#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

[cora-of-the-reef]

-She steps down from the railing, triton in hand. Her storm has only really affected the deck, who’d still has waves crashing into it-

“Hello, Lafayette. I am Cora Pleiades, Elder of the undersea. I’m here to speak to Caspian.”

-She does a small bow before pointing her triton at Lizzie-

“Allow me this and I’ll call off my storm and leave your crew alive.”

-It was already rough seas, but it seems to only worsen as dark clouds wrap above the Cresent moon ship… But only around the ship…-

-A wave, too big for even the rough sea, hits the side of the ship causing it to shake. Anyone in or on the ship would feel it.-

something is causing this. Someone is.

-Stepping onto the deck, this is what they’d see-

“Where is Caspian.”

(Ooc: HAIII CREWWW. GOOD FUCKING LUCKKKK- @edyn-tidestrider-is-trying @capn-liz @marchaljohn @herbesandseafoam )

[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)

[lamemaster]

Beyond Reason

Request: @liar-anubiass-blog Can I request some Glorfindel? Period, with a happy ending. I just want to hug this Lord so tightly🤗 "The reader is from a super closed people (like Martin's Valyrians). But she somehow meets Glorfindel and they fall in love. But this is completely unacceptable for her family, so much so that they would rather kill her than allow her to mix blood with a stranger. After learning about this and after attempts at negotiation, the elf helps her escape (the reader helps and completely agrees). And so Glorfindel, one evening after the wedding, worries that because of him, the reader is cursed by his own people and family.

Genre: fluff

Summary: Loving the Lord of the Golden Flower was a act beyond reason.

AN: Thank you for requesting this! I loved coming up with the reader's backstory. That said, I did make some changes to the story, but hopefully you like it!

Next up- Yandere Maglor/Maeglin x Reader Fall trope event list

Of all Middle-earth’s secrets, the Thilnar remain the most elusive to both the short-lived Secondborn and even the immortal Firstborn of Ilúvatar.

In days long past, before the Quendi ventured west to the Undying Lands, five great Elven clans shaped their histories: the Noldor, Sindar, Vanyar, Teleri, and the hidden Thilnar.

Unlike their kin, the Thilnar were known as masters of the mind. Skilled in enchantments and illusion, they alone escaped the clutches of Melkor, concealing themselves beneath his gaze in the vast, shadowed plains of Rhûn. They were the unheard note of Ilúvatar’s song, a secret strength hidden even from the Valar.

The Thilnar bore the beauty of the Firstborn, yet with bodies hardened by labor and hair like fire, a fierce, unearthly red.

Among their number, Mahtan and his brood were most renowned, clever enough to blend in among the Noldor, disappearing into legends that shielded their clan’s existence.

It was perhaps this connection to distant kin that led the eldest Fëanorian to seek his mother Nerdanel’s clan. And there, amid a colony of redheads so like himself, he found a piece of himself he’d long forgotten. A jarring sight even for him.

“Oldon, what do you have for me?” you ask, stroking your eagle’s soft feathers. He shifts on his perch, his talons clicking against your arm, but his claws are empty.

No letter. Again.

It’s the second month without a response from Glorfindel, much to your irritation. Huffing, you bury your frustration by coddling Oldon, who, unlike a certain someone has at least not forgotten you.

Your meeting with the Balrog Slayer had been an unexpected affair, a result of an errand the elders had entrusted to you.

It began with a letter from Rivendell’s Lord Elrond the Peredhel, whom your cousin Maedhros had once, rather broadly put, “fostered.”

The letter was abrupt, a somber summons. Armed with a small fortune in protective amulets, you had set off westward to check on distant kin.

But what awaited you was hardly a simple family visit. Instead, you found your nephew a wraith-like Maglor, mind shattered, wandering as if Ilúvatar himself had abandoned him. The amulets did their work, silencing his pained wailing, much to Rivendell’s collective relief, Elrond included.

You were halfway through securing your maddened nephew to your saddle when he twisted with surprising strength and bit another horse’s ear, sparking mayhem in the stables.

“What the fuck, Maglor?” you yelled, shoving a scroll between his teeth to muffle his groans of “Maedhros,” as his grimy hands tangled in your hair.

Distant kin, you mused bitterly, were an absolute nightmare.

That’s when you met him—Glorfindel, the fabled Balrog Slayer, storming towards you with the wrath of an oncoming tempest. “Have you no sense?” he thundered, moving to calm the distressed horse with one hand, his gaze burning with barely-contained fury.

He was… huge. Towering and golden, every inch of him exuding a presence that seemed to fill the stables, leaving barely any space for anyone else. Had he consumed the Balrog to achieve such a size? Or was this simply the nature of Western Elves?

You found yourself staring longer than polite, only to snap back to reality as you glared at Maglor, silently cursing him for sabotaging the grand first impression you’d hoped to make.

“It wasn’t me,” you muttered, gesturing toward Maglor, now conveniently gagged with the scroll and feigning innocence.

