#dirt crawlers

[kathrynalexao3]

If HWFWM and Dungeon Crawler Carl made a baby. Or a bunch of neurodivergents got together for the sake of laughter, slice of life, & adventuring.

[merriclo]

i haven’t rlly expanded upon my AU Wild much to y’all and that is the dictionary definition of a crime so allow me to tell you a bit about her

they’re only like.. slightly literate. he’s learning, but so far he’s only got his and a few close friends’ names down writing wise, and can only read some names and things like “inn” and “store” and “Rito” and such. despite this, she’s just about conversational in Gerudo

genderfluid, any pronouns, pan + ace

not only is he the team doctor, but she’s also the resident therapist. they’re the most emotionally/mentally stable, which is really sad because he does not put the bar that high up at all

they take great joy in tormenting the more modest-humored Links with their atrocious jokes. rip Loft but Wild’s creative and has no shame ever.

the Great Fairies are his moms. they might not explicitly say it but they all know they are.

he can fuck it up on the harmonica

they’ve got the world’s worst fashion sense. it’s literally so bad Lorule almost went on the fritz the first time they met. it’s repulsive. she looks hot as shit.

ok that’s it for now <3 send asks if u want to know more abt them or other characters

[mof-rot]

You’d be my conversation

Moots would you forgive me if one day you wake up and I was a worm and I crawled on your face bc I got lost but also wanted to give you a hug?

BE HONEST

[galedekarios]

waterdeep & the city's wards: dock ward - part 1

"The splendors that await you in Waterdeep are legendary. Each of the city’s wards is detailed in this work, telling you what to expect depending on where you are, as well as what thrilling things you might see and do."

[from: Volo's Waterdeep Enchiridion]

waterdeep is divided into a system of wards and civic districts. the six recognized wards are:

dock ward

castle ward

north ward

sea ward

southern ward

trades ward

notable parts of the city that aren't considered wards are the city of the dead and deepwater harbour and its surrounding isles (deepwater isle and stormhaven island).

in this meta, i'd like to first focus on the dock ward of waterdeep.

the dock ward is often theorised to be the ward that houses gale's tower. i'd recommend reading this post by @dailygale or this post by @elspethdekarios, as well as the posts linked within them, for further details.

the dock ward in spring

map of the dock ward, 1491 dr [source]

dock ward ambience by dungeon crawler audio

general

"Ports, by their very nature, are unclean, noisy, crowded, and constantly busy places where few outsiders are welcome. Waterdeep's Dock Ward fits this mold, though its notoriety and bedlam are, if nothing else, slightly muted by the tales told up and down the Sword Coast. It was best described, by a wizard of no little note, as a riotous, semi-stationary but nigh-perpetual brawl that covers entire acres and is interrupted only by small buildings, intermittent trade business, an errant dog or two, and a few brave watchmen (who do manage to keep the chaos from spreading beyond the docks), the whole lot wallowing in the stench of rotting fish. Still, in all, twas quite a lusty, intriguing place to spend an evening. City watch patrols and guard contingents keep this ward in a semblance of order, traveling in well-armed groups of eight during the day and groups of twelve or more after dusk. Many of the roads are gravel-packed dirt, once the docks and cobblestone access roads to the Way of the Dragon are left behind. The dark, mud-strewn alleys are endless in Dock Ward, and they hide many dangers, despite the alertness of Waterdeep's defenders, so travel in large, heavily armed groups if you must. Dock Ward's boundaries, quickly stated, are the harbor and the southern boundaries of Castle and Trades Wards. The northern boundary runs north and east on Lackpurse Lane to Belnimbra's Street, over and down Gut Alley, and turns east to Shesstra's Street. Moving east and turning south onto Book Street, the boundary moves east again on Drakiir Street until it meets the Way of the Dragon, the eastern perimeter of Dock Ward. The southern border of the ward is, of course, the docks and the harbor." [source: waterdeep dragon heist]

in his waterdeep enchiridion, volo provides his impressions of the dock ward:

"The Dock Ward was long considered the most dangerous district in the city, but the Field Ward has since taken that title. I don’t doubt the residents of the Dock Ward are glad of it, for in some respects this area has never truly deserved its bad reputation. Yes, aside from the Field Ward, this is the area where most of Waterdeep’s poor reside. Yes, it is home to some of the least literate people in the city. Yes, most of its taverns are inhabited by habitual drinkers, and far too many inns charge by the hour. But all must concede this: the residents of the Dock Ward often work the hardest while living under the harshest conditions. Warehouses, poorhouses, and tenements dominate much of the area. Streets are steep throughout, and few have space alongside for pedestrians. Wandering through the ward can be a bewildering journey without a guide. Except in the immediate vicinity of the piers, shop signs and advertising of any kind are rare, and warehouses and other businesses often have no sign at all. You either know where you are going and have reason to be there — or you are lost, and a likely mark for pickpockets or worse. Streetlamps don’t fare well in the Dock Ward. Their candles, oils, and glass are too regularly stolen or smashed. The Guild of Chandlers and Lamplighters makes a halfhearted attempt to repair the streetlamps at the start of each season, but for most of the year, locals are forced to carry their own light when traveling these streets at night. The colors of the Dock Ward are burgundy and orange, and its mascot is a swordfish that has always been depicted as green for reasons lost to time. The folk of the Dock Ward take competition seriously, and they frequently draft their champions from the rough-and-tumble sailors who come to the city. (Some say they draft pirates, but that is pure slander.) Frequent complaints arise that these women and men are more citizens of the sea than of the Dock Ward itself. But if they register with a magister and pay taxes, they are as welcome to compete as any long-term resident of Waterdeep." [from: Volo's Waterdeep Enchiridion]

the sentiment that the dock ward is "dangerous" is echoed by elminster as well:

In the words of Elminster himself, the Dock Ward was a "riotous, nigh-perpetual brawl that covers entire acres, interrupted only by small buildings, intermittent trade businesses, an errant dog or two, and a few brave watchguards, who manage to keep the chaos from spreading beyond the docks; the whole lot wallowing in the stench of rotting fish." [source]

neighbourhoods of the dock ward

the living conditions in these neighbourhoods is described as ranging from "poor" to "modest":

Abovefish: Aeldinmuth Court, Arun's Bend, Drawn Sword Court, the Everwind, Fishgut, Frostraen, the Hobbles, the Hooks, the Krakenway, Leera's Trod, the Lurch, Redcloaks, Sakiir's Street, Scoundrel's Cradle, the Slide, Spider's Web, Three Daggers

Belowfish: Asteril's Trod, the Bitters , Cod Lane , Essunmar's Dream, the Ghemmerwalk , Greathoist, Horizons, Manycrates, the Odd , Old Elbermaen, Old Tar's Walk, Pressbow, Shipwright's Square, the Sirenwalk , Six Casks , Two Flasks

Eastsnail: Amanaster's Lane, Blackwell, Bulette Point, Candle Lane, Doerlunn, Emeskine's Shine, Foxden, Knightsfoot, Marvynhurst, Melinter's Alley, Oubliette, the Pearls, Philosopher's Court

Southdocks: Cedar Wharf, the Fishgut, Hoedmar's Trod, Manylines, Ormibar's Sky, Sailmaker's Run, Sambril's Lane, Smuggler's Run, Southshore, Sperival, Tower Watch

[source: waterdeep dragon heist]

landmarks and notable locations in the dock ward

below you'll find a collection of landmarks like the mistshore and notable locations like guildhalls, inns, temples, streets and alleys, as well as other places of note.

mistshore

mistshore is part of the northern harbour:

"After the Spellplague of 1385 DR, Waterdeep went into a decline and maintenance of the harbor was neglected. Many ships sank or were scuttled in the northern harbor and eventually Waterdeep's outcasts created a small community on the wrecked ship hulls. The harbor water was polluted and smelled horribly. In 1491 DR, Mistshore was largely destroyed in a massive fire, with most ships burning down to the waterline and having to be towed out of the harbor to prevent other vessels from running afoul the wreckage. By 1492 DR, most buildings in the neighborhood were still burned and abandoned. Mistshore was considered so dangerous that the City Watch refused to send patrols into the area." [source: forgottenrealms wiki]

notable locations within mistshore include:

Crib "This collection of partially sunken ships was the hideout of the crime lord Arowell prior to his death at the hands of Cerest Elenithil. The ships were arranged in a circle with suspended platforms in the center. Arowell sponsored gladiatorial contests to amuse the inhabitants of Mistshore." Dusk to Dawn "This tavern was nothing more than a tent that moved to different locations in Mistshore nightly." Hearthfire "The wretched inhabitants of Mistshore created a permanent firepit on which to cook." Waltzing Ferryman "Sea wraiths kept the inhabitants of Mistshore from approaching this old wreck. It was inhabited by an old spellscarred mage and his friend." [source: forgottenrealms wiki]

guildhalls, inns and taverns in the dock ward

"All sailors who regularly sail into Waterdeep have their favorite taverns and lodgings, but all are familiar with Cookhouse Hall, the large, echoing, hammerbeam-ceilinged hall where hot meals (usually roast beef, stir-fried vegetables, and a highly peppered stew) are served to all who line up and pay 2 cp for a meal. Minted drinking water is even provided. You don't have to be a sailor to eat here. It's open from dawn to dusk, and has fed many a weary (or poor or down on his luck) traveler who doesn't mind a little coarse company and dinner conversation.  The Shipmasters' Hall, by contrast, is a private inn and dining club for captains, first mates, and ship owners and their escorts only. It's very old and elegant, with polished dark wood paneling everywhere, shining brass fittings, comfortably cushioned brocade seats, and heavy plush drapes. One of the largest privately owned buildings in Waterdeep is the shipbuilding shed of Arnagus the Shipwright, who's crafted many of the fine ships that ply the Sword Coast. Owing to the dangers of sabotage and fire, he doesn't welcome visitors, but many folk go to the docks where the slipway from his shed runs down to the harbor to peer in at the work going on. A ship launching always draws great crowds. It's the nearest thing after brawl watching to a spectator sport that Dock Ward has.  The following guildhalls can all be found in this ward: the Butchers' Guildhall, League Hall, Mariners' Hall, Watermen's Hall, Seaswealth Hall, Coopers' Rest, Shippers' Hall, Shipwrights' House, and the Metal House of Wonders. The Most Diligent League of Sail-Makers and Cordwainers has as its headquarters the Full Sails tavern. The Muleskull Tavern serves as headquarters for the Dungsweepers' Guild." [source: worldanvil]

a list on inns and taverns in the dock ward from the forgottenrealms wiki:

a list on inns and taverns in the dock ward from oakthorne:

a list of shops and businesses in the dock ward from the forgottenrealms wiki:

a list of streets and alleyways in the dock ward from the forgottenrealms wiki:

a list of streets and alleyways in the dock ward from oakthorn:

listing out the following places of note with short descriptions:

Fishgut Court: A cobblestone court off Sail and Dock Streets where many strange happenings occur during nights of the full moon. Many know that Selûne herself hid in a mortal form in the tavern nearby, and her blessings continue to touch the courtyard.

Smuggler's Dock: The most isolated corner of the ward and also its safest, under the watchful eyes of Mirt's Mansion and the Watching Tower, used often for lovers' rendezvous.

Black Well Court: The small back-alley home to a polluted, monster-infested well that is sealed by order of the Lords, though it is occasionally broken into – or out of – and creatures haunt the shadows here before they are dealt with and the well re-sealed.

Manysteps Alley: A narrow alley that is the habitat of soothsayers, fortune tellers and thieves galore.

Melinter's Court: A dark courtyard often thick with the pipe smoke of curbside philosophers and corner sages (and sometimes the plotting of wizards).

Philosophers' Court: Also known by natives as "the Foolsquare", a daily (and often nightly) meeting place for intellectuals, old sages and drunken nobles alike found arguing over topics "too esoteric for a common mind".

