#four dancing elves

[ominous-potato96]

Tiefling Physiology Headcanons that nobody asked for!

I've been thinking a lot about tiefling Physiology and body language, but have found precision few resources on the subject. So I wrote my own! My fellow fanfic writers, please feel free to use this!

Includes physical traits of Tieflings and some body language (and by that I mean the tail)

Claws: Modified nails that are thicker, stronger, and sharper than human nails. They grow rapidly, typically ending in points.

Teeth: Rather than having four canines (two upper, two lower), Tieflings have 6 to 8 (double canines on the upper jaw and either single or double on the lower jaw). Canines are elongated and much sharper than those of most other races.

Horns: The horns of a Tiefling are made primarily of bone, with a protective keratin layer. Their inner structure is not solid, but resembles a honeycomb, with blood vessels and nerves (I based this off of a cow's horn structure). Breaking a horn is excruciating and results in significant bleeding. Eventually the broken horn will develop a boney callous or cap to protect the inner structure from damage or infection. Horns DO have sensation, similar to that of fingernails in humans. Their primary function is dissipating excessive heat from the body and maintaining body temperature.

Ridges: Each Tiefling's pattern of ridges is subtly unique, though most follow a similar pattern: cartilaginous and bony bumps and/or ridges adorn the body. Ridges are most common on the elbows, upper arms, shoulders, chest, shoulder blades, along the spine and into the tail, hips, and thighs. Some (typically males) also have facial ridges along the brow, cheekbones, and chin. On the shoulder blades the vestigial remnants of wings can be found, including a claw-like spur.

Body Temperature: Tiefling body temperature can range from 99°F to 102°F (37.2°C to 38.8°C), making them noticeably warmer than other humanoids.

Eyes: Tiefling eyes can have either black or white sclera (some say that this is connected to parentage, white being human parents and black being from tiefling parents, but these claims have not been substantiated) and irises of almost any color with glowing, dancing flames framing the pupil. Pupils can be rounded or vertical slits (cat-like).

Tongue: A tiefling can have either a single pointed tongue or a forked tongue. In either case, the tongue is usually slightly longer on average than a human's.

Ears: Tieflings, like elves, have pointed ears which can be highly sensitive to stimulation.

Vocalizations: Obviously, Tieflings can talk, but they also have a range of other vocalizations. Growling, snarling, and even purring have been observed.

Tail: The tail is prehensile, usable to pick up and grip objects, assist in balance, express emotion (usually unconsciously), and can be used as an improvised weapon (not for stabbing, but it makes an excellent whip.) Some tails have a barb or spade-like structure at the tip, which is made of flexible cartilage. Sensitivity varies for each individual, but commonly the tail is not overly sensitive at the tip, but the base and underside can be.

Tail posture and movement can be very informative on a tiefling's emotions:

Happy/Excited: Tail is upright with the tip flicking or waving forward and back.

Angry/Agitated: Tail is low and whipping from side to side.

Nervous/Anxious: Tail is either tucked or wrapped around the tiefling's own leg.

Affectionate: To express affection (typically romantic) a tiefling will wind their tail around another person's ankle or wrist. If the other person also has a tail, they may link or intertwine tails. This is usually done as a romantic (but polite) gesture but is also seen with parents and children. It's equivalent to holding hands.

Possessive/Protective: A tiefling may wrap their tail around their partners thigh or waist if they feel possessive or protective. This is typically frowned upon in public as it is fairly intimate.

Presenting: When a tiefling is interested in someone sexually, their tail will be held up in an "S" shape. This is done by both males and females, and usually subconscious...which can lead to some very awkward situations...

[thewritetofreespeech]

A Million Relms Away

words: 2.8K

rating: E

pairing: Astarion x Tav

tags: heterosexual sex, sex & comfort, oral (female), mentions of emotional trauma, Nym & Sorn

summary: You and Astarion return to Sharass' Caress to take the Twins up on their offer. But you have to wonder if this is really what he wants.

Ao3

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What better way to celebrate a victory than with passionate sex?

With Cazador defeated, and Astarion free, you decided to reward yourselves by taking the infamous drow twins of Sharass’ Caress up on their offer.

They seem delighted to see you again. Although it maybe that they are just delighted to see your gold again. Still, they take you gently by the hand and lead you both upstairs. Nym made some comments about bathing the room in darkness to enhance the experience. All part of the show more like. With a wave of her hand the room was indeed plunged into darkness. A black so thick you almost felt you could reach out and touch it.

“Be a dear and help me out of this, won’t you?” The beautiful drow’s voice beckons to you. Leading your hands to the clasps of her dress for you to undo. The soft silks falling away in a pool at her delicate feet.

The remaining members of the party all undress at their leisure before all four of you arrive at the bed. Nym takes your hand again. Only this time not to do her bidding but pull you in close to do yours. Her lips are soft and well cared for. Her skin smooth and cool under your fingertips as they slide over her upper arm.

“All right sweethearts. You are to dance with a professional, you’ll get your desire.”

Your eyes turn to Astarion in the dark. Professional?

Astarion wasn’t a professional. Sure, he was experienced. You knew that. But he wasn’t like the twins between them, getting paid to perform these services. He wasn’t a prostitute. He was…..Astarion. Wasn’t he?

“For this, I feel we should be paying you.” Sorn’s assumed compliment falls on deaf ears. Astarion wasn’t listening to him. He wasn’t listening to anyone. When you catch his gaze in the few moments Nym releases your lips to dance kisses over your shoulder, you realize that he’s a million realms away.

Astarion is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far away from here in his mind…..

“Stop.”

The elves all stop immediately and collectively pull away from each other at your single command.

“Is something wrong, darling?” Nym asked in her honey sweet voice. “Have we gone a little too fast for you?”

“No. It’s not that. I…can I just speak to Astarion alone for a moment?”

The twins look puzzled, as does Astarion, but respect your request. You were the client after all. The drow get up and pull on some thin robes quick before leaving the room. Instantly returning to its normal brightness without Nym’s shadow cloaking to cover the room.

“What’s wrong pet?” The vampire asked once you were alone. “Have I done something wrong? I suppose we didn’t really talk about ‘who would be paired with who’ before coming in here. We sort of jumped head first into it like always—“do you want to do this Astarion?”

He seemed taken aback by your questions. Blinking widely and opening & closing his mouth as those usually charming lips struggled to grasp onto some words. “W-Wh? Of course I do. I said I wanted to didn’t I!”

“You also said you weren’t comfortable with this just yet.” You reminded him.

Astarion huffed, annoyed, and moved to sit cross legged on the bed. No longer in one of his sensual poses. “That was before….”

“It was literally a few days ago.”

Though it may have felt like months, or eons, since you started off on your journey, it had really only been a short time since you had been traveling together. The experiences, the danger, the trauma, the trials. It all made it seem like the two of you had known each other much longer than you had. All your lives, it felt sometimes. In reality, the conversation you were talking about and the defeat of Cazador had only been just shy of a tenday ago. “I just want to make sure you’re ok with this. You just seemed…distant a while ago.”

Astarion doesn’t even bother to deny it or make a joke about how physically close he was too you. ‘How can I be distant when I was just moments from being inside you?’ You can almost hear his voice say in your mind. “I’m…not..not ok with this.” He told you honestly. “I thought I would be more ready with this. With Cazador gone…I thought things would be different. I would feel different.” You remember his words right after it happened. About feeling numb. After that he seemed to be back to normal. His usual charming, chipper-ish self. What a fool you had been to believe charlatan’s lie.

You reach out a hand and clasp it around one of his, hanging loose in his lap. “You don’t have to rush things.”

“You just seemed so excited.” He told you. Glancing out of the corner of his eyes to catch your gaze before looking down at the ornate blanket under him. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Telling me no isn’t ‘disappointing me’ Astarion.” You reach up from his hand to his handsome face. Cupping his cheek to look at you. You don’t want to force him, but you need him to look into your eyes for this. “I don’t ever want you to do anything you don’t want to do. This isn’t about what I want. It’s our relationship. And if you’re not ready for sex, or just not ready to have sex with hot drow twins, then I understand.”

Astarion scoffed once at your joke. Reaching up to take your hand in his. “I don’t hate sex you know.” He told you. “I just…don’t think I’m ready for group sex yet. Maybe I never will be again. It’s sick but…sometimes even when I was doing it for Cazador, I couldn’t help but like the attention. To have all those people ‘love me’ for a little while.” You knew that he knew that none of them truly loved him. They loved his body. They loved his charm. They loved what Astarion could do for them in the moment to make them feel pleasure, with no regard for his feelings, and that wasn’t love. “I don’t think I need that anymore. Others, I mean. With you…I know what it’s like to be really loved. And it feels better than all that ‘love’ put together. So maybe I really don’t need anyone else anymore.”

You felt your heart swell in your chest. With his vampire hearing he must be able to hear it but doesn’t comment on it. You lean in to give Astarion a kiss and he meets you halfway. It’s slow. Passionate. Deep. The kind of kiss that makes your lungs burn for air and the space between your legs ache for something more.

“We don’t have to do this you know.” You told him when you break away for air.

“I know.” He told you back. “I want to.”

His arms wrapped around you and suddenly you were on your back against the bed. The speed of the sudden shift in perspective making your head spin. Almost as much as the vision of Astarion hovering over top of you. His intense gaze. His hard body. The smell of his musk mixed with that cologne he wears washing over you. Stealth be damned in the face of self-care. It’s all Astarion. And he’s all yours.

