares for nature, appreciates its beauty and intricacy unlike anyone else you know. And she is romantic, some of the village men could not compare to her when she's read so many books. 

One day, a rose is left on your bed, no doubt collected on your bed. 

That night, you approach her room.

“Prince Arlecchino?”

“Yes?”

“The rose… thank you for it.” 

The Prince remains in silence, observing you with adoration in her eyes despite her bone chilling features. “You’re welcome.”

“Roses are often used as a way to confess,” you say. You know that she knows already, given the amount of books she read. “Is this what I think it is?”

Prince Arlecchino nods. Tentatively, she takes your cheek in her hand and cups it, her claws gently brushing over your skin. “Yes. I think I am in love with you.”

A smile forms on your face and you lean in to press your foreheads against one another, creating an intimate air. “I love you too, my dear Prince.” 

The two of you lean against one another, your lips meeting each other and you close your eyes. The Prince places a hand behind your head, pushing you closer. You don't notice that her nails are no longer red, nor are they sharp. She doesn't notice either. 

The ink from her arms wash away, and with that ‘the Beast’ is swept away, stolen away by you. Prince Arlecchino stands in place of the missing ‘Beast.’ 

[corpsebasil]

Prince of Fools -> complete chaos between reader and Nikolai

Warnings: daddy gets what daddy wants

The enemy Grisha had almost gotten to the hallway you and Nikolai hid inside. They were hunting for you and the prince; the Grisha with the power to speak to animals, the Disney princess of Ravka, and Nikolai, the future king.

“Saints,” Nikolai cursed, his back against the wall with you pressed tight against his front. The Grisha were nearing, them with their advanced magic and wicked intent.

“Follow my lead.” You urged, and his eyes widened when you shoved his face into your chest seconds before the Grisha rounded the corner. “OH GODS!” You wailed, loudly, and Nikolai’s startled huff of laughter was warm against your skin. “THOMAAAAAS!”

“Thomas?“ Nikolai grumbled, but you only pulled your hood up and made loud sucking noises, rocking his head violently against you.

“OH THOMAS TELL MEEEE—!”

“OH…BECKY!” He cried, and you almost smacked him. Of all the names he could’ve picked— “LEMME TOUCH YOU! FEEL ME!”

You were half a second from bursting into laughter, your face hot as you resisted, tussling his hair violently. You could feel several sets of stunned, horrified eyes on the two of you, gawking at the sight of the deranged Ravkans in front of them.

“Do you think they need medical attention?” One whispered, eyes wide.

“Maybe an exorcism.” Other grumbled.

You almost choked when Nikolai picked you up and whirled you against the wall, growling like a feral beast. You could hardly breathe, your stomach aching with the urge to laugh, especially when he clutched your Kefta in both hands and said, “Daddy gets what daddy wants.”

That’s was enough. One of the Grisha gagged as they hurried along, claiming to have spotted the prince further, MUCH further, down the hallway. When they were well and gone, you panted for breath, letting out the loudest cackle of your life into the hallway. Nikolai clamped a hand over your mouth but grinned, his own face flushed with hysteria.

“Becky?” You whispered, raising your eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“You shoved my face into your tits.”

“I was going for authentic.”

Footsteps echoed close by and they turned, watching as Alina, Genya and Mal cautiously stepped out of the darkness of the hall. They’d been at the end of the corridor the entire time.

“I truly,” Mal began, shaking his head with the same level of horror that the Grisha had possessed. “Do not want to know whatever energy you two were just channeling.”

“We’re natural actors.” Nikolai bragged, slinging an arm over your shoulders. You turned your head and planted a loud, wet kiss against his cheek, making him curse and wipe at his face.

“I’m tired of your antics.” Alina said, but she was smiling, and she and Genya giggled as they looped arms with Y/N and let the group down the passage to the exit.

Do not ask I am two wine glasses in and found this hysterical

[chaosfae-writes]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧

premise: whenever a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin—madness isn’t the birthright, it’s sorrow.

pairing: yandere!rhaenyra targaryen x poc!targaryen!reader

warnings: sibling incest, possessive behavior, mention of major characters deaths, paranoia, cruelty, dark wlw implied smut.

a/n: grrm really said for targaryen women, “double it and give it to the next person.”

Betrayal and fear are the double heads of a coin.

Paranoia is its child.

A wounded mother’s rage is feral, unhinged as a cornered animal. Four little dragons slain for the sake of war, and a husband lost to the sea.

Rhaenyra — no longer the realm’s delight, but a queen who’s shadowed by darkness. Targaryen women are cursed since birth, bearing tragedy within themselves as an unborn babe.

It’s in their blood, nestled in the marrow of their bones, made of unfathomable ancestral sins and starving voids. Born from angry men, and despaired women — whenever a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin—madness isn’t the birthright, it’s sorrow.

The towns folk shout from the bellows of flea bottom, pleading for help, spitting on her name. Exhausted, and scared.

“Murderer!”

“Cunt!”

“The Black Queen is the wretchedest of women!”

So wretched she shall be.

As they starve and perish, she engorges in feasts, harshly taxing the poor for the last coins they barely own. Executing any who even glances upon her wrongfully— paranoid of anyone, walk on eggshells in her presence.

Beheading any servant who she perceives to be a new lover of yours, but you’ve only ever been faithful to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

Rhaenyra sees any man or woman as a threat to your marital vows.

Teeth, and bruises, possessive grip your soul; Aegon and yourself cannot linger far from her sight. Murmurs under her breath, stares soullessly in the roaring fire pit, manic outbursts that have influenced her only surviving son to be tumultuous.

She makes love as if she’s fighting, always in control, withering on top, fingers gripping tightly your flesh as if you will slip away.

Momentary bliss to be fucked in such manner, thrusting against her, your flesh craving for her. But as the high falls down, you’re reminded of the reality— that she’s not well.

Threatened to cage you in a cell, accused you of the conspiracy of infidelity, spitefully bringing up Daemon to hurt you — still grieving over your late husband, your precious kepus.

Even your own thoughts have no reprieve from her. Kneeling now, silver crown bowed in holy devotion, praying to the Gods — to free Rhaenyra of her pilt, for the safe passage for the souls of your boys, for your late husband, and the masses.

Even for your late nephews, and sweet sister, may the Gods be merciful.

The town folk deserve a good ruler, no matter what lies between their legs, just an heir who will guide them to prosperity. To have food, land, and a warm home.

Your fingers interlocked, hovering over your skull, murmuring under your breath — have been in this position for a while. Fruitlessly praying for many fortnights.

Subtle footfalls near but your mind is so distraught.

“What ails you, sister? Praying to the Gods?”

Milky fingers slither the slope of your neck, tracing the sore purplish bruise, tightening your shoulder, wincing and silently gasping at the sting.

“Prayers of what?” Rhaenyra’s fingers glide to your chin, her thumb stroking your lip, “Prayers for me?” Her voice eerily pitches mockingly honeyed sweet.

“What of me, you speak of?” Her voice is breathy and tense, false sweetness to entrap you.

Your breathing becomes haggard, mumbling inaudibly. Rhaenyra hums, she guides your head upward, but you fearfully close your eyes.

Those chilled violet eyes — she doesn’t look like herself when she becomes enraged, rather beastly.

No matter your response, she won’t believe you.

“Keeping secrets?” Rhaenyra roars, her hands tug the hem of your dress, snagging your body harshly away from the altar, to the flooring ungracefully.

“Kostilus Rhaenyra, nyke mērī jorepagon syt ao naejot jiōragon sȳrkta!” Please Rhaenyra, I only pray for you to get better.

Crawling on all fours as a dog, you try to cower away in the corner, but your sister persists on her delusions. She rushes over you, hunched over, her body crashing over yours. Limbs entangled, your wrists encased in her hands.

Shouting her spewing poison.

“Praying naejot se gods naejot sagon dāez yno? Daor sesīr se olvie kraj gods kostagon laodigon ao hen nyke!” Praying to the Gods to be free of me? Not even the most powerful Gods can steal you from me!

Rhaenyra rips the threads of your dress, as a blood-hound. She’s mad, by the Gods she’s mad! No longer is she the joyous wife you once adored, but now a cruel creature.

Wrestling on the marble floor, Rhaenyra just claws at your undergarments as if the fabric offends her to be in her way of your body.

“Rhaenyra, please I beseech you to be calm!”

Without a word, Rhaenyra lounges at your bare breast, teeth nibbling, sloppy and rabid. Your fingers fumble and grip her sleeve, your head tilting back, your back arching into her body.

“Kneeling for hours, head bowed —- our enemies shall be on their knees, pleading for us. Who aided you to create your altar?”

You mumbled that no one did, you created it over the years in honor of the gods. But she doesn’t listen, she hasn’t in a long time.

“A few servants have been near you, some of them serve in The Faith.” Rhaenyra mutters that she will like each servant up, “Perhaps their whispers have influenced you, trying to conspire against me. Praying for my downfall.”

As the sun falls upon the horizon, Rhaenyra takes you apart, orgasm and orgasm — and your body succumbs to her, cradling her skull into your palm, you accepted your fate.

This is who she is now.

-

The next morning, your prayer room is bare, with only the altar spared, but even it was violated.

The altar space is covered with a white fabric, no longer allowed to have your last inkling of personal space. Ripped away from you all due to paranoia.

You weep in the middle of the room, leaning from foot to foot, hugging yourself against your chest, your breasts flinching by the graze of the cotton nightgown — fresh bruises by her mouth.

“My love.” Rhaenyra’s voice echoes, “Come back to bed” Her voice lowers just a little, “The bed is chilled without you.” Soft subtle clicks of her heels against the flooring, “Later in the evening, Aegon would like for his mothers to read to him.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers glide against your waist, tugging you — firmly as a threat. Her head nears the shell of your ear, “An altar is no place for a queen to be on her knees,” she kisses behind your ear, earning a shudder.

This is who she is now.

A queen blackened by sorrow.

[ggomos-maribat]

Escapism: Overshadowing and Intangibility

Part 6.1 of Heirs Apparent | AO3

Masterlist

There was a time when Jason didn't believe in being saved. He knew himself what it was like to cling uselessly to hope, to wait for someone—anyone—to come to him at the right moment. He only believed in relying on himself, to wiggle out of a bad situation somehow until he could get away. Even now, he didn't want to stand still, despite the triplets fiercely battling each other. Yet he felt a sliver of helplessness, thinking that they wouldn't stand a chance against a horde of assassins.

Then amidst the inner and outer conflicts, he finally saw it: the true image of a savior.

By the name of Talia al Ghul.

"Hello, dears." She smiled. "Follow me, I'll lead you to the escape route."

Seeing Talia was . . . a breath of fresh air. During his time with her, Jason wouldn't have expected her to have children. But it wouldn't be surprising if she were protective of them.

"Why should we?" Dick asked warily.

She narrowed her eyes. "Because my children are risking their lives creating a distraction."

True enough, the three were still at each other's throats. When Jason took a look, he saw Danyal on top of Marinette with a knife, while the latter was aiming a rifle at him. But he caught the girl's feral grin when she aimed the gun not at her brother's head, but at the upper deck with the League elders in it.

"You gave them a signal," Tim concluded out loud, eyes wide.

Jason easily followed Talia when she plunged back in the darkness, with his brothers taking hesitant steps behind him. In that situation, there was no one else to trust but her. No, Jason was confident that she would lead them to safety. She guided them back through the winding paths, where there was a trail of knocked-out assassins.

"So . . ." Jason trailed off. "The triplets, huh?"

"Which one have you met?"

"Marinette."

Jason stared at the back of her head. He wished he could see the kind of expression she was making.

"My precious girl," said Talia, "I thought it was better to hide them away."

"I think it was better that way, too."