Round Again Alley: An alley that doubles back on itself and provides a testing ground for many apprentices' illusions.

Three Thrown Daggers Alley: An alley that suffers from a magical curse that causes three random blades to fly from nowhere to attack passersby in the alley.

other notable locations are:

ilmater's safe harbour

"Ilmater's Safe Harbor was a soup kitchen, run by the Ilmatari priestess Mother Brenia, in the Dock Ward of Waterdeep in the late 15th century DR. It was known to be frequented by almost every beggar in that ward. The building's layout consisted of a cooking area, a dining room, a small room in the back, and a cellar. These rooms were provided illumination by means of lanterns and a heavy, iron chandelier of candles. Within the building's cellar was a hidden door, which opened to rough-hewn rock tunnels leading into the Warrens. Being a soup kitchen, this establishment provided free meals for the impoverished citizens of the Dock Ward. Additionally, in the building's small back room, Mother Brenia tended to the sick. [...] At some point during the late 15th century DR there was a string of disappearances of both beggars and stray dogs in the Dock Ward. This began not long after Ulmani, Rik Milesan, and some others began volunteering at the soup kitchen. A month later, the City Watchman Girnan Svann found himself frustrated at his superiors' not viewing the string of disappearances as something worth looking into. He went on to hire a group of adventurers at the Blue Mermaid to investigate, informing them that each missing beggar was connected to Ilmater's Safe Harbor, but that it could be a false lead. Looking around the establishment, the adventurers eventually discovered its hidden cellar door. Traveling through it, they came upona group of thugs dressed as Sharrans and accompanied by horribly mutated dogs and wolves. After beating up the thugs, the adventurers recognized some of them as the newer volunteers and that their Sharran identities were merely a red herring to distract from the mysterious mage they were truly kidnapping people for." [source: forgottenrealms wiki]

stinking sands

"The Stinking Sands was a local name for a stretch of beach in the southeastern most corner of the Dock Ward in Waterdeep. This beach was bordered by Dock Street and Deepwater Harbor. Along Dock Street the notable buildings that overlooked it included the Fellowship Warehouse, the Smokehouse, Telethar Leatherworks, a guard barracks, and the East Torch Tower. When the Laughing Lady sank near Waterdeep in 1372 DR, the caravel was dredged up onto this beach by barges belonging to Raulinvur's Ropehaul and by wizard members of the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors." [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

starry cradles orphanage

"The Starry Cradles orphanage is a Dock Ward orphanage run by Matron Griselda Hoppletun, a halfling care-taker, and funded by the House of the Moon and the Selûnites clergy thereof." [source: worldanvil]

wavehall of valkur

"The Wavehall of Valkur was a temple to Valkur located in Waterdeep during the late 15th century DR. The temple was built during the late 15th century DR. During the Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR, the Wavemaster of the temple was killed by Mirt the Moneylender over a dispute involving the priest's refusal to bring a deceased ally back to life. Valkur was a minor Faerûnian god of sailors and their ships, as well as favorable winds and naval combat. The Captain of the Waves was the very picture of the daring sea captain, one capable of sailing his vessel through any disaster the Gods of Fury could unleash." [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

this concludes my collection of information about waterdeep's dock ward for now. it's a sprawling topic, each and every ward, and i'm sure there are things i missed or forgot!

still, i hope this was of use to someone other than myself!

[comfortless]

hello beloved 🥰 🫶 every time you mention ‘The Dungeon’ whatever da hell that is my brain just goes dungeon crawler! könig! dungeon crawler! könig! so might i request a dungeon crawling könig?

what the hell. do not send König down here… get him away from me…. *immediately forgets everything else i was doing to begrudgingly write this*

sigh… dungeoneer! König x fem! reader

content / warnings: violence, sexism, suggestive.

Retrieving the golden eye of a wyrm to be made into a lovely pendant for the Queen would pay well, keep him afloat and drifting from land to land for long enough to decide upon where to settle. The posting tacked to the wall of the inn, detailing a handsome reward, was surely the sign from a benevolent god that a glorious fate had been handed to him on a silver platter. He stuffs the parchment into the pocket of his trousers as he downs the last of his ale, tosses his coins to the barmaid on his way toward the door and sets off for the deepest dungeon in the kingdom.

There are no bright-eyed knights lobbying around the entrance, a good sign that the wyrm’s bounty was all his to claim. It makes him elated, really, and the idea of finally having his own place, bedding down with a pretty maiden each night is even more of an adrenaline rush than the actual fighting that comes the moment he steps foot into the darkened underworld. The dungeon is filled with the reanimated skeletons he’s grown so accustomed to— a quick jab with his claymore to the center of the spine leaves them a crumpled heap of bone and dust. They’ll rise again when the moon hangs lofty in the sky, but he’s done this enough times to know the best way of navigating such a place. The other beasts haunting the cavernous ruins are a bit trickier to deal with, and he’s fortunate that most shy away from the light of his torch.

Only, she does not.

The woman standing before him in full plate armor is poised for battle, blade making a steady ascent above her head in preparation to strike as her lantern is cast aside. She charges at him before he can even breathe out a word of protest, swinging the heavy sword at him so quickly that at most, he can only thrust his torch before him to prevent her plunging the tip between his ribs. She’s quick to draw back when the wood splinters and the fire sparks up on dry bone and the tattered remains of clothing from all that came before layered upon the dirt and grime coated floor. The blaze of the fire seems pale in comparison to the flames in her eyes as she pivots towards him again, and once more— he merely blocks.

“A maiden shouldn’t be here,” he says through gritted teeth as he easily pushes her back against the wall, caging her between the flat of his blade and the bulk of his body.

He hadn’t realized the ache in his groin until the woman tilts her head up to spit in his face. König doesn’t bother to wipe it away, to even pretend to be disgusted by her actions. From this small breadth between them all he sees is divine beauty— even as her eyes narrow like that of a viper preparing to strike.

“A knight to be,” she corrects him as he gives her blade a shove, the sounds of steel hissing against steel and crackling fire echoing throughout the cavern.

“Not likely.”

Their fight drags on for what feels like hours before his flask his split at his hip and she finally does back down. Even this lady knows well enough that being lost in a dark dungeon with no source of light and no water is a death sentence, and she finds him both incredibly frustrating and fun enough to keep him a live just a little longer. He’s adept enough to block even her quickest strikes, parry her with a gentle jab to her side with his index rather than his blade. He’s shown her her own weak points during their little battle, and she’s garnered a bit of respect for him for that.

As she sheaths her blade and locks eyes with him, his erection is practically trying to tear through the seams of his pants. She’s so pretty, so strong, so unlike the barmaids and damsels in distress he’s come across so often and it’s all gnawing at the recesses of his mind. The bounty almost entirely forgotten, he wants not to penetrate the wyrm with his blade but rather spear her with his cock.

He reaches for her, almost tentatively hoping to somehow melt through her armor and feel the warmth of her flesh. She’s doesn’t pull away when his hands rest against her waist, just gives him a little flutter of her eyelashes before rearing a hand back to almost playfully strike his face just before she turns on the heel of her boot and gathers her lantern.

König follows along behind her, not just out of necessity, but because she asks him to. Beckons him along with the curl of her gloved finger, coos at him when he falls behind trying to picture her body beneath the layers of chainmail and fitted steel.

“I’m taking the bounty,” she tells him when they stop to take a sip from her flask, feast on the preserved fruit and dried meat from his own satchel.

It reminds him of why he’s come all this way, what he’s supposed to be doing here. He’s a little tense— on one hand he wants to give this lady the entire kingdom, make her his wife and rid away those silly thoughts about becoming a knight, but she’s so determined!! He’s at a loss on how to tell her that there are no women knights in the land, that no matter what she brings back for the King she’ll probably only be mocked and sent on her way.

“Let me help you,” he says instead.

“You would lend me your blade?”

He just blinks at her… this silly woman has spent far too long dreaming and watching the knights in the castle yard, he just knows it. Down to the way she speaks! She’s incredible and infuriating, just as he is to her. It makes him want to push her just a bit, see what she’s capable of entirely before they part ways (she is never getting rid of him).

“What do I get in turn?”

The little knight mulls that over for a moment, as she leads him down a long corridor; everything all gilded and decorated, lit aglow by the dim orange of lantern light. The golden coins, rolls of fine silk now muddied and trampled littering the floor are enough of a sign to show they’ve nearly made their way to the heart. The wyrm would no doubt be lying in wait at the end, resting protectively over its hoard of cattle bones and shiny objects, golden eyes piercing through the darkness as it prepares for the fight to come.

It’s when the wyrm’s first hissing growl rings out through the darkness that she does turn back to face him, a mischievous little grin tugging at her lips.

“Only to live another day.”

“Nein… something else.”

He can’t stop himself from pawing at her again, curling a hand around her neck to tilt her chin up to face him. Her breath fanning over his face, her scent like peony and lantern oil make him feel drunk enough. The hand that slides between his legs to grasp at his cock is far from anything he ever anticipated from her. She was bold, too bold and too pretty for her own good.

Fate had blessed him more than he could even begin to fathom, after all.

[thecreepycrawlersss]

emergency emote / aac symbol commissions

hello !! as some of you may know, we run an emote blog called @creepyemotes , and we offer emote / aac symbol commissions for 5$ amazon gift cards.

for those who don’t know us, hello ! we’re the creepy crawlers, an audhd DID system living in a physically disabled FtM body.

we’re making this post because we need enough money to buy this androgel from amazon. we’re genuinely dirt poor, and there’s no way our parents will pay for it, so we’re hoping the people on tumblr can help us. we also can’t get on T any other way since, 1. parents, and 2. we’re a minor, so this is our only way.

here’s some examples of emotes we’ve made !! (note: not all of these have been posted to creepyemotes since we use the queue)

and here’s some aac / communication emotes we’ve made !

as you can see, our emotes are very cute (imo at least lol) and as for our communication emotes, we’ll make the emotes that other accounts don’t offer like sounds, curse words, etc !! :)

we will draw ANYTHING, as long as we know we can make it something good. please keep in mind we create these on a phone though !

we can also make acc symbols (ex: instead of the words bed, it’s a drawing of a bed) if requested.

if you are interested, send us a message on discord ! our username on there is thecreepycrawlersss :)

thank you <3

[heyitschartic]

If the 9 (their line up in their first appearance) were pokemon gym leaders what types do you think they'd use?

Ooooo this is an interesting question. I'll go down the list from the first to last gym leader in this hypothetical scenario. And I feel it would obvious start with...

Cherish! Cherish is the weakest of the group and least experienced so I feel it's obvious she'd be first. She's psychic, no question about that. Favors cuter looking psychic types like Gothita and Kirlia, and doesn't play her moves well, being easily knocked out.

Next would be Burnscar, though she's a capable fighter, she doesn't put her all into it and so can be caught off guard when she isn't expecting it. Burnscar, no question, uses fire types, aiming for strong and quick hits, though her roster is fairly small and not well put together. Obviously, just whatever she caught.

The third leader will be Shatterbird. She's a powerhouse in her own right, but a bit of a one trick pony. She's a ground pokemon leader, who uses pokemon like Sandshrew and Claydol to fill an arena with sand and dirt to obscure and launch cutting attacks while hiding in the cover of dust.

Next would be Crawler, who is a fighting gym leader. He chooses the biggest and the baddest Pokemon for his team. While not the best gym leader, he can lay a fucking beating down and is constantly improving his roster.

After that is Mannequin! Mannequin is a rock gym leader. His pokemon are a wide assortment, generally leaning into the rock/Type2, with each pokemon having a significant defense due to their rock type, but also a secondary attribute they can pull on to catch people off guard, always allowing for a ability to get him out of a bind, somewhat similar to his tinker ability.