You crane your next up to kiss him again, and again he comes down to meet you. Your lips crashing into each other. Your teeth connecting with his fangs now & then as you both seemed determined to reach even the deepest corners of your mouths. Wrapped in each other’s arms you can feel that Astarion was serious about wanting this. His erection hot against your belly and you shutter. Thinking about it being near your belly inside you.

He broke free of your lips and kissed a trail down your jaw towards your neck. You let out a full body shutter this time when you feel his fangs just whisper over the skin of your throat. Astarion’s deep chuckle coming up to your ear. Clearly amused and clearly aroused that you had been trained so well by your vampire lover to enjoy his teeth at your neck now.

His kisses go lower until they reach your breasts. His tongue was hot while his fingers were cold. The contrast making you moan. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”

Astarion shifted lower. Kissing over your ribs, your stomach, your naval, your hips. During the times you had had sex before, Astarion had always been thorough. But now it seemed like he was on a mission to map out your body. Relearn every part that made you moan or twitch. Find those weak spots that only he could find with the same precision as one of his daggers.

By the time he came to rest between your legs, you were already quivering. Between Nym earlier, and now this agonizing long path Astarion had built for himself, you felt ready to burst at even the slightest touch to your apex. You don’t, however, when his tongue caressed your wet folds. But your back ached off the bed like you had been possessed. Calling his name like some kind of prayer that would save you from this possession.

That skilled tongue, in more than just insults, licked over your entrance. Teasing the sensitive nub at the top of it with just the tip. The lapping at your folds slicked wet with your juices. You felt like you would go mad from the lust burning inside you.

On instinct you reach down to grab at Astarion’s hair. Blindly searching for purchase somewhere, in an attempt to ground yourself in this maelstrom of arousal, but realize quick what you were doing and let go. You don’t want to hurt him. The sound that came from Astarion, however, was not one of pain. If you could interpret it from the way his head bucked up against your hand. You actually couldn’t hear the sound fully as it was muffled by your cunt. You moan and grip his hair again, hopefully with less force this time.

The silk tresses indeed keep you grounded, but do nothing to stop the burning inside you.

One more flick of that sharp tongue over your clit and you were coming undone. Back arched, legs shaking, holding onto Astarion as he seemed committed to working you through this and drinking you down.

By the time your shakes had subsided, Astarion was already on top of you again. His face clean, although you could barely tell. Those red orbs of his were staring at you so intensely that it was hard to focus on anything else. You felt about as pinned to the mattress by his gaze as if he had gripped your hands above your head. “I’ve never wanted anyone in my life the way I want you.” The hand not keeping him upright above you reached down to your thigh and lifted it up next to his hip. “May I?”

“Yes Astarion.”

He probably could have asked you for anything at that moment. All of the camps gold? Sure. The Moonlight Glaive Dame Aliyn gave you? Where should you leave it. Your soul? He already had it.

The fact that he wants what you want, to be one at this moment, was more than a happy coincidence you were more than willing to abide. You were moments from begging Astarion to be inside you before he asked. Thrusting his cock inside you quickly after your reply to the sound of your unabashed moans.

In the past, when you and Astarion have had sex, his movements are always controlled. He would thrust his hips in a very precise manner. Built on technique he had likely developed over decades and hundreds of lovers to bring the exact amount of pleasure to bring them to climax. He’s done it to you too before. And he always seemed pretty proud of himself.

Now, however, Astarion was fucking into you like a mad man. His thrusts were hard and fast. As if with every thrust he was trying to get deeper inside you. Or not thrusting at all as he rolled his hips against you. Like those few seconds of being not completely inside you was too much to bear. You hold on to him tight with your legs and your fingers. Nails scratching at his back at one particularly thrust, causing Astarion to moan your name in your ear.

You catch a glimpse of his face when you open your eyes. Twisted closed in pleasure for so long that you almost had to open them to prove you could again. The look on his face made you moan and the walls around his quiver. Before where he looked a million miles away, he now looked like he couldn’t be more present and focused on you. Like no one else in the world existed but the two of you.

You pull him down into a kiss. Messy and hot. Your lips sliding over each other as it was hard to keep them together with Astarion thrusting the way he was. “Astarion…” you call out to him through labored breath, “I’m going to…I’m gonna cum.”

The vampire just groaned. No witty comment of ‘cum for me my love’ or ‘lets die a little together then’ like usual. Instead, he just held on to your hips tight and continued thrusting until he all of a sudden stopped inside you. Your own orgasm following close after.

The two of you collapsed onto the bed. Exhausted. You haven’t been this worn out since going through Shar’s temple. But this was much more enjoyable. “We should probably get going.” You look down at Astarion, who lifted his head from your chest and shoulder where he had been resting to look at you. “These brothels charge by the hour. Gods know how long we’ve been in here now, but I’m sure if we stay any longer, they’ll have us working off out depts to the clientele.”

You chuckle a little at the joke. “Ok. I guess I can’t keep you all to myself forever.”

“I never said that.” The cheeky grin on his face had a softer hue to it than normal as he sat up. Taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles. “Just not in a place that would cost us all our coin.”

You both untangle from the bed and clean up a little with the water & rags provided, before you dress and head out the door.

Astarion was much more well versed in leaving brothels. Knowing to keep his head down and keep moving until you made it out the front door. You, however, were not aware of this rule, and catch sight of Nym and her clever smile just before you make it down the stairs.

“Hey, um…sorry about…you know…kicking you out…stealing your room….”

The drow lifted one delicate hand to silence your apology. “You needn’t apologize. I was listening at the door.” She let out a lyrical little chuckle at your probably mortified look. “Don’t be so embarrassed. This is a brothel. There are clients far and wide that pay for such a service.” But you were sure the parties were in on it; you want to say back to her. “But, I sell love for a living and what you two have well…it’s special. To have such passion, but also respect for one another, is a rare thing. You should cherish it. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed in being able to taste just a bit of it, but I would never want to get in the way of what you have.”

You thank her for your understanding and compliment. You tell her to keep the money, not that she made any offer to give it back to you, and move to catch up to Astarion. Who was waiting for you outside the door. “Was she heartbroken?”

“Oh, devastated.” You told him as you linked your arm around his to head back to Elfsong and meet up with the other. “Are you alright though?”

“Hm…I am.” He replied after a moment of thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as ‘alright’ as I am right now.”

“That’s not just the sex high talking, is it?”

Astarion laughed. “No. I think not. But I would be willing to test the theory though. Ask me again in a few hours. Then, tonight, when I come to have you again, you can ask me once more. We’ll go from there.”

You blush at Astarion’s explanation of his ‘scientific testing’ method. You wondered if you had perhaps some kind of beast in Astarion. More than just a hunger for blood that lay below his vampire surface. You just hoped you had the stamina for both.

[poetryvampire]

✨A Healing Touch ✨

Summery: You and a few fellow druids join with the teifling refugees as they make their way to the Emerald Grove. Zevlor has fallen for you completely but will he ever be able to overcome his anxieties and accept the love you have to offer him?

Pairing: Zevlor x Fem! Reader/Tav

Words: 3,886

Contents: druid! reader/tav, mutual pining, self-esteem issues, angst, hurt/comfort, age gap, nsft, making out, masturbation, p in v sex, cunnilingus, premature ejaculation

Notes: I wrote some angsty headcanons for Zevlor dealing with is feeling for reader (original Here). I wanted to add to it and make it more explicit. There will be an least another chapter. You can read on a03 Here or below! 💚

 It would have been a lie to say that you hadn’t been on Zelvor’s mind from the moment of your meeting. As much as he hated to admit it, it had been seared thoroughly into his mind. 

 He remembered his apprehension at the idea of accepting your small party of land druids to join his group of refugees.The hours of talk with your Archdruid- a stern but sensible elf- lead to a peaceful agreement. She talked of her handful of druids being forced to flee their forest from hostel creatures and now sought a new home. Zevlor had planned to lead his people to the Emerald Grove to settle at least temporarily. It only made sense to join forces.

What eased his mind most was the diversity of your party; four elves, two tieflings and a human. It was an odd grouping to say the least, but genuine. Friends of his kind were friends of his. Plus Zevlor hoped that being in the company of elves may help their chances at the Grove. That evening, once the negotiating was said and done the commander did his usual walk through the camp, taking care to note the new faces. He had one remaining elf and the human still to meet. 

Then he saw you. A human woman, sprawled in the grass, laughing with your elven friend. Your antics had left you trying to adjust the flowers that had been braided into your hair. Your smile struck him; it was so warm and joyous. He was gripped with the sudden urge to have it turned on him. As if you had read his mind your bright eyes snapped to him. Smile ever on your lips you rose and made your way straight to him. Zavlor’s heart skipped a beat. You were a vision, one that could be easily mistaken for a  fairy maiden from a romantic tale of old. 

 To Zevlor’s surprise you bowed to him offering many thanks for his kindness in taking you in. He attempted to wave away such words, truly it was hardly a sacrifice. But you insisted that you would work hard to do anything you could to help. Your noble worlds and closeness of your beauty sparked something in Zevlor he thought long dead. Something akin to a boyish crush hit him like a hoof. He stumbled his way through a response, too taken by the warm light of the campfire dancing with the flowers in your hair. 

 That was to be the first of many interactions the tiefling would play over in his head endlessly. Your presence did wonders to slow his thoughts and make himself act a clown. It had been easy to dismiss at first. It was simply nature at play. You were young and gorgeous, a common bane to reason and sensibility. Zevlor marked the undeniable tension your presence brought as a passing interest he would soon forget about entirely. This was not the case. 