She only nodded at that. She must've sacrificed a lot . . . Jason thought, to keep her children alive. He hadn't known Marinette (or Danyal) before that time, and she barely talked about her mother. But he saw Talia in her, more than just from her looks. Her snappy remarks were all Talia. Her sharp gaze was all Talia. Her fighting style was similar to the one Talia had taught him.

Hell, even Damian had resembled Talia more than Bruce. And that boy spoke about his mother with pride albeit only on occasion.

They reached the bottom of a staircase when another set of footsteps echoed on the stone walls. Then, a voice rang out from a passage to their right. "Umi!"

Marinette fell into Talia's embrace, head buried on her mother's shoulder. Jason gave some distance for the sake of their reunion, seeing how Marinette appeared so vulnerable.

Talia placed her hands on Marinette's shoulders after they parted. "Listen, my love, I can't be with you the whole way."

"What?"

The woman looked at the path where Marinette came from. "I have to settle things with the opposing faction. But you must escape quickly." 

"But . . . but Damian and Danyal haven't seen you yet."

"I'm sorry, Habibti."

Jason could tell Marinette wanted to hold her back, but Talia headed towards the other way in the blink of an eye. He could see that Marinette was about to follow but he stepped forward to stop her.

"She wants you to get out of here," Jason told her firmly. "You know her. She'll be fine."

Although the tension hadn't left her fists and she still seemed distracted, Marinette stopped herself and continued along the main passageway.

"We haven't seen her in so long," she mumbled, but then shook her head and faced the three of them. "That reminds me, you at least need something to defend yourselves with."

Immediately, she started removing all kinds of weapons on her person (Jason didn't even know how she was able to carry all of it). Tim gaped at her. "How many weapons did you take?"

"Enough."

She tossed a pair of Escrima sticks to Dick, a retractable staff for Tim, and a pair of handguns and small blades to Jason. Jason noticed she kept a small gun and a knife for herself as well. He was reminded of some rumors during his time in the League: there was once an assassin skilled in handling guns, perhaps the best the League had ever seen. Now that he thought about it, no one ever specified that it was a man.

"Where's Damian and Danyal?" Dick asked.

"The separate gates we went into never lead to connecting paths until the exit. An assassin under Mother's faction told us," Marinette relayed. "It got messy in the arena, but we decided to split up so we could rescue the hostages."

"But why return to the same gate?"

She shrugged. "Caught up in the moment. We didn't notice which gate was which so I guess I'm back here with you. If Mother's plans are going well, the others should be on their way out as well."

Easier said than done, thought Jason. There were rumbles heard from afar, scuffles that could only be the clashing of both League factions.

Marinette glanced behind them. "There are assassins following. Let's hurry."

The dark path seemed unending but they picked up their paces, going straight. Footsteps began to sound out louder—Jason knew they'd have to fight back.

The girl in front of them gasped. "A dead end?"

Before Jason could move, Marinette turned back, pushing past them. "I can hold them back."

"There's too many. We'll help," Dick offered.

"No. As soon as they're caught off guard, go and find another path to the exit."

"We're not letting you handle all of them on your own," Jason insisted, "You'll definitely die. It's not fun dying."

She scoffed. "I've died thirty-six times, Jason. You're not special."

". . . What?"

Gunshots rang out of the blue as Marinette wounded the assassins one by one with a careful aim. Yeah, there's no way in hell we're leaving her here, Jason decided. He lunged for an attack, facing their assailants head on and using his knife on them. His brothers followed suit, much to Marinette's voiced protest.

Suddenly, an assassin stopped on his own, pausing as if paralyzed and suddenly banged his head on the wall to drop down unconscious. Others mimicked the same movement though doing so one by one.

"What the fuck?" Jason heard Tim whisper under his breath.

"Danny?" Marinette lowered her gun.

"Oh you rang?" The voice of a child echoed in the tunnel just as the last body dropped. "Wait, you mean Danny with a 'y'?"

As if the day couldn't get stranger, a little girl materialized in front of them from a wisp of . . . something otherworldly, yet strangely familiar to Jason. The only way he could describe her is that she looked like a younger version of Marinette.

"Ellie," Marinette blinked in surprise. "You're Ellie, aren't you?"

The girl, 'Ellie', crossed her arms while looking at Marinette. "How do you know my name? How do you know my brother?"

"Because he's my brother, too."

What? Jason's head was spinning.

"Danny doesn't have other siblings," Ellie narrowed her eyes.

"That you know of," Marinette said, "For now, you just have to trust us, okay? We have to get out of here."

"But Danny and Jazz—"

"Should also be on their way out," Marinette cut her off. "Do you know how to get out of here? Did you come here alone?"

The little girl grimaced, "Ehm, technically Sam and Tuck are with me but I just got ahead of them. Oh! But I met Batman and these two cool heroes on the way here. We split up after we connected comms but I lost the signal."

"Batman? You met Batman?" Dick repeated.

"Uh, yeah the old man."

"The two heroes, who were they?" Marinette's face twisted into a frown.

"Viperion and Ryuko!" Ellie's blue eyes practically glittered. "They were really cool. I want to be like them."

When Jason looked at Marinette, her face was unreadable. On top of that, Jason didn't expect Bruce to actually come to the base on his own without backup.

"Are we not going to talk about how you two look alike?" Tim chimed in. "And what the fuck just happened? Did those assassins just . . . die?"

"Oh yeah, we do look alike." Ellie's eyebrows raised, like she had just realized it.

"Um, hello?" Tim poked an unconscious assassin with his foot. "Are they dead?"

"I overshadowed them."

"Over-what?"

Meanwhile, Marinette sighed and rubbed her head. "It's a long story but not my story to tell. We should focus on getting out of here. Ellie, do you know the way out?"

"It's over there." Ellie gestured towards the supposed dead end. "That wall actually opens up."

The child glides past them and disappears into the wall. Jason had to do a double take. A few seconds later, the wall makes a rumble and a portion of it slides to the right to reveal a narrow opening.

"Um, again, what the fuck," Tim stared at the new pathway in astonishment.

Marinette's shoulders visibly sagged in relief. "Thanks, Ellie. We have to hurry; more assassins might be behind us."

----

Danny was pretty sure the boom they just heard was an explosion. He ran through the shaking tunnels, feeling the dust sprinkle on top of him. They want to stop our escape, he cursed inwardly, and also the other faction. Looking behind him, he could see the three Parisians running their breaths ragged.

He closed his fists. If things get worse, I might be forced to transform. Them too.

"Umm, does this count as an emergency to transform?!" Chloe shrieked after another cacophony of blasts reverberated.

"Save your transformations," Danny told them before Adrien could reply. "We don't have a way to recharge your kwamis if your timers run out. I'll protect you."

"Are you gonna enlighten us how?" Alix asked.

Danny was planning to make up a lame half-truthful explanation when they saw that their path was obstructed. Rubble covered up the entirety of the opening, creating a dead end in the small passage.

"Is there another way out?" Adrien breathed out.

No . . . we'd have to come back all the way where we came from. Danny clenched his jaw. Mother's attendant said this was our only path.

"I can transform and Cataclysm—"

"No." Danny made his voice firm. "We don't know the extent of its destruction. This whole tunnel might collapse . . . I have an idea."

He gulped down his uncertainties and turned around to face them. "Everyone hold hands. We're going through this."

Alix tilted her head. "What? Have you actually lost your mind?"

Danny held his hand out. "Just trust me on this, alright? It's the only way."

The other hesitantly formed a link: Alix at the rear, Chloe in front of her, then Adrien taking Danny's hand. The blonde boy seemed to recoil a little when he felt his skin. "Um . . . your hand's really cold."

Despite the situation, Danny chuckled. "So I've been told." He checked the path where they came from in case there were pursuers. "Listen . . . whatever you do, don't let go."

Chloe huffed. "That definitely doesn't sound ominous."

"Just relax. This'll be quick."

Tugging the group forwards, Danny turned intangible and passed it on to the rest. They swiftly walked through the rubble, reaching the other side of the blockage. Fortunately, the rest of the path seemed open.

"What the heck was that?!" Chloe gawked at their surroundings.

"You can let go now." Danny ran a hand through his hair. "It's a power of mine. It's hard to explain in detail right now but it has something to do with me being half-ghost."

"I'm sorry, half-ghost?" Adrien's eyes widened.

"This and that happened and now I'm half-dead," Danny smiled, looking at their different reactions. Adrien looked like he had just obtained a puzzle piece about an oddity. Alix was looking at her hands, muttering to herself. Chloe's expression said something like 'am I being ridiculed right now?'

"Don't think too much about it—"

Danny stopped, sensing a presence ahead of them. A presence nearing them. He moved forward, ready to shield the others if things turn south, then he saw who had just approached them.

"Damian?" A gravelly voice rang out.

Danny calmed his stance. "I'm not Damian."

Batman seemed to have reacted but he kept silent. Danny wished he could see behind the cowl. Sure, I wanted to meet him someday but Ancients, why now?!

"Huh, you are shorter than I expected, Mr. Batman sir." Danny gazed at the masked figure of his biological father.

"That's really Batman?!" Chloe whispered behind him.

"We're currently headed to the exit," Danny explained with a steady tone. "The others are separated but they should be on their way out too. I'm Danny and these are Adrien, Chloe, and Alix."

Batman, too, took on a more professional demeanor. "You match the description of the ones who went missing in the bus incident. But the ones I came here for—"

"I said they should be on their way out too, old man." Dami-akhi wasn't kidding when he said the old man was crazy stubborn. But then again, we all got it from him. "You're not getting through that rubble. It's blocked. So please escort us to the exit, 'kay?"

"How did you get through?" Batman pressed on.

". . . It's a secret." Danny put a finger to his lips. "Can we get a move on now? This place can go kaboom any second you know."

The vigilante finally relented, turning the other way to lead them along the path. Danny could hear the three conversing among themselves, debating why Batman would go through the effort of rescuing the Wayne children in a faraway location.

"Do you know an 'Ellie'?" Batman asked suddenly.

Danny stiffened for a moment. "Ellie? Ellie's here?"

"Yes, we met at the entrance and split up at a fork along with two other heroes, Ryuko and Viperion. I lost contact with them a while ago as well as the Batplane, which Samantha Manson and Tucker Foley are piloting."

This girl . . . He didn't expect her to actually get herself involved. And Tucker and Sam are here too?! A part of him wanted to tell off Batman for not stopping them, but he knew how persistent they were. Especially Ellie, who was an entire force to reckon with on her own.

Tucker and Sam are piloting the Batplane. Ancients, my friends are crazy.

"Shit. Ryuko and Viperion are here too?" Adrien caught up with Danny's pace.

"Parisian local heroes?" Batman asked.

Adrien held his tongue and looked away. Danny made a mental note to help steer the conversation away from the topic of Paris and Miraculi if anything came up.

"I have to ask you as well, Daniel, what your relation is to Damian Wayne and Marinette Dupain-Cheng?"

Wow, interrogation time already? Danny let out a scream of frustration in his head. Can we, like, escape from here first?

"It's just Danny." He kept his expression neutral. "And isn't it obvious, Batman? They're my siblings." 

[fluffypotatey]

Okay, I'm glad Macky came to visit Wukong at all, and it's curious to know whether any of the Brotherhood would have cared to, or if they just couldn't because Wukong was sealed underground this time, he couldn't even see the sun. Which also makes one wonder if the location of his sealing was public or if Macky just found him somehow and could bypass whatever "entrance" was on the surface bc he can just teleport, BUT sealing routes closer to JTTW also have beautiful angst case in point: this animatic bc oooh Wukong's miserable face and watching as the tree grows taller as a passage of time. that's the good stuff, did all those buddies singing you praises during that dinner just up and abandon their "king" ;') oh for the loneliness with just you and the baby monkeys, what a price to pay. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FA1ilVmWfvA

yeah! that was a fun reveal to see in the s5 special (and i definitely did not freak out when i first watched it both in the Mandarin dub and English version. or ever. no feral fluffy here) ALSO I LOVE TJAT ANIMATIC 😍😍😍😍 i remember the 1st time i watched it and balled

because he spends 500 years!!! in the same position!!!! surrounded by nothing but a dark cave (in lmk canon) and nobody around to talk to, making him more susceptible to having spiraling thoughts. BUT THEN MACKY DOES GREET HIM!! and a part of me thinks he visited at least more than once with the memory lmk showed us being the last time. idk my proof is small and mostly just based on Macky’s disappointed/exhausted sigh bud who cares this is my hope

but yeah

[dark--whisperings]

Fic Rec Friday!!! ❤️✨

There's so many FANTASTIC writers in the Star Wars fandom who put so much time and love into their work, so I thought it might be fun to celebrate their work and highlight and some of the fics that are living rent free in my head each week!

