#elder tempest

[dragonsandsillies]

Little Dragon

[i-am-a-fan]

Pro dm tip! when your players piss you off, give them this monster to cool down :D!



[unhingedselfships]

[kostektyw]

every once in a while there's a character that's very clearly transgender or genderqueer in text but because the situation they're in is based in a fantasy world and can't be translated exactly to our human equivalents, there's always gender illiterate people who stupidly argue that it doesn't count, and fellas, it is absolutely driving me nuts 🙏

[random-gamer1942]

One day i wanna run a oneshot where my players (and perhaps i as well) pick like a CR 20-25 gargantuan creature and have a literal battle of the kaiju

[lazah-bang]

Funny elves

[lizzyiii]

just read “his lady love” and i’m completely obsessed with your writing, i definitely need a part 2 for that please 😭😭😭

His Lady Love (2)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.8k words

summary | you return to westeros, to find that the young prince has become a man and his burning infatuation with you has not died out and you reconnect with helaena

tags | no warnings? usual mention of targaryen incest (but let's be real, everyone who reads hotd fanfic has now normalised targcest), and child marriage (my poor bby Helaena), filler

note | oh my god, y'all 😭. idk what I was thinking with that dramatic ass mikaelson reveal. as we all know the reader is never described, but as we all also know the mikaelsons are white af. so I'm making it clear that the reader is NOT mikael's daughter, leaving the reader's description and race unknown, esther was busy getting her freak on and her real father will never be disclosed. because in my mind the reader or y/n is and will always be a curly-haired, brown-skinned baddie....so each to their own. AND I'm pretty sure this is going to be a series cause for the life of me I am unable to make a oneshot without further exploring a story.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

Five long years had stretched into nearly two thousand sunrises since Aemond Targaryen last laid eyes upon you. Each passing day weighed heavily on his soul, a slow burn of a thousand bitter memories. Some days, the tempest of his emotions roiled within him, bidding him to hate you—for your departure, for the way you had vanished from court like a wisp of smoke, leaving only echoes and shadows in your wake.

But the flames of that hate flickered and faded, giving rise to a deeper yearning, a gaping void where love had once flourished. Even now, after all this time, your spirit held his heart captive, stolen under the very nose of fate when you chose to forsake the realm.

In the wake of your absence, thirteen year old Aemond had become a specter haunting the hallowed halls of the library, pouring over tomes and scrolls in a frantic quest for knowledge of House Mikaelson—a house that seemed to dissolve into the mists of myth with each turn of the page. The histories were silent, and when he turned to his elders, the lords and ladies of the court, their ignorance stung deeper than any sword. Your name was but a whisper lost amongst the louder clamor of dragons and destinies.

Desperation guided his steps toward the Queen’s solar, where his mother resided. He pressed forth, demanding answers of her, yet it was peculiar; though he sought her wisdom and guidance, she seemed to have forgotten the very reason of why she had made you one of her ladies-in-waiting. Her brows knitted with confusion as he spoke your name, her big brown eyes clouded with a nostalgia she could not place.

Yet Aemond could see it in the gentle curve of her lips, in the way her gaze drifted past him, as if searching for a phantom. She missed you, that was clear. Her heart held a chamber of memories crafted from your offered comfort amidst the whispers of court intrigue, from the grace of your presence that had brightened the darker days.

The weight of five relentless years bore heavily upon Aemond Targaryen. Through trials of fire and blood, he had forged himself anew, emerging both mentally and physically formidable. He was now the most skilled swordsman within the keep’s sturdy walls, a warrior of such caliber that even the esteemed Ser Criston Cole would struggle to match his prowess. Secluded in the dim light of solitary training grounds, he immersed himself in the ancient tomes of philosophy and the illustrious history of House Targaryen, dedicated to honing his mind as keenly as his sword.

Yet in this relentless pursuit of strength and mastery, the warmth of his heart had withered, leaving behind only the chill of calculated ambition. His facade, meticulously crafted, rendered him cold and unyielding — a visage so fierce that even the bravest souls flinched at the thought of meeting his gaze directly.

Thus, it was with a jarring dissonance that Aemond entered his sister, Helaena's solar that day. It was a ritual he had come to cherish against the backdrop of his darkening spirit, visiting her and the twins for a fleeting moment of respite. However, as he stepped across the threshold, the air thickened and his breath caught in his throat.

Helaena sat with delicate artistry upon a chaise, embroidering threads of vibrant colors while keeping a watchful eye on her children. But it was not the familiar sight of his sister that seized him. No, there, in the heart of the chamber, stood his mother, Queen Alicent, holding the hands of a woman whose features were obscured from his view. However, even with your back turned, he recognized you and your unmistakable figure.

Alicent’s large, expressive eyes caught his, shimmering with an emotion he had not anticipated. “Aemond,” she uttered softly, the sound piercing through the tension-laden silence.

With the calling of his name, you turned, and the breath in his lungs faltered. The years stretched out like an endless tapestry between the two of you, but as he beheld you standing there after all this time, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

Five long years had passed, and in that span, Aemond had transformed. His once-boyish frame had hardened, each line of muscle now finely chiseled, his stature soaring to a height that eclipsed yours. He had shed the skin of youth and emerged a man forged by the fires of ambition and vengeance, yet he could feel a familiar tug at his heart as he stared at you.

But you… you had remained untouched by time’s relentless march. Your face, flawless and luminous, bore no marks of age; not a wrinkle nor blemish dared mar your smooth skin. Your form he remembered was preserved in perfection, your hair framing your figure in the same glorious waves that had enchanted him years ago.

You were the embodiment of memories he cherished, the same as ever.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Aemond dared to believe you were but a haunting mirage conjured by his yearning heart. If not for the watchful eyes of his mother and sister resting upon you, he would have thought himself lost to despair, ensnared by the fantasies of his own making.

An eternity seemed to stretch in the daunting silence that enveloped the two of you, the world around forgotten as each of you engaged in a quiet, yet profound examination. Your eyes sparkled like the night sky in the light of the day, and when you smiled—the same saccharine smile that had once filled his heart with joy during the innocence of his childhood—it left him breathless. “My prince,” you spoke softly, your voice dancing in the air, “how you’ve grown.”