 As the weeks went by and your travels pressed on, your place in Zevlor’s mind only grew. Instantly you became an active member of the camp, ready to lend a hand to anyone. Without fail you always greeted him with a smile and a kind word, a simple action that Zevlor found himself looking forward to. Just as he would look forward to your daily conversations, the way they turned from awkward to easy. How they’d grown to be hours in length and moved over meals, cups of tea, long walks in the woods. In any form they were unquestionably the best part of his day. 

 Settling in the Emerald Grove was chaotic to say the very least. The tiefling commander was painfully aware of how precarious their new lodgings were. As he had predicted the accompaniment of the fellow druids had helped their case for their settlement. Though there are many among them ready to throw the tieflings away without a second thought. Another correct prediction, the druids of the Grove had offered permanent placement among them to all of your circle but the tiefling druids. The offer was hastily turned down to Zelvor’s great surprise. Your loyalty and care for your companions regardless of race moved him deeply. Plus,he thanked the Gods for you still being a part of his life.   

 As much as he had tried there was no longer any point of denying it. He was going half mad with yearning for you. Day and night he was consumed with visions of your beauty; from simple dreams of your perfect lips to impressions of how your face might contort in pleasure underneath him. It had been almost decades since the commander had felt such strong emotion for anyone. Your young, vivacious spirit was contagious and had rekindled things long forgotten in Zevlor’s soul. He was suddenly aware just how long it had been since he had felt the warmth of another’s skin on his. It was a craving growing stronger in him by the day. 

 In his Hellrider days he had seen and participated in his share of lustful adventures. He was no stranger to such things nor would he call himself a prude.That version of Zevlor felt a lifetime away. He had lost everything since then, his confidence included. In his mind there was no chance a creature as lovely as you would ever have eyes for someone as loathsome as him. It made his desire for you feel even more despicable. 

 Shame weighed heavy in his chest when he caught his eyes lingering on you. In typical druid fashion you weren’t shy about your body. You didn’t have a second thought about hiking up your skirt to climb through bushes to collect berries, or how you licked their juices from your fingers as you brought back a basket full. Zevlor hated himself for the lewd thoughts that plagued him. 

 Many sleepless nights had passed before he gave in. Before he pushed his tangled blankets off in the darkness and finally brought his hand to his painfully hard cock. Swiping his thumb across his soaked head, he conjured the image of you earlier that day. You had taken your time serving him tea, leaning across the table before him. With a lower cut dress then normal you went about your actions not noticing- or caring- for the full view of your cleavage you gave him. Zevlor bucked his hips frantically into his hand. He would have pulled you into his lap right then if he could; would have ripped your dress away and lavished every inch of neck and chest with his mouth. It only took the vision of Zevlor’s hands on your hips as he guided you down on to his manhood to push him over the edge.        

  He scolded himself for the old pervert that he was, hating the idea that he was using you for his wanton desires. Yet, the commander half wished those were the only feelings he held for you. To imagine his life without your friendship seemed too much to bear. Had the both of you not been stuck in such a stressful situation Zevlor would have courted you properly, as you deserved. But for the time being he was determined to keep his emotions to himself.               

                                                            -   

  Once again Zevlor found himself at your side. After running into each other time and time again in the surrounding forest you began planning outings together. He shared your love for the quiet peace of nature. As the tiefling sat in the grass writing in his journal you were perched on a rock trying to sketch the landscape. 

“I feel like a person could go mad staring at anything for too long.” you huffed, breaking the silence.

Zevlor snapped back to himself, his mind having been deep in thought over the tension with the druids of the Grove. Had he been staring? 

“Your muse isn’t speaking to you today then?” He smiled. Even when frustrated you were breathtaking.    

 “I suppose not. They’ve been a terrible tease lately.” 

 “How boarish.” Zevlor sighed, closing his book. “If you like I could knock some sense into them.”             

 You mock a gasp and press the back of your hand to your forehead. 

 “Would you defend me so, my brave paladin?”

“I would like nothing more, my lovely druid.” the words left him before he could stop himself. Perhaps that was a slight overstep. 

 Your eyes met his and held his gaze, a warm smile ever present on your lips. With the greenery of the woods around you, you seem the very model of enchantment. How could Zevlor even consider courting you when you deserved so much better. His hands tightened around his journal wherein he had penned several poems professing his devotion to you. He would never let you see them but his heart had always held a soft spot of the genre. It was a captivating means of embodying the truest forms of beauty and raw emotion. It was perfectly suited for you. 

 Zevlor lowered his eyes first, clearing his throat and flipping through his book. He pretended to look for something all the while feeling your eyes still on him.There were times he could have sworn that your eyes held something akin to -no he couldn’t think that. He pushed it from his head. Holding on to false hope would only make things more painful. 

 You stand and hold your sketchbook out in front of you, eyes darting between it and the land itself. 

 “Something just seems off.” You move back and forth trying to find just the right angle. “Zevlor, could you come here?” 

“Of course,” he stood to join you and to his great surprise you lightly placed your hands on his shoulders to adjust his position. 

“Right, so now,” you turned and held out your book once more. “You see how you can tell the natural depth of the trees? I feel like I’ve mucked up the shading somehow. Mine just looks all stacked over each other. What do you think?” 

Zevlor moved slightly forward, careful not to actually touch you, his head hovered just over your shoulder. He squinted, moving his eyes from the scenery to your sketch. As always he was impressed with your work and could make out no significant difference between the two. 

 “I may not have the skill to offer much help, to me the likeness is impeccable.” Zevlor turned his gaze to you and was suddenly hit with an intoxicating scent. Something fresh and sweet as an orange blossom filled his lungs. Had he never noticed or was this the closest he’d ever stood to you? He watched your lips- your full, perfectly shaped lips- curve into a smile. 

 “You’re too kind. I should probably leave it  for now. I’ve been staring so long my eyes are beginning-” Abruptly, you turned and lost your words. Your faces were no more than an inch apart.    

Zevlor froze, his eyes darting from yours to your still parted mouth. The paladin’s mind screamed at him to back away but his body was rooted in place. You let out a shaking breath before you closed the space between you and pressed your lips to his. A wave of shock snapped through Zevlor like a bolt of lightning. He had barely processed what was happening as he felt your hands press against his broad chest. How had he fallen into a dream without even realizing?

 Ever so slightly you pulled back to search Zevlor’s face with wide eyes. He cannot make sense of all the thoughts racing through his mind. Dream or not he can’t stomach the loss of contact. Curling his hand around the back of your neck he takes your lips hungrily with deep frantic kisses. You surrender to him happily as you fully part your lips welcoming him in. You both can’t help but moan at the taste of each other.    

  Tongues dancing, heads dizzy, Zevlor barely noticed he was moving until he had you pushed against a tree. He could barely think of anything apart from the warmth of your mouth. His body now fully pressed to you, he was half expecting for you to push him away. Again to his surprise your arms locked about him, your hands grabbing his armor as if to keep him as close as possible. Despite his blood running heavy with desire he kept his hands in place; one tangled in your hair, the other pressed firmly on your waist. 

The clash of metal on metal shot through the trees. Zevlor broke away from your embrace, mind snapping to action in case he had to defend you. Luckily the sound of multiple footsteps was followed by some familiar voices. 

“Those are brand new! Could you try being careful?” said one. 

“I am!” another answered. “I’d like to see you lift this much.” 

 It seemed their friends that had set off to barter down at the market had some success. Their voices echoed through the quiet woods as the party broke into two. One headed to the Grove the others settled in the grass not too far away.

“They’re back already?” the woe in your voice was apparent.  

  Zevlor casted his eyes away from your blushing faces. His senses were coming back to him and he was shocked by the brashness of his actions. The shame was drowned in an instant as your hand caressed his cheek, turning him back to you.                   

 “They’ll be looking for me. I promised to meet them and help with supper.” you sighed. “We should get back.” 

Your words though sensible were a knife to the chest. Despite his conflicting emotions he didn’t want the dream to end so quickly. He licked his lips trying to draw words but none would come. Confessions of love and longing thundered in his chest and he didn’t dare to let them out. 

“Zevlor,” his name had never sounded so honeyed. “Come to my tent tonight.” Your words are soft yet earnest. 

Zevlor’s flaming eyes studied you carefully. 

“You…” he speaks lowly. “You want this?” 

“Yes.” you placed a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

                                                               -

The preparations for dinner were a haze. You’d be methodically chopping carrots then suddenly be overcome with laughter. Your fellow cooks blamed it on too much sun, to which you gladly agreed. Being with Zevlor certainly felt as warm as sunlight. Once everything was ready and everyone gathered you sat as far from him as you could. The nerves and excitement tangling into you left you practically trembling. His closeness would only make it worse. That didn’t stop either of you from stealing glances throughout the meal.

Parting early you rushed to get back to your tent. You wanted to take your time bathing and fretting about what to wear, like some high lady. What were you in that moment if not a princess waiting for your valiant knight. Finally you were to be rescued from your aching loneliness and desire for the man that had done so much for you and your people. Painstakingly you smoothed the blankets over your bed roll, a smile on your lips. Zevlor was going to take you here, the very place you had pleasured yourself so many times to the thought of him.    

Night came and you waited nervously pacing the small interior of your tent. After much debate you had chosen to don a plain but revealing night dress. You hoped to make your affection for him very clear. Just as you began to question whether Zevlor would keep his word you heard his low voice break the silence.

 He was more dashing than you had ever seen him; dressed down, out of his armor, in a simple white ruffled shirt and brown trousers. Ever the gentlemen he held out a bouquet of wildflowers to you.    

 Trying your best not to swoon you took them and breathed in their sweetness. 

 “I did not want to be the only one surrounded by beauty tonight.” Zevlor offered. 