___

'Til the end, then hell and back

Author: thedunesea (@thedunesea)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing(s): Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summary:

“Thork here tells me you’re looking for passage to the Alderaan system." “Yes, indeed, if it’s a fast ship,” said another voice in a clipped coruscanti accent, and for a moment Anakin’s heart forgot how to beat. It can’t be, he thought. It’s impossible. But the Force was roaring in his ears — was it the Force or was it his blood? Or were they one and the same? — and, even though he had stopped trusting in it years ago, the Force had never lied to him before, not like that. Ten years after the Fall of the Republic, two parallel lines converge.

Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44775541/chapters/112655176

I'm absolutely not ashamed to say that I read this entire work in one sitting. I stayed up way too late and am relying on a disgusting amount of coffee to survive work the day after, but IT WAS ABSOLUTELY WORTH IT. This fic is such a unique take on Order 66 and what came after, and I literally cannot stop thinking about it. And the characterizations?! I'm drooling. They are bang on, yet match the new future the characters have found themselves in in this canon divergence AU. 1000/10. Will absolutely be re-reading this again. And again. And... probably again.

... and likely again.

___

somebody to lie in the dark with

Author: tideswept (@tideswept)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing(s): Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summary:

A lingering sense of duty tugged at him. Anakin’s steps faltered. “Why did you kill them?” Obi-Wan turned to look at him. His eyes were yellow like molten gold, smoldering with an intensity that left Anakin dizzy, overheated, an answering fire in his chest stoked to bursting. “They were in my way,” said Obi-Wan. He cocked his head. “Do you not trust me?” 

Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50094883

Okay, tideswept's writing in general makes me feral, but this fic was SOMETHING ELSE entirely. Their possessive Sith Obi-Wan Kenobi is SO HOT, and the TENSION they achieved between Anakin and Obi-Wan.... urg. I think I need to go sit in the freezer for a while. And I can't forget to mention the absolute perfection and ambiguity of the last few lines of the fic. I'm rattling the bars of my cage and I wish that I could read this for the first time all over again! ❤️❤️❤️

[esther-dot]

"His fur had darkened until he was all black, and his eyes were green fire"- Tyrion(AGOT III)

"The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals." Dany(AGOT X)

It seems like Shaggydog and Drogon are similar in looking. Black with eyes described as fire. Both are feral and are difficult to control. Both senses their masters moods and reacts violently. Thoughts?

I am very puzzled by Shaggydog's description. It's bothered me for some time because at one point, it certainly meant something, and I'm not sure if that has since been abandoned, or if I should still be concerned. Your comparison between Shaggydog and Drogon isn’t helping! 😂

Here's what I said before:

(link, I include the examples of green flame in various POVs for context — def not a random choice!)

It's possible that Rickon was initially gonna be a wild KitN, a little more dangerous than the other Starks, and that's all it meant. I pointed out before that this passage could be read as foreshadowing for that (picking up a dead KitN's sword):

Robb had set half the castle searching for him, and when at last they'd found him down in the crypts, Rickon had slashed at them with a rusted iron sword he'd snatched from a dead king's hand, and Shaggydog had come slavering out of the darkness like a green-eyed demon. The wolf was near as wild as Rickon; he'd bitten Gage on the arm and torn a chunk of flesh from Mikken's thigh. It had taken Robb himself and Grey Wind to bring him to bay. Farlen had the black wolf chained up in the kennels now, and Rickon cried all the more for being without him. (AGOT, Bran VI)

I hadn’t connected him to Drogon, but the eye color’s connection to dragonfire is there so it isn't too much of a reach. I felt that it was quite foreboding for Shaggydog and by association, Rickon. At one point I wondered if this was brother (Rickon/Shaggydog) v brother (Jon/Ghost) foreshadowing because flames are later written as a threat to the godswood and that's what the coloring of the respective wolves reminded me of, and AGOT/Jon's story in particular has a lot of brother v brother stuff, but that doesn't make sense, not with how young little Rickon is. Sorry, I still don’t know what to make of it!

I’m gonna tag @branwendaughterofllyr because she has talked about abandoned foreshadowing for events Martin ultimately drops, so maybe she has some insight for us?

[molluskwritesfic]

Black Herons - Ch. 8

Masterlist - Ao3 - First Chapter - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Taglist: @sanfransolomitatm @karolajnx0yep @joossieisdabomb @slyterinstuff

A/N: Six months is a ridiculously long time to write 20 pages. But here we are.

Pairing: Duke Leto Atreides I x Fem!OC (slow burn)

Rating: M

Word Count: 5k

Chapter Eight: Lovers’ Paradigm

Part Two

House Nastaran had fallen.

The dawn sky charred. The endless prairie burned.

Trine Nastaran tucked herself deeper into the wardrobe. The comforting scent of her father’s clothes almost smothered that of smoke.

Almost.

She was eight years old. Just old enough to remember when the She-Wolf of the Badb had been a bedtime story. A joke, really. No more than a curiosity wreaking havoc on the other side of the planet. Before long, it was something the grownups whispered about when they thought she couldn’t hear. Now, it was Trine’s reality.

She-Wolf of the Badb. Dowager Countess. Rhiannon the Conqueror.

Many names for a hero. Many names for a nightmare.

The door of the wardrobe clattered open, and Trine found herself looking up into the panicked face of her governess. Sweat darkened the loose hairs that had flown wild and plastered them to her cheeks. Usually, the sight of the woman who had all but raised her was a comfort to Trine, but now the feral look in the old woman’s eyes frightened her more than ever.

“We have to go.” The governess hissed, snagging a coat off the rack above Trine’s head and tugging it on the young girl’s thin arms. “Quickly now. No time for tears.”

She hadn’t realized that she had been crying. Trine scrubbed the sleeve of the coat across her face and smeared it with snot. It was her father’s coat. It hung comically off her tiny frame.

No matter. The governess grabbed her upper arm in a death grip and dragged her into the next room—her father’s bedchambers.

Once inside, the governess spun her around so they were face to face.

“Where is it?” She demanded. “Show me!”

When Trine couldn’t find her voice, the governess gave her a sharp shake. Fresh tears rolled down her face, but she pointed to the wall behind her parent’s bed.

The governess hurried forward and fumbled around until she found the switch disguised as an imperfection in the paint. The wall swung in, and the governess wasted no time in dragging Trine through it.

The secret passages hidden within the Nastaran ancestral home were dark, but they didn’t dare try to find a light. Trine hurried blindly—guided only by her governess, who was in turn guided only by her hand pressed against the curve of the wall—as the carefully crafted stone of the house shifted to smooth bedrock.

The deeper they went, the colder it became. Trine drew her father’s coat tighter around her. She knew better than to complain.

Ironians didn’t fear the cold.

The thought of her father caused tears to spring back into her eyes. She hallucinated wildly in the inky darkness, assaulted by images of her family and the echoes of their laughter.

Her father’s hands, worn and rough. Her oldest brother teaching her to ride. The younger, stuffing his face with pudding, bulging his cheeks like a bark weasel just to make her laugh.

They were all she had ever known.

By now, they were all certainly dead.

Trine was young, but she knew the way these things worked. And the She-Wolf of the Badb was not known for mercy. The Nastaran bloodline was to be sponged from existence and its assets absorbed into the Dering war machine.

Heirs to the Nastaran title—sons with vengeance in their hearts and a legitimate claim to conquered lands—would not be tolerated.

Trine’s brothers—aged only sixteen and twelve—would not be allowed to survive. Even if they did somehow escape as Trine had, they would be hunted down. The Countess was very thorough.

A daughter, though, might be overlooked.

Trine knew that this was why her governess had come for her only, even though she loved Trine’s brothers as her own sons. Had raised and taught them for most of their lives.

That was the harsh reality of it. The price of saving her brothers would mean being hunted, and one child was better than none.

Freezing water splashed on their shoes as Trine and her governess plunged deeper into the darkness, driven by fear and the promise of light.

Trine stayed silent. Her tears cooled on her cheeks.

Ironians weren’t afraid of the cold.

Paul was quick and light on his feet, but Duncan was easily three times his size, and the sword was heavy.

Duncan’s shield shimmered as Paul’s sword skimmed harmlessly across it. After months of training with knives, the Atreides Weapons Master had decided it was time for the young Lord to start learning how to handle larger—and decidedly heavier—weapons.

“Keep your guard up, boy,” Duncan encouraged, holding his own sword easily in one hand. He demonstrated the correct height to hold the blade, keeping it level across his chest.

With shaking hands, Paul did his best to copy the stance. He knew that building strength was one of the points of this exercise—that he would struggle with it until he didn’t—but they’d been working for only ten minutes, and he was already exhausted.

He did his best to apply some of his mother’s training—steady his breathing, slow his heartbeat—with only moderate success. Bene Gesserit techniques were hard enough to master during quiet meditation; during combat training, it was near impossible.

Then again, he was only eight years old.

Duncan kept his moves slow and predictable, giving Paul time to get accustomed to the unfamiliar weight of a longer blade. They ran through a few basic forms, and Paul practiced a little with swinging and blocking.

By the time Duncan called an end to the session, Paul’s arms were made of jelly. He felt good, though. Accomplished.

Duncan was pleased as well.

“You’re off to a good start, lad. You’ll be the finest fighter in the Imperium before you know it.” His gaze shifted to something behind Paul. “Wouldn’t you agree, M’Lady?”

Paul turned to see Lady Rhiannon standing by the door, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed nonchalantly against her chest.

He hadn’t noticed her come in, which was surprising in itself. Even more so since Paul hadn’t seen her much of late. Like his father, Rhiannon had been consumed by the preparations for the upcoming trip to Ahmes.

Lady Rhiannon tilted her head in consideration.

“You’ve got impressive reflexes, Paul. That’s very good. You’re over-committing to the swings a bit, but that’s an easy fix.” The smile she gave him was full of warmth. “Yes, you’ll make a fine warrior some day.”

Touched by the sincerity behind her words, Paul ducked his head shyly and thanked her.

Duncan twirled his sword experimentally, not at all tired from the same exercise that had exhausted Paul so thoroughly. He pointed at Lady Rhiannon with the blade.

“And that’s from one of the finest fighters to ever be produced by one of the Houses of Iro. Trained by a Ginaz Swordmaster, too. It’s a high compliment, lad.”

Paul perked up. He hadn’t known that. “You were trained by a Swordmaster?”

The Duchess smiled wistfully.

“Alecto Ivaylo. I miss him, the ornery old fart.”

“I didn’t know Swordmasters were hired to train Highborn Ladies.”

“It’s not common,” Duncan explained, “but on Iro, assassins are. When your children are always at risk, it’s better to prepare them early.”

Lady Rhiannon sniffed.

“A daughter dies just as easily as a son. All children should know how to wield a blade.”

“I’m starting to find that I agree.” Duncan leveled his sword at the Duchess of Caladan challengingly. “Care to demonstrate?”

Paul would have thought that any Lady with a title would look strange with a sword, but there was a gleam in Lady Rhiannon’s eyes that told him he was very wrong. Restlessness. Bloodlust.

He looked to his stepmother hopefully.

Rhiannon smiled.