The final three. Gym leader six is Bonesaw, the poison gym leader. She favors the cute looking pokemon more than anything else, but Riley's twisted sense of cuteness. She for sure has a trubish on her team. While her pokemon look weak, they are devastating and not to be underestimated.

Second from the last, Siberian, the ghost pokemon gym leader. The ghost pokemon she works with reflect the daughter that she lost. Her pokemon are brutal, tricky, and fight so fierce they could almost be believed to be invulnerable. Though, that might be some of the traps they set up to fool the unsuspecting pokemon trainer. Keep your eyes peeled, not everything is as it seems!

Finally, the last gym leader. Jack Slash. He is a normal gym leader. No need to explain really. He does have a massive roster of pokemon though, always swapping out and in different teams ready to go, each with their own unique tricks. He's a master tactician, known to put HM's and TM's on his pokemon to catch trainers unaware with a surprise thunderbolt or psychic attack when you least expect it.

Do you have what it takes to defeat all 8 and claim the coveted Ninth spot on their team? Your adventure awaits!

[gremalkinn]

CrawlWings (OPEN WOF Fantribe)

CrawlWings are a Pantalan tribe, found most commonly in the North-Western mountains of Pantala. They are most notable for their impressive size, heavily plated armor and multiple legs. They do have wings, though they are mainly vestigial, and used for soaring short distances across caverns (some variants of CrawlWing do not have wings, and may have even more extra legs in its place).

They do not have an established monarchy, and instead live in nomadic family groups led by a ‘mother.’ They are often stereotyped as mindless and aggressive, and most dragons find ‘Crawlers’ appearance strange and frightening. Despite this, CrawlWings are actually quite good natured- it’s only when provoked that they’ll even think about a fight.

CrawlWings are free for anyone to make!

Description

By the far the biggest of the dragon tribes, both in height and length. CrawlWings have long segmented bodies covered in impenetrable armored plating, and have three sets of main eyes on their head, with almost a hundred more along the side of their body. These eyes that trail down their neck to their tail tip act more like a ‘peripheral view’ to the CrawlWing- they can’t actively see their surroundings with these eyes, but can sense movement with them. To the average dragon, these eyes just look like odd dots. Their main set of eyes have a second opaque eyelid which protects the eyes from dirt while digging.

CrawlWings have five sets of arms, along with pincer-like appendages below their head for holding prey or bringing food into their mouth.

Their scales and eyes can be almost any color, though most commonly include deep reds, browns, blacks and vibrantly colored scale trim that come in shades of yellow, pink, or orange.

Not only this, but Crawlers are capable of bioluminescence. Though not as strong as a SeaWing’s phosphorescent scales, these faint patterns along their shells come in a multitude of colors and are used to communicate long distance across caverns in total darkness or recognize each other.

As for their tails, they are long and club-like, and end in a pair of talon-like pincers. CrawlWings use their tails to carry belongings, hatchlings, or even write, and it's not uncommon to see them hanging from cavern ceilings by their tail.

CrawlWings that consume mostly metal will have more of a metallic armor, while CrawlWings that eat rare jewels and ores may develop crystalline growths on their armored plating. Elderly Crawlers often have very bulky and overgrown armored plates, like a weatherbeaten rock face.

With their armored plating, CrawlWings have very little sense of touch, which they make up for with thin antennae along their back, neck, tail, and around their head. Antennae grow out in a variety of ways, some CrawlWings may grow antennae from their snout like some kind of beard or mustache, others might sprout from their eyebrows, or simply along their jaw. These antennae are incredibly sensitive, and if they are not carefully taken care of, can become damaged and cause a lot of pain

Unlike most dragon tribes, CrawlWings ears are slits beneath the gap in their head and neck plating that allow them to take in sound.

Baby CrawlWings (or Grubs) have very soft scales and often don’t develop a full plate of armor until they’re around 4 or 5.

Being as capable diggers as they are, CrawlWings have discovered a strange red ore hidden deep in the earth, which when eaten and incorporated into their armored plating, gives the CrawlWing the ability to shift into other creatures. While shifting into other creatures, the transformed CrawlWing is notable by their red eyes, and most even have the red ore jutting out of them no matter what they shapeshift into (for example, a CrawlWing transformed into a squirrel might have red rock sticking out of it like armor)

Diet

CrawlWings are omnivores, but mostly prefer to scrounge for moss and other greens instead of wasting energy hunting. Most notable of all, CrawlWings are known to eat rock and other metals by breaking them down with their specialized venom, which is then converted into their armored plating.

CrawlWings eat by tearing their food into tiny chunks with their teeth or swallowing it whole. They don’t have much need for cooking, as they can eat almost anything without a problem

Abilities

CrawlWing claws are very strong and semi-retractable, evolved for digging, climbing, and running fast. They aren’t particularly dexterous with their talons, which is why they use their wings, head pincers and tail for more precise work, such as writing. As their name suggests, CrawlWings can use their many limbs and sharp claws to scale walls. These multiple legs also allow CrawlWings to move their bulky body more quickly. They are capable of running extremely fast in short bursts, much like a cheetah, while moving their long body in an S motion. They are not stamina hunters though- being the size they are, they require a lot of energy. As such, CrawlWings prefer stealth, and often perch on ceilings before dropping down on their prey and ambushing from above. While their sense of touch, smell and hearing are quite weak, CrawlWings can sense even the smallest vibrations with their antennae, which can be helpful when trying to find weak spots in rock or finding relatives within cramped tunnels.

CrawlWings secrete a venom from their mouth and head stingers which allow them to break down rock and ore while digging. Their armor is extremely strong, and invincible to most attacks, such as fire, claws and even RainWing venom (their armor being mostly inorganic). However, their armor is not entirely immune to their own venom, and although fights between CrawlWings are EXTREMELY rare, their venom can be used against each other

A CrawlWing with its bioluminescent glow

Society

Most CrawlWings believe in a mysterious entity known as The Great Mother. The Great Mother is said to be a hybrid of every dragon tribe, and that she has an eye for every tribe. She represents harmony and all the tribes' connections. Because of this, CrawlWings see hybrids as harbingers of peace and good tidings. It is also believed the three moons are the eyes of a great CrawlWing encircling the earth entirely.

The other dragon tribes see CrawlWings not even as ‘an enemy tribe’, but as beasts.

When it comes to their relationship with the other dragon tribes, ‘Crawlers’ are often outcast or mistreated wherever they go, forced to live in the shadows for fear of being hunted or treated as beasts.

Simply put, they are seen as brutish, primitive and naturally aggressive, far less intelligent than the ‘real dragons’.

Many CrawlWings are advocating for peace between the tribes and aiding in ending wars (wether as a mercenary or a diplomat).

It’s common for other dragons to hunt CrawlWings for their specialized shells as armor and venom for military purposes (weakening enemy armor or carving out holes in the sides of castles to make stealth/assassination missions easier)

Despite their fearsome appearance, CrawlWing’s highly value protecting those that aren’t as big or strong, and to assist those who need it most. CrawlWing’s believe it is their job to protect others, even to their own detriment.

When a relative dies, it’s customary for one to wear their shell as armor so that they may continue to provide protection even after death.

CrawlWing’s are notably good parents, and although not as ‘technologically advanced’ as the other tribes, they are extremely neat. CrawlWing’s often hatch in clutches of at least four, but a CrawlWing can lay up to 20 eggs at a time. Parents carry the eggs with their head pincers, (carefully) in their mouth, with their tail, or slung across their back while they travel.

It is not uncommon for CrawlWing dragonets to have multiple parents

Hybrids of CrawlWings and other tribes are EXTREMELY rare, but not impossible. Mainly because other tribes fear them

CrawlWing’s have a specialized language (similar to morse code) that they use to communicate through tunnels- made up of a series of taps, clicks and thumps that only other CrawlWing’s can pick up on with their antennae

Names

Most CrawlWing names are based on the old language (essentially, a lot of Latin). Old language names usually center around peace/connection (Pax, Otium, Harmonia, Concordia) and it's common for followers of the Great Mother to have names like this. Other common names have to do with dirt/rocks (Boulder, Shale, Ore, Digger, Terra, Stone, Gravel) or more musical sounding/onomatopoeia names to reflect how they communicate through rock (Click, Snap, Clink, Chink, Crack, Thump, Thunk). It’s not uncommon for a CrawlWing to have multiple names, or take on the names of respected loved ones.

Creating a CrawlWing

-Anyone is free to make a CrawlWing

-creating CrawlWing adopts is totally fine

-i don’t want to limit anyone’s imagination, so don’t be afraid to make that character you have in mind! These were just made for fun, I really wanted to make a centipede dragon

-hybrids are also fine 👍

-current timeline i have in mind for these guys is set where Pyrrhia and Pantala have frequent trade (theres no specific year), but feel free to place a CrawlWing in whatever year. You can put one in cyberpunk 2050 I don’t mind <3

-got any questions? Just ask!

[saturnville]

nightmare

45. “I had a nightmare about you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

author’s note: this was a part two that i never realized could be a part two until someone inboxed me and asked for a continuation of “the soldier’s lady.” this sat in my drafts for two years. so thank you to the supporter whose message encouraged me to finish it 🫶🏾 @queen-dk

Alone he was. Alone, frozen, starved, and afraid. Lost between the beautiful, green mazes. Surrounded by thick stumps covered in damp moss, assaulted by crawlers at every direction, destroyed by his enemies.

Voice too coarse, too far gone to utter even a prayer to the Master he served. His hand, covered in blood and gashes filled with dirt and debris, clasped around his throat. His dry lips parted and nothing more than a small gasp dribbled out.

He cleared his throat. A sandpaper-like substance shimmied along the sides of his throat. He spat it out on a pile of crushed leaves and opened his mouth once more, managing to call out. He was greeted with silence.

Painfully, he scrambled to his feet. A string of obscenities passed his lips. His hands patted his waist in search for his sword. He only felt the tattered fabric of his kilt. Through blurred vision, he searched around, circling himself for his sacred weapon.

Loudly, he cried out again. He was answered with the rustling of the leaves and the clapping of a dangerous thunder. His chest heaved as he looked around, stumbling in every which direction.

Alone, he was. Alone, frozen, starved, and afraid.

She awoke suddenly with a gasp. Thin lavender slip damp with sweat, soft skin heated from distress, she sat up slowly. Her eyes darted around the dark room, save for a beam of moonlight against her bed frame.

With a shaking hand, she brushed the stump of her hand across her forehead, sweeping away the perspiration that rested there.

Her non-dominant hand forced the warm covers off her body. Slowly, she swung her slender legs across the edge of the bed. They dangled, her heels jabbing the wooden frame.

A soft breath flew passed her dry lips. Her hands were a net for her head as she buried her face within her palms. Her cardiac muscle beat harder than wooden sticks against the tenor drums she saw a young boy playing weeks ago.

He was back home, yet subconsciously, she still worried for his well-being, for his safety. For almost two weeks, he’d been walking through the halls of the estate, healthy and strong in stature. Her worry was no longer necessary, but it never seemed to subside.

Theo nibbled along the inside of her cheek. Should she do it, she thought to herself. The young woman reached across her pillow and snatched her robe that warmed it, sliding it over her arms.

Her bare feet smoothed the cold floors as she padded around her bed and out of her bedroom. She started straight down the hallway and made a sharp left turn. In front of his bedroom door she stood. Hesitantly, she knocked softly.

A warm light peaked from the bottom of the door and gentle movements could be heard from the other side. She twiddled her fingers around a loose thread on the stomach of her slip.

After a few moments, the door opened. Theo smiled awkwardly, feeling small under his naturally intense gaze. She had trouble lifting her head to meet his.

“Why’re ye up, lass?” His voice was like water on a hot day—clear and crisp. Aila rolled her shoulders then shrugged.

“Had a nightmare about you,” she said quietly, her eyes nowhere near his. “Wanted to make sure you were okay...”