“You’re as humble as you are kind,” you smile, placing the flowers in a water jug. “Perhaps even too humble, if I may be so bold.” you move close to him. 

 “You may.” Zevlor breathes. He was awestruck at the sight of you, at the thinness of your gown, at everything you inspire in him. 

  Not wanting to waste another moment with the tiefling you adored, you pulled him into a kiss. As before you could feel passion coursing through him in seconds. His arms were tight around you pressing you to him, drawing a soft gasp for you. You could feel his warmth, his infernal ridges that decorated his chest rubbing against your hardening nipples. Creeping a hand up his shirt you savored the rich texture. Your desire for him stoked his courage as Zavlor explored your mouth with a ferocity you’d only dreamed of. He moved his hungry lips to your neck kissing and licking every inch he could get. 

A loud moan escaped you as he finally sank his teeth into you. Harder than you expected but not enough to draw blood. He sucked the skin, setting every part of you aflame. It was maddening, you were clinging to him but Zevlor had yet to move his hands from where they lay on you back.     

 With clumsy impatience you moved backward, pulling your knight with you down on the bed. Overcome with ever growing need you ripped away your night dress entirely and laid back completely exposed before Zevlor. You pressed your legs together, your wetness pooling as his infernal eyes raked over you. Certainly he would pounce, ravish you, take you as his own any second. To your dismay he pulled away a sudden concern washing over his face. 

 By the Gods Zevlor ached for you. But to see you like this, you were almost too lovely. In soul and in body. How could a fallen paladin like him be worthy of you?

“Zevlor?” you reach for him but still he makes no move.  

 He cursed himself, as always he’s making things worse. There's hurt building in your eyes, as if he could ever be displeased with you. Quelling your fears he lightly stroked your calf and planted a chaste kiss to your knee.

 “You’re perfect.” Zevlor smiled sadly. “You deserve better than an old man like me.”

 You let out a warm laugh. 

"Zevlor," you plead. "Touch me, please. Just look at what you do to me" 

You spread your legs before him, pulling a hungry moan from his throat. Your sex  glistened in the low light, ready for him. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so enchanted or afraid. Lovingly you take his hands in yours and kiss his palms and pressed them to your flesh. Soon they're moving on their own, spreading reverent caresses over every inch of you. His rough fingers toyed with the sensitive buds of your breast ripping a wanton moan from you. 

  Zevlor pressed flush against you, causing you to whimper at the sensation of his hard bulge on your thigh. His mouth is praising you with the fervor of a paladin. Kissing your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. Automatically you opened your legs wider, hoping to spur him on. He takes a moment to admire you, his fingers running over your sex. Ever so gently he spreads your folds and groans at the sight of you fluttering with excitement.  

 His cock was so full, aching for relief but his discomfort was outweighed by his desire to taste you. He dragged his tongue over you painfully slow, methodically working your lips and clit. You were whining and trembling for him in no time, begging for more. There was nothing he could deny you. Zevlor gripped your thighs tight trying to keep you still as he worshiped you with his mouth, lapping you up like a man starved. It was dizzying, you writhed loving how firmly he had you spread, how powerful and thorough his strokes had become.  

 Zevlor breathed you in. You were delicious; nothing short of addicting. He was overwhelmed by it all. How impossibly soft you were, how ardently you moaned his name. No longer able to stop himself he began rutting into the bedroll feverishly. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away from you no matter how badly he was dying to be thrusting into you. 

 “Zevlor-Gods please, please I’m so- I’m so-” your words turn into unintelligible sobs under his ministrations. Before long the heated flicks of his tongue push you over the edge, making your whole body shake, your hips grinding against his mouth. Your pussy’s sudden pulsing and wetness under his tongue was electrifying. White hot pleasure shot through Zevlor, before he could even think to stop himself he came hard groaning against you. 

You fell limp, still panting his name. Zevlor stayed pressed to you lightly tracing your folds. He was mortified, shame bubbling in his gut. Unsure of what to do he slowly pulled away from you and released his grip on your legs. You let out a sharp hiss of pain, making the paladin freeze. His concern turns to horror as he looks you over only to see the fresh red cuts his nails have left on your thighs. You passed your hand over the markings, wincing.

A pained gasp leaves him as he backs away from you. He hadn’t been thinking. How could he have let himself be so foolish, let his infernal nature get the best of him. One of the fears that had driven him away from you for so long had become reality. Somehow he had failed you as a lover by cumming so easily and he had hurt you from lack of care without even having been inside you.                                                                                                                       

“I-I, I didn’t-” He could barely get the words out, a mixture of panic and anguish seizing his heart. 

“Zevlor, it’s-” 

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to act so recklessly.” His words are laced with distress. Zevlor lowers his head, practically bowing before you. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.” 

“Of course,” You reach for him but he stands, stepping away, eyes casted downward. 

“I shouldn’t have come here.” 

“It’s not- ahh- too bad.” you wince again as you stand to follow him.

“This was a mistake.” he shakes his head. “It won’t happen again,” 

 His words pierce you like a cold chill. 

 “What?” Your breath quickens, heat rising to your face. “No. I’m fine, it’s fine. Zevlor, please.” 

 Again you try to touch him but he moves away, eyes still not meeting yours. 

 “No. This-” he gestures between the two of you. “This shouldn’t be. I’m sorry.” 

 Before you can say anything Zevlor marches out of your tent into the night. You call after him, pleading for him to return. A part of you wanted to throw a blanket over yourself and run after him but you didn’t want to risk making a fool of yourself or of him. 

 You let out a cry, suddenly bursting into tears. The emotional whiplash of the day hit you hard. There’s a thousand desperate thoughts running through your mind. Overwhelmed, you curl up on your bed and sob softly into your pillow until sleep takes you.     

Thank you so much for reading <3

[boosoonhao]

even death (would be worth it)

wonwoo x reader 10k words supernatural au mentions of human sacrifice and cult behaviour

The forest feels alive. A weird thing, if you think about it, considering its name. It’s almost hilarious that the moment the Dead Forest feels the most alive; trees shivering and leaves dancing, wind humming a tune that at once feels both strange and familiar, is the day a woman is brought inside it to die. Wonwoo would have laughed at the irony of it, had he not been too busy frowning at the prospect of another human joining the ranks of elves, faeries and dryads occupying the greenness of his home. 

And not just any human, Wonwoo reminds himself with a sort of twinge of something unfamiliar and uncomfortable curling inside his stomach. This particular human, this ‘sacrificial lamb’ as the old woman had aptly named it, is his responsibility.

~~

For as long as there has been a forest, there has been Guardians; chosen beings of various species tasked with keeping the peace in the enclosed area of magical energies. The King was – at least as far as legends go –the first Guardian, as old as the forest itself and impossibly wise. No one knows how long he’s been around, or even what he truly is, but his authority is unquestionable. Wonwoo peers to his side, glances over at the ancient leader as the three of them; the King, the old human woman and Wonwoo himself, walk towards the clearing. 

As far as fabled creatures go, the King is an outlier even within the collection of his own people. Wonwoo knows faeries, he knows imps, he knows mermaids and dryads. There are mutations, combinations, halflings of most every species that reside within the Dead Forest that seem almost impossible on their own, but there is no one quite like the Forest King; who is not really a creature at all, as much as he is an entity. His head is adorned by two bright, soothingly glowing horns, both delicate and strong in appearance as they arch towards the sky like some sort of crown. In fact, his whole being seems to be bathed in this barely noticeable but somehow unavoidable light; his face softened by the smooth glow against ageless skin and his skin radiating with heat that makes Wonwoo feel as calm as he feels awestruck. 

The King’s steps echo through the darkness of the woods; four discordant clops of hooves against dirt. In the distance, Wonwoo hears voices. They must be early, then. 

“You were chosen as Guardian for a reason, Wonwoo,” the hollow, echo-y voice of the King comes from his side. When caught unaware, Wonwoo almost finds himself believing that the king is speaking directly in his head; had anyone told the dryad that his king was omnipotent, he would not be surprised. But as Wonwoo blinks and readjusts his attention towards his revered leader, he sees the King gazing right back at him, a calm expression curling the edges of his mouth upwards. “There is no reason to worry.” 

Wonwoo almost tells his king it’s not his role of Guardian he doubts; Wonwoo wears the title with as much pride as his dormant emotional spectrum allows him to and is willing to go great lengths to protect his reputation as the first dryad Guardian the Dead Forest has seen. It’s the task, the station dubbed ‘human protector’ that Wonwoo has his reservations about. 

At his side, the old woman hums, almost like some ominous sort of reminder of exactly what it is Wonwoo fears. He remembers – quite vividly – how the woman had looked when she first arrived; how long the scouting team had looked before finally finding her. The first woman Wonwoo had encountered in his lifetime at least had the common sense to sit tight, to wait for her death with trembling limbs and quiet sobs. The woman next to Wonwoo on the other hand, though she might be old and slow now, had been far less submissive. 

Wonwoo doesn’t know what this new one will be like; if she’ll be sitting by the clearing with a blindfold wet with tears or if they’ll have to scour the forest to find her curled up and bleeding behind some stub somewhere deep inside the woods. 

And even more unsettling, Wonwoo doesn’t know which option he’d prefer. 

“I’m not nervous,” Wonwoo simply responds instead, once he realizes that he’s been quiet for too long. Decades ago he might have refrained from conversing so casually with the King; both terrified and impressed with the power he wields and the dignity with which he does it, but Wonwoo has long since learned that his ruler is far more fond of comrades than he is of followers. Wonwoo never was good at pleasantries anyways. The King laughs; a full sound reminiscent of the sound of bells dancing in the wind, surprisingly soft and easy for such a monumentally powerful creature. 