She looked so graceful and formal in her daywear, but as she strode across to the weapon rack, Paul could imagine the intentionality that was hidden behind the thing she wore; the chiffon and silk jumpsuit was loose enough for free movement, form fitting enough to not get in the way. She kicked off her expensive shoes, and beneath them were slippers with gripped soles.

The sword she chose was of medium size. She tested the balance. Nodded her satisfaction.

Duncan bounced on his toes, impatient. “Shields or not, M’Lady?”

“Not. I don’t believe in shields.”

“As you wi—”

Rhiannon attacked. Hard.

Duncan barely fended off her first volley, immediately on the defensive. Rhiannon was fast. Vicious. Her last few months had been filled with bureaucracy, and she had a lot of energy to burn.

Duncan recovered quickly from his initial surprise, and was equally quick to match her ferocity.

The room was filled with the ringing of steel on steel. He pushed forward, striking high and forcing her back a few steps.

Rhiannon twisted to the side. Danced under his arm to get under his guard. Duncan adjusted to the tactic, stepping back again to leave some room between them.

Paul, who had retreated to watch from a safe distance, could almost believe that this was a real fight. To him, at least, it looked as if each swing of Rhiannon’s sword was intended as a killing blow. But Lady Rhiannon was a skilled swordsman, and could be trusted not to cause harm unless she wanted to do so.

Although Duncan was similarly skilled, he seemed to be erring on the side of caution. Training scars were not uncommon, even at the most advanced levels.

It would take a braver man than him to accidentally mark a Duchess.

Rhiannon, though, wasn’t having it.

When Duncan hesitated, missing out on a swing that chanced coming too close to her face, she rewarded him by ramming the hilt of her sword into his stomach.

Duncan doubled over, winded. Between one blink and the next, Rhiannon had disarmed him. She stood over him, the tip of her blade hovering in front of his nose, eyes sparking with annoyance.

“I’m not here to be trained by you, Swordmaster. Treat me as an equal, or you are useless to me.”

The Swordmaster stared along the keen edge of the blade. His face cracked with a sheepish grin.

“Yes, M’Lady.”

Rhiannon held there for a second longer to get her point across, then stepped away to give him space to rise.

“Again.”

With the late afternoon light streaming in through the window, and Leto’s hand trailing lazily across her bare ribs, Jessica could almost pretend that nothing had changed.

She had slept in this room, in this bed, for the better part of ten years. The sound of Leto breathing beside her was more familiar to her than that of her own. But their current physical closeness wasn’t enough to cross the emotional gulf that yawned between them.

“Move back in with me.”

The request was so quiet, so hopeful, that she almost said yes out of instinct. Jessica’s heart twisted, and she sat up.

“You know I can’t.”

Leto sat up on his elbows, looked as if he wanted to reach out to draw her back against him.

Jessica almost wished that he would.

“I don’t see why you need your own room.”

“You know why.”

Jessica slipped out from underneath the sheets and bent to collect her discarded clothes from the floor. Distantly, she realized that they were doing the same thing; they both hid their pain—him with his frustration, her with her cold distance—while pretending that they didn’t miss each other desperately.

“I’ve told you why,” she went on. “You don’t listen.”

“And I’ve told you. The Duchess doesn’t care.” In this room, she was always the Duchess—never Rhia. “She has her lovers to keep her company. What we keep between us is of no concern to her.”

She wanted to shout at him, You still aren’t listening!

She busied herself with dressing, instead.

“I know you don’t like her,” Leto tried to reason. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. “Has she done anything to upset you? If she has, please tell me.”

“This isn’t about like,” Jessica responded coldly.

“What, then?”

Things were changing around Castle Caladan; Jessica’s Bene Gesserit trained senses were picking up on patterns—new people in the castle, coming and going, fulfilling roles that couldn’t entirely be explained. She didn’t have access to enough of the documentation to prove it, but she was sure that it went farther than Castle Caladan—off world exports, transportation, immigration, and trade—threads woven through every aspect of House Atreides and it’s holdings, forming an elaborate spider web with the Duchess Atreides at the center.

Leto strongly distrusted the Sisterhood. Disliked them for their manipulative ways. If Jessica told him everything she knew, he would demand to know her source. After that, he wouldn’t believe her anyway.

“Do you not find it odd,” Jessica started slowly, choosing her words with great care, “that the Duchess was not presented to you until after the engagement was final?”

“I… didn’t ask to meet her sooner.”

Leto was frowning, but Jessica heard the uncertainty in his voice and knew that she had touched a nerve.

“But it was strange, yes?” Jessica pressed. “Almost as if they were making the arrangements in secret.”

There was a moment where Leto’s brow furrowed. Jessica watched as he turned it over in his mind, hoping against hope that he would connect the dots and draw his own conclusions.

“We… considered the possibility that they may have had reasons to keep her hidden. Insanity or eccentricity, maybe.” Then the moment passed. Leto’s face hardened. “But we were wrong. Lady Rhiannon has proven herself to be a fine, capable woman. I haven’t had doubts about that for a long time.”

Jessica thought of a snake on the first day of spring. Slowly uncoiling after months of frozen sleep. Stretching out, reviving itself on rocks warmed by the sun.

The Duchess had been sleeping, but there were signs that she was waking up.

“Were they hiding her from you?” Jessica’s voice was low with urgency. “Or was it you they were hiding from her?”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“How much do you know about her, truly? She walks in blood and shadows, and it is a mistake to assume that she has our best interests at heart.”

The shutters slammed shut on Leto’s expression, and Jessica knew in that moment that she had lost him.

“Jealousy is unbecoming of you Jessica,” he said coolly. “And I have to say, trying to sew dissent between the Duke and Duchess of Caladan is beneath you.”

“I only mean to say,” Jessica managed to keep her voice calm and even, “that perhaps you allowed yourself to trust her too quickly.”

“Is that it?” Leto demanded. “You don’t trust her? Why?”

“Why do you?” She shot back.

Leto blinked, dumbfounded. As if not-trusting her had never occurred to him. “She’s my wife.”

It would always come back to that, wouldn’t it? She turned her back on him. “And I am not.”

Hurt flickered across his handsome features. “You have my love, Jessica. And you always will. Is that not enough?”

She glanced back at him and thought, I have your love, but I have never had your trust.

Jessica left the room.

A box was waiting for Jessica when she returned to her chambers. It was very large—about two feet wide and three feet tall—and made of highly polished wood. Intricate patterns ran along the framework, the swirling shapes of great predators and human figures wielding blades. Distinctly Ironian.

Jessica circled the box warily. There was a folded piece of stationery attached to the top. A note. Handwritten.

It read:

Sorry for being an ass.

~Rhia

Alarmed, Jessica stepped back from the box on instinct. The note implied a gift, but what reasons did the Duchess have for giving her anything? She was suddenly hyper aware of how easily this could be some kind of trick. Would the Duchess dare give her something that could cause her harm? Not this directly, surely. Not with her name on a note and Ironian designs on the wood. Lady Atreides was too smart for that.

Jessica wasn’t completely convinced, but knew that she didn’t have much choice. The box was held closed by a gold latch on the lid—wlysteel, she noted—which triggered the sound of mechanisms tumbling from within. Jessica was almost surprised when the top of the box slid open, instead of exploding or emitting some kind of poison. She was glad that she was alone, because she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to hear her quiet gasp when she saw what was inside.

There were many valuable natural resources found in the mines on Iro. Some were sought after for their usefulness—the steel, coal, salt, and such—others, for their rarity. Diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, to name a few. But there were others considered far more precious, so rare that they could only be found on Iro, and nowhere else in the universe.

Viimatar was a very rare, very beautiful crystal that formed within iridescent geodes—usually near veins of quartz or coal. They were so rare, in fact, that the only specimen owned by a Landsraad family, outside those who had spent generations on the planet, was that of the Emperor. Jessica had never seen viimatar before, but knew from readings about Iro that a single geode was generally about the size of an apple. The viimatar before her was roughly the size of a human head.

And oh, was it beautiful. The watery sunlight that came through her chamber windows passed through the translucent crystal, setting its jagged interior ablaze and casting the room in a myriad of colors. Every hue imaginable, glowing and shimmering and melting together in pools of light dancing across the walls.

It took Jessica a few moments to collect herself enough to tear her eyes away from the priceless gift. Tucked into the box beside the geode was a small parcel made of black velvet. Beside that, another letter.

She opened the parcel first. Gold coins fell shimmering into her palm, and she recognized the sharp glint of more wlysteel. They were smooth and thin, each embellished with a delicate carving of a heron on one side. More Ironian craftsmanship.

Putting the coins aside, she unfolded the letter and began to read:

In the religious teachings of the Old Ironian Gods, each person has not one face, but many—one face to wear for every person we meet throughout our lifetimes. The face we wear for our children is not the same one we wear for our parents, nor are either of those the same as the face we show to our lovers, our friends, our teachers, or our servants. Every face is different, but all are true, and it is the combination of these truths that make us who we are.

When I was choosing a face for you, Jessica, I chose incorrectly. For that, I sincerely apologize.

Over breakfast, I told you that I thought complete honesty between us was the best way to confront our situation. I still believe that. But it wasn’t fair of me to demand vulnerability and offer none in return. Unfortunately, my most successful relationships tend to be political. For those of a more personal nature, I tend to come up short.

Another point of interest: My maternal grandmother was the daughter of a Vidar Chieftain. My Dweller heritage is very important to me, and I observe as many of their ways as I can.

In the bag, you’ll find twelve gold coins. They are called forseti—wlysteel tokens from the forge of Clan Vidar. Coins of Truth, in the Dwellers’ tongue. They are often used when an outsider joins a Clan, or sometimes to resolve quarrels. The outsider brings forseti from their home forge and gives them to members of the Clan they wish to join. The Clan members will then give the forseti back to the new member, and ask a question. The new member is then honorbound to answer the question with absolute truth.

A coin for a truth. I have given you twelve.

Twelve forseti. Twelve questions. Twelve truths.

Of course, you have no reason to trust that I will abide by the Dweller code of honor. Although I have Dweller blood, I am not one. I don’t believe in gods, so I am not compelled by the Old Ironian Gods to answer truthfully. But I have no control of that. As a Bene Gesserit, I trust you will rely on your instincts and observation. All I ask for is your consideration.

~Rhia

Puzzled, Jessica sank down into a nearby chair to read the letter again. She stayed there for a long time, watching the patterns of light and color play lazily along the walls, thinking.

The relationship between wolves and ravens was a strange one. The ravens acted as the wolf's eyes, and the wolf provided meat. Ancient, divine mutualism in action.

At the old fortress of Valley Keep, the ravens were circling. Viggo knew that the wolf couldn't be far behind.

Usually, Viggo didn't mind the ravens. When the soldiers of the Badb were this comfortable occupying his home, it meant that Rhiannon was either also there, or would be soon.

There had been a time where he had looked forward to his lover's visits. At the beginning of the war, when the fighting had been in neighboring lands, he had seen her often. As the fifth son of House Taryn, which had submitted rather than fight, becoming the lover of the fearsome general was an acceptable way to broker influence where he otherwise would have had none.

And in all honesty, he had enjoyed the attention; had sorely been missing it - and her - since the war had drawn her away to the far reaches of the planet.

But then an old friend had arrived at his doorstep, ragged and begging to be taken in, and Viggo hadn't been able to refuse.

Eldon Vish was a good natured man ambling his way through his seventies. Good natured. Funny. Worthy of sympathy.

Many years ago, when Viggo was young, House Taryn had been an ally of House Nastaran. Eldon, a Nastaran advisor, had been the kind old man to take pity on the bored, lonely Viggo who had been dragged halfway across the planet just to be ignored while his father and older brothers played politics.

Viggo had never met his grandfather, but he liked to think that he would’ve been something like Eldon. Someone that would’ve taught him to play chess and told exciting stories while pretending not to notice the boy sneaking sips from his mug of ale.