The man cracked a smile. His teeth peeked from behind his pink lips. Such a pretty sight, she thought to herself. He said nothing, only opened the door wider and nodded for her to enter.

She was hesitant. It was the first time she’d been in his room in the wee hours of the night. Theo stood in the middle of his bedroom, eyeing the knickknacks and other articles around. His desk was in the corner and it was littered with papers, some of them smeared with dark ink she assumed he knocked over.

His clothes were folded messily and tossed on a chest to her right. She shook her head. His messiness would never go away, it seemed.

Ahead of her, the flames of the fireplace danced and leapt swiftly.

“Tell me about this nightmare,” he asked of her. He palmed the door and closed it gently. Theo tore her eyes away from the fire and wrapped her arms around herself. Jamie moved to sit on his bed, hands rubbing his covered thighs.

“You were alone,” she started, eyes locked on the dancing flames in front of her. “had spent days alone in an area you did not know. Cold, starved, and afraid. No one could get to you.”

Jamie cocked his head to the side.

“I had nightmares like that all the time when you were gone.” Her voice was so small that he could hardly hear her. “I was scared you’d die out there alone. Hell, I thought you were dead the whole time you were gone.”

“Theo...” he inched towards her. His large hand cupped hers gently. “Ye should know ye canna get rid of me that easily.”

“You say that like you’re made of metal,” Jamie chuckled with a shake of her head. While any other time she would’ve scolded him for joking in a serious matter, she couldn’t help but feel the weight lift from her shoulders. He didn’t think she sounded ridiculous.

“Might as well be...come here, lass.”

With no sense of urgency, Theo’s legs carried her slowly to his bed. The weight was back. His soft demand made her nervous.

Jamie sensed her uneasiness and smiled. “Why’re ye nervous?”

“I...I don’t know,” she mumbled. Again, he ushered her over and she joined him on the bed. It was comfortable, she thought, as the bed dipped just slightly. Jamie laid against the pillow, while Aila sat upright, her legs crossed and her hands in her lap.

“You’re kind of intimidating,” Theo said after some moments. She turned her head and saw an amused grin on his beautiful lips.

“Is that so?”

Theo nodded. She scooted closer to him, finding it easier to relax. She shimmied onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Jamie turned his head to look at her. “Yeah. Maybe it’s your eyes. They’re pretty but intense. Or the scowl you always wear. You’re gonna mess around and lock your features into place.”

A hearty laugh fell from his lips which pulled a giggle from hers. “You truly believe me that?” Theo nodded . “Indeed, I do.”

“I thought about ye all the time,” Jamie said after some time. The portraits on the wall seemed to be less important as her attention was pulled from them. She met his eyes, “what?”

“I’m convinced,” he started. “that if I hadn’t thought of ye the way I did, I wouldn’t have survived. Ye were the one thing I held onto, Theo. I ken I had to come back to ye.”

“You’re just saying that,” she blew off bashfully. She moved to turn her head to face the ceiling but his hand grazing her skin halted the movement.

“No,” he said lowly. “Ye were the only thing I had to hold onto. And...ye mean a lot to me, lass.”

Theo found herself smiling. It was awkward and her lips quivered as they curled upwards, but nevertheless, she smiled a smile he found beautiful.

Jamie’s eyes fell from his eyes to her lips, tempting to pull her head close to his face and just taste them. He wondered if she tasted like the tea she drank twice a day—once in the morning and once a night.

“Can I...”

“...please,” she breathed.

He wasted no time in bringing his mouth to hers. She released a mewl of satisfaction. Her hands found his hair, and she gripped his frizzed curls tightly. He groaned softly into her mouth and she swallowed his sounds like a delicious meal.

His hands shook as they took place on her thighs. His fingers dug into the flesh and she whimpered softly. Theo’s fingers raked through his hair and massaged his scalp. Achaius felt his insides twist like a freshly wrung towel.

He'd never thought the day would come where he'd confess his feelings for her, let alone have her rocking on his lap like a ship on water and assaulting his neck. He enjoyed it more than words could explain.

"Jamie," she whimpered when it became too heated. She wanted him, but she couldn't put herself in such a position at the given moment. If they continued on, she was convinced things would've escalated in a manner she was unaware if she was ready for. “Can we just—“

Jamie sensed her growing anxiousness and tore his lips off of hers, and placed his hands on her middle back. His ocean eyes bore into hers and she was convinced if she stared long enough, they’d turn into a whirlpool and suck her in. Jamie brought her hand to kiss lips and kissed it gently. “Rest. And when you wake up, I’ll still be here. I promise.”

Theo nodded and rolled over to her side. She didn’t make it too far, as Jamie’s arm bracketed her to his side. She giggled softly, but accepted his closeness nonetheless.

“Good night, Theo.”

“Good night, Jamie.”

[im-an-anthusiast]

Rant about your favorite insects and why you like them

Tag someone so I can invade their ask box

@strwbrryluvsick might like an ask!

I typed out. Paragraphs unto paragraphs unto paragraps. And it got deleted. Hsisbsjdbs so much pain

For the sake of my mental health I'll keep to a handful of bullet points, if that's fine!!

Ants

Dracula ants

- often nearly or completely blind

- endemic to Madagascar

- fastest recorded movement in the animal kingdom!! At 90 meters per second/200mph, which they reach in just 0.00015 seconds!

- they don't eat any food! They hunt and feed their larvae and pupae, whose blood (haemolymph) they then drink

Trapjaw ants (my absolute favs)

- they look like they have a beartrap on their face!! :3

- this jaw, when triggered by a super sensitive hair on their face, snaps shut at 63 meters per second, 170-ish mph - second fastest movement in the animal kingdom

- they can use their jaw against heavier objects/surfaces as to launch themselves!! Leap large distances and such!!

- in the same way, their jaws also act as catapults! They can shoot intruders out of their nests!!

- their larvae are spiked, stick to walls, and are very active and agressive

Wasps

Mud dauber

- they're very pretty! Look at em!! So dainty

- build their nests out of mud and dirt

- and since they are parasitic wasps... they paralyse their prey and drag it into their nest. Where they then lay their eggs inside of the nest or inside of the paralysed but still alive prey, and then sealing the nest closed

- reported/speculated to have caused mutliple deadly airplane accidents

Tarantula hawks

- look at that colour scheme! Beautiful!!

- also a parasitic wasp. But their prey are tarantulas.

- in Fallout New Vegas. One of the multiple reasons I got into insects. They're traumatising in that game, though.

- one of the most painful stings of any insect, descibed as "Blinding, fierce and shockingly electric"

Velvet ant (aka cowkiller)

- doesn't have the venom to kill a cow. Obviously. (venom less toxic than that of honeybees.) But the sting is so painful that people thought that it was. Which is super cool and funny

- also dubbed 'the indestructible insect' due to their plethora of defense mechanisms (venomous sting, aposematic colouring (<- warning bright colours), stridulatory organ (<-making sounds (squeaks)), alarm secretion, tough and durable exoskeleton)

- most of simulated conflicts with natural predators resulted in survival of the ant and avoidance by predator (while some are stated to allegedly have killed their natural predator)

- mate in the air. Aren't winged. The males just kinda... taxi them up there

Polyneoptera

Angel insects

- even just the name???

- translucent, cute, small little things

- usually completely blind and flightless, when faced with an unfavourable environment or situation, they produce offspring with fully functioning eyes and wings as to disperse and produce new colonies, where future generations will be also wingless

- (similar to ants a little) (in that point above) (but the spontaneity of if is so cool and unique)

Webspinners

- so cute

- they spin the finest/thinnest silk of any animal! At around 65 nanometers in diameter, if is also waterproof! And, while insects have only 1 silk gland (,if they even have one), they have 300 of em!!

- their nests are called Galleries. Need I say more?

- also their males can't consume food can fly and die quickly. Kinda cool

Ice crawlers

- extremophile.

- like. Extremely.

- preferred temperature of 1 to 4 degrees celsius. More than 5 degrees higher? Death. Too much lower? Death (by ice forming inside their bodies)

- they live on glaciers and stuff!!!

I had an honourable mentions section typed out but it got deleted (again) so much pain. At least the rest of the answer stayed tho

Anyway! Thanks for the ask!!!

[pandoraescape]

Summary: Day 2: "Fire." | Leadership: Varang Life is how I perceive it to be.

Warning: There is violence and blood. Reading at your own risk.

Archive of our own Version

Na'vi Words Used: Direhorse-Pa'li Tslikxyu tsawlaks-Scarab Crawler Talioang-Sturmbeest Naranawm-Polyphemus Sawtutes- Sky People

"Build a man a fire, and he'll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life."

Nestled in a picturesque landscape stood a clan embraced by rolling hills, verdant forests, and fertile soil that stretches throughout the ground. The clan structures were ingeniously built using volcanic rocks and ash, seamlessly blending with the natural landscape. The Na'vis who lived on these harsh grounds adapted to the occasional rumblings of the dirt. The homes were intricately crafted to capture and make the most of the natural heat and warmth generated within the community, creating a comfortable and inviting atmosphere for all. The clan used the rich soil left by past volcanic eruptions. They grew colorful gardens that thrived in the nutrient-rich domain. Bearing all sorts of vegetables, fruit, and herbs.

The people respect the power of the volcanoes, incorporating their reverence into their daily rituals and traditions, especially today. For this day is the day for fire, for freedom,  for-

"They're back! They're back! They came back from the forest!"

Sudden cries of a young boy echoed through the village. Their dark braided hair bounced, dashing through the bustling pathways and pods. His voice echoed off the walls as he eagerly shared the news. Passersby paused to listen, many of them being young adults and curious children. "The warriors are back! The warriors have returned!" His words carried like a whirlwind. The air was filled with the sounds of excitement as the crowd yipped and howled in response to the child's words. With great anticipation, many Na'vis hurried to the village's central area, eagerly awaiting the return of their champions for this year's joyous celebration. They bring back this year's hunt for the clan, a gift for another year of life and warmth for the Ash clan.

The ground began to shake.

The clatter of hooves filled the air. The man and woman rode in on their Pa'lis, forming a diamond formation; three rode the pathway, each hauling a Tslikxyu tsawlaks and talioang, rope securely fastened on the bodies beast's bodies. Dragging the dead animal to the certain for the people to see. When the three reached their spot, the elder cooks went to work, each grabbing their knives. They began to cut into the flesh of the beast, slicing sections of the animal. Using a sharp knife is essential to ensure clean and precise cuts. The cooks in the clan understood this from years of training, and knowing what techniques are best with each beast they hunt allows them to get the most from the meat and bones. Every part of the animals is used in everything from food to decor and clothing.

While they busy themselves with the hunt, two more riders came tugging on the last of the celebration catch: Na'vi intruders.

These Na'vis were utterly different from each other in terms of clothing and age, but what they all hold in common is the anger of their capture, feeling the unsettling pull on their robes as they walked. Whether they tug back, it would result in a menacing hiss or a forceful tug in response. Upon reaching the middle of the village, a giant bonfire kindled to life. Warriors all left their mounts, some helping the cooks quickly put aside the meats while the rest tugged their prey to form a line. Showcasing them to the people. There are seven Na'vi prisoners: a mother and her newborn baby, two elders, and two young hunters. Curiosity soon sparked as many clan children studied their "guests." Some even try poking them, which makes them laugh when they squirm.

Naranawm skies soon became night.

The lava veins running through the village illuminated the clan's grounds in an orange-red glow. Many began to take their spot, forming a circle around the bonfire. The sound of booming drums fills the space, making everyone silently whisper as they soon see a strong Na'vi making her way through the crowd. Varang, the Ash Clan's Leader and strongest warrior. Her body donned a vibrant scarlet and black loincloth, a threaded top adorned with a blend of orange and honey-colored beads, and her chieftain headpiece to tie it together. She gracefully steps to the center, her eyes studying each tied Na'vi with a keen sense of learning them. She then turns to her people and begins to speak.