“It’s just,” Wonwoo continues, head cocked to the side and eyes wandering along the soft flutter of tall grass at his feet. Daylight is fading quickly now; beams of sunshine running between thick tree trunks and hiding behind heavy clusters of branches and leaves. “The forest is very loud tonight.”

He swears he can hear footsteps, low murmurs and angry thoughts. They’re not even near the clearing yet. 

“The sacrifice is a crude tradition,” the old woman muses, voice steady and calm and strangely detached from the cruelty of her own people. Perhaps not so strange, considering years and years ago she was the one trapped in the forest, running blindly around between the trees. “No doubt the forest knows as well.” The wind roars, as if in agreement. 

Wonwoo, despite not having been present at the previous collections, have to agree. If he closes his eyes he can imagine it vividly; a row of humans clutching at a tight piece of rope, a crowd of people huddled just outside the forest. To make sure they don’t get lost, the old woman had explained once, though Wonwoo thinks that if they’re that afraid they might be better of staying out entirely. The forest doesn’t want them anyways.

His thoughts are still muddled, still full of cruel imagery when the three of them reach the clearing. There’s almost no sunlight left now, the forest covered in a muted darkness that makes the trees seem taller than they are, gives an illusion of hunched over shadows looming over them. Wonwoo isn’t afraid of the shadows. He’s more afraid of the human sitting quietly on the flat of a large, flat roundness of the cut down tree in the middle of the clearing. 

The blindfold – a precaution meant to confuse, to make sure the sacrifice doesn’t manage to wander off out of the forest before being claimed by whatever horrible, vengeful creature the humans believe reside in the woods – has fallen down, no longer obscuring your eyes. You twist your head around at the sound of footsteps, gaze hard as you make eye contact with Wonwoo. There’s something dark and unsettling in the stubbornness of your glare, but it might just be a trick of moonlight and darkness mixing up and settling like a bewitching sort of fog over the clearing. Your hands are tied, resting easily on your lap. Wonwoo can’t see your mouth, but somehow he knows you’re frowning, your brows furrowed and your body rigid as you regard the three of them. 

“Ah,” the old woman gasps, her own wrinkled fingers clutching at the rounded top of her cane. There’s something almost heartbreaking about the sheer amount of empathy in the sound. Beside Wonwoo, the King is very quiet. “She’s much younger this time.” 

Wonwoo knows very little of human lifespans, their ages so fickle and their time entirely too short to properly catalogue the stages they go through from birth til death. But he remembers how the old woman looked when she first arrived; youthful and vibrant and colorful, nothing like the shriveled up figure next to him now. You’re much the same, if a lot more dangerous looking; the glint in your eye entirely antagonistic and the stiffness of your shoulders balancing somewhere along the line between predator and prey. But he can tell, somehow, that the woman is right. When the woman arrived, she looked like she was finished growing, like the only way forward was into the decline that comes with aging. You look like you’re barely past the stage of blooming. Like you’re only just beginning. 

Wonwoo supposes that’s a tragedy, somehow. 

“Child,” the King murmurs, and you jerk your body away as if stung. Not in fear, Wonwoo realizes, but in disgust. If the King notices, he pays it no mind. He speaks in what Wonwoo assumes the King thinks is a soothing voice, but it’s hard to be soothing when you sound like a specter echoing inside someone’s head. “Don’t be afraid, we’re not here to hurt you.”

The old woman steps over with slow, careful steps. Wonwoo can’t tell if she does so deliberately or because her legs simply cannot carry her as swiftly as they used to. She fumbles with the bindings around your hands, rids you of the fabric covering your mouth. Just like Wonwoo suspected, your mouth is turned down, lips spread thin across your face. 

You do not speak, not when the woman urges you to stand, not when she guides you towards Wonwoo and the King. Not a single word when the woman asks your name, or when the King offers his sympathies, not when he promises your safety within the forest. 

Wonwoo doesn’t fear shadows. But he will admit that he finds the ones flitting and dancing over your face unsettling, at the very least.

~~

Wonwoo’s home is a wonder. He doesn’t have to be an outsider to know that there’s something almost unreal about the beauty of the heart of the Dead Forest after dark; lanterns glowing with the faint buzz of fireflies and ivies curled around trees. It’s an open enough space; small huts in the treetops for the faeries, bigger ones on the ground for elves and other humanoid creatures. There’s a new one freshly built right next to the spot that Wonwoo has claimed as his own, a humble yet pretty thing of deep greens and splashes of colored flowers.

The King is still talking; Wonwoo hears his own name, hears the word Guardian, and when he twists to key into the conversation he is immediately met by your hard, stubborn gaze. Not as hostile as it was earlier; something that looks vaguely like admiration fleeting in the color of your irises as your gaze glides along the tree tops. Wonwoo almost feels like he’s intruding, as if his presence taints the moment.

The light in your eyes fades as you stare him down, and soon enough there is only that muted sort of distaste left. It’s not that strange for a human to be suspicious towards the forest; to Wonwoo’s knowledge the humans grow up with horrible tales of relentless, bloodthirsty monsters only kept at bay with sacrifice. Even with Wonwoo’s general distrust in humans, he can empathize with the fear you must feel. 

Still, there’s a distinct lack of a tremble, a forceful stubbornness to how you keep your eyes locked with his, that makes him thing fear is not a deciding factor in your stiffness and your tight lip. 

“If there is anything you need,” the old woman says, ignoring the way you grimace at her touch. “Don’t hesitate to ask.” Wonwoo can see your jaw moving, as if you’re chewing on words you can’t quite manage to say. 

Wonwoo resists the urge to sigh. Somehow he thinks his job will be a lot harder than the last Guardian’s.

___

Seven days pass before Wonwoo hears you speak. For the first two, he wasn’t even sure that you could, your main way of communication seemingly being through intimidating glares and a permanently down-turned lip, and it’s only the old woman’s reassurances – not that they’re necessary – that lets the dryad know that you do, in fact, have a tongue. 

A part of Wonwoo is relieved; he’s not much for small talk himself and strictly speaking your reluctance to do as much as speak to him makes his duties as Guardian almost laughably easy. For all intents and purposes you’re the perfect subject, spending your days sulking in your hut or talking walks along the safer parts of the forest. Wonwoo needs only stay close, to make sure you don’t get lost and carefully watch your progress – or lack thereof.

The other part of Wonwoo, the part that seems somehow uncharacteristically loud, feels agitated. He feels as if he’s walking on pins and needles, carefully avoiding your poisonous glares and silent judgments. He feels antsy, skin creeping, as if you might snap at him at any given moment.

Which perhaps makes his first actual conversation with you wholly unsurprising. 

“Do you have to do that?” You ask, shoulders stiff as you crane your neck to look back at him. Your hair shimmers in the stray rays of sunshine piercing through the thick of treetops in the forest, makes you look almost inhuman and gives your eyes a golden sort of glow. It does little to diminish the angry knit of your brow, only serves to strengthen the intensity of your frown. Wonwoo stops as well, caught somewhere between astonishment that you’d spoken to him so freely and uncertainty at your abrupt question. 

“Do what?” He asks, voice almost breathless. This must be the wrong thing to say; he watches a muscle in your jaw twitch, observes as your body language become even more guarded than it usually is.

“Follow me around,” you elaborate, tones of your voice tinged with an almost nasal sort of annoyance. Your words echo into the empty space between the trees. “Stalk after me like some sort of puppy.” Wonwoo doesn’t exactly know what a puppy is, but he imagines it’s not a compliment. “I feel like I can’t even breathe with you all up in my space all the time.”

He frowns. “As Guardian–”

“I don’t give a shit about guardians,” you interrupt, voice louder, shriller. “I don’t give a fuck about your dumb forest or your dumb king or any of this.” Wonwoo thinks he hears a sort of crack in the syllables of your words, as if your conviction is tearing at the seams, confidence splitting and fading with every intake of breath. It’s such an emotional display, muted only slightly by your insistence of keeping a distance. “I don’t want it. I just want to be left alone.”

“You should be grateful,” Wonwoo says, unable to help himself. Empathy was never his strong suit, not a skill much needed for dryads in the first place. He says it not because he means to admonish you but because he truly believes it. Not even the first woman in his lifetime, the one with the loud sobs and the scared eyes, had been this reluctant to assimilate into the laws and society of the woods. And even then, she understood that the only thing the King wanted was to keep her safe.

But Wonwoo realizes, even before he sees the way your lip quivers, that maybe he should have thought twice before speaking this time.

“Is that so?” You reply, tongue sharp and tone betraying the fact that your question is not really a question at all. “I should be grateful that my family were willing, proud even, to sacrifice me to some sort of devilish, forest dwelling boogeyman? That my own people found it so easy to discard me for ‘the greater good’?” Your gaze is hard, jaw tight as you speak. “Should I be jumping at the opportunity to live out my pathetic life among creatures who can’t stand to look at me?” The implication is clear, and Wonwoo only barely manages not to divert his gaze, and even then it’s stubbornness than anything else that makes him keep his eyes on you. “All this, and there’s not even an actual boogeyman.”

For some reason, Wonwoo feels guilty; shame tugging tight the strings in his chest. Another sensation he isn’t particularly used to. He doesn’t stop you when you wander off in the direction of the huts, not even sparing him a second glance.

~~

Wonwoo feels as if he’s standing at the edge of the world, gathering up the courage to blindly jump off. Tension tugs at his nerves, sizzles underneath his skin and seeds of uncertainty seem to have taken up residence within every corner of his chest. 