In that moment, something within him shifted—a profound balm against the bitterness he had nurtured like a dark plant within his chest. All the resentment, the stinging remembrance of your abandonment, and the shadows of sadness that once clouded his thoughts dissipated at the mere sight of your smile. His throat was dry as a winter's night, thoughts scattered like ash on the wind, and yet, the corners of his mouth began to lift involuntarily, mirroring the warmth radiating from you.

Mikaelson.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of countless souls. Yet, here, in this strange realm of Westeros, where dragons soared and the icy dread of White Walkers loomed behind the walls, such fear was but a whisper lost to the winds. No, this land, though foreign and fierce, offered you sanctuary—not the kind woven from solace and warmth, but the kind fortified by distance and the absence of your cursed siblings.

Here, there were no vampires lurking in the cloaks of night, nor were there werewolves howling beneath the pale moonlight. Instead, there were dragons, fierce and resplendent, and direwolves, proud and wild. Most crucially, there was no Mikael—a freedom that tasted of hope amidst you heart's turmoil.

True, you thought often on whether you should have brought your siblings along, for Mikael would never find this place. Yet, a heavy foreboding gripped you; you understood all too well that the Mikaelsons (Niklaus) very presence would shatter the fragile peace you sought. Westeros was far from a land of plenty, riddled with poverty and further burdened by the cruel fate of women, yet in its chaos lay distance.

So, you fled, slipping away into the shrouded embrace of night, abandoning the only family you had known—or, more accurately, what was left of it. It was the sixteenth century, a time when hope flickered dimly in the eyes of men and women alike. You had not laid eyes upon Finn since Niklaus, in his relentless wrath, had condemned him to a tormented existence, and staked a dagger in his heart. Kol fared no better; his defiance had earned him Niklaus' ire, leaving him to face the very same fate that had befallen their eldest brother.

Months had slipped by as you braved the tempestuous seas, each wave an echo of your desperation, each gust of wind whispering promises of a new beginning. You had set sail toward the edge of the earth, guided by an insatiable yearning for freedom—until at last, you had discovered Westeros.

You had arrived in Westeros with an unyielding ambition, your ethereal beauty concealing a fierce determination that allowed you to easily compel your way into the court of Queen Alicent Hightower as one of her ladies-in-waiting. The smell of dragonfire and the whispers of civil war clung to the air, a distinct reminder of the foreign heritage of the Targaryens.

The first time you had seen one of the great beasts aloft, its shadow sweeping across the land, leaving you breathless and in awe. Dragons were an embodiment of the Targaryen power, but alongside that power lurked a shocking underbelly of normalized incestuous unions and the festering decay of traditional familial bonds. For a girl raised among the Mikaelsons, who had danced among the vices of immortality, this was both familiar and grotesque.

Your new world was laced with intrigue—rumors skittered through the halls like restless spirits. The whispers spoke of Princess Rhaenyra and the seed of doubt surrounding her claim to the Iron Throne, the barbs of scandal raised even higher by her many alleged bastards. These complexities intrigued you, compelling you to observe from the outside, where the machinations of power were far more amusing than any political play you had encountered in your old life.

Queen Alicent, though esteemed and regal, bore the weight of her flaws almost indiscernibly, like a cloak of gold marred by rust. From what you could tell, the Queen wielded herself like a pawn—her father being Otto Hightower, an unseen puppeteer, tugging at the strings of her choices. Maternal instinct flickered in Alicent like the candle flames that lit the chamber at night; she faltered and stumbled but made an earnest effort to nurture her children as best she could, though in your opinion she had failed miserably with Aegon. And yet, her fund of effort, a raw and poignant endeavor, resonated with you. The Queen was imperfect, yet within that human frailty lay a semblance of motherhood that Esther Mikaelson had failed to give you.

Thus, in your role as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, you discovered a sanctuary of sorts. The court became a twisted labyrinth of alliances and betrayals, yet amidst the swirling intrigue, you found comfort in Alicent’s earnest attempts at kindness towards you.

In the two years you had spent in Westeros, you had found solace in the delicate friendship you created with Princess Helaena—a rare gem among the Targaryens, whose sweet and gentle spirit seemed devoid of the cunning that defined her kin. Helaena's quiet understanding struck a chord deep within you, reminiscent of a time before death had twisted your mind. Once, you too had lived in a world that felt like a dream, until Niklaus tore down the veil of your innocence with his ruthless reality check. He had carved fear into your heart, reminding you of the darkness that lurked within the world.

But as you observed Helaena, an overwhelming sorrow enveloped you. The Queen's decree to betroth the princess to Prince Aegon sank like a stone in her gut. Aegon—a broken soul, defined by indulgence and ambition—was a force of chaos that echoed the wickedness of their own familial bond. In many ways, he reminded you of Kol, with his infectious charm and volatile spirit, yet where Kol harbored a flicker of love beneath layers of darkness, Aegon radiated a depravity that sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart ached at the thought of Helaena being shackled to a boy so unworthy of her light. The specter of Aegon’s reckless nature loomed large, and you feared for the princess's fate. You could see it clearly: with every passing day of their union, Helaena’s spirit would wither under the weight of neglect and cruelty, her gentle soul extinguished in the fires of a loveless bond.

And then there was Prince Aemond, the second youngest son of Alicent's brood—a striking boy marked by a fierce determination to embrace his responsibilities as a prince. You often felt a pang of sympathy when you witnessed the relentless taunts from Aegon and the scornful jeers of his nephews, sorrow swelling in your chest at the knowledge that he was the only Targaryen without a dragon to call his own. And it was hard to ignore the tender glances he cast your way, his violet eyes lingering on you whenever you graced a room.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of Aemond standing at your door during the elusive hour of the wolf, his ethereal silver hair, tousled and framing a face streaked with tears, the light of hope dimmed in his now singular violet eye. Fury ignited in your core when he confided the harrowing tale of how Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, that dark sanctuary of vice—your heart shattered for the innocence that had been ripped from him, for the heavy shame that now clung to him, marked by his brother who should have looked out and protected him. By now, Aegon was six-and-ten, he should have gleaned wisdom from his years, yet he chose the path of cruelty instead.