Years had passed since those days, but Viggo still held them close to his chest.

Had it been an ordinary refugee, or even just an average enemy soldier, Viggo knew that Rhiannon wouldn't care. But it wasn't either, and therefore suicide.

Viggo hadn't seen Rhiannon in months. She had other lovers — enough of them for it to not be entirely unreasonable to think she had forgotten about him entirely. And it was that distance, and perhaps just a touch of jealousy, that had made him feel secure enough to take such a foolish risk.

But what was done was done. Now, the only thing that mattered was keeping both himself and Eldon alive.

Viggo strode purposefully through the halls of Valley Keep, trying very hard to not look panicked — maybe just as if he had important, normal business to attend to. Fifth son or not, he was still responsible for a great deal of his family's finances, and was typically very busy.

Viggo let himself into the room he had loaned to Eldon without knocking and was quick to lock it behind him.

"We don't have much time," Viggo said briskly, seeing that Eldon was still sitting at the small table with his half-eaten lunch. "There's a ground car waiting for you by the servant's entrance. If you leave now -- "

Blood.

So much blood.

Viggo dropped to his knees, his throat full of bile. Far too late, he realized that Eldon's corpse had not been the room's only occupant.

"You didn't have to kill him," Viggo protested weakly. "He was old. He wasn't a threat to you."

Rhiannon idly flicked through another page of Eldon's journals, hardly deigning to glance at him from where she sat at the room's tiny desk.

"The elderly have as much, if not more, influence than their successors," she said coolly. "You know that as well as anyone."

Viggo slumped forward as he felt all the fight drain out of him. "I'm sorry."

Rhiannon shot him a look. Viggo wished that there was anger in it. Betrayal. But it was worse than that. There was only annoyance. Boredom.

His heart broke. Viggo had shown that he was willing to get in her way, and he couldn't even do it in a way that mattered.

He was the fifth son. Nothing he had ever done in his life had mattered.

Despite the lingering bitterness, the thought of his family sent a spike of panic down his spine.

"It was just me," he said hurriedly. "No one helped me.”

"I know."

Of course she did.

"How did you find out?"

Rhiannon shot him another unimpressed look.

Viggo eased himself slowly to his feet. He tried not to look at Eldon's body. Failed. Viggo looked back to Rhiannon. "I loved you, you know."

She turned another page. "That isn't my fault."

Something cold pressed against Viggo's back. Pressed into his back between his shoulder blades. Not the direction he had expected his death to come from.

Viggo reached around behind him. His fingers bumped against something hard, but it was the wrong angle for him to grab it. He knew the wetness he felt was his own blood. There was no pain, which he supposed was a small mercy.

He glared at Rhiannon reproachfully as his vision swam. Not important enough for her to do it herself, then.

As his legs finally gave out and he slumped to the floor, he got a look at his murderer. The face was achingly familiar, and his heart broke all over again.

Chantria.

He tried to gasp his sister's name, but no sound came out. The raven tattoo on her forearm, dark with new ink, answered all his questions anyway.

Chantria knelt beside him. She fixed him with a look of sympathy, but there was no regret.

"I'm sorry," she said, lightly touching her fingers to his forehead. "But someone has to look out for our family's interests."

I'm family too, was the last thought Viggo had before he succumbed to swirling darkness.

I'm family too.

In theory, the Duke and Duchess’s departure from Caladan was a quiet affair, especially when compared to the pomp and grandeur that went into similar occasions hosted by other houses. In reality, it was as politically charged as any event of state.

Even if it was only by pilots, guards, and workmen, the senior members of House Atreides were being watched—and as loved as they were by the people they ruled, by nature, those people loved gossip more. 

So when they said their farewells, Jessica dressed nice and smiled warmly at Leto, regardless of the tension still lingering between them. Leto kissed the back of her hand, his eyes lined with sadness and regret, even though he wore a smile of his own. 

If Jessica wanted to keep her family safe from the She-wolf of the Badb, she would have to take matters into her own hands.

Lady Rhiannon was as lovely as ever, dressed in a delicate silver outfit that she had changed into only a few minutes before, having only just returned from paying her lover in the village one last visit.  She would likely change out of again once they were safely on board. 

Onlookers were eager for signs of drama between the Duchess and the Duke’s lover, but Jessica knew that, despite their differences, she and Rhiannon would not give them any. 

Rhiannon touched Jessica’s elbow lightly. Their eyes met, and Rhiannon’s gaze was unflinchingly open. Jessica was confused by the calm patience held in her expression. The gift, as well as the proposal, had gone unmentioned.

Jessica’s mind was still spinning. There was an opportunity here, if she had the courage to seize it.

The Bene Gesserit had infiltrated almost every house in the Imperium. They warmed the beds of noblemen; they mothered their children; they nudged history in the ways the Sisterhood wanted.

In this way, lonely men were easy to manipulate. They needed lovers. Confidants. The Sisters of the Bene Gesserit were trained to excel at both.

Rhiannon was dangerous, but so were many of the noblemen of the Imperium. Who was to say that Jessica couldn’t get close to Rhiannon in the same way? 

She thought it might be possible, now that she knew that the Duchess had a taste for women as well as men. Risky, yes. But possible.

Very risky.

Dare she even try?

She needed time to think.

Thankfully, she had just that. The Duke and Duchess’ absence would allow her both the time to think and space to start formulating a plan.

Leto held Paul close to his chest. He whispered something into his son’s ear that made the boy smile. Rhiannon rested a hand lightly on Paul’s shoulder, quirking an eyebrow at Khrysos, who peeked out at her from Paul’s collar. 

Rhiannon’s proposition had given her a good starting point. She would have to use her questions wisely.

Jessica wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulders, hugging him protectively to her side while they watched the Ducal yacht ease off the tarmac and away from Caladan. 

She thought that Paul noticed her unease. He looked up at her questioningly, but her only response was to hold him tighter.

It was worth the risk.

[jailforwriter]

It's time for...

Look, I'll be honest with you. Nothing makes me go feral over a book faster than picking up on a bit of clever symbolism. This hand-rubbing, cunning little storytelling shortcut can really make a difference between a book you enjoyed, and one you cannot sandpaper off the grooves of your brain. In many ways, it's a sneaky bit of puzzle-solving that the author tucked under the rug of the main text for us to find, and yeah, engaging with it takes a bit of getting on your knees and dusting, but boy are those proverbial allergies satisfying!

Hopefully by the end of these series you'll love this device as much as I do, so let's get into it!

What's symbolism?

Okay, right off the bat, I have to warn you that symbolism exists in the nebulous realm of things that take some thought to like, proper get, but we as writers thrive in places where we get to dissect and interpret complex stuff, so don't worry too much.

Now, a symbol could be an object, a place, a character, an action – so long as it represents something other than their literal meaning, it's the double-agent of literature: a symbol. We come across some of the most common ones pretty often, even in daily life. Suffice to walk by a flower shop and see a red rose for it to recall romantic attraction; whether we personally have an interest in it or not, the image still sparked the thought. That's the power of association, and just this once, it's here to help.

We can use those associations on a smaller scale to add layers of depth and evoke more complex ideas in our stories – like themes and messages – without needing to spell them out. In that way, we're ergonomically inviting the reader to solve our hidden puzzle (engage with the narrative on a different level) and get a little treat for it (a deeper understanding of the story's themes and messages, yummy!).

Types of symbolism

There are no hard and fast categories for the kinds of symbolisms we might come across in media, which really means that there are so many that we can get a bit liberal in our sorting criteria. As a scientist, this hurts my soul. As a writer, however? Let's get biased! Personally, I like to look at them this way:

Objects: one of the clearest ways to express many things in one. For instance, think of a pocket watch. Yes, it symbolizes the passage of time, but what else could we add onto it to say even more? Maybe the watch is worn, reflecting on the character's old struggle with reconciling the inevitability of aging and its inexorable march toward death (joy!). Maybe it starts ticking erratically at some point, paralleling the character's own mental instability. Maybe they decide to break it in the end, symbolizing them finally freeing themselves from time's constraints and their obsessive preoccupation over aging. We can get creative here!

Animals: these we often get from cultural exposure. For instance, someone interested in Greek mythology might see an owl and immediately think of wisdom – not necessarily because of any inherent attributes to the owl itself (although there's some interesting discussions to be had about where the association came from in the first place!) but because it's been drilled into them through history and repetition.

Characters: let's take it up a notch. What if we have a character who embodies, for instance, something antithetical to our protagonist? Who questions their values and challenges their worldview by mere dint of existing? What if our protagonist, Johnny Apple-Lover, comes across our antagonist, Lenny Apple-Hater? What happens when they interact? Characters may embody archetypes or have certain attributes that, juxtaposed to those of other characters, say a lot of interesting things about them. (Deep dives about this particular topic to come!).

Settings: this is your classic "ye olde manor existed in a state of perennial darkness, engulfed by the shadows of the thunderclouds above, through which nary a sunray ever ventured" business. Gloomy weather in a dark forest tends to evoke a desire not to go there, while a flowery, sunny meadow seems more like a place where you'd wanna hang out (please disregard if you're a vampire...and also hmu). This allows for some interesting subversions of expectations, in some cases, and we'll look into those a bit more later down the line.

Actions: actions (and lack thereof) can function as a fantastic substitution for directly stating a thought, and may add onto theme without needing to overexplain it by throwing up a mirror to the character's state of mind. For instance, a character opening a bird's cage and urging them out might symbolize their appreciation for their own freedom, particularly if they have resisted doing so throughout the book for fear of its consequences. Double-points for including animal symbolism, too! You'll find that a lot of the best symbolism exists at the junctions of all these categories, so don't be afraid to get creative with the combinations.

Colors: stop me if you've heard this before: red means angry, blue means sad, green means envious...yeah, so on and so forth. This is a straightforward method of conveying deeper meaning that goes hand in hand with symbolic objects, and can cast them and the characters who interact with them in a new, more exciting light. Speaking of lights, here's an example: what if Gatsby's was red instead of green? Suddenly, the entire message changes. It's no longer the green of money, nor of "go", but may now symbolize the red of violence and of "stop". We can extrapolate a lot from a little change, and therein lies the beauty of this literary device.

It's worth noting that other people may break down symbolism as it pertains to its effect on the reader, or give particular credence to religious symbolism as its own category, or focus on thematic relevance and imagery as their own types. I've based my breakdown on what I feel most accurately represent the tools we as writers need in our toolbox, and have tried to make them as easily accessible as I can. Hopefully it's not too convoluted!

In the next part, we'll focus on how symbolism differs from allegory, simile and metaphor by looking into some specific examples, and we'll also discuss why it's important to be a little picky and careful with the kinds of symbolisms we use in our work. I look forward to seeing you all there, thanks for sticking around!

Happy writing!

[honourablejester]

Heart: The City Beneath, Character Concept: Horror Hunger Cleaver

Okay. The thing about the Cleaver class is that it’s already built around eating things. They are delightfully body horror incarnate, if not quite to the same extent as the Deep Apiarists. The core class ability, RED FEAST, lets you literally eat resources (which can be anything from ‘a fresh heart’ to ‘spare capacitors’ to ‘occult scribblings’) to temporarily gain the domains attached. If it’s something that’s not normally eatable, you might have to make an Endure+Cursed roll to avoid damage, but you can eat anything, it just might kill you. So, like. This whole class encourages exploring the world with your stomach. So. Let’s lean into that.

Cleavers also have an emphasis on transformation. A LOT of their abilities are alterations to their bodies. I was flip-flopping on my starting major ability, whether to pick the one that emphasises the hunger, or the one that emphasises the transformation, but I think I am aiming more ‘cannibal’ than ‘werewolf’ here. Though I’m not taking the actual cannibal ability just yet, I want to lay some groundwork first. I’ve got at least three more minor abilities I want to pick up later, to round us out, but I wanted to set her up with the skills she needs to survive that little bit longer first (in particular, Sneak and Endure, as they help out RED FEAST). Plus. The ability that lets cleavers gain the sneak skill is so fun. I’d take it anyway, nearly regardless of what I was aiming for. Pitchskin is just such a fun ability.