Truthfully, he has never apologized for anything before, has never had to. Life with forest creatures, beings of serenity and peace, rarely get into arguments, rarely differ enough in spiritual wavelengths for misunderstandings to be made. Evidently, humanity is not quite so simple. And so, here Wonwoo stands, at the metaphorical edge of the world. 

It occurs to him that perhaps he has been the narrow-minded one. That maybe he takes for granted the sense of calm and belonging he feels beneath the shade of dark green trees. Not, mind you, a realization he comes to entirely on his own; it takes a talking to as stern as he imagines the old woman to be able to give to truly make him reconsider his stance about what he had previously written off as ungratefulness.

So he does something he’s never done before – a somehow common occurrence these days – and he puts himself in your shoes. He imagines that his people raise him as a savior, as a means to and end, as a something rather than a someone. He listens to the old woman describe her youth praised as a hero, all up to the day she was tied up and blindfolded and lead into the place she’d been told horror stories of ever since she was born.

He imagines that his own King abandons him, leaves him to die so his people can live. He imagines all of this, and he feels ill. It’s such an inconceivable thing, such an impossibility, and yet, the evidence of such a thing existing is right there, tucked behind the curtains of a floral hut. He inhales, horrified to find his breath uneven, and then he knocks at the wooden edges of your hut.

He’s not at all surprised to see your expression harden as you stick your head out of the hut to inspect his crouched over form, but he will admit that some of his resolve seems to scurry away at the sight of you. Wonwoo isn’t a cowardly man, but it seems you know how to bring out the poorest parts of him. 

”What?” You mutter, voice somewhere between a hiss and a murmur. You haven’t spoken a word to him since your argument, he’s barely even seen you outside your little home, and somehow, even if your tone is less than friendly, the sound is welcome. 

Wonwoo falters. He clears his throat, diverts his eyes. His apology lies on his tongue, coated in something thick and sticky, and he can’t quite seem to get it out. You stare unblinkingly at him as he opens his mouth, closes it again. 

”Come,” he says at last, deciding to change tactics. You open your mouth, undoubtedly to complain or refuse, but Wonwoo holds up his hands in a disarming gesture, making your mouth shut again with an audible snap. “I want to show you something.”

___

There’s a place in the forest that Wonwoo has, at least privately, claimed as his own. A humble clearing decorated by a crystal clear pond, a quiet little sanctuary where time seems to stand completely still. Untouched by both humanity and forest creatures, it’s the place where Wonwoo feels the most at rest. There’s always been sort of a reassurance in that he’s the only one who knows about it, that aside from the swarm of beautifully colored butterflies, no one but Wonwoo breathes in this space. 

The moment you step into the clearing, Wonwoo hears your sharp intake of breath, a sort of quiet, unrestrained gasp that makes his eyes instinctively look for your expression. He’s reminded of when you first entered the heart of the forest, unbridled wonder softening your features and making you look like an entirely new person. You blink, mouth open and hands curled into loose fists, and when you turn to look at him, there is – for perhaps the first time – no venom to be seen in your eyes.

”What is this place?” You ask breathlessly, standing on the very edge of the clearing as if you’re afraid you’ll ruin it by getting too close. Wonwoo feels like he’s on display, as if he’s showing you the deepest, most private parts of himself. In a sense, he might as well be. Wonwoo doesn’t have secrets, he only has this one, private thing. Dryads are raised to be selfless, to be humble and open. This place might be the closest thing Wonwoo has to humanity.

”It’s–” he starts, cuts himself off. He feels strangely vulnerable, oddly out of place. Somehow he wants to impress you, to gain your approval. Which isn’t something he’s really excelled at so far, it seems. “You said you wanted to be alone,” he tries, words awkwardly tumbling out of his mouth. “This is where I go to be alone.” 

You hum; a surprisingly soft sound for someone who’s been anything but, and the smoothness of it sends shivers down his spine. “So this is your apology.” It’s not a question, but it’s not as accusatory as Wonwoo would’ve expected either. There’s a hint of playfulness, of something light and almost teasing in the tone of your voice. Wonwoo blinks, and he thinks the slight upwards curve of your mouth might be a trick of the light.

”I’ve been told I can be,” he pauses, reluctant to admit his shortcomings. You look at him expectantly, and Wonwoo’s face heats up. It’s never done that before. “Narrow-minded,” he finishes lamely. At that, you snort somewhat derogatorily, and Wonwoo thinks he should probably be offended. “I’d like for you to– to enjoy your life here.” 

Wonwoo sees the flicker of something akin to sadness flash across your features, and it strikes him that ‘enjoying your life here’ might not be exactly what you’d wanted for yourself. That it might not really be as ideal a situation as the King and the old woman – and Wonwoo too, he realized – thinks it to be. For as much as a safehaven for the sacrifices the forest is, it is not the natural home of a human. A strange kind of grief takes hold of him, a foreign and horrible sensation that grips at his chest and makes his throat tight. 

”In any case,” he hurries, the silence too heavy for him to handle. “When you need to be alone, I can, uh, I can take you here.”

This time, you really do smile; a soft and almost unnoticeable thing that – though it seems genuine – lacks the sort of joy to it that Wonwoo is used to see from the faeries and the elves, whose mouths are locked in a permanent, decorative upturn of lips. “I accept your apology,” you tell him, head bowed ever so slightly and voice impossibly soft. “Thank you.” 

He’s changing, Wonwoo thinks. He doesn’t know why, or how he knows, but he’s changing. 

~~

With the blink of an eye, what used to be Wonwoo’s sanctuary is suddenly a shared thing. You ask him to take you there almost every day, spending hours just sitting with your feet dipping in the water of the pond or lying flat out on the soft grass. There was one time you’d disappeared from your hut without anyone noticing, and Wonwoo almost had a panic attack before he realized that there was really only one place to look for you. 

The animosity is completely gone; exchanged for a slow build of easy quips and curious questions. Wonwoo doesn’t think he’s spoken so much in his entire lifespan; the overexposure to your inquisitive nature almost making him winded at times. Rarely do you talk about yourself, or your life before the sacrifice. Maybe it’s because Wonwoo doesn’t ask. Common courtesy dictates that he probably should. 

He doesn’t. Perhaps because he’s scared to. Wonwoo has never been a Guardian before, but he’s seen multiple of them at work throughout his life. He’s seen them handle their humans with care, with respect and with empathy. He’s seen them be distant and cordial. He’s never seen them sprawled on the grass trading jokes or whispering secrets. He’s never seen them share parts of themselves with the outsiders.

Wonwoo’s tip toeing so close to the edge he feels like he might as well be free-falling.

___

“How old are you?” You ask one day, form relaxed as you lean against the trunk of a thick tree right by the pond. Wonwoo’s sitting next to you, so close your shoulders are almost bumping against each other. You’re twirling a yellow flower between your fingers, head leaning towards him in a way that suggest a sense of comfort that Wonwoo never imagined someone would have towards him. He finds that he doesn’t mind it. “I mean you look pretty young, compared to the other ones, but it’s kind of hard to guesstimate the age of a tree.”

Wonwoo frowns, unsure of what to make of the new descriptor of himself and suddenly strangely self-conscious. “Does it matter?”

The flower in your hand stops twirling. “I suppose it doesn’t,” you mutter, but you can’t quite conceal the twinge of disappointment in your voice. Wonwoo peers down at you, finds himself oddly charmed by your pout and the way your brows knit together.

It’s not the first time in the past few weeks he’s found himself endeared by your oddities; with time he comes to enjoy your company in a way that makes him almost worried. Dryads are emphatic, caring creatures by nature, but they are supposed to be elusive, untouchable for things who are not of their own blood. For as much as you are his responsibility, his given task; he feels protective. Gaining your favor has been an uphill battle, and even now you are quick to withdraw when you feel he doesn’t respond in the way you want him to. In short, you don’t feel like a subject; you feel like something much more, something dangerous, something–

“I think you’ve made me sick,” the words are out before he realizes he’s even opened his mouth. It’s not the most eloquent thing to say, but it’s not a lie either. With every instance of prolonged exposure, Wonwoo feels as if he’s about to crawl out of his own skin. He feels hot and cold at the same time, he feels as if he can’t even think. Wonwoo has always been a creature of logic, of collected calmness and emotional distance. He feels off-kilter and strange with this newfound sort of affection he feels for this human life he’s supposed to protect. 

It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling, but it makes him nervous nonetheless.

“Excuse me?” You shift to look up at him from your laid back position against the tree trunk, expression part worry, part incredulous. “Look, I’m sorry I asked about your age, I didn’t know it was such a touchy subject, but you don’t have to be rude.”

“No,” Wonwoo amends, voice slow and careful as he searches for a better way to word himself. “I feel sick,” he puts a hand to his chest, grasps at the fabric of his soft, silky tunic. “My chest feels heavy. I’m dizzy, distracted. It hurts to be near you, but it hurts to be away, too.” Even as he’s speaking, Wonwoo feels the rate of his heart speed up and the palms of his hands turn clammy. “Is this some kind of human illness?”

For a long moment, you only stare at him, silence hanging between you like a heavy blanket. He wonders if he’s offended you, or if he’s describing something incurable, something you’re afraid to name. You drop the flower and Wonwoo watches as it falls into your lap as you push yourself up into a straighter position. 

“I don’t,” you murmur, so quietly and softly that Wonwoo almost has to lean in to hear you. “I don’t think that’s an illness, Wonwoo.” 

You refuse to elaborate further, even though Wonwoo prods and questions; even goes as far as attempting to blackmail you, and the dryad feels as if he’s missing something. Something obvious, something important.