In an effort to soothe the wounded prince, you opened your heart and your arms to him. You conceded to his requests, bathing him with tender care, allowing him the sanctuary of your presence as he lay beside you. Your intentions were pure, untainted by anything but the desire to comfort a boy you had come to deeply care for.

And yet, with a heavy heart, you turned your back on Westeros, your mind haunted by the echoes of family. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, you found yourself yearning for the bonds that had once defined you. The Targaryens, ensnared in their web of resentment and betrayal, made it clear that true loyalty and love were rare treasures. Their familial discord stood in stark contrast to the fierce devotion of your own bloodline. For all the chaos wrought by the Mikaelsons, love remained their unyielding anchor.

Niklaus, with his volatile nature, was both feared and revered by you; yet, beneath that fierce exterior lay a soul tormented by the shadows of his past, perpetually haunted by the specter of abandonment. Finn and Kol, locked in eternal slumber by Niklaus’s cruel whim, lay undisputed in their coffins, yet your brother stood sentinel over them, unwavering and steadfast. The thought of returning to him was chilling; the mere sight of you would surely earn a dagger in your own heart.

You resolved to escape, to steal away before Queen Alicent could impose a husband upon you like a gilded cage. It was meant to be a brief respite, a momentary retreat from your burdens. You had once believed that seamlessly integrating into the intricate tapestry of Westerosi society would be a simple endeavor. Yet, the relentless weight of expectations proved stifling. Each encounter demanded a dance of delicate grace, a façade meticulously curated to meet the desires of those around you, and in turn, it drained your very spirit.

Thus, you sought solace in the sun-drenched lands of Essos, a realm that defied the rigid conventions you had grown weary of. Essos was a land of vibrant colors and broken norms, where the sun shone unabated and the very air seemed to sing of possibility. Gone were the burdens of being gracious and demure, replacing those restraints with the intoxicating freedom to explore the wild tapestry of cultures sprawled before you. In a realm filled with mercenaries and traders, where the scent of spice mingled with the salty sea air, you couldn’t help but feel invigorated.

Shame washed over you like a cold wave, a sharp pang of regret settling in your chest as you sat in Princess Helaena's solar, surrounded by the laughter of her twins, Jahaerys and Jahaera. The children, mere five summers old, served as a vivid reminder of your absence; Helaena had brought them into the world at the tender age of fourteen, while you had been lost in the allure of Essos. Your own selfish pursuits had drawn you away from Westeros, leaving your dear friend to navigate the tides of motherhood without your companionship.

But now, fate had drawn you back to Westeros, though the reason for your return eluded you—perhaps it was mere curiosity, or a desire to witness the Targaryens as they embarked on a path toward their own ruin. Perhaps it was simply the lingering comfort of a maternal embrace that Queen Alicent had once offered you. One thing remained certain: you were back, unchanged yet bound by the curse that clung to the Mikaelsons. You still appeared as you had, forever encased at the tender age of six and ten, the same age at which you had died nearly six centuries ago.

The twins were a study in contrast. Jaehaerys, the young prince, was somber and introspective, casting shy glances your way from beneath the curtain of his silver hair. In contrast, Jaehaera exuded a lively spirit, her laughter as bright as the morning sun. She was a sweet girl, eager for your attention, her small hands clutching her beloved dolls as she beckoned you to join her in playful realms of castles and grand adventures. Every so often, Jaehaerys would join in, indulging his sister’s imagination by taking on the role of a fierce dragon, albeit with a reluctance that made his quiet demeanor all the more endearing.

“I have missed you,” Helaena said softly from her place on the chaise, delicate fingers working through the intricate patterns of her embroidery, her gaze never leaving the fabric.

You met her gaze, a frown momentarily shadowing your features, your heart tightening at the sight of her. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as you replied, "As I have missed you, princess. I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence."

“But you have returned, and that is what matters,” she replied with a tranquil certainty, her expression unwavering.

With a nod, you maintained your tight-lipped smile, the corners of your mouth struggling to lift fully. “Indeed, I have, and I hope to stay here for as long as fate allows.”

As you resumed your playful moments with the twins — Helaena’s voice broke through the lighthearted chaos as she called your name. “Pray tell, how old were you when you came to court?”

Your lips pursed gently as you recounted, your tone tense but soft, “I was but six and ten years, my dear princess.”

An oblivious smile spread across Helaena's face, illuminating her features. “And yet you appear unchanged, as if untouched by time’s passage. Like a Lepidoptera,” she remarked, her imagination weaving images as vivid as the embroidered fabrics around her.

Your brows knitted in puzzlement. "A what, my princess?"

"A Lepidoptera," she patiently repeated, her eyes shimmering with youthful curiosity. "It is a classification that encompasses butterflies, which remain breathtakingly lovely until the end of their days."

A bittersweet pang echoed within you at her words, for you were destined for a far different fate, cursed to wander the shadows as a creature of the night. Yet, you offered a slight nod, managing a soft, "Thank you, my princess," as you absorbed the weight of her innocent compliment.

“And yet, I cannot claim to have missed you as intensely as Aemond has,” Helaena mused, her gaze distant as you idly threaded your fingers through Jaehaera's shimmering locks of silver.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you mean,” you replied softly, masking your understanding with a facade of innocence.

“I believe you are quite aware,” Helaena said softly, a melodic note in her voice, her smile lingering with a teasing warmth, “Aemond has loved you since he was a mere boy.”

You cast her a sidelong glance before adopting an air of nonchalance. “Love is a weighty term for one so young, Princess. Surely, it was nothing more than a fleeting fancy.”

Helaena shook her head, her needlework a steady rhythm in her hands. “No, I do not believe so.”