"My people," she begins, her voice holding strength but a somewhat softness in her tone," we have gathered here once again to celebrate the fire that burns brightly within us and honor our tradition. As we thank our warriors for another hunt, we also thank them for, once again, protecting each other and relying on their skills alone to bring us prosperity for the clan."

The people yip and howl in joy at her words alongside their warriors. Varang then turns to their captives, a wicked smile on her lips as she continues, "As in tradition, we must first see if we can cure these poor souls of their madness."

Varang first approached the two young hunters, both males. Their clothing was very bright, unlike that of their clan. They wore many greens and pressed flowers, even tying them in their braided hair. Varang snorts, catching both of the male's attention, and she bends down on her knee to them. "I see. You're of the Tawkami clan, Ewya's little guardians." Some people laugh at the men, while others annoyingly hiss at them. "Strange how your Great Mother led you two to be captured by my fighters. It seems Eywa had no use for you anymore," she said. One of the two growled at her, while the other tried to stand up, only to be pulled back down by a female warrior holding onto their Kurus, earning a hiss of pain in return. Varang only sighted at the two in pity, standing she then continuing to the next. She then stands before the two elders, one woman and man, possibly husband and wife. Their attire was simple, calming blues and purple with dark brown loincloths. The only thing that interested Varang was the golden bands in their hair. Something familiar for some Na'vi clans, primarily ones in the mountains or deep jungles, and even within the Ash clan. Staring at them closer, the man went closer to the woman, protecting her from Varang's stare. Varang hums but shakes her head.

"Poor Elders. Eywa discarded you away," Varang taunts.

This elicited a furious hiss from the woman while her partner scowled at her. Varang didn't react. She remained expressionless while walking to the final two. The mother and child. Now, this got her to break into genuine curiosity. In many celebrations, the clan never captured a mother and child, well not together, and never for the child to be this young. Varang examined the two, causing the mother to hold her child close to her chest, fear across her face. Their clothing was similar to the two elders', but with no gold bands in their hair. Meaning she and they aren't in the same clan.

"Now, this is something unexpected," Varang expressed, again lowering herself in front of the kneeling woman. She sees fear, loss, and...anger. Some at her no don't, but the rest is of something else.

"What are you called?" The mother seemed shocked, still afraid, but slowly, she answered," Veyona."

"And of your child?" Veyona clutches her child, still frightened, but she responds as the male warrior behind her pulls at her ropes. "Txur. His name is Txur."

Varang emits a low, steady hum, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on her. "I see. Now, what about your mate? Where's he?" Varang questions, finding it strange that the woman's mate is not with her. Veyona's body grew still, piquing Varang's interest as she observed the young mother's eyes fill with a mix of sadness and rage she had seen before. More than that, Varang saw the fire that burned in her people, the fire that led them, the fire that burned in their hearts. Varang looked above Veyona to the male hunter, who still held the mother's robe with a simple gaze. Understanding her gaze, the man started untying the woman, prompting her people and the other captured Na'vi to look on in confusion. Veyona was puzzled as the male freed her. Varang then spoke.

"Tell me, poor child, what has your mate done to you to leave your clan to the dangers of the wilds?"

The people and the Na'vi gaze at the mother, and many ponder silently while the clan's children approach her quietly, eager to learn more. Veyona's body then shook in rage, tears running down her face.

"My mate abandoned our child and me when sawtutes came to the clan," she said, her voice breaking as she did. As she continues, the Ash clan stares at the woman in wonder and curiosity. " Our people escaped, but many others fell to the strange metals piercing their bodies. Once we reached a safe area, one of the Olo'eyktan's men captured one of the demons," Veyona then starts to sniffle, hugging her child closer, but is shocked when Varang places a comforting hand on her arm.

"Go on, child, speak your mind about this pain," Varang spoke gently as she kept comforting the weeping woman.

Veyona's shock slowly wears off, and her grip on her baby loosens as she continues," The demon said they followed me from my gathering trip back to the clan and waited until we were together to strike."

The onlookers, including the people and the prisoners, gazed at the mother with pity and surprise evident on their faces. Many children also came even closer to the mother, with sadness in their eyes. Veyona took a breath, "Everyone then began to blame me. They believe I'd led them to Kelutral. Many were so angry, and...my mate was a coward," Veyona's voice held venom at the end. Varang smirks at the fury of the flames burning within this mother, her anger a catalyst for her true journey.

A path of her own, separate from that of the Great Mother.

"Oh, sweet child," Varang said, her hand still on the mother's shoulder as she helped her to her feet, still holding her stare at her, "You've been oppressed by those you thought were kind." She then uses her hand to wipe away the tears rolling down her cheek, leaving a sense of calm and composure. She looks to her people, "This innocent mother was cast out from her clan because she didn't know that the sawtutes were following her. If Eywa had known about this, would she have sent a sign to their Tsahìk to warn their people?" The members of the Ash clan all hiss and growl at the injustice of the story. The children approached the mother with concern, placing comforting hands on her arm.

"Eywa only cares about her "balance," not whether a mother and child would die at the hands of a stranger or the creatures that roam the lands," Varang's voice becomes louder. The people all yell in agreement as the bonfire grows even more prominent. At that moment, the hunters each grab the other captives by their Kuru, each holding a knife under them.

Varang then turns to the frightened Na'vi, who is being held by her fighters. Her eyes glow with joy as she then says, "However, thanks to us, we have saved her from her madness, and we have not only brought her and her child to our clan. We can proceed with the celebration!"

With that, Varang gave the warriors a nod. Which started the event with the first cut. Each warrior began to slice the Na'vi Kurus one by one. Screams of pain of their victims only brought happiness to her people. Their cries to their goddess only brought satisfaction to her, for they knew she wouldn't do anything. Once cut off, the bodies drop to the floor as the warriors give their leader the Kurus. In hand, she raised them up in the air in pride.

"With this, the celebration can begin!"

Everyone then began to stand up and join in the fun. Many played music, while others danced. Children who stayed with their mother were near the bodies, poking and pulling at their clothes. Varang then turns back to the mother and son, gathering some of the blood on her hands, places their clan's mark on the head, and then at the son's, who looks at the Varang with a smile, unaware of the death around. Varang smiled, more so when she saw the mother's eyes.

No fear. Only the fire that Burns.

[rini-rushed]

graveyard

notes: watch me try to be poetic about my sheer hatred for my own sport, something i've done for almost a decade

notes: i wanna get into writing oneshots, but here we are..

where passion used to lay, i only see a rotting corpse, a shell of what i used to love

now mounded into the dirt and mud, the skin was basically a worn out, shitty rug

so thin you could see the shit underneath those superficial layers, bugs eating out every cell of it

she's grotesque to look at

it's even worse when it's your turn to lay in it

slipping my limbs into the space under the dull and dirty bones that is my body, it's still me

big shoes to fill

my shoes don't even belong to me

then i lay in this cage with a change of heart, not knowing its just the creepy crawlers munching away at my organs, already rotting

i am rotting

then as i feel my insides grow thin and my skin torn and worn, i spot a figure

a body of life and eyes dull, it's looking down at me with this disgusted face,

like i'm a grotesque creature who didn't deserve to live

they toss the old bones away, kicking it with a swing of disdain, but their tears betray and unveil the layers of discomfort that they feel

i don't understand, why are they kicking all the shells and in this grave yard apart?

to make room for the future ones of course.

tags: @babyghoul138 @gimmeurmoneyagh @reaper-in-reverie @shrii-kk

you guys cause i wanna have some sort of feedback or just a comment on this english mess

[xalygatorx]

Unbound | Chapter 1, "Too-Interesting Times"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Áine has pulled herself from the wreckage of the Nautiloid with little more than a worm in her head and some miscellany in her pack. She picks up some equally infested companions along the way—a cleric with an odd artefact, a portal-stuck wizard, and a haughty pale elf. They get acquainted and seek to stock up on supplies while figuring out what their next steps should be.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of fantasy violence; lightly proofread; will not operate on a posting schedule (this is a for-fun project for me)

Word Count: 6.8k

Listening to: It Will Come Back - Hozier, Harpy Song from the BG3 soundtrack

For perhaps the fourth time already that day, Áine Ts’sambra was recanting every time she had ever wished for her life to be different. It seemed that the accumulation of all the time she’d wished for better or hoped for more or even prayed in rare instances for less had all balled up into the atrocity that had befallen her and countless others in being scooped into a Nautiloid ship and having an illithid tadpole implanted in her eye socket.

Even now, she could feel the little thing twitch and occasionally give a wriggle, and it was all she could do to not to be sick on the dirt she trod, which would make for a nasty bit of path for the few companions she’d already scavenged around the wreckage. She wasn't sure why they were following her—she knew as little as, if not even less, they did about what they were in for with these horrible little crawlers. But she did remember what that githyanki woman on the ship had said just before they’d sawed through some imps—that if these parasites were left to bake, they’d become the very things that had abducted them in the first place.

She shuddered. She couldn’t help it. But the half-elf cleric at her side was immediately wary at even the faintest twitch of Áine’s lavender flesh.

“You’re not turning, are you?” Shadowheart asked. Áine noticed one of her hands had wrapped around the hilt of her mace, but rested there. A precaution.

“No, I’m fine,” Áine reassured her, scoffing at her own choice of words immediately after. “Well, that’s a stretch, but I’m just as ‘fine’ as I was a few moments ago. Don’t worry, if I start to go, I’ll try to say something. I’d rather die than turn.”

“No one is going to turn,” the wizard tailing along behind them hastened to reassure either her, himself, or the universe at large. “We will find a more than capable healer, get the wrigglers gone, and then, I don’t know, find a tavern or something to celebrate.”

“If you’re seeing anywhere around these parts reminiscent of somewhere that would have a tavern, I’m beginning to worry about your brain too, wizard,” Shadowheart remarked.

“Again, just Gale is fine,” Gale insisted. “And fair… I’m not having ale-based hallucinations. If that were a symptom, maybe ceremorphosis would be a more pleasant sendoff, but I hasten to reaffirm, that it is not.”

“I prefer a dry red, myself,” their most recent party member remarked. Even hearing Astarion’s distinguished voice at the present moment made Áine’s head smart. She’d not headbutted anyone in, well, quite a while, and there was an art to it. An art she’d needed to abandon as soon as he had her pinned in the dirt with a dagger to her throat and she didn’t have a good angle. 

“You know, I heartily agree with you there,” Gale said with feeling, sounding devastated now that there was no drink to be had. “Especially after the day we’ve all had, I’d wager we could all use a stiff beverage.”

“You can say that again,” Shadowheart sighed in step with Áine, who was now more focused than ever on finding them a safe spot to camp. “Do you have a drink of choice, Áine?”

“You’re going to call me unoriginal, but I also enjoy a wine,” Áine admitted. “Or a bit of brandy in some tea. That’s special for colder nights though.”

“Mm, that sounds divine,” Gale commented. “Although I’d guess it doesn’t get too cold around here, even at night. I’m sweating through my robes back here, a sight you ladies certainly do not need to behold.”

“Seconded,” Astarion said. “That there’s an unpleasantly moist Gale back here, not that I’m breaking a sweat, mind.”

“Oi, thanks,” Gale snapped.

“Only a little further, you lot,” Áine raised her voice to hush the whiners in the back. “We can set up on that bit of plateau if everyone agrees to that.”

“It’s an ‘aye’ from me,” Gale commented. “Anything to get off my feet for a few moments. Had I known we were to be abducted, I may have picked to wear some walking shoes.”

“Indeed,” Astarion murmured, wincing as the dress shoes he was wearing continued to wear a sore on the back of his heel. Of all the ironic things to take him down, why did it have to be aesthetic? Not that he had much else to choose from in regards to what to wear, but these strange folk didn’t need to know that.