___

The answer comes in the form of a conversation with the old woman. At first Wonwoo insists he’s going to let it go, that he doesn’t care about your human secrets. But as time passes, the condition only worsens, and by the end of the month, Wonwoo feels like he can’t breathe in your company. It’s like everything changes after the conversation about his supposed non-illness; Wonwoo is at all times acutely aware of your presence, even when you’re not by his side. He feels tingly, jittery, like he’s trying to burst out of his own body. There are times when his hands reach out all on their own, eager to touch; as if the feel of your skin beneath his palm would somehow ease his discomfort.

It must be more obvious than he thinks, considering it’s the old woman who seeks him out and pulls him aside in the end.

“It looks like the two of you’ve gotten close,” she says, a sort of playful accusation lacing the shivering tones of her voice. Wonwoo doesn’t know much about humanity, but he knows about death. It looms over the old woman like a ghost, clings to her body so tightly he swears he can smell it. Death never bothered Wonwoo before; dryads get dreadfully old and fade elegantly. The prospect of returning to the earth never scared him. But Wonwoo looks at the old woman and he sees you; as vividly as if he’s staring into the future. And that; that scares him. The fact that the old woman was like you when she arrived, and with the snap of time’s fingers, this is all that’s left.

“I guess,” he mutters, reluctant to be truthful. For a moment this urge confuses him, makes him think that maybe he’s ashamed. A second later he realizes it’s possessiveness that grips at his insides, a wish to keep his closeness to you private, a secret only meant for the two of you. 

“That’s nice,” the woman sighs contentedly. “It’s good to see some humanity in you.”

“Humanity,” Wonwoo echoes, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Is that what this crushing, mind-numbing sensation is?” Instinctively, he reaches for his chest, presses his palm over his heart. Even now, it’s throbbing; thudding against his rib cage so quickly he can barely count the beats. “All humans feel so helpless around their close ones?”

For a second, the woman seems taken aback with his openness. Wonwoo does not blame her; words and confessions tumble out of his mouth too fast for his mind to keep up, yet another side effect of his strange, human affliction. A distinctly un-dryad feature Wonwoo isn’t quite sure how to deal with. She gazes at him, a clever sort of smile toying with her wrinkled face. 

“Ah,” she muses, leaning back in her plush, custom made chair. “I suppose in a sense it is.” Leave it to an old woman to be cryptic, Wonwoo thinks to himself, in a voice that sound suspiciously like yours. “That’s love, Wonwoo,” she adds, hands folded in her lap as she peers at him through barely open eyes. “That’s just being in love.”

~~

The concept of love is not one that Wonwoo is particularly familiar with. Dryads’ way of love is that of the earth; they love nature and all of earth’s creations, but they do so in a way that is not meant for the individual. A dryad doesn’t love selfishly, doesn’t long to possess. The love that the old woman describes, the one that resonates and echoes within him, is distinctly selfish. The want to possess, the need to be close, the wish to have your feelings returned. All of these things scare Wonwoo; they should not exist within him. But he looks at you, at the way your fingertips glide along the blank surface of the pond, and he cannot find it in him to deny it.

Love. The word echoes, bounces around the inside of his rib cage. Love, love, love. It might as well be an illness, for all the good it does him. Love is an impossibility; there is no place for such a trivial thing in the Dead Forest. Not for him, and certainly not for you, whose existence is but a mere droplet in the vast sea of dryad lifespans. The inside of him feels rotted, in a way that’s both horrible and exhilarating.

“Wonwoo,” you call, pulling the dryad out of his thoughts. He realizes he’s been staring, brows furrowed so tightly his head hurts and it takes deliberate action to ease them out again. “Is something wrong? You look like you’ve eaten something gross.” 

He blinks, watches you carefully. Wonwoo remembers his initial thoughts months ago, when he was treading the forest path to find you sitting on your wooden pedestal, bound and gagged and waiting for whatever you might’ve imagined the Dead Forest to harbor. He remembers his derogatory thoughts and your antagonistic posture. Perhaps this is his punishment, he thinks, for underestimating you in the first place. Perhaps this blossoming, wild feeling in his chest is what he gets, for thinking himself better than you.

“No,” he says, stepping over soft grass to sit next to you. Here, he feels content despite himself, tilting his head and closing his eyes to listen to the soft breeze caressing his skin. “No, everything is fine.” 

___

The old woman passes away during the summer. As quietly, as peacefully as she’d lived, she drifts asleep in her chair, a gentle curve of a smile adorning her wrinkled face. Human death always seems to come sneaking up on Wonwoo; it’s hard to gauge just when a human is at the end of their lifespan, their final couple of decades riddled with weakness and minor or major illnesses. The first woman had passed in a fit of a violent, painful illness that the forest creatures could do nothing about, if nothing else, Wonwoo is thankful for this one going gently.

Still, there’s an ache in his chest, something that feels both similar and completely different from the one he’d identified as his romantic affection towards you. Something dark and gloomy that makes his throat tight and his mind numb. Grief, he realizes only after seeing the hollowed out expression on your face. A distinctly human emotion; reserved for beings with no lasting footprint left on the planet. Dryads do not grieve each other, for they know that death is merely the soul returning to the earth where it belongs. It’s just the next step in the everlasting adventure that is existing. For humanity, it’s the end of the line.

Wonwoo isn’t sure if he grieves for himself, or if he grieves for the heartbroken look on your face, for the way your voice sounds muted when you request that Wonwoo leaves you alone for a while. 

So he does. Wonwoo leaves you to sort your own grief out and he waits. He watches. Watches the King’s glow, muted now; flickering almost like a candle blowing dangerously against the wind. Wonwoo supposes he’s not the only one struggling with the exposure of human emotion. He has never seen his King like this, never seen him walk so quietly, as if he doesn’t want to be observed. It makes him feel less alone, somehow, and he guesses that’s humanity as well; a concept that seems to have overcome him completely, tainted him to the point of no return.

He can’t even find it in him to curse it, not when he’s too preoccupied worrying over the closed curtain of your hut.

___

(When you first arrived, you had been reluctant to integrate yourself into the society of the forest. Wonwoo is not so self-obsessed that he believes it was himself who single-handedly helped you over this hurdle; he knows that the now deceased woman played a big part in making the forest feel like a home. Wonwoo tries to imagine a place where he’s the odd one out, where he has nothing – not even a lifespan – in common with the creatures around him. He imagines that having that one person, a single piece of comfort, was instrumental to the fact that he was able to watch you interact with faeries and dryads alike. 

Once the woman is gone, you seem to lose your footing. You rarely leave the hut, and when you do it’s with eyes glued to the ground. Wonwoo sees the rim of red around your eyes, knows that you’ve been crying. The fact that he never sees you do so does little to soothe the stinging sensation in his chest.

It feels like deja-vu when he knocks on the wood of your hut and urges you to follow his lead.)

“I worry,” Wonwoo tells you frankly once you’ve reached the sanctuary. He takes you to the tree where you like to sit, signals for you to sit down before he follows suit. His shoulder brushes against yours. He leans into it, courage ignited when he feels you sag against him in return. The contact makes his heart swell, even as the feeling battles against the growing sensation of pain that seems to rattle his rib cage. “You’re not happy here. Not anymore.” 

It’s not a question, because Wonwoo does not need to ask. When you first arrived, Wonwoo swore he would never understand your irregular switches of emotion, that your expressions and gestures would continue to confuse and distract him until you withered away like the rest of the women. Now, though, he recognizes the furrow of your brow, the downwards tug of your lips, and he feels heavy. An illness, he had thought; some human borne disease he had caught through over exposure. He knows better now, but somehow he feels even more clueless. What is love, when your lifespan is so ridiculously short and insignificant? What is the point, when you could be gone within just the blink of an eye? There is none, he concludes, but the yearning persists, and his body feels just as heavy. 

“No, Wonwoo,” you admit, an attempt at easiness to your voice that doesn’t quite convince him. No use in denying it, but then he admires that part of you; the blunt yet somehow pillowed honesty you seem to possess. “I am not.” 

“What was your village like?” He asks, painfully aware that it’s the first time he inquires about your life before the forest. Part of him doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to think about the possibility that you preferred your time without him, but he supposes it’s a conversation long overdue anyways. “Were you happier there?”

You inhale, shoulders stiff as if you’re preparing for a fight. It’s a defensive stance that Wonwoo hasn’t seen on you in a while. 

“I guess,” you begin, brows furrowed. It’s almost as if you struggle to remember, as if the memories are so distant by now they become blurry. “I guess I was happy. In the beginning. Before I knew about this whole sacrifice bullshit.”

“When did you find out?”

“When I was ten,” you tell him, voice carefully carefree. Maybe you think you can conceal the heaviness of the topic with a gentle tone, but Wonwoo recognizes the twitch of your jaw, notices the way your fist curls into grass as you speak. “There was a ceremony and everything. A cleansing, they called it, to make sure you’d be accepted by the forest.” It sounds silly, when you put it like that; both you and Wonwoo know that the forest makes no judgments about your state, that the King would gladly welcome any who stepped inside; be they willing or sacrifice. But you both know that there is no such thing as a creature demanding sacrifice either, so he supposes the point is moot. “Apparently it was decided on the day I was born. I didn’t even know.”

“The other one—“ Wonwoo catches himself, mindful now of how he objectifies and dehumanizes the women who come to the forest. How despite the now deceased woman being with them for half a century, he never called – never even thought of – her by name. “Solar was happy. She lived a good life here.”

You sigh. He thinks he might have said the wrong thing. Again. “I am not Solar.”