Deep down, you didn't believe so either. Ever since your return to the depressive halls of King's Landing, a sensation had accompanied your every step—a watchful gaze lingering upon you. Aemond had worked to keep it hidden, but your heightened senses revealed the quiet intensity of his interest, as vivid as the summer sun.

There had been numerous revelations awaiting you upon your return to the Red Keep—the prideful births of young Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, the scandal of Rhaenyra and her uncle Daemon's elopement, and the grim decline of King Viserys's health, shadows stained upon the Iron Throne. Yet, the most haunting transformation was that of Prince Aemond.

Aegon had blossomed into the drunken sleaze you had always anticipated, a replica of the whims that dictated his every choice, but Aemond—oh, how he was the exact opposite of what you had envisioned. The youthful boy, once soft and unassuming, had unfurled into a striking figure, sharpened like the blade of a Targaryen sword, each line of his form etched with the harshness of time and expectation. His stature now towered over you, his presence immense, a tempest contained within the boundaries of a man’s body.

He seemed to carry within him a quiet fury, a storm beneath the surface, and it stirred something deep within you, a memory of that boy who had once been desperate for approval and had hope for a dragon. His boyish softness had been replaced by the resolute presence of a true dragon, a stark reminder of the power and peril that resided within his bloodline.

[erinprimette]

More details can be found on DeviantArt

[bayoubashsims]

The Goth-Crumplebottom Family Wedding, 1927

In the fall of 1927, two of SimCity's oldest families were joined together in holy matrimony with the marriage of Gunther and Cornelia Goth. The union of these two powerful families signify a new era for the clan, with talks of philantrophical endeavors and the development of new towns under the Goth Enterprises and the Crumplebottom Foundation.

The dashing groom, Gunther Goth (27), is a land developer for the family company, while the beautiful bride, Cornelia Crumplebottom (25), is the heiress of the Crumplebottom canned prunes. The event was held in the town of Moonlight Falls, where both families reside.

The colors purple and violet dotted the event whether in the roses that decorated the party or in the outfits of the attendants. The wedding reception was held later that evening, where many of the local families of Moonlight Falls attended as well as SimCity's other influential families, such as the Landgrabbs and the Capps.

See guest list

The wedding was attended by (clockwise):

The Groom's Side

Victor Goth (58): The father of the groom, the President of Goth Enterprises

Samuel Goth (55): The brother of Victor Goth, the Vice President of Goth Enterprises, and Best Man

Frida Goth (33): The elder sister of the groom

Minerva Goth (82): The paternal grandmother of the groom, advisor and silent partner of Goth Enterprises, from Midnight Hollow

Gretle Goth (55): The mother of the groom and the chatelaine of Abundant Richness, the family estate

The Bride's Side

Agatha Crumplebottom (18): A cousin of the family from Henford-on-Bagley and Bridesmaid

Agnes Crumplebottom (18): The younger sister of the bride and Bridesmaid

Simon Crumplebottom (57): The father of the bride and the President of the Crumplebottom Canned Prunes Company

Beatrice Crumplebottom (23): A cousin of the family and ward of the Crumplebottoms and Bridesmaid

Belinda Crumplebottom (16): A cousin of the family and ward of the Crumplebottoms

Bianca Crumplebottom (9): A cousin of the family and ward of the Crumplebottoms

Elmira Clamp (32): A cousin and former ward of the Crumplebottoms and a librarian

Ian Arneson (7): A cousin of the family and ward of Elmira Clamp

Prudence Crumplebottom (56): The mother of the bride, the head of the Crumplebottom Foundation

The Servers

BACK ROW

Hilda Almeria (Maid of the Goths)

Nurse Dorothea Danvers (Nurse of Minerva Goth)

Xiao Zheng (Butler of the Goths)

James Higgins (Footman of the Goths) FRONT ROW

Yvette Fouchier (Maid of the Crumplebottoms)

Nanny Tempeste Tilani (Cook of the Crumplebottoms)

Amsel Gough (Butler of the Crumplebottoms)

Alfred (Footman of the Crumplebottoms)

[graysparrowao3]

Baldur's Gate 3 Fic Masterlist

Last updated Sept 16th 2024

Hi there, I'm Gray (or Sparrow!)! I didn't really want the 'ao3' to be always at the end of my name, but I got the username and title mixed up when I was making the account, and here we are lol.

I really enjoy writing Baldur's Gate 3 fanfic, especially based on Rolan, Cal, and Lia but most anyone really, especially NPCs (and, apparently, an unexpected series featuring Rugan and Aradin).

I've loved finding so many friends and talented folks in the fandom, please feel welcome to connect 💛

[Fic list under cut]

Multi-Chapter fics - Mature & Explicit

What if Rolan was a Companion. Complete. Mature Follows the game with Rolan as a companion and gn!Tav.

What if Rolan was a Companion... and Everything Went Wrong. In progress, on hiatus, Companion piece to the above. The game with Rolan, angst, and pain.

The Elturian Prodigy - Currently In progress, Explicit due to violence. A story of Rolan, Cal, and Lia, or 'What Baldur's Gate 3 looks like in my head'.

What if Kanon Lived. In progress, not published. An alternate timeline of the game in which, you guessed it, Kanon lived.

Rolan, Cal, & Lia One shots - General/Teen

A Perfectly Reasonable Exchange. General. Rolan and gn!Tav go on a romantic walk, then Cal and Lia ask how it went.

The Bet. General. Cal and Lia try to keep romantic liaisons secret from Rolan.

Distraction. General. Lia must distract Rolan and Cal so her lover can sneak away.

Our Turn. Teen and Up. Cal and Lia take care of Rolan after he defeats Lorroakan. Emotional hurt. Inspired by this art by @dreaminginpencil.

Aradin & Rugan (guest star Zevlor) - Explicit

What if Aradin pushed Zevlor too far. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. ZevlorxAradin. Aradin is a piece of shit. Zevlor puts him in his place. Secret Santa.

A One Night Stand at The Blushing Mermaid. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. RuganxAradin. Rugan finds a way to shut Aradin up.