For calling, we’re going Heartsong again. I know, I know, a) I pick that one a lot, and b) isn’t a bit redundant on a cleaver? But cleavers are so primal. And the Heart fits that so well. I’m going to eat my way down to the core of the world through the red, feasting passages, drinking the blood of the arteries as I go. Our motivation is curiosity. Hungry curiosity. There’s something calling down there, and it smells so good. This place is such a feast. Will it kill me? Maybe! But I’ll die with my belly full. Questions and philosophy and magic are for other, fancier people. Me, I’ll learn the whole world by taste.

And for ancestry, I’m going to admit straight up that the choice was decided by a single trinket available to one ancestry. Dark elves have the option to have a collection of pulp horror novels as their trinket. And that just darkly tickles me. I’m a horrible borderline cannibalistic survivalist digging eagerly into the bloody meat of an eldritch Heart, but I read! It’s trashy pulp horror, but I read! There’s some fun ideas in there!

LIVYAN CHARACTER SHEET

Name: Livyan

Whatever she once looked like, the Heart has already changed her. A black, grinning shadow, short and stocky, with a cheerfully prominent gut. Distinctly feral looking, with a fondness for crouching and scuttling, but never think she’s nothing but a blind brute. There’s hidden depths there.

Ancestry: Dark Elf

She was born in the City Beneath, one of the Heart’s creatures from the moment she hatched. A poor creature, an urchin, a scavenger, some might say a vulture, but all interesting things one must find and taste for oneself. She’s always been good at finding interesting things. And she learns. No one expects it, but she does learn. She’s smarter than she looks. Just … rather primal in priority.

Calling: Heartsong

The Heart is home. She can feel it in her blood and in her bones. The beat, the heartbeat. She wants to claw her way down to it. And, you know. Try out anything interesting and tasty along the way.

Class: Cleaver

“The wildest of all are known as Cleavers. They step out into the shifting nightmare of the City Beneath and make a home there. They are the first people to set foot in each new chamber of the place, forging ahead through a dark and strange frontier. […] Cleavers are a common sight amongst parties of delvers, especially those in need of a guide – no-one knows the Heart like they do. No amount of research, no technological device and no arcane scrying ritual can tell you as much as burying yourself waist-deep in the red wet heaven and eating the bounty it generously offers up.” (Pg. 27)

Cleavers are so delightfully visceral. Their abilities are so physical, written to the blood and the bone. The Heart warps them, and maybe some of them fight it, regret it, but some of them accept it. Find glee in it. Livyan is definitely one of those. Stain her eyes black, seep tar from her skin, do it all, it feels wonderful. She is not only learning, she is becoming.

Skills: Hunt (Cleaver), Delve (Darkling Eyes), Endure (Fell Metabolism), Sneak (Pitchskin)

Domains: Cursed (Cleaver),

Equipment: Hunting Knife (Kill D6), Bone Charms & Animal-Gut Sutures (Mend Blood D6).

Resources: A freshly harvested heart that still occasionally twitches (D6 Wild).

Trinkets: Small collection of Half-sten Horror sensationalist pulp literature (Dark Elf). Midwife’s blood-letting kit (Dark Elf). Mandala made from hollow crow bones (Heartsong).

Abilities:

Core Ability (Heartsong): IN THE BLOOD. You move through the Heart as if blessed. +1 Echo Protection. Once per situation, when you take stress to any resistance other than Echo, allocate it to Echo.

Core Ability (Cleaver): HEARTSBLOOD. You have a bone-deep connection to the Heart Itself; the closer you get, the more powerful you become. Your minimum protection value for all resistances is equal to the tier of the Heart you are currently on. This value doesn’t add to other sources of protection, but your base protection can’t be lower than your current tier unless you specifically lose access to it due to fallout.

Core Ability (Cleaver): THE RED FEAST. Your crucible guts pluck memories from the meat. When you eat a resource, you gain any domains associated with that resource until the end of the situation. If you already have access to the domain, gain an appropriate knack. There’s no limit to what you can eat, but tough or noxious materials might require an Endure+Cursed check to avoid causing yourself harm. Consuming resources requires your attention and leaves you exposed, so doing it successfully in stressful situations (such as combat) could require a Sneak or Evade roll.

Major Abilities (Cleaver): MONSTROUS APPETITE. When you eat, you unhinge your jaw and wolf down anything within reach until your belly is distended and you are resplendent with power. When you use THE RED FEAST to consume a resource that has a domain you can access, remove stress from Blood or Echo equal to the amount rolled on the dice instead.

(My other thought was Chimeric Strain, which leans into the werewolfy sort of side of the Cleaver, but Monstrous Appetite lets her LEARN as she goes, and it has a few attached minor abilities that are viciously tempting)

Minor Abilities (Cleaver):

DARKLING EYES. Years of exploring the City Beneath have rid you of the need for creature comforts such as warmth, light and shelter. Gain the Delve skill. Your jet-black eyes allow you to see in pitch blackness as though it were full daylight.

FELL METABOLISM. Food is just fuel to stoke the fire undying within you. Gain the Endure skill. When you use THE RED FEAST ability, you may choose to have your attacks gain the Brutal tag for a number of actions equal to the amount rolled on the resource dice instead of gaining a domain.

PITCHSKIN. Your skin bubbles and shifts into night-black tones as tar seeps through the pores. Gain the Sneak skill. The secretions from your skin are flammable and adhesive, acting as a sort of volatile glue you can exude at will.

(I do want her to pick up the Kill skill later via Unmaking Claws, to help with Fell Metabolism, as well as Desperate Measure (the cannibalism ability) and Monstrous Appetite’s attached ability Horrendous Bite. She’ll be a very cannibalistic feeling sort of creature by the end of it. But I wanted to start with Endure, Sneak and Delve, to go exploring with, and both Darkling Eyes and Pitchskin are just cool, both in their effects and in their physical effects on her).

Calling Story Beats:

Some Heartsong story beats for our curious, hungry cannibal:

“Consume something of the Heart (eat the flesh of a heartsblood beast, etc).” “Take Minor Echo fallout.” “Convince the party to collect Cursed resources on a delve, adding D6 to the delve’s resistance.” “Allow something dangerous of the Heart to live when you could have killed it.” “Let your curiosity lead you into danger.” “Build a shrine to the Heart somewhere important.” “Take Major Echo fallout.” “Show the truth of the Heart’s majesty to an outsider (Tier 2 or deeper).” “Become one with the Heart, and bind your essence to it.”

I do want her to take Echo damage primarily. She’s eating her way down into the Heart, that has to have consequences, no? If she dies of critical echo fallout, that’ll be just fine with me. She’s very ‘eat or be eaten’. Or even ‘eat AND be eaten’. If the Heart eats her right back, well, that’s fair enough. Heh.

[afterdarkwithcoffee]

mlm + transman pov + vampires + dubcon + through clothes teasing, mentions of breeding kink near the end, mild dehumanization. Set in the @runner-owen verse, dubiously canon. 571 words. Enjoy~

Their footsteps faded away into the black behind him. Owen did not stop. The path was not hard to remember even in this dim lit passage. Up ahead, the gate to outside waited. Once he entered the night, he would be safe.

The dark metal of the gate glinted in the torchlight. Owen reached out his hand.

It slammed open, the metal hitting the walls with a crash. Owen forced himself to a stop. His eyes went wide.

The vampire glared, and flashed his teeth.

"Runner…" the Scarred Man growled.

Owen stepped back. The Scarred Man struck. The younger's back hit the wall, he yelled out in surprise more than pain. Red eyes glared down at him, his claws trapping the human's neck. Owen gripped the Scarred Man's wrist, but with a twist of muscle much stronger than his own, the Scarred Man pinned Owen's hand over his head.

"Think you're clever, don't you feral?" The Scarred Man asked. Owen writhed. The Scarred Man smiled. "So bold of you to strike against your betters. I don't know why I expected anything other from you."

The Scarred Man's free hand traced down, over the trembling, gasping chest, and down lower, and lower still. Owen flushed with realization.

"Again?" He whispered.

"Certainly seems to help with that sour temper of yours, doesn't it?" The clawed hand cupped Owen's cunt through his trousers. Owen squeaked, raising up on his toes. "And you'll have no energy to rebel if all of it is used up, now will you?"

Owen breathed faster now, for a different reason.

"You wouldn't do such a thing here," he whispered.

"Perhaps not." The flat of the Scarred Man's thumb stroked upwards, over a spot Owen had been forbidden to touch. Owen's eyes closed behind his glasses. He grit his teeth against the moan.

The Scarred Man laughed. "Look at you. Barely a single touch and you're entering your heat." His thumb swirled around Owen's clit, the fabric intensifying the tease. "I can feel it twitching," the Scarred Man purred. "How cute. You humans are certainly receptive to our education, whether you wish to admit it or not."

Owen fought the noises down, his knees quivering under the pleasure. The Scarred Man stroked the petals of his cunt through the dark fabric, fingertips tracing up, caressing his clit, then back down towards his hidden, slick entrance.

"You bastard," Owen whimpered. 

"What a harsh thing to say," the Scarred Man said without malice. "You're certainly not going to make this easy on me, are you, with such unbecoming language like that."

His fingers stroked his clit. Owen's hips bucked into the Scarred Man's hand. The Scarred Man laughed.

"I can smell your heat," the Scarred Man said. "And I barely did anything to you."

Owen swallowed down the whine, but could not keep his hips from squirming against the vampire's hand.

"Yes," the Scarred Man said. "Let's begin your breeding somewhere more… appropriate for the act, shall we?"

Owen's eyes widened. He couldn't mean- 

The Scarred Man lifted him up from the wall. Owen did not have time to struggle. As the Scarred Man cradled him in his arms, his hand still teasing him without mercy, Owen clenched his eyes shut against the pleasure. It meant nothing. He would escape again, as he always did. This meant nothing. This pleasure meant nothing -

Within the darkness, Owen moaned, and the Scarred Man laughed.

want more? Lemme know

[outpost51]

8, 19, 29 for ao3 wrapped :blushy:

AO3 wrapped

8. Pairing you wrote the most for this year?

i think it was kryterius? that sounds right. i didn't have a very pairing-heavy year!