Áine and Shadowheart shared a private, humored glance at their adopted companions’ comments. Given Shadowheart was mid-journey when she was captured and Áine had been mid-journey for who knew how long now, they both had appropriate footwear to be wandering these sparse foothills. “Okay, okay, let’s get a fire going,” Áine said as they reached the spot she’d indicated, setting down the supply pack that she and Shadowheart had procured from a corpse before finding themselves in a spat with some intellect devourers within the ship’s shattered hull.

“I’ve got it, go sit,” Áine reassured Gale as he started to try and make himself useful by gathering some nearby branches from the ground. 

“Are you quite sure?” Gale asked.

“No need to tell me twice,” Astarion commented, finding a flat rock to lounge across and gaze at the sky as it turned to a milky, purplish dusk. His brow creased as he glanced between the sky and then at their newly appointed “leader”—the sky mirrored the hues of her half-drow complexion, the bare beginnings of sundown. It was just in her skin and pearlescent hair that her elven traits made themselves known, however. 

Save her pointy ears, she was a notable mix of her human heritage as well, down to the very human eyes that caught his and gave him a withering look at his indolence. He snorted softly and rolled his eyes back up to the sky, slowly darkening to reveal the stars. Poor dear had eyes the color of dirt. Ruination to an otherwise perfectly good elven face, drow as it may be.

Between Shadowheart and Áine, a stable campfire had formed between their makeshift tents, happily crackling wayward embers surfing the night air. Astarion remained on his perch while Gale, Shadowheart, and Áine circled the fire, splitting the small rations of stale bread and cheese they’d looted earlier and finding that the coast did get surprisingly chilly come sundown. “So what was that about tea and brandy, Áine?” Gale remarked, earning a tiny laugh from both Áine and Shadowheart. 

“I’ll keep an eye out for a bottle while we’re supply-hunting tomorrow,” Áine promised, chaffing her hands together and holding her palms toward the flames. “The tea might be a little tougher, but who knows? This isn’t an area I’m familiar with, so whatever old shipments we find might have some surprises.” The idea seemed to mollify her some about their situation as a whole. 

The truth was, she was doing everything she could to put the parasite at the back of her mind. Figuratively, of course. Doing so literally might hinder her chances of finding someone to yank the awful thing out. And back to existential dread, she thought with a barely stifled groan.

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat, Astarion?” Áine offered.

“As, uh, appetizing as near-molding bread and cheese sound,” Astarion mused, sitting up from where he’d languidly laid against the sun-warmed rock until its heat had faded with its source, and making his way toward one of the tents Shadowheart and Áine had pitched nearby. “I’m more inclined to rest than eat at the moment. I just have this awful headache…”

Áine smirked a little to herself and rolled her eyes. “I do, too. He’s milling around my camp at the moment, and not to mention my head hurts to boot.”

Gale snorted and Shadowheart’s lips pursed into a line to withhold a laugh of her own. Astarion smirked, dropping his head forward to conceal it as he replied, “Touché, my dear.” At least he wasn’t short some banter for whatever road lay ahead of them with the company he currently kept. He retreated to the tent, setting up on one of the bedrolls inside for his nightly reverie. “Is there a reason I’m expected to share lodgings?”

“Because we only found two tents in all the bags we looted on the beach,” Áine said patiently, even as Shadowheart rolled her eyes and Gale sighed toward the fire. “If we’re lucky, it’ll just be for tonight.”

She was met with a hmph from the direction of the tents and decided to find humor in the decidedly stuck-up behavior of the high elf they’d adopted roadside despite his attempt on her life. Áine supposed it showed her for trying to be indiscriminately helpful in these newly trying times. Not that it hadn’t always been, in her experience, a risk to stick one’s neck out for a stranger, but the stakes were higher now. She could take it as a reminder, seeing as nothing had really happened but some head trauma, and move on. 

Her forgiveness had surprised Shadowheart and endeared her to Gale, but it seemed like an expectation from the subject of her excusal, Astarion. Even so, it was difficult to parse between what was a genuine reaction from him and something edging toward rehearsed. It would either get easier with time, she imagined, or the mask would drop as he got to know them all and felt a little more at ease. Áine was grateful at least that Gale and Shadowheart, despite her secrets, were more open books in that regard. All she wanted from every aspect of her current situation was more transparency and some answers.

“So you’re a bard then, Áine?” Gale asked, bringing her attention back to the present.

Áine followed his gaze toward her bag set near the other of their two pitched tents, out of which poked a very basic wooden flute. “I am, indeed,” she said with a little puff of pride in her chest. “You mentioned you’re a wizard? How did you come into that?”

That was enough to consume conversation for the evening and Áine was glad. She wasn’t quite in a headspace to talk about herself or ruminate on their predicament, but she could most certainly listen and Gale was more than happy to talk and regale (no pun intended) his life in Waterdeep and discuss his favorite tomes on countless subjects of his studies. The three still at the fireside eventually felt the day’s events sink its claws into their bodies and minds and retired to the remaining bedrolls until morning broke anew.

Astarion was up with the sun and, very much like a sleepy cat, tailed its rays to where they spread across the edge of their little plateau, settling himself in and feeling the pleasant heat begin to permeate his clothes. The concept was still so novel, that he could just exist in the sun again without disintegrating into ash finer than even that settled around the base of their extinguished campfire. He still had the barest instinct against traipsing into the light, but the pull was even stronger to enjoy whatever this was while it lasted. It simply had to be the parasite, he’d decided, and despite its constant threat of ceremorphosis initiation, it made him loath to get rid of the little bugger. Maybe there was a way to control it instead… After all, it perhaps was also the only thing keeping him from being swept back under Cazador’s thumb.

No, the parasite was indispensable for the moment. There were more pros than cons for him and it might be his only avenue at breaking free of the Szarr estate for good.

Voices from below were enough excuse to shelve his thoughts for the moment, thoughts dangerously bordering on reflection that would dredge up the most painful, humiliating memories he’d accrued over the past 200 years, and there was stiff competition for what could be considered most painful or most humiliating. Swallowing against the acrid taste of bile that rose in the back of his throat, he focused on the voices, which seemed to be coming down from the crypt entrance they’d passed on their way up the hill.

He scented her before he heard her, and even more so before he saw her. Áine had to appear in his peripheral on her own, as he actively didn’t turn his head to regard her, even as she asked, “Spot anything of interest down there?” 

The fresh scent he’d caught upon her arrival originated from a sprig of mint she absentmindedly crushed between her back molars, the herb’s strong sting of flavor doing well to both help wake her and focus her mind. It was strong, but a pleasant way to force one’s self awake.

“To be determined,” Astarion sighed, stretching back to rest his weight on his hands. “They don’t seem to be from the ship from what I could tell. Probably just run-of-the-mill graverobbers.”

Áine frowned and observed the stonework below, her eyes catching on movement whenever one of the persons in question came into view. “Bit of an odd hit, isn’t it?” she asked. “That place looks old as the dust that’s settled on it. Can’t be anything of use still in there.”

“You’d be surprised, darling,” Astarion mused. “Things often get missed by quicker digs. Takes someone who knows where to look.”

Áine looked at him, her eyes finding his as he continued to gaze down toward the crypt. He had the most vivid crimson eyes she’d ever seen, even on her fully Lolth-sworn drow cousins. She’d initially wondered if he had a little drow blood in him too to cause such a shocking pigmentation for his eyes, but nothing else about him looked remotely drow.

“You’re staring at me,” he accused her lazily, his gaze finally parting from the crypt to level with hers. “Why?”

Áine shook her head, giving him an embarrassed smile. “I honestly just got lost in my thoughts. I meant to ask if you were someone who knows where to look. If that’s how you know that.”

Astarion smirked but believed that she truly had just been staring through him rather than at him. He’d mostly just wanted to see how she’d recover from his blunt question. With grace, it seems, he thought, a mental note taken. “My prime skillset is knowing where to look, my dear,” he informed her in low, silken tones. “Second only to knowing what to do with what I see.”

Áine’s eyes narrowed at the turn the conversation had taken. She sighed. “Right, lot of help that was,” she murmured as she stood up and brushed herself off. The chuckle she heard issue from the pale elf at her feet just amplified her growing exasperation. Normally she would think that this was the result of someone’s mask falling off, but she had a strong feeling this was just his mask more firmly fastened. 

This particular mask wouldn’t work on her, however—she didn’t fall for this sort of thing, to a point that the minimal love interests she’d run through over the years had called her things like “heartless” or “broken” or a “tease.” Her body didn’t bend to a touch alone, her knees didn’t shake for a whispered word. She needed all of it or none. She needed to care for someone to want them. Whether that was a product of her innate identity or a byproduct of past trauma, she was yet to understand. Her hunch was that it was both, a deeply unique-to-her set of preferences and desires exacerbated by a learned need to shield herself and keep advancing parties at arm’s length. 

She’d dealt with feeling inconvenient, incorrect, and “needlessly picky” for the entirety of the romantic portion of her life, from the time she’d had her first crushes as a girl, usually undone before they could begin. She’d felt siloed, like everyone else was either mad or in on information that had passed her by in its entirety. But as she’d grown, she’d made peace with the fact that this was simply how she was, and there was no changing that. Her heart and all the strings it attached to existed in a gray area she was still coming to understand, herself—she couldn’t blame others for not understanding it when she still didn’t fully herself, but she could also readily protect and validate it while she learned.     

And a high elf with a pretty face and a purr of a voice when he wasn’t outright whining wasn’t quite enough to break her. Were he not so haughty, cynical, and short-tempered, she may be a little more concerned for herself.

Áine made her way back to the campfire, setting to work at reigniting the bit of tinder so she could put together something for their breakfast. Shadowheart and Gale were rousing nearby and she figured Astarion would have to be half-starved after skipping over eating anything the night before. Gale joined her fireside as she poured some water from her canteen into a metal pan over some oats that she began to heat over the fire into some porridge. “Good morning! Can I help with anything?”

She reflexively began to politely refuse any help, but paused, glancing down the hillside toward a crate she and Shadowheart had passed over the day before when it had only contained some cutlery and dishes. “Actually, that would be grand. Do you see that crate down there, by the…well, by the dead intellect devourer?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Gale said with a chipperness that made her laugh. “Need something from it?”

“It’ll have some bowls and silverware for us to portion this out. Shadowheart and I passed it by at the time not realizing we’d have quite a group by daybreak.”

“Say no more, I’ll return momentarily.” Gale set off in the direction of the crate and Áine kept her eye on the path he trod, more or less to make sure the brain creature she’d pointed out to him as a landmark was, in fact, as dead as it looked.

“Eying up Gale already, are we?” Shadowheart teased Áine as she settled in next to her. The cleric pulled her long ebony locks over her shoulder and began replaiting them with practiced nimble fingers. “I can’t blame you, I suppose, he does have a certain light about him when he’s chatting books.”

“I’m mostly making sure that awful creature doesn’t spring up and attack him since it’s my fault he’s out there in the first place,” Áine explained, not biting down on the offered bait. Satisfied that the intellect devourer was certainly dead if it hadn’t attacked him yet, she looked at Shadowheart. “I told him about the dishes we found yesterday and he’s collecting them so we’re not all hunched over one pot eating hot porridge with our hands.”

Shadowheart smirked at the mental image Áine painted as she tied off her braid. While Áine stirred the porridge in the boiling pot, Shadowheart nodded toward her starlight tresses. “Would you like me to do yours as well?”

Áine usually made do with winding her hair into a bun at her nape, but she recognized a gesture of friendship when she saw it, so she said, “That would be nice, thank you,” and let Shadowheart plait her hair while she cooked.