A Second Night Stand at The ElfSong Tavern. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. Aradin hasn't learned his lesson. In appreciation for @benicemurphy.

A Third Night Stand Under the Stars. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. Aradin hits rock bottom. Rugan reluctantly tries to help him get his shit together. In appreciation for Merdyr.

Fourth Time's A Charm. Explicit sexual content. Rugan is tasked by the Zhent to kill Aradin. It doesn't quite go to plan. Requested by @fangbanger3000

Five Times Too Many. Explicit sexual content. Rugan and Aradin would've been best if they never met again. But they did. In appreciation for @lizziemajestic.

Six Times to Say Goodbye. Explicit sexual content. Rugan and Aradin meet for last time (lies). They've a few things to get sorted out. In appreciation of everyone's support.

Seven Times at Night, Once in the Morning. Explicit sexual content. Rugan and Aradin reconnect with actual mature conversation and sex. Rugan catches feels. In appreciation of Octoberskyies.

Oneshots with Other People's Tavs - Various Ratings

The Night at Last Light Inn. Explicit sexual content, Rolan and M!Tav, Nox, share a passionate night, belonging to and in collaboration with @bihanny.

Memories of Clover. Explicit sexual content, drama & romance with @azrielsbbg's F!Tav, Clover, winner of a Rolan fic giveaway.

Touch of The Tempest. Mature. Rolan tries to teach f!Tav, Nuelith, to control her magic, and triggers a terrifying loss of control. For Mandi.

A Wizard Keeps His Word. Mature. Atop the Elder Brain, Gale sacrifices himself for his lovers f!tav, Kira, and Astarion. For @callmesimplyflo.

Happily Ever After. General, Astarion and Ghost (m!Tav), in domestic bliss. Secret Santa for Eddie.

Despair. Deliberation. Defiance. Mature. The Dark Urge is confronted and comforted by Jay, f!Tav, after slaying a tiefling bard. For jayofthenorth.

Rolan Lore / Head Canon - General

Rolan romantic line suggestion

Descent into Avernus / BG3 theme

Player-is-evil Rolan ending suggestion

Letters from Rolan

Auntie Ethel Vicious Mockery 1

Auntie Ethel Vicious Mockery 2

Rolan, Cal, and Lia react to Ramazith's Tower bathroom

Environment in Ramazith's Tower post-game

Ramazith's Tower post-game part 2

Rolan 'dating service video script'

Rolan's Hair

Cal's Hair

Cal post-game

Other Oneshots - Various Ratings

What if Lorroakan was Named Larry Pickle. Mature, Comedy with a lot of silliness and 4th wall breaks.

In Memory of Kanon. General, Kanon, no!

Commissioned and Gifted Art

Commissioned art for The Elturian Prodigy by Alvin Asiaten.

A beautiful three panel sexually explicit comic based on the intimate scene in Chapter 35 of the 'What if' fic by Lexindre.

A favourite scene from the 'What if' fic, Lexindre drew this incredible piece from Chapter 36 as a birthday gift.

[wc-confessions]

I’m anti-Bramblestar, but one thing I realized while reading Squirrelflight’s Hope is that Bramblestar never threatened Leafpool’s life like some anti-Bramblestar documents claim. He did stop her from treating Sunrise, but never threatened to kill her. Squirrelflight thought he would fight her, but he didn’t and he didn’t threaten her. I hate Bramblestar and he is abusive, but saying he threatened Leafpool or saying that he said he “would shred her” isn’t true. Just want to correct that. Direct excerpt below for those who don’t believe me.

“As Hawk and Snow clustered protectively around their campmate, Leafpool got to her paws. “You can argue until dawn for all I care.” She turned toward the medicine den. “All I know is that StarClan hasn’t told us to let this cat die. I’m fetching herbs to treat her. I will not sit vigil for a cat I could have saved.” She began to head across the clearing.

“No!” Bramblestar leaped in front of her, squaring his shoulders as he stared at her. Leafpool froze, her eyes wide.

Squirrelflight’s paws seemed rooted to the ground. Was Bramblestar going to fight her sister to stop her treating a wounded cat? As she blinked in disbelief, Sunrise let out a low groan. She was dying! Energy surged beneath Squirrelflight’s pelt. She crossed the clearing and pushed in front of Leafpool, meeting Bramblestar’s fierce gaze with her own. “Let her go,” she growled.

Bramblestar stared at her miserably. “We can’t keep doing this,” he whispered only loud enough for her to hear. Desperation edged his mew. “If you keep undermining my authority, you could destroy the whole Clan.”

Squirrelflight held her ground. “I have to do what I think is right.”

“Even if it costs you your Clan?”

“ThunderClan is stronger than that,” Squirrelflight spat. “At least I hope it is. If our future depends on letting a cat die, then it’s not the Clan I thought it was.”

Bramblestar stared at her. Uncertainty glittered in his gaze. “Why are you doing this to me?” His words pierced her heart. “You’re my deputy. You’re my mate. You’re supposed to support me.”

“Being a good deputy doesn’t mean blindly following orders.” Squirrelflight didn’t move. “It means standing up for what I believe, and this time, I believe I’m right.” The camp seemed to swim around her. She knew she was hurting him. But she had to convince him. As the Clan watched her silently, their eyes round in the moonlight, Bramblestar backed away.

His gaze flicked to Leafpool. “If you insist on treating Sunrise, go ahead. But take her to the medicine den. If she’s out of sight, perhaps the Clan will feel less angry.” He nodded toward the Sisters. “They can stay in the elders’ den. Berrynose and Bumblestripe will stand guard tonight. Move Millie, Brightheart, Cloudtail, and Graystripe to the nursery.” Around him, the Clan got to their paws. Mousewhisker and Twigbranch helped Tempest and Hawk lift Sunrise. Leafpool nosed her way into the medicine den. Bramblestar narrowed his eyes, his face like stone. Squirrelflight tried to drag her gaze from his, her heart cracking as he curled his lip. “StarClan wanted unity among the Clans,” he snarled. “Thanks to you, there’s not even unity in ThunderClan anymore.”