“I know,” he murmurs, barely hears his own voice over the beating of his heart. “Solar was simple. She wasn’t as stubborn as you. You’re so much more.” He stumbles over words and half-finished confessions, grasps after something to say that might soothe your miserable grieving. “Is it me? Did I fail as Guardian?”

When you reach for his hand, weave your fingers between his own, a part of Wonwoo feels like it’s being ripped apart. He watches, carefully commits to memory the feel of your palm against his, the look of his long, slim digits intertwined with your shorter, human fingers. If nothing else, he wants to remember that; despite the sensation of oncoming heartbreak, he wants to keep the feeling of togetherness, of intimacy, close to his chest.

“No, you didn’t fail,” you whisper, hand squeezing his own. “Even if you’re a bit dense sometimes.” You lean your head on his shoulder, and it feels as if something locks into place. “You’re a wonder, Wonwoo.”

For a blissful, quiet moment, that is all there is. Your head against his shoulder and your palm against his. Wonwoo almost thinks you’ve fallen asleep, only knows you haven’t by the stolen glances at your face. He doesn’t want to ask, but the question lies ready on his tongue. He wills himself to choke it back down, to just take this moment for what it is and pretend like he doesn’t know the answer. But his newfound humanity gets the best of him, and again, Wonwoo opens his mouth.

“Then,” he hesitates, mind mulling over this question he does not want to hear the answer to. “If you could leave,” you do not look his way, head carefully lowered and gaze fixed at your own feet. “Would you?”

You do not respond, perhaps because you don’t really need to. Wonwoo’s chest aches. He has an urge to reach for you, to keep you trapped between his arms and make sure you never leave. 

But he can’t. He just sits there, with his bleeding heart and his unease. It feels as if he’s wilting.

~~

Wonwoo feels as if he’s standing at the edge of the world. It’s not the same feeling as it was before. 

The King sits before him, glow still muted but slowly returning, the two of them tucked away in the King’s own living quarters. It’s a humble thing; only a few necessities here and there, the main space of the room occupied by the wooden, decorated throne the entity sits on. Wonwoo has never felt the need to keep secrets from his King, has never had anything private to even keep secret, but worry seeps into his skin. It’s no simple favor he’s about to request.

“I think,” he begins, tries to keep his voice calm and unaffected. “I think we should bring the human back to her people.”

The King hums, the sound echoing and bouncing inside Wonwoo’s head. It’s hard to know whether it’s a disapproving sound or not; but then that has always been the case with the leader of the forest creatures. “Back to the humans? To the people who sacrificed her? What makes you think that?”

“She’s not happy here. Not after– after Solar died,” Wonwoo doesn’t miss the flicker of light around the King’s form. He wonders, in the back of his mind, if the King and the old woman were closer than he’d noticed. “Keeping her here against her wishes would be cruel.”

Wonwoo clears his throat. He has always been a creature of logic; perhaps this time he can put it to good use. “Besides, if the humans see one of their own return safely, perhaps this tradition of theirs can finally end.”

“That is not such a bad argument,” the King agrees, and Wonwoo inhales. Never has doing the right thing felt so awful. “But what of you, then, Wonwoo?”

“What do you mean?”

The King looks at him knowingly. “You’ve grown fond of this human. What will you do if she leaves? Once she does, you know she can never return.” 

Wonwoo’s willpower wavers. He knows this, of course, but hearing it rom none other than the king makes it real in a way it wasn’t before. Part of him wishes that when he presents you with the opportunity to leave you’ll refuse it, that you’ll choose to stay by his side for as long as your human lifespan allows you to. But Wonwoo is not stupid, and the sting in his chest tells him that even if that was so, he would not want to keep you chained up to a place you do not belong. 

Even if he wishes he could.

“I know,” he says instead, swallowing thickly. “My duty as Guardian is first and foremost to ensure the sacrifice’s happiness. This is it.”

“And if I told you to discard of your duties and speak freely?”

“My priorities remain the same.”

It’s as close to an admission as Wonwoo has ever spoken out loud; he can tell by the look on the King’s face that the eternal being is not surprised. Wonwoo wonders if he’s been tested somehow. He wonders if he just passed or failed.

“When I appointed you as Guardian I told you it was for a reason, that you did not need to worry,” the King tells him, fondness vivid in the tone of his voice. “You have done your duties, now allow yourself some selfishness.” Wonwoo almost thinks he’s heard the King wrong; that he must have somehow misspoken. To encourage selfishness is not something Wonwoo has ever encountered before, to hear it from the King himself is close to an impossibility. 

“If you do not wish to part ways with the human, I will not force you to,” the King says. “But know that the same rules apply. You will not be able to return.”

“You’re telling me I can leave?” Wonwoo asks in a rush of air. It’s such a foreign concept; a dryad leaving the Dead Forest, that he cannot really be certain the King is telling the truth. “But no one has ever left the forest before.”

The King inclines his head. “As you said, it might be time for changes. Perhaps this is the catalyst for a new era, a time where humans need not be scared of the forest, and we not so scared of the world outside.”

“I don’t–” Wonwoo’s voice cracks. A thousand things seem to come to life inside of him. Fear, elation, excitement, terror. He imagines walking out of the forest that has been his home for his entire lifetime. He imagines doing so with you by his side. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then do not rush. It’s a big decision,” something like a laugh echoes in the King’s voice. “Shall you choose to go, know you’ll leave behind your immortality. You will live and die like the humans do.”

“Thank you,” is all Wonwoo manages to respond. And then he bows, before he leaves the King’s abode.

___

When Wonwoo leaves the King’s living quarters, there is only one place he can think to go. He doesn’t go to his sanctuary, like he would before when he needed to think. He doesn’t go to his own given spot, doesn’t retreat into his tree-form for some much needed solitude. Instead, Wonwoo makes a direct line towards the hut where he knows you’ll be.

He doesn’t knock, too frenzied and energized to even stop for a second to consider proper etiquette. Instead, Wonwoo rushes in, manages to give you quite the fright in the process.

“Jeez, Wonwoo,” you mutter, hands clasped above your chest. You’re sitting in the middle of the floor of your simple hut, mindlessly toying with a self-made flower crown. “Do you not know how to knock?”

On any other day, Wonwoo might’ve apologized. On any other day, he wouldn’t have barged in in the first place, but Wonwoo looks at you and it becomes clear as day what choice he is about to make. Suddenly he feels like every moment not spent truthfully and openly has been a waste. He is not about to waste any more.

“Do you want to leave?” He asks, the question abrupt as it tumbles out of his mouth. You open your mouth, brows furrowed as you look him up and down. “I mean— you wanted to leave, right? To go back to the humans.”

Your mouth turns down at the edges, and Wonwoo finds that he wants to trace the lines of your lips. “I— yeah? But Wonwoo, I don’t mean—“

“I know,” he interrupts, hoping that he’s right in his assumptions about what you were going to say. He steps closer, crouches down next to you. “You can leave. We— we can leave. We’ll go together.”

Wonwoo has never been the adventurous sort; has been perfectly comfortable with his quiet life in the forest. But as he reaches for your hands, envelops them in his own, it feels like an adventure. Venturing out of the forest; it feels like an adventure.

“We?” You echo, staring down at your hands. “What are you talking about?”

“The King has granted permission for you to go back to your people,” Wonwoo tries to speak slower, tries not to notice the sizzle in his skin as he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “And me as well, if you’ll have me.”

“You– you’d leave? For me?” There is disbelief and amazement coating the tones of your voice, and for a dizzying, blinding moment, Wonwoo fears that maybe he has not become as integral a part of you as you have of him. “Wonwoo, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I’m asking you to let me,” he tells you, careful circles pressed into your skin. “You’ve changed everything I used to know about myself. I can’t be without you, and I want you to be happy. If you can’t be happy here, then we’ll leave.”

“There’ll be hundreds like me,” Wonwoo sees your lip quiver, hears uncertainty and self-consciousness in your voice. He lets go of your hands, glides his fingers up along your arms; tips traveling along the curve of your neck until he reaches your cheeks. There, he stops, carefully cupping your face. Wonwoo hasn’t experienced closeness before, finds that it’s an entirely instinctual thing. He drags his thumbs along the soft skin above your cheekbones, gaze locked to yours. “don’t throw away your life for me.”

“No,” he murmurs, with a confidence that surprises even him. “There’s no one like you. I’m sure I could go to the ends of the world and not find a creature half as stubborn.” At that, you laugh; a soft and fragile sound that echoes like bells in Wonwoo’s sharp ears. It makes him want to lean into it, to consume the sound and trap it within himself.

“Looks like it’s rubbing off on you,” you tell him, a teasing edge to the sound of your voice. “Is this what you really want?” You continue, quieter now, more serious. You reach to gently touch his face, leaving tingles in the wake of your fingertips against his skin. “Do you really think I’m worth it?”

Wonwoo relents, then, gives into his ever growing urges and leans completely into you. His lips press against yours and you gasp into his mouth, the sound only encouraging him further. He pulls at your face, presses fingertips into your skin hard enough to hurt. His eyes close and his mouth moves on its own, a low shudder starting from the back of his neck with the sensation of your soft, pillowy lips against his own. 

Your own arms wind around his neck, and suddenly there is no space left, your chest flush against his own and your heart pounding and knocking against his rip cage at a speed that matches his. He pulls, tugs, squeezes as if he wants to merge your bodies together completely. It’s such an overwhelming sensation that he nearly feels like he’s about to explode. Only the need for oxygen makes him pull away, pressing his forehead against yours.

He exhales; it’s as if he’s been unfinished, as if he’s been lacking, as if only now, only with this moment has he become a whole, completed being. He feels elevated