“Well isn’t this cute,” Astarion commented when he returned to their immediate campsite and took in the sight of the two half-elves by the fire. “One would think we’re on a holiday rather than counting down the seconds until the worms in our brains decide to turn us into tentacled monstrosities. Maybe you two could braid those as well.”

“Are you always so personable in the morning or are we just having a lucky one today?” Shadowheart quipped with an annoyed look his way, still working diligently even as her gaze averted. Nonplussed, Áine passed Shadowheart her leather hairband over her shoulder so she could fasten her work. Gale arrived back with the bowls then and traded spots with Shadowheart to help Áine portion out their breakfast. 

“Darling, any morning that starts with my presence is damn lucky,” Astarion retorted, his dulcet tones saccharine and dripping with sarcasm.

When Shadowheart rose to her feet, Áine passed her up a bowl of porridge and a spoon. “Well let’s hope it’s not our only streak of luck today,” Áine commented before warning Shadowheart, “It’s quite hot, be careful. It’s also likely quite bad, but we need something if we’re to keep ourselves moving today.”

“You’re right. And I’ve had far worse regardless, I promise,” Shadowheart reassured her. “I thank you for it.”

“It looks atrocious,” Astarion commented as he peeked into Shadowheart’s bowl.

“Oh don’t worry, there’s plenty for you too,” Áine said, ignoring his ungrateful griping.

“I’ll pass,” he said. “But I appreciate the thought, my dear. I think.”

“You need to eat something, you spoilt brat,” Shadowheart groused after she swallowed a bite of her breakfast. “It may not be you were used to back in the city or on a silver spoon to boot, but you’ll collapse mid-battle if you don’t eat at all.”

He scoffed at her words. “Silver spoon? Do I strike you as a spoiled little rich boy?”

“Yes, actually,” Shadowheart said. “Perhaps not rich per se, but certainly spoiled.”

Something dark passed through his eyes, noticed only by Áine, who thought that just might be the first genuine bit of feeling she’d yet seen on his pointed, handsome features.

“What did you do back in the city, Astarion?” Gale asked conversationally as he put down his own bowl of porridge. Relaxing some now that the tension had been broken, or at least shelved, Áine began to eat as well. It wasn’t bad, but it was unbelievably bland. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do about that though, she didn’t even have salt. If Shadowheart and Gale were choking on her creation at least, they were being very polite to contain it.

“Oh, I was a magistrate,” Astarion said, startled out of his souring mood. “It’s all rather tedious.”

“I dread to think of the rulings you may have passed down,” Shadowheart commented as she scraped her bowl clean with the edge of her spoon. The grating noise clearly bothered Astarion and Áine had to wonder if Shadowheart was doing it because of that. “Bad hair day? 10 years in the barracks.”

“I’ll have you know I endeavored to keep the peace as well as I could in that despicable city,” Astarion snapped. “That alone was a full-time job.”

“Well, I certainly know who to come to for any future legal advice,” Gale commented before turning his attention to Áine. “So, fearless leader, where to today? It may behoove us to get a move on, at the very least to find someone else to fight before our little camp turns on itself.”

Shadowheart at least had the decency to flush with some measure of chagrin at the way she was acting being highlighted by Gale’s words. “Apologies, you’re right, Gale. There’s no need for that.” Astarion huffed but didn’t press the issue.

Áine pursed her lips against a laugh and instead said, “Astarion spotted some activity this morning down in that crypt we passed last night. Might be a good bid for some more supplies. More tents, even.”

“Finally someone speaking sense,” Astarion sighed theatrically.

“What if they’re survivors of the crash? Like us?” Gale asked as he collected empty bowls from Shadowheart and Áine and wrapped them up in a cloth to wash out at their next opportunity. “What if they’re more potential allies?”

“Then we’ll still need more tents,” Áine said, drawing a chuckle from all parties, Gale included. “We can just see what they have to say when we go down there, of course. But just…be equally ready for the possibility that they’ll be territorial looters.”

“Fair enough,” Gale said, straightening and looking toward their tents. “Should we leave these up then? Will we camp up here another night?”

Áine looked at their little spot with some consideration. “I suppose so. I don’t see why not anyway,” she said. “Especially if this doesn’t turn out to be a quick trip, it’ll be nice knowing we can come straight back here. Just take anything you don’t want potentially pilfered with you.”

“Ah, right. Of course,” Gale said and set to work organizing his pack.

“Thank you for breakfast, by the way,” Shadowheart said, meeting Áine’s eyes as the half-drow stood up, leaving the cooking pot in the fire to burn the bit of remnant porridge from its basin while they explored. “I know you were anxious about how it turned out, but it’ll stick to our ribs effectively and it was kind of you to make it.”

Áine smiled at her. “Very kind. And thank you for this,” she said, smoothing the glistening white braid Shadowheart had made of her hair over her shoulder. “I can’t remember the last time I had a plait in my hair.” She could actually, she realized. She was just relieved to have a different connotation for the style now.

Shadowheart beamed at her. “Well, it suits you very nicely.” The group parsed out what they decided to take along with them on their run down to the crypt, obscuring anything else of importance however they could. When they all appeared ready, Shadowheart suggested, “Right, shall we go see what new horrors await us?”  

As it turned out, the folks down by the crypt were, in fact, graverobbers and looters interested in both the crypt and the crash site wreckage and not anyone infected and interested in partying up. Upon insulting their “fearless leader” by calling her a cur, Áine had heaved a tired sigh and angled her crossbow up at a precariously hanging slab of rock, and then loosed the bolt that would bring it crashing into the offending two members of the looting party. 

And that, it would seem, was just the beginning of a ludicrous dive into an ancient forgotten crypt. Shadowheart and Áine were already somewhat acquainted with the other’s fighting style and fell into a rhythm with ease, Shadowheart primarily delivering heals to the party as they fought their way through the looters on the exterior of the crypt and then a new group they met further in. 

Astarion picked off their enemies, in full or at least staggering them, with arrows loosed from his shortbow, hanging back with Shadowheart to let the heavy hitters take the frontlines. Or at least that had been the plan until it was in this fight that Gale realized just how many of his magical abilities the parasite had rendered useless. While Shadowheart had focused her healing magic on Gale after he’d hit the floor within an inch of his life, Áine and Astarion had been left to clear the room.

Truly she fought like no bard he’d ever seen. The moment Gale went down and it became a game of defending two members of her party while one healed the other, something had changed in the way she handled herself. She maintained a certain grace while she fought, but she hit harder and struck with a certainty that may normally belong to someone twice her size and perhaps in more of a melee-focused formation. It was impressive and Astarion knew he was kidding himself in full if he didn’t admit he found it as such. It was an admittance he’d be keeping to himself, however.

The little hellion was somehow winning, despite four armed grown men coming at her from all sides. He shot one through the throat as he went for her left flank and the gurgle caused her to look back, first at the fallen barbarian and then following the trajectory of the arrow back to Astarion. His lip curled slightly in a smile when their eyes met and she gave him something akin to a quick nod of gratitude. 

She whirled back in time to dodge the one remaining looter as he swung a shortsword at her, cutting the air next to her forearm. She reached back for what she expected to be a dagger in her pack, gripped it, and plunged the weapon into the man’s eye socket, through to his brain. When he crumpled to the ground, she realized she’d stabbed him with her flute instead.

Shocked, Áine regarded the instrument sticking out of the fresh corpse’s face, her shoulder slackening with defeat as she mourned the loss of her only instrument. 

Astarion, behind her, had found the killing blow very amusing and sidled up to stand next to her and get a better look. “Poetic, considering your calling,” he remarked. He could’ve laughed aloud at how exasperated her expression had become.  

“I can’t believe I did that,” she groaned. “I used to keep a dagger in that sheathe and I just… Habit. Godsdammit.”

“For what it’s worth, it does paint you as a bard to be reckoned with,” Astarion pointed out, his nose wrinkling a little at the macabre state of the corpse’s eye socket. “But I highly doubt even if you could get it out that it would still be usable. Just in case you’re considering it.”

“It’s a lost cause, I know,” she said, sighing. He found it amusing that she was more bothered by the loss of her instrument than at the act of stabbing a man in the brain with the equivalent of a fancy wooden stick. Much less amusing was the other sort of wooden stabbing weapon that could kill him with a quick thrust into his ribs.

Astarion glanced back toward Shadowheart and Gale, who was looking more stable now and just in a state of deep self-deprecation. He looked back down at Áine and dropped a hand on her shoulder to steer her back toward the others. “Come now, darling girl, there’s far more in this world for instruments than that little flute,” he said. 

Áine smiled, knowing she was being silly. The flute had little to no sentimental value for her, and this was unfortunately not the first time she’d lost a flute to a fight, all because she was notorious for reorganizing her bag and then forgetting where she’d put things in the heat of the moment. “Thank you, by the way,” she said as they walked.

“Hm? What for?”

“For saving my neck from that barbarian when you did,” she said. “Shadowheart would likely have more work had you not.”

Astarion smirked. “It’s simply too pretty a neck to waste, dearest.”

“You two were magnificent!” Gale exclaimed as Áine and Astarion approached. Only when Astarion dropped his hand from her shoulder did Áine realize two things—that he’d kept his hand on her shoulder that whole time and also how cold his hand was. “I only wish I could say the same of myself. I swear everything I told you about being an Archmage is true, it must be the parasite interfering with my connection to the Weave…”

“It’s a team effort,” Áine said kindly before he could start beating himself up too much about discovering his new magical hindrances in the thick of battle. “We all made it through, I see that as a win from all angles.”

Gale sighed but smiled all the same. “You are too forgiving, my friend. And you, too generous,” he said to Shadowheart, who helped him to his feet. “I feel better than I have in years under your care.”

Shadowheart preened just a little. “Happy to. Helped that the both of you did well to buy me time,” she said earnestly to Áine and Astarion both. In Áine’s peripheral vision, she saw Astarion wordlessly incline his head to the cleric, which she took as an official truce from their earlier scrap in the camp.

“Right, let’s see what these charlatans have in their pockets,” Áine said. “And, um, if anyone happens to find a flute that’s preferably not stuffed with ocular viscera… Well, I’m interested.”

In all the barrels, crates, pockets, and bags that the group pawed through, they managed to scavenge quite a haul, including three more tents, a larger variety of foodstuffs, a healthy sum of gold, and a few bottles of ithbank. And while another flute wasn’t found, even further along in the crypt, Gale did find a lyre that he brought to Áine for inspection. 

“It looks a bit damaged, but it might prove a nice project,” he suggested.

Áine was fascinated by the new instrument and, while she wasn’t yet sure how to play it, the opportunity to try something new was even more enrapturing than finding a new flute. “No, this is lovely. Thank you, Gale!”

Astarion had never seen anyone so lovestruck by the sight of a dusty old slab of wood and some strings. The lyre was nothing special at all, but she held it like it was made of glass. A quiet hmph passed his lips as he went back to scouting the area, finding a promising-looking chest in one of the adjacent chambers. He gave it an experimental press of his fingers, but it was not unexpectedly locked tight. He crouched down and retrieved his picks from his bag, beginning to work them within the keyhole and comfortably losing himself in the little focus project. 

Distantly, he heard Gale remark upon some of the books on the dusty old shelves within the room and heard Shadowheart say that she’d found a strange button on the far wall, inquiring if she should push it or not. Astarion only realized he was being watched after the lock gave a familiar, particularly satisfying click of surrender and slid open like a slacked jaw. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, watching Áine from the corner of his eye.

She stood leaned against the stonework of the doorway, just watching his hands work and then succeed in freeing the lock. “I am,” she admitted. “You made that look very easy.”

Astarion sneered and straightened to flip the chest lid open. “It is easy.”

Áine rolled her eyes, but the smile remained on her lips even so. “Right.” She heard her name pealed from further in and she responded, “Coming,” as she moved off the wall and walked deeper into the room. Astarion, mildly disgruntled at the interruption, glanced over to watch her go before returning to his looting.