It’s still shitty how he did the whole situation with Sunrise, but yeah. He never threatened to kill Leafpool or “shredded her” like some documents claim. He’s still abusive, but making up things that never happened in the books spreads misinformation.

.

[damnwyverngems]

Monster Hunter Now’s update, Dancing in the Tempest:

The June update will bring Kushala Daora, Khezu, and Basarios. Kushala Daora will only appear through the new feature, Elder Dragon Interceptions. Khezu and Basarios will appear on the field once you have unlocked them in urgent quests in the new Season 2 story quest chapters.

Additional weapon type: Gunlance

#MHNow

[whitherwanderer]

3 // tempest

// 487 words. Anger isn't pretty and Sawyer isn't trying to be.

Yours is not the domain of ‘loveliness’.

You do not turn heads when you enter a room. You pull at skirts with discomfort. Your steps are less a glide and more of a march, and your hair doesn’t keep elegant curls’ like the other girls’ does. While they flit from group to group, greeting and giggling, you try to put on forced smiles and what conversations you manage to strike up are short, light, usually end with one of you excusing yourself to find a drink or get some air.

You understand there is no expectation for a lowborn midlander to rise to such fanciful heights as the Haillenarte socialites, but your well-meaning godmother tries to encourage you regardless, extolling the virtues of a well-connected woman. She pulls you into conversations with the elders who politely oblige, and you speak of your work in the manufactory, only to be given the polite, yet disinterested compliments about how proud you should be. You are reminded sorely that these are merchants and magisters whose hands have scarcely been sullied by ink, let alone oil, and you are ever more aware of your hyuran stature as they tilt to look at you.

Most have already heard about you. Critical. Overly serious. Disagreeable. A little stormcloud of a girl, your free-wheeling mother once teased, and though she meant it lovingly, the words haunt you well into your midlife. All things that a young woman should endeavor not to be, and yet you cannot convince yourself to put on the wool long enough to fool the flock. You were not born soft and delicate. You pulled at your lips in the mirror one day and found sharp teeth. But instead of reaching for the file, you tested your bite.

You were not the first, of course. Other little girls like you had long found their fangs and grew into them, offering up their swords in service: Of the sky, from the sky, for the sky. How you envied their silver armor, all of them walking together in one shining sea. No one questioned if they belonged. If their teeth had merit.

Why couldn’t someone value your anger, then? Were storms not a blessing for the farmer? Was this not the city whose matron goddess was exalted as Fury?

You pour yourself into your work. Mad scrawl turned metal, metal turned machine. This endless churn of concept, design, prototype, product appeals to your critical eye. Your seriousness demands the respect of your peers, and your disagreeable attitude is no worse than any of theirs. You fashion weapons for the weary because you have no wool to warm them and pray to Byregot that it is enough. Bark and bite are tools where charm avails you naught, and you hope the Fury smiles.

Yours is not the domain of ‘loveliness’. But a storm needn’t be lovely to draw all eyes to its brilliant light.

[sunspearesque]

The Bereaved Dunes

Summary:

In the Bereaved Dunes, where shadows weep, A tale of love and sorrow, bound to keep. Elia, my sun, in your memory I tread, Through sands of despair, where tears are shed. I should've taken you far away, my dear, To Dorne's warm embrace, where skies are clear. But fate had other plans, a cruel twist of hand, In the Bereaved Dunes, where sorrows expand.

A/N: I've often wondered, 'How did Oberyn receive the news of Elia's death? How did his mind grapple with such a profound tragedy?' This curiosity served as my inspiration for writing this piece. It is crucial to delve into the pivotal event that laid the foundation for all of his subsequent actions. This prologue marks the genesis of my upcoming series, 'Whispers of Vendetta,' wherein Elia's death remains canon (and I made use of some famous lines from ASOIAF books), though I've allowed myself creative freedom in depicting Oberyn's reaction and the events that follow. Big thanks to my sweet, sweet friend @palioom for her unwavering support <3 I hope this piece meets your liking xoxo

Rating: M

CW: angst; canon character death (Elia Martell); grief/mourning; sibling loss; brief description of death/injury

WC: 1.6K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

283 AC

"We cannot simply remain still… spineless, awaiting news of her safety and that of her children!" Oberyn's voice rang out, filled with fervor, as he directed his words at his elder brother.

Doran, vexed by his brother's persistence, hissed back in retort, "I've entrusted four of our most skilled soldiers with her protection, Oberyn! They will ensure her safety. Cease your incessant hovering!"

Oberyn's eyes bore into Doran's, smoldering with anger and worry, "They had better return with her unharmed, or I shall part their heads from their bodies myself!"

Twelve agonizing hours passed without any word of Elia. Silence hung heavy in the air, and Oberyn's unease deepened. He understood that the Dornish princess was not their highest priority, knowing that no one would make her safety their concern—not even her husband, the father of her children.

Her husband, that fucking bastard.

I should have spirited her and her two children away to Dorne the moment she sent for me. The instant he crowned that Stark girl as the queen of love and beauty, forsaking his own wife. I should have sensed the despair in her ever-saddened eyes. She sat there, abased and broken, her belly swollen with his child. Those smudged words in her letter, likely stained by her tears, should have served as reason enough to bring her back to Dorne, where she truly belonged among her people and her land.

Elia was no viper; she was more akin to a dove—gentle, serene, fragile yet resplendent, graceful, and generous to a fault. She was too generous for the rapacious beasts that surrounded her. Here in Dorne, she walked among vipers, none of them would ever harm her. In King's Landing, she had found herself surrounded by dragons and lions… who had torn her asunder, both figuratively and literally.

Every hour drifted by like a languid stream, sowing a tempest of dread deep within Oberyn's core. Why does no one share in my fear? Neither her kin, nor our people dwelling here. Why does the world remain unperturbed? Am I truly the only one who understands the depth of their malice? Their hatred for us? For her?

Oberyn paced his brother's solar ceaselessly, a restless specter, his sword ever-present at his side, primed for any declaration. Doran, seated nearby, muttered words beneath his breath, prayers? curses? who knows; their nature concealed in the shroud of his quiet contemplation.