19. What’s one pairing you want to explore next year?

shit dude i've got a few, might throw jane in with a few folks, might do some desabrudas, might fiddle with some originals

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

i really popped the fuck off with if not, winter. i really did. i wanted good nyria for big bang so i done did it myself. here's the bits people (and me) went a little feral over

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“Don’t you want something better?” Nyx whispered as they lay together in the dark, facing each other like children at a sleepover – it certainly felt like it with all the escape-plotting and discussions of great treasures that lay just out of sight beyond the Milky Way. “Don’t you deserve better?”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The blood on his hands had long since burned to ash, and the ashes didn’t seem to haunt him. She was in the business of making ghosts, not summoning them.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Nyreen was utterly, unbelievably, insufferably brainwashed. If she didn’t have so much goddamn potential, Aria would have laughed in her face and ordered Gavorn to put a bullet in her head. But she did have so much goddamn potential, so Aria invited her to dinner.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Half an hour later, the pain in her back had long since faded as her spine resided itself to hunching over for the foreseeable future. Antona’s hand was cold where Nyreen pressed her face into her mother’s palm. “I met a girl, mama,” she whispered. “She offered to take us away from here. I brought—” Her voice caught on a snag she couldn’t break free.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“She hates me.” “Why?” Nyreen’s mandibles wobbled. “Because I made her love me.” “Is that true?” “The only thing I ever made,” Nyreen spat, biting and cold as the liquor working its magic on her better judgment, “was the mistake of hoping she could love anyone.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“You always wanted to meet my mom,” she whispered quietly. The lights flickered out. In the years she’d lived on the station, she’d never heard it so silent. Then a chorus of screams rose up all around her, peppered with gunfire. Nyreen swallowed what grief hadn’t been chased off by adrenaline and kissed Liselle’s crest. “Tell her to put the kettle on for me.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Aria felt her nails break skin. “You know I’m just using you, right?” Grief had made a tinny, pathetic stranger of her voice. “Obviously.” Tevos didn’t turn away from the mirror. She’d smudged her makeup. Good. “Powerful women don’t have hearts, Aleena. We have ambition.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

What a fucking sight she must have made, fat tears streaming into her nose and mouth, gasping like a wretched, half-dead ghoul over some gift shop trinket. When she tried to bark at Nyreen to fuck off, all that came out was a weak, desperate keen. She tried again. Two simple words, she said it all the time. “Bring her back!” she wailed instead. Nailed it.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It was an exquisite kind of humiliation, the queen of Omega being carried out of her dead daughter’s apartment like a squalling child. Maybe it was for the best that Nyreen dragged her away. Who did she think she was, thinking she’d end up in the same place as Liselle? The goddesses didn’t care if she was a queen. Her title would stay with her corpse, and pass to whatever lucky fuck finally managed to take her out.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“Maybe she followed us,” Vetra muttered. Maybe Nyreen wasn’t such a good liar after all. Aria’s voice swirled around and around in her head. As she watched the clouds do the same, she replied, small and quiet: “I wouldn’t have followed me.”

[theadventuresofgarlandodra]

The Adventures of Garl and Odra Manyboots- The End of Silver Matilda

Prev.

“It is too fucking cold here! I hate Zayora!”

“Least you’re not too hot anymore like you were a few weeks ago.”

“Go fuck yourself, Garl.”

Sahsi’s teeth chattered as she attempted to smile, but it was too damn cold to do anything but keep marching forward.

Silver Matilda wasn’t far, the raven was consistently shifting and leaning forward in anticipation from where it perched on her shoulder. The hag was close. And she was waiting for them.

Wick was the only one not complaining about the cold. His jaw was tight, his fists were even tighter. Sparks would fly randomly out from the tips of his hair and around his scalp, but were quickly extinguished by the icy wind.

Turgut shook the snow from his eyes. “Keep your guard up, men! Er, women too! The witch isn’t far now!” he shouted the obvious.

When Kendrenal nudged Turgut, Sahsi thought the artificer was about to pull another prank on Turgut, but instead he plopped something in Turgut’s hands. “I’ve been tinkering this all morning while we walked, try it out!” Kendrenal said.

Turgut lifted it up to his face and frowned. “A… a monocle?” It was in fact a silver monocle.

“So you can actually hit things when you shoot your crossbow!” Kendrenal explained. “Try it!”

“My aim is just fine.” All the same, Turgut popped the monocle in place and blinked a few times. “… Huh. Well then. Perhaps I could shoot better than fine with this little trinket. Thank you, Kendrenal. How did you make this?”

“I always have some junk in my bag, pieces of glass, wire- it wasn’t hard!” Kendrenal shrugged. “You’re welcome!”

It really must be serious if Kendrenal was actually trying to help his other party members rather than piss them off, Sahsi thought to herself.

It came as just as surprise to her when they made the turn up the path and the blizzard just… stopped. The snow still whirled around the party, but this part of the trail was clear as a summer’s day.

The reason for the sudden change of weather was no doubt due to the three women in this eye of the storm. Sahsi shivered for a different reason now.

Three hags stood before them. The two bheur hags hadn’t bothered to hide their true faces, bone thin crones with frozen blue skin and hair coated in ice, but the woman between them hardly fit into the coven. A beautiful human lady, elegant with long brunette curls and dressed in noble finery, she looked more like a victim of abduction than a threat. But she wasn’t threatened by the two cackling bheur hags that had her surrounded. She looked content.

“Hello, hello, hello…” the woman chuckled and took a step forward. “My, it’s been a while since we’ve had so many guests. Welcome to the Gate.”

Odra stepped forward, her hand on her rapier. “Gate?” she repeated.

“The Gate is what we call this passage to Zayora. Oh, did you really think you were already there? No, my darling.” The lady shook her head and tutted her tongue. “This is the Gate. Pass us and you’ll be there shortly. But you’re not here to pass, are you?”

Sahsi glanced at Wick to ask for confirmation, but she didn’t need to. Wick’s hair burned white, and he was truly shaking with rage. She looked back towards the woman and steadied herself with a deep breath.

“We’re here on behalf of the young genasi you cruelly mutilated, Silver Matilda. We’re here to avenge him and all the others you’ve no doubt harmed and killed in your lifetime.”

The woman’s lips twisted in a dark smirk. “Little niece, you’re more of a bitch than your mother is,” she said. With a feral growl, the hag dropped the glamour, revealing her true shape- a bent, ugly demonic looking woman with ram’s horns that curled behind her ears and bright yellow eyes that made Sahsi think of rabid beasts.

“Niece?” Sahsi repeated.

“She didn’t tell you?” Silver Matilda cocked her head to the side and chuckled. “I was part of the coven that Genevieve's mother, Granny Dorcas, led. That made me her aunt, and it makes me yours too. Of course, when Genevieve killed Dorcas, I decided it was best to head to greener pastures.”

Before Sahsi could say anything else, Wick unsheathed his sword and stormed to the front of the group. “Do you remember him!? Do you remember Wax and what you did to him!?” he shouted.

Matilda blinked placidly. “… Oh, him? Eh, he brings forth thoughts of… subpar ingredients,” she said.

The wave of heat that rolled over the party from Wick’s body was enough to melt the snow on the ground and make sweat drip down Sahsi’s neck. But it wasn’t him that made the first move.

It was her.

“When you’re in hell, you’ll remember those who came in Wax’s name, and you’ll remember us ripping you limb from limb!”

Sahsi charged forward, leaping over Odra’s head and bringing her fingernails down across Matilda’s face. Her already sharp fingernails truly became like claws, ripping open the hag’s face and nearly taking an eyeball with it.

Matilda screeched as her skin burned with acid, marring her already terrible features. The hag sneered at Sahsi.

“It’ll give me great pleasure to kill you, girl.”

Matilda’s hand lit up with a spell Sahsi recognized as Magic Missile and she knew she messed up. But before she could hurl it, the spell sputtered out. Matilda gawped at her hand. “What the-”

Sahsi heard snickering from behind her… of course. Dullahan.

“Whoops. Counterspell. Maybe don’t cast it with so much juice next time.”

Sahsi was hauled back and out of the way by Thunderwarrior and the eye of the storm exploded into violence. Her trembling hands still dripping with hag blood, Sahsi stayed at the back and prepared her healing items and spells.

She really was becoming more like her mother every time she lost her temper.

The party charged forward, spells flying through the air like fireworks and blades slashing at the evasive hags. Matilda shouted something in Sylvan and bodies burst from the snow, skeletons and zombies coated in ice and weapons frozen in their hands.

Thunderwarrior tossed her head back and roared her battlecry before throwing herself at the undead army before her, Elphira and Tynos providing back up to tear through the hags’ foot soldiers.

Crowley twirled his mace in the air before he chased the bheur hag to the right. The woman’s spells zoomed past his head and before she knew it he was right in her face.

“Hello, and goodbye!”

The mace crunched right into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. This did get him a ray of frost right to the chest, but Crowley seemed to shake off the spell with surprising ease.

The other bheur hag wasn’t as lucky- she never saw Odra coming, she was more focused on the gargoyle in front of her. Odra’s rapier stabbed her in the leg and when she instinctively went to clamp the wound, Garl bullrushed her and sent her flying… right off the side of the mountain, her staff bouncing after her while the woman shrieked.

“Byyyye, bitch!” Odra cackled.

Although the group was technically outnumbered, within minutes the undead’s numbers were decimated. The remaining bheur hag couldn’t keep up with the demand, and she didn’t see Turgut taking aim from behind her.

The crossbow bolt went right through the back of her head and she stood dumbly for a second before crumpling to the ground.

Turgut tapped his new monocle and looked quite impressed. “Hmm, I may have to keep this little bauble for a time,” he murmured to himself.

The last one standing was, of course, Silver Matilda. And no one was going to get between her and Wick without getting stabbed. The snow around the pair had melted, Wick burning so bright he was even singeing his own clothing. Silver Matilda threw her spells and sneered at the enraged genasi. She was weakening, but it was not enough.

Odra prepared her charge but Garl grabbed her by the scruff. “No kill stealing… not this time,” he said.

“Awwww…”

“Would you want someone to steal Calipher’s death from your hands?”

That stilled Odra and the goblin stopped trying to get involved in the fight. Matter of fact, no one really did. Everyone had surrounded the fighting pair, but no one was entering the fray. It was Wick’s revenge, and it was his alone.

It was a lucky blow when Silver Matilda fired off a magic missile that hit Wick right in the gut, sending him stumbling back. “Say hello to your pathetic little brother to me,” the hag growled as she threw her hand back, preparing to rip into him with her claws.

She hadn’t realized that Sahsi had been preparing her own spell. A gust of wind shoved the hag off balance, sending her teetering close to the edge of the cliff. While Silver Matilda struggled to maintain her balance, Sahsi rested her hands on Wick’s shoulders.

“Finish. Her. Off,” Sahsi whispered, her magic flowing from her fingertips into the genasi as she cast Guidance.

Sometimes all you need is just a little push to get the job done. By the time Silver Matilda recovered, she looked up to see Wick’s sword pierce her chest.

The air was pushed out of her and the hag just stared in shock. Wick smirked.

“I’d say tell him yourself. But you’re not going to where he is.”

Wick’s sword glowed like a hot coal and the hag’s flesh caught aflame. She couldn’t even scream. She just slumped dead. Wick withdrew her sword and kicked her burning corpse off the cliff.

There was a second pause.

Then Odra cheered.

“FUCK! YES!”

The group threw their hands in the air and all cheered together, the battle was won, and they’d won!

Garl didn’t wait for the cheering to finish. He started walking until he found a cave. “Hey, this is probably her lair- hurry up or I’m taking all the loot!” he shouted back.

“LIKE HELL YOU ARE!” Odra shouted after him, launching herself over bones and corpses to catch up. The rest of the group scrambled after them, continuing to chat and shout about the treasure that no doubt an old hag like Silver Matilda had stored up over the years.

Everyone but Wick and Sahsi.

Wick stared down the cliff where Silver Matilda’s body had vanished. He hadn’t cheered. He hadn’t moved since that hag had fallen out of sight. He just stood there. Silent.

Sahsi said nothing and allowed Wick his moment.

“… I’m sorry, Sahsi.”

That was not the first thing she expected to come out of his mouth. She tilted her head to the side. “Why are you apologizing?” she asked.

“Because you’re nothing like your mother, or Silver Matilda. Maybe… maybe not even all the hexbloods I’ve killed are like them.” Wick shuddered before he bitterly laughed. “Maybe on my way to avenge Wax, I became more like the hags than you. Because right now… I feel nothing. I don’t feel better. I feel nothing.”

Sahsi swallowed before she set her hand on Wick’s shoulder. He tensed but didn’t push her away.

“Did you cry for Wax?” she quietly asked.

Wick was quiet.

“You never took the time to grieve, did you?”

Wick finally shook his head no.

“… Now you can. And now you can move forward. Some of the things you did…” Sahsi brushed her fingers against her cheekbone, where his dagger has sliced her skin. “Well, you know. But you can’t take it all back. You can only move forward, and really, the only way to do that… is grieve.”

Wick was quiet and Sahsi nearly panicked, thinking she had said the wrong thing… and then she realized there was steam coming from Wick’s face.

He was crying. His chest shuddered and he broke down in sobs. He turned, pulled Sahsi into a tight embrace, and he wept.