Shadowheart’s discovery of the button on the far wall led them to a previously sealed door that swung open with a heavy thud the moment they agitated the mechanism. They found themselves in a somehow even more ancient temple room riddled with indecipherable plaques and dead, armed scribes amidst a sunlit statue at its center.

“What could have possibly been so subversive about their teachings that these scribes would be armed in their daily work?” Shadowheart wondered as they made their way inside, cocking a bewildered brow at the giant statue. “And whom was it for?”

“Call me crazy,” Áine said, also looking at the statue. “But I think that might be Jergal.”

“You’re crazy,” Gale took her up on her offer. “I’ve not heard tell of or seen his name worshipped for…centuries at best.”

“Does this look like a new crypt to you?” Áine asked.

“No, but it doesn’t look old enough for that to make sense,” he suggested, adding, “I don’t think you’re crazy, by the way, that was a joke.”

Áine had to stifle a laugh, but at his concern rather than his joke. “I know, I set you up for it.”

“I’ve found another button,” Shadowheart announced from across the crypt. “Shall I?”

“Do it, you won’t,” Áine threw out and she heard the click as the button was depressed into the wall. She turned around to see what it did and saw the wall slide open beside Shadowheart. 

When the cleric looked back to the group, however, she paled and pulled her shield off her back. “Look alive,” she warned them and Áine turned to see one of the skeletal scribes shudder to life under Astarion’s loot-hungry hands, all the bones they’d bypassed on their way in rising to meet their uninvited guests.

“Now that’s quite unfair,” Astarion commented in response to Shadowheart’s words, which Áine could only take as a sly joke to the undead they now faced.

The scribes were dispatched fairly quickly, and their persistent silencing gave Gale some practice in shelving his magic during a fight, which could only benefit him, Áine figured. He still had his power, but it seemed he was unfamiliar with its bounds again, and more than anything she wanted to ensure each member of their party could defend themselves should the need arise. And, given their situation, arise it may.

When all necromanced parties were but a pile of bones once more, Áine led the way into the opened chamber, wary of any obscured traps that could activate on entry. It seemed they were in the clear though, at least for now. As Gale parsed through an old book, Shadowheart and Astarion checked through the different vases and chests in the room, and Áine regarded the sarcophagus snugly set against the far wall. 

“All that to protect some dusty old baubles,” Shadowheart commented when she saw Áine hesitate before the casket. “Hardly seems an astute use of their power.” 

Áine whispered an apology to whoever’s grave she was about to disturb and placed her hands against the heavy lid, giving it a proper push. What she didn’t anticipate was having help.

Not from her companions, oh no. No, from the bony hand that emerged from the gap between the lid and the casket, skin stretched thin across pointed knuckles. Áine stumbled back from the lid straight into Astarion and Shadowheart mid-pilfering. Shadowheart dropped the small jug she was inspecting to reach for her mace and Astarion simply froze with his arm halfway inside a vase, caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The lid pulled back in full and up rose a veritable mummy of a figure cloaked in ancient cloth robes and a layer of dust. The being’s eyes opened and accusatorily fastened upon Áine as he settled back to the ground, stepping forward as he regarded them. 

“What a curious way to awaken,” the mummified figure said, his voice deep and gravelly with echoes of the ages.

“I said I was sorry,” Áine said, half-delivered as a joke. She really needed to find coping mechanisms that didn’t hinge on humor.

“Indeed,” the figure said dismissively. “Tell me. What is the worth of a single mortal life?”

Áine glanced toward the others, but it seemed he was most interested in asking her. “Um… If I answer incorrectly, are you going to attack us?”

“I would see little point in that. ‘Tis not a riddle, ‘tis but a question,” the figure said, a thread of impatience just beneath the surface. “Wilt thou answer my question?”

Áine let out the breath she’d been holding and said, “Erm, sure… The worth of a single mortal life…”

“Pennies, at best, no?” Astarion suggested unhelpfully behind her. She put an elbow in his ribs.

“He doesn’t speak for me,” she quickly asserted to the mummy as Astarion made an unbecoming oof noise behind her. She gave the question genuine thought before answering with a small helpless lift of her hands, “I suppose I can’t truly say. How do you put a cost on something like a life?”

Something about her statement seemed to amuse the undead man, but he returned to a neutral expression. “Very well. I am satisfied.” He took another step closer and Áine felt Astarion and Shadowheart both tense behind her. “We have met and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.”

Without another word or glance, the mummy turned and left the room and the gaggle of bewildered adventurers behind him. No one moved for a solid minute, waiting for the inevitable heel turn or unsprung trap to take them out. When nothing happened, Áine relaxed her stance and stepped away from the two behind her, warily peeking around the corner of the chamber door. As far as she could tell he was gone, but she could hear distant footsteps that may imply he was just in a different part of the crypt. In any case, he didn’t seem to mean them harm.

“What a nice mummy,” she commented offhand, although her voice was still a little hitched by nerves. “Let’s finish up and get out of here.” Áine peeked into the sarcophagus and scooped out a bit of gold and an amulet while the rest of her crew tidied up their own searches behind her. 

Under her breath, she said with palpable exasperation, “Shouldn’t have wished to live in more interesting times…”

Next chapter: Chapter 2, "A Strange Sort of Bard"

[nknightfanfics]

Amphibia x Slugterra Status

What if the Calamity trios used to lived in Slugterra and then got sent to Amphibia.

 The girls grew up in the slum in Antimony Cavern. Both Anne and Marcy lost their parents and Sasha was left behind by the Watiton, (she changed her last name to Waybright). They had to work on delivery, taking odd jobs, scavenge a few places and stopping poachers. They hate poachers, especially slugs poachers.

Their slugs act like their good conscience and are considered family.

The people known the girls as calamity trios due to their reputation of using collateral damage to win the duels and stopping slug poachers. 

The girls are 15/16 years old.

Anne is dress in blue shirt, twin gray arm guards, gray gloves and gray trouser, armor holder at hip

Sasha is dress in pink shirt, a reddish cuirass from arm to  right shoulder, gray gloves and gray trouser, armor holder at hip

Marcy is dressed in green shirt, green goggles, gray gloves and gray trousers, armor holder wrap around the chest.

The media, fictions and food style are similar as Earth culture.

The Mecha beasts are programmed to be loyal to their riders, sometimes act a bit like animals. 

Slingshot were made first then blasters for slugs.

Marcy likes to create makeshift bombs and tools to help their journey, such as stink bombs, flashbang and grapinghook. She has hi-tech glasses that allow to record, take pictures and connect to Daredevil’s goggles to see what he sees.

Anne makes the homemade slug food, Marcy asks the slugs to help with her experiments and Sasha helps the slugs remain in top shape.

The girls will have their supplies as well as maintenance tools in Amphibia but no mecha beast.

Slug energy can make plants grow faster than one usually in Amphibia. 

Anne’s blaster is light blue with the barrel decorated in web style similar to X-duty takedown

Sasha’s blaster is pink, acts like a revolver fire mechanism and the barrel shape as a sharp edge.

Marcy’s blaster is light green, the barrel has small fins at top and side of the barrel, acting like a crossbow.

The girls know a few people, such as the Tracker molenoid Pronto; the mechanist slugslinger Kord Zane; the two robotics geniuses Jess and Ally; the historian and explorer Dr. Jan; scientist Terri; and best trickshot and pizza restaurant worker Mario Bravado.

Slugs used:

Anne: Arachnet (Web), AquaBeek (Splash), Diggrix (Digger), Fandango (NRG), Flaringo (Torch), Frost crawler (Frost), Gazzer (Gaz) (season 2), Hoverbug (Aero), Phosphoro (Aurora), Polero (Duo), Slyren (Singer), 

Sasha: Armashelt (Hardshell), Dirt Urchin (Spike), Geoshard (Shard), Grenuke (Bombshell), Hop rock (Rocker), Lavalynx (Magma), (MakoBreaker (Chomper) season 2), Rammstone (Smasher), Sand angler (Sandy),Thresher (Sawbite), Tormato (Storm),  

Marcy: Bubbaleone (Bubble), Crystalyd (Driller), Flatulorhinkus (Funk), Frightgeist (Phantom), Hexlet (Hex) (season 2), Hypnogrif (Psi), Jellyish (Goo), Lariat (Slime), Neotox (Tox), Vinedrill (Vine), Speedstinger (Daredevil), Tazerling (Shocker)

Current Status: Active, Creating a timeline

[colderdrafts]

question:

What should we do/say to surprise morgan? I just re-read your writing about them and they always seem so playful with their sentry, I want to see them catch off guard for once! your thoughts?

Smack them with a newspaper whenever they're being unpleasant

Jkjk, it's not exactly easy catching Morgan off guard, but you can learn to watch for their weaknesses and strike when they show themselves.

If you just wanna prank them, get to high ground when they're distracted. They may not think you'd start climbing in the middle of the day. When they start looking for you, plop down on top of them from above. You'll get a nice serving of flailing spider limbs and spooked hissing.

Be extremely weird back. Whenever they're doing a creepy 'loving' spiel, up the ante and be creepy back. They'll be surprised but they might like it, so tread with caution here.

Let them know you know what they're doing when they retaliate. Just talk casually when they do it, showing no reaction at all. "Ah yes, your words don't work anymore, so now you're picking me up." or "Your eyes are real pretty shiny when you're trying to be intimidating." etc.

Careful riling them up, tho. They'll catch on quickly and play with you, but they may also stick you to a wall or themself once they're done with that.

If you wanna do it in a different way, you can also choose to just be genuinely sweet, and/or protective of them. If a common-folk invades your space or is rude to Morgan, be the first to strike and tell the intruder to piss off. You being protective of them will genuinely surprise them.

Go to them when you feel bad, anxious or in need, especially if you're the kind who'd resist them a lot. They'll automatically act to support you, but they'll be pleasantly surprised when you actually ask for it. Solidifying that they're a source of comfort.

If nothing else works, you can always tease them in a way that suggests you leaving, or you have another custodian to go to. It probably won't end well.

______________________________________________________________

As twilight approaches, you're set for the day, sitting on a fallen tree trunk and sorting what you've gathered today. The call of evening insects accompanies the faint sound of Morgan close by sorting their own haul a few meters from you.

You glance over at them, wondering if you should put your piles together instead, as something gently brushes against you hand.

Looking down, you find a small, brown spider sitting on the mushroom in your hand. It seems to be carefully investigating with a pair of legs whether the skin on your hand is safe to climb onto.

You flatten you hand to let it crawl on so you can move it without much issue. This little crawler is nothing compared to the manifestation of horror you're dealing with every day. Still, you can sorta see the resemblance, as you watch it's little legs move, gauging and analyzing everything around it. You wonder if Morgan was this careful when they were smaller as well.

"Hey, Morgan?" you call over your shoulder, still admiring the little creature on your hand.

"Hmm?" comes the inquiring response.

"I found a new friend," you reply, chuckling. "They kinda look like you."

It's almost a sound like a whiplash when Morgan is in a hurry to get somewhere, going from A to B in a split second. Today, that second leads directly with their front pressed closely against your back and a pair of legs slammed into the dirt in front of you. You stumble back in shock, dropping the poor spider somewhere in the grass below.

"Where?" Morgan hisses dangerously, staring into the woods.

You take a second to breathe in, coming down from the sudden scare.

"Fucking hell, what going on with you?" you complain, palming at their pedipalps that's closing in around your shoulders.

"Where are they?" Morgan repeats with annoyed urgency, tightening their grip.

"Probably crawling around somewhere in the dirt trying not to be stepped on!" you scold them. "It's just a spider, what's the big deal!"

"Spider-" Morgan repeats lowly, carefully glancing down at you. Then their eyes settle on something in the grass below, and they breathe out shakily. "Just a spider."