Suddenly, the reverberation of frantic footfalls pierced the air, accompanied by the panting of a disheveled soldier. "My... My Princes, Your Highness," the soldier stammered, his voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. Words eluded him, his courage shattered. "They have… they've killed the King... they've taken the Princess's life... and her children's." Oberyn lunged forward, seizing the young man by the throat, his rage ignited like wildfire, "I will sever your vile tongue if such words pass your lips again!" he hissed, fury coursing through every fiber of his being. How dare he utter such blasphemy?

Doran shouted at him, a frantic plea to prevent his brother from inflicting harm. Oberyn's grip on the soldier's neck tightened, threatening to snap it in half, "how dare you speak her name with such lies!" Oberyn's face was but a hair's breadth away from the man's.

"Oberyn!" Doran's voice boomed louder now, snapping his brother from the abyss of his wrath.

Reluctantly, Oberyn released the man, who fell to his knees, coughing and gasping, muttering apologies amidst his tears, "I apologize, my prince... I apologize... I apologize," he babbled frantically, his form trembling.

Oberyn stood frozen in place, the world around him becoming a cacophony of muffled sounds. Blood surged in his ears and pounded in his head, rendering his limbs feeble and numb. The frantic movements of those around him and his older brother's inquiries and orders blurred into obscurity, leaving only the sensation of his own scalding skin, burning him alive. He longed to rip his garments from his body, to tear his flesh asunder, as the air grew oppressively thick and sweltering, suffocating him as if he were submerged beneath water. The tingling sensation in his fingertips and the throbbing pain in his right eye pierced his consciousness. It was as though he were aflame from within, feeling the molten flow of his blood beneath his searing skin.

Their shared life flashed before his eyes in an instant. He remembered her fragility, how he cradled her in his arms and heart. Those days when he pushed her wheelchair with gusto, eliciting laughter from her. She was a year his senior, yet her fragility and ailment demanded his physical protection. In turn, she fortified his spirit, offering solace in a world that sought to alter him. He visited her chamber daily, sharing tales of their parents and elder sibling, and she listened, offering comfort and understanding. He was her bastion, and she was his serenity. He was her army, and she was his peace. They were inseparable, and the notion of existence without one another seemed unfathomable.

The sun no longer bathed Dorne in its usual warmth on the day her remains returned to their homeland. That Dornish sun, once radiant, now dawned upon a lifetime burdened by sorrow. She had been his sun, his compass… and he, the unwavering sunflower, had turned to follow her every step. But now, he stood alone, adrift in a sea of grief and rage.

The maesters had begged him to avert his gaze, especially from her visage—or what remained of it, to be precise. They wished to preserve her memory, to shield the image of her serenity from the abhorrent tragedy she had endured. Oberyn, however, bore the weight of her demise squarely upon his own shoulders. He harbored the belief that it was his heedlessness, his momentary acquiescence to his brother’s commands, that had led to her tragic end. And as penance, he needed to engrave the gruesome sight of her shattered skull and broken mandible to his brain, so that the searing memory might forever scar his psyche.

He craved the pain, the unrelenting thirst for vengeance, for it was this anguish that would serve as a relentless reminder. He needed her tragic fate etched into the very fiber of his being, so that if ever a trace of empathy for these monsters dared to creep into his thoughts, the vivid memory of what they had stolen from him—the essence of his sweet Elia—would rip through his soul, leaving him wounded, but resolute in his pursuit of justice.

The absence of a sibling is an ineffable experience… alexithymic; one that defies the boundaries of expression. You see, a person's existence in this world is akin to that of a tree; the parents, the grandparents, and all the ancestors serve as the unwavering stem, the robust trunk that grounds and anchors one's very being. Your children, they are the intricate roots, extensions of your essence that traverse the world, existing as a continuation of you, and you, in turn, live life through them. But siblings... they are the branches.

To lose a sibling is to lose a part of yourself, a limb perhaps, one that may not kill you but certainly inflicts the agony of phantom pain. It lingers, this spectral ache, an ever-present reminder that punctuates your happiest moments, like a persistent thorn in your side, incessantly prodding you to remember what you have forfeited. It leaves behind a lingering melancholy, not potent enough to suffocate you to death, yet substantial enough to hinder the prospect of living life to its fullest.

But how does one even go about living life in the semblance of normalcy?

For a sibling is more than a mere bearer of shared genes; they are witnesses to your enduring connection with stubborn parents, companions in the labyrinthine maze of childhood, fellow travelers through the terrain of trauma. They are the ones who have beheld every facet of your being, every iteration of your existence.

In the years that followed, he embarked on a ceaseless flight, fleeing from her shadow, from the haunting memory of their love. Her name, once a melody on his tongue, now tasted acrid, too laden with pain to be cherished or recollected. His heart, once a sanctuary of devotion, was now filled with a venomous brew of hatred, anger, and an insatiable thirst for retribution. He yearned to hunt down every man across the Seven Kingdoms, to rend their flesh from bone with his own bare hands. Yet, deep within, he nurtured a more profound loathing—for himself, for his own frailty and cowardice.

Her death had sapped his strength, of that he was certain. He could no longer gaze upon the sun without wincing, nor could he behold the graceful palm trees that adorned every corner of Dorne without feeling his gut wrenching, as though it were on the verge of rupture. Even the taste of figs, her favored fruit, had become an agony to bear. And when he cast his eyes upon his own brother, he could not help but wish it had been he who suffered such a wretched fate, rather than his sweet Elia.

On bended knee, he knelt beside her sandstone tomb, on the eve of his departure from Dorne, where he would spend the impending years in solitude, far removed from the land they had once shared. Whispering amidst tears that welled in his eyes and his aching heart, And unbowed, unbent, and unbroken, you must rest, my Sun.

[that-glitter-chick]

Skystar Week Day 6! Omg we’re almost out of the woods! Phew. I love these challenges but I need some sleep lol. Today’s prompts are Belonging/Apart, the setting is G1 and the song I chose is ‘My Only Love’ from the American soundtrack to the original Sailor Moon dubbed anime. Medium is colored pencils.