Glorfindel cast you a quizzical, unimpressed look, his arms crossed, brow arched.

So much for a romantic first meeting.

“Where the hell have you been?” you demand now, gripping his collar and pulling him toward you. Glorfindel stumbles slightly, his composure slipping under the unexpected intensity.

“I thought you’d died once again or something,” you mutter, heat rising to your cheeks as frustration and embarrassment mix, a maddening hindrance to your carefully held anger.

By Eru’s grace, you’d found the perfect excuse to venture to the Valley of Imladris, claiming you were merely escorting Maglor to visit his foster son.

After successfully entrusting a much more manageable Maglor to Elrond’s care, you wasted no time tracking down your elusive lover the golden-haired lord now looking at you with a sheepish, almost boyish expression, a soft hiccup escaping him in a nervous tick you’d come to know well.

"I... forgive me," he stammers, his usual commanding demeanor nowhere to be found. His voice catches as he shifts uncomfortably, unable to meet your eyes. He looks down, studying his own hands as if seeking some answer there. "I was being an idiot."

You cross your arms, though your heart aches to close the space between you. "What’s brewing in that stubborn mind of yours, Glorfindel? Just tell me." You take his hands, feeling the weight of them in your grasp.

Despite everything, you feel giddy, like an elfling beneath the open sky. Being with him did it to you.

He hesitates, then speaks, his voice barely audible over the steady rush of Rivendell’s river. “The Thilnar don’t… they don’t marry outside their clan, do they?” He glances up briefly, his bright eyes veiled in pain.

“Elrond told me… about excommunication, about the abandonment of kin,” he continues, his voice breaking. “How they erase you strip away your name, your home, your family…”

He pauses, struggling for words, his lips trembling. "I can’t do that to you,” he whispers, voice choked with unshed tears. "How could I knowing, I would be the one to take you from them? You would lose so much to be with me. Your people, your birthright everything you’ve known and loved, everything that shaped you." He bites down on the words, as if they burn, his gaze dropping back to the ground.

He pulls one hand free to swipe roughly at his eyes, the Balrog Slayer reduced to a vulnerable figure standing before you, every layer of armor stripped away. "I would never forgive myself if I caused that pain." He lets out a tremulous breath, and his voice is softer, raw, almost pleading. "But I can’t stop wanting this. Wanting… you."

It wasn’t an unfounded fear. Mahtan himself had faced it when he wed a Noldor. Others had been scrubbed from the clan scrolls, their names erased, exiled from history.

The Thilnar bound themselves closely to their own, and to step beyond those bonds meant forfeiting all ties to kin and clan.

The thought had crossed your mind, too. You loved your people, their ageless ways, their wisdom, their tradition. The surviving Thilnar were older than the decaying ruins of Utumno itself, and you bore the weight of their history with pride.

But truthfully, all the glory and mystery of the Thilnar paled beside the Lord of the Golden Flower.

If the choice was between eternity with your clan or with Glorfindel, you knew without question where your heart lay.

Years spent studying amulets and spells had taught you many things, yet no magic or incantation could sway the heart’s will. Cupping Glorfindel’s reddened face, you wipe away the tears from his cheeks, which are now flushed in embarrassment.

“I chose you long ago, you beautiful fool,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly as laughter and warmth slip into the words.

You watch hope flicker to life in his eyes, and the sight stirs something deep within you.“It was always you. Beyond the Thilnar, beyond the Sun and Moon, beyond any reason or tradition that dared to stand in my way.”

You pause, letting your thumb brush over his cheek, grounding yourself in the quiet strength of his presence. “Even if it meant leaving behind every part of my past... my choice would never change. You are where I belong.”

A tremor runs through you as the confession spills out, unguarded and fiercely true. “There is nothing I would not give up to be with you, Glorfindel. Not my clan, not my name, not even the home I once thought was everything. You are my home now. And I would choose you, again and again, across every life and every star.”

Not the first confession, nor the last, but perhaps the truest.

Like a blooming sunflower drawn irresistibly toward the Sun, Glorfindel pulls you into a kiss, his touch warm, golden, as though catching fire from within.

Of your kin, at least, you still possessed the ones who were beautifully, gloriously doomed. Though whether Maglor could bless a marriage was doubtful; he’d sooner curse it by proximity alone.

[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.

.

[that-glitter-chick]

Skystar Week Day 4! Today’s prompt is Furious/Surrender, the setting is G1 and the song I chose is ‘You should see me in a crown’ by Billie Enllish.

Crosswind, Tempest, Spoiler, Trimtab and Stormfront are my original characters, please do not use them without asking, thank you. 🩷

Please partake of the link to the fanfic for this illustration and I hope you enjoy it.😘

Over the course of one lunar cycle Starscream lost it all. Skyfire went missing during what was to be their last adventure together, and upon returning to the Vosian Royal Court to get help in finding his Conjunx all the Prince found was a Council of Elders ready to pounce upon the chance to strip him of what little freedom he ever had. Then the Decepticons arrived to claim his Kingdom…

[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.

[lazah-bang]