Sahsi hesitantly returned the embrace, arms wrapped around his waist. Her hands stroked his back and she let him cry.

Let him grieve. Let him cry. And hope, just hope that he would be able to move on now.

Next

[derkastellan]

Lessons from playing "Fallout 4"

So, I've been playing "Fallout 4" lately - certainly a time sink! FO4 keeps drawing me in even though I could take or leave its story or, let's say, its many design shortcomings. Still, FO4 is a big sandbox you can explore which is what I do most of the time when I play the game, and the level designers have more than a few tricks up their sleeve that might apply to tabletop RPGs as well.

The Journey is the Goal

So, you have a new quest. You get a marker on your map and your HUD to follow. You can even fast-travel to the nearest location. Easy-peasy, right?

What happens next is you finding your way towards your goal - navigating urban landscapes, trying to find a way to cross a river, going through places you might not have been before. As you do so, you inevitably stumble across more things - more of the game itself, interesting locations, little stories, and the leads to other quests, even.

This all has very little to do with the goal you set out for. Whether you fight the Mechanist's robotic minions (or watch them slug it out with various Wasteland denizens), run into the inevitable feral ghouls, or a raider gang, or come across a Supermutant fortress - none of this is actually related to your goal. But it's all part of playing the game. By playing the game, you come across more, well, game!

As you criss-cross the map, as you make your beeline to your actual goal, you will either follow a lot of side treks or ignore them, your choice.

Now, if your tabletop game is a sandbox, this is natural. As the players trek across your map, they come over the things you have seeded into your sandbox - which might have nothing to do with their goal of getting to a particular dungeon. But you can expose them to it and they can chose to interact with it, file it away for later, etc. It surely beats your two or three random encounters the GM rolled on a table.

But, let's say your game wasn't built like this. It still should have several theme threads you can weave to generate situations. If your setting is some world getting overrun by monsters from another dimension, let your encounters match that. Instead of just running into such monsters, generate situations where players might see such monsters attacking the people of the land - like a hamlet or small farmstead. While their choice might be obvious, it's still their choice to engage. Another monster encounter on the road might be entirely avoidable. But it might also be monsters clustering over something that might promise some reward - like the corpse of a high level knight. Or, taking a page from the ooold game "Pool of Radiance", you meet some weaker, local, intelligent monsters (kobolds, goblins, etc) who want to shake down the PCs for passage. The players can engage them, but it also costs resources, one way or another.

(Because if your game happens to be D&D, resources matter. But let's discuss that later.)

What I'm saying is that the payoff for setpiece encounters that you place in the players' way can be huge - in terms of making an immersive world. Encounters can obviously also be not hostile. It just so happens there's more going on in the world than the players' lives - or even the grand theme of the campaign. This can go from a broken wagon wheel of a wandering trader to a priest taking the local orphans for a hike near the forest border to whatever your mind can imagine in this world. Even if your world is grim-dark as fuck, there might be something you can think of - two farmers arguing over the damn boundary of their plots - that might even end up involving the players (if only to break up their fisticuffs). There's no end to rational or irrational behavior when it comes to people, after all.

Also, varying them is key, including the strategies required for dealing with them.

Resources, resources, resources

Now, this may not be a big issue in FO4 where the player is a pack mule full of gear eventually, but even there you don't have unlimited ammo, healing, and carrying capacity. You might eventually have the luxury of lugging around a lot of stuff, but you better bring stuff that helps you in your playing style. And leave space to lug things back.

As I said, in D&D resources matter. Now, most stuff that is not outright consumables (torches, healing potions, scrolls, etc) is not a concern in D&D, but you also have your daily allotment of spells and class powers. One of the reasons the discussion about the "15 minute adventuring day" never ends.

There are other constraints you can put on the players. Time limits, for example. (Use sparingly - else exploration and immersion go out of the window quickly. Must. Make. The. Deadline..!) Or the dungeon they're delving offers them no good resting options (except for maybe short rests - you should generally make room for a few of these to not break some classes), so a base camp is needed and trekking to their actual destination several times.

Remember those goblins asking for bribes? They might turn out to be a constant nuisance on the way to the actual dungeon unless the players manage to deal with them one way or another. They're no real threat, but they eat up - resources! (Or, nastier, they might be trading information with some dungeon denizens that might prepare an ambush.)

Or you can think of the approach to the dungeon as their own "dungeon rooms" of rather big proportion that the players have to go through and solve what's in them just the same. Just calculate it into their adventuring day/what the party can handle. And if you put obstacles on the way back, factor in what shape the party might be in at that point at your own discretion. Maybe the goblins see their pay-day when the players are exhausted and the wizard out of spells?

But back to FO4

Another thing you will do in FO4 a lot is looking for the actual location "on location." Where is that entrance to the sewers? Do you have to go through a full building to get to the actual location? Do you have to track back and forth over a location to get where you want to?

In a sense this is map design for RPGs as well. Blocked passages, for example, requiring backtracking. And the first layer of your dungeon might be an unrelated location to explore. The ruined house atop the mad wizard's laboratory might be a lower level challenge for your new party to gather experience before entering their goal proper.

There are a few differences, though. In FO4, "empty space" still needs to be traversed. Empty streets, locations you have cleared. These can still add suspense - as you might still run into some monsters. Or the game choses to place some of the scripted encounters there. Space can add a bit of quiet before the suspense.

Empty rooms, though... String enough of them in a dungeon and you get a lot of boredom. I mentioned this before, but "Swords & Wizardry" had modules released by its authors initially, but the dungeons - were plain uninteresting. Not much story weaving the rooms together, and way too many empty rooms. Nothing to discover, nothing to do. And by discover, I mean also no hidden things. This was quite the opposite to "Dungeon Crawl Classics" (very focused maps full of stuff) and "Lamentations of the Flame Princess" (some maps entirely woven with the story, others designed to screw players). So you can imagine why these games have gained popularity, while S&W is mostly useful for groups playing old material, for example, or to release material written for older editions with a rules set people have easy (and legal) access to.

Still, empty space is useful. It provides space for battles to spill over into. It's buffer between encounter zones that can help not every battle draw in every other monster in the vicinity. And empty space is - not empty!

"Empty rooms" should have served a purpose and hence contain furniture, left-over items, or have been used as the ever-elusive dungeon toilet. I'm not talking about rooms tied into an encounter area - like a monster's meat locker, making us aware that there's danger around. But even empty rooms should encourage exploration, and are chances to give minor loot, space to rest, and divulge the lore of a place. Some players might even try to break through to other places of the map from a seemingly unimportant location. (After all, in a tabletop the map need not be static. Just ensure that too much "tunneling" comes at a cost - noise, destabilizing the structure, etc.)

Clues and Lore

And I did mention lore in that list. FO4 locations do have details not pertaining to what you are trying to achieve - like graffiti from long ago, or files from the time before the bombs fell, etc. This is especially effective if paying attention to it helps the players do what they want to do.

Some players make their own clues, so beware. Has dust been disturbed - that's popular. Or wet footsteps if it rained outside. Players can be surprisingly resourceful, and sometimes that should be rewarded. Even if you have to do it on the spot.

Mix clues with noise with lore. Noise can be inspired by lore but is generally useless. Every environmentally hinted piece of lore is a piece of exposition the players discovered. The background of a painting, for example.

You can even devise whole stories that played out in the location, like a previous delving attempt that the players didn't know of, leading to a whole breadcrumb trail to follow. A great example happens in "Pool of Radiance" - another party went into the haunted graveyard and slew the vampire (which hence does not appear in the game, natch), but were too weakened after that to make it back out through the accursed location. So, one of the boss fights never happened, but the story added quite a bit to the mood of the place. (And is told as a one last diary entry - I'm sure the idea might have been lifted from Tolkien. Drums in the deep...)

These stories can inspire the presence of monsters as well: In one location in FO4 the monsters you fight are a raider gang trying to loot the location you're about to search - and you run into them as they are pinned down by a machine gun turret. By other agents in the world doing things you can credibly add surprising things to locations. You can even add allies to set up a bigger battle down the line.

At the same time, you can run into adversaries that, when bested, "drop" more clues and lore. Or you can listen in on them. Be prepared for rewarding sneaky characters!

Not very random

One final thought: FO4 may have a good deal of "more of the same." After all, if you want to have well-designed, good-looking adversaries, you have to limit how many types you make. So FO4 tries to use them a lot, and uses them in many different ways.

What it does not, however, is use them at random. Certain adversaries prefer certain locations and are planned into them - like ghouls rising after being mistaken for nearby corpses, mole rats and radscorpions bursting out of the ground, etc. Level designers placed a lot of your adversaries, and while they might eventually respawn, they are not there at random. Which makes it fun if some of the actual random or mobile elements crash into them - like your supply caravans or a wandering trader with guards running into someone raiders.

But in general, not a lot is random here. Many locations have their enemies placed and dispersed, and when triggered, they act according to their own logic. Some have their behaviors scripted initially before the fighting breaks out.

In this article I tried to highlight the value of all the design and scripting that went into FO4 and how similar approaches could enliven your game as well. In a sense, it's better to draw inspiration from a random encounter table than it is to use one, at times. It can tell you what can happen as a result of player actions. A tabletop RPG can be a very dynamic, smart environment, if you let it be.

It's up to you to find the mix of elements that makes it dynamic, responsive, and alive without becoming overwhelming. Good luck!

[greenhillguy]

fingers curled around his chin, his other arm drapes over his back, finding the perfect space between sonic’s spines. the cuts, the blood are just afterthoughts in the wake of his pursuit, pulling sonic in for a kiss, slow & searing.

despite what people think, there are still wild places in nature. places where vines and kudzu and clover grow rampant, eager to choke out whatever is in its wake, so like the bloodthirsty mint in vanilla's orderly garden. places where it's easy to believe no one has ever tread, places that feel unapologetically authentic, intense, sincere, especially when traversed at night, in the dark.

it's one of these wild places that he takes shadow, a hard trek for those not used to walking, running, fighting for their lives ( for them, it's a walk in the proverbial park ). it takes a few uphill hikes and loop-de-loops and sprinting through hidden waterfall passages that turn into cave systems, but finally they arrive.

the cave tunnels open up to a cliff's edge, one that, at the right angle, blocks out the land beneath them. what's left is a spread of night sky so wide it looks painted there, stars exploding over the velvet black horizon, the moon of crescent gash of light in the middle of it all. sonic watches shadow take it in for a moment, studying the silver light splashed across his face. up this high, the wind whips at their quills, the rustling sound of them like whispers in the dark, just out of earshot.

something about this place makes sonic feel real. so many people make nature out to be an overwhelming force, one that defines their insignificance. but how can you feel small and unworthy when you're allowed to see the stars scattered across the sky as if you were in orbit? how can you feel anything but grateful when you live in a world that provides wonders like this for those who will seek them?

sonic's just turned his face back to the moon when he hears shadow move, feels fingers on his chin angling his face back. in a heartbeat he knows shadow understands. this place is as wild as they are. there is something untameable in the cliff's jagged edges, the daggered rocks, the points of their own quills. shadow's arm curls around sonic's back, but one of sonic's hands finds purchase on shadow's shoulder, the other curling around shadow's throat, the mint choking out the rest of the garden.

they kiss like an earthquake, an avalanche, a tsunami, a starfall, like nothing could get in their way, get between them, if it tried.

when they break away, sonic's eyes are electric on shadow's, green like copper flames. in a millisecond he's out of shadow's grip, disappearing and reappearing at the edge of the cliff, his back facing the night sky, on his tip-toes as he looks to shadow. the grin on his face is almost feral, fangs flashing.

"if you liked that," sonic teases, wind pushing his quills to one side, "you're gonna love the next bit." and without waiting for a response, he falls backward off the cliff face, vanishing below the edge with the tell-tale sound of a spindash marking his descent. i dare you to follow me -- i know you will.