The Council of Elders pester Starscream with suitor after suitor, hoping to tempt his Spark away from the lower class shuttle Skyfire. But the Crown Prince will have none of it. Though the Elders can keep them physically apart, the Seeker only belongs with his chosen. And we all know how stubborn Starscream can be!

I own the suitors Aileron, Runway, and Stratolaunch, as well as their patron Council members, Stormfront, Tempest and Spoiler featured in the fanfic linked above. Please don’t use them without asking, thank you🩷

[mel-0n-earth]

BG3 February Writing Challenge: Day 7

Day 7 (SFW): A heated argument with companion/LI

Original prompt list

[Oof, this is an angsty one guys. This is a standalone Dammon x Tav, but can also be read as a continuation of my series The Hellion's Heart, if you so desire. Either way, get ready for some big feels.]

Dammon stared out at the looming storm on the horizon, sky churning red with smoke and lightning. The city burned beneath their tower haven, and somewhere beyond, the Elder Brain lied in wait, hellbent on seizing the Gate and all Faerun by any means necessary. It was a horror worse than anything he’d ever faced in the Hells.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

He turned to regard Tav where stood in a huddle across the room, speaking to her companions in a hushed tone, presumably laying out a plan of attack for the upcoming battle. It had been a long time since he’d seen Tav prepared for battle, armor and all. Not since the Grove, at least. He hadn’t been prepared for it, the tempest of feelings the sight brewed in his chest.

He’d seen the Elder Brain soaring over the city, gargantuan and indomitable. He’d witnessed firsthand the destruction it commanded in its wake, the mindless ferocity of its thralls, And now, Tav was going after it. Gods, she was going to fight that thing. His stomach dropped at the thought, hands numb and blood roaring in his ears.

He might lose her today.

“Dammon?”

He blinked, eyes refocusing to the tower room. Tav was standing before him, mouth pressed in a flat line and hand rested over the hilt of her sword—the one he had made for her, thinking it would offer protection, keep her safe. What a fool he was.

His eyes darted over her silvery armor, already stained with blood. A bit of the sticky crimson had splattered across her face. How much more would be spilled tonight?

She’s so beautiful.

“We’re ready, I think,” he heard her say. “To move forward.”

“Oh, right…” His voice sounded hollow. “Do you have everything you need? Potions, weapons…”

“We’re as prepared as we can be.”

Dammon’s jaw clenched shut, composure hanging by a thread as he studied the mix of terror and resolve dancing in her eyes. She really planned to do this, to take on the Brain—the Absolute themselves. Panic rose in his throat. He tried and failed to swallow it down.

“Stay,” he said without thinking, mouth dry as it struggled to form that singular request.

Tav gave him a stunned look. “Dammon,” she said, brows knitting and voice brittle, “You know I can’t do that.”  

He shook his head, willing his voice to hold steady. “Why not? Your friends are plenty able, and you’re always on the front lines. You’ve fought an entire war leading from the front. Surely you can sit out one battle?”

“I…You know that’s not how this works.”

He knew he should drop it, but he couldn’t. A drop of venom slipped into his tone. “Since when?” he cut out.

She pulled back at that, the shock plain in her expression. “What do you mean ‘since when?’ You know the answer to that. This is my fight, Dammon. It has been since the beginning.” She gestured to her companions where they’d gathered near the exit. “I can’t just leave them now. I have to finish this. I need to fight.”

A thread had snapped somewhere in his chest, and Tav nearly recoiled at the result. He’d never raised his voice to her before, not even once. But he couldn’t stop himself. It felt like he was sending her to her grave. What kind of man would he be if he just stood idly by and let her walk freely to her own execution? “And what about this fight?!” He slapped a hand over his chest, eyes glistening with tears. “What about me? Why can you leave me, but not them?”

He saw her falter then, eyes darting about in search of a response. “It’s not forever, Dammon. I’ll come back—”

“And how do you know that?!” He was shouting now. The others were staring, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I mean, hells Tav, how do I know you have any chance of surviving this? Sure, if anyone could survive this, it would be you. But what if I don’t want to take that chance? What if I don’t want to gamble on something this important?”

“It’s not a gamble—”

“Isn’t it?” The words cracked in his throat, as if a long-caged fear had finally broken loose. He regarded her with a blue-hot stare, brow creased and heart aching with dread. “What am I supposed to do if you don’t come back? How am I supposed to go on after that?”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Dammon felt his anger chill to despair. He could see it in her eyes, that she wasn’t going to stay, that no matter what he said, she would fight.

Tears began to slip down his cheeks. She was right—this was too important. She had to finish it.

But gods, why did it have to be her?

Tav reached for him then, cradling his face in her hands and pulling him into a desperate kiss. He could tell from the way her mouth moved against him--she knew full well that this may be the last time she ever saw him.

His chest broke open, heart shattering as he sobbed against her. “You don’t have to fight, Tav. Please. Stay.”

She pressed her brow to his, eyes squeezed shut. “I have to go, but I’ll be back. I promise. I love you.”

One more tear-stained kiss, and she was turning to leave, weapon drawn and gripped in a tight-knuckled fist. Dammon watched as she joined her friends at the door, then cast one last devastating look at him before disappearing into the chaos.  

Dammon collapsed against a wall, face buried in his hands and body shaking with grief. In the Hells, he would have waited until he was alone, but now, he didn’t care who saw. It was just too much. Memories of her flashed before his eyes, as if their time together were on its dying breath. Tav covered in bruises after fighting goblins at the Grove, Tav’s sighs in his ear as he moved against her between cotton sheets, Tav laughing at something while they ate fried fish at a Tavern. The unfairness of it all tore a sob from his throat. They’d had so little time together.

He felt a hand on his shoulders. He knew without looking that it belonged to Alfira, though she didn’t utter a word.

“She’ll come back,” he said to himself more than anyone. “She has to.”

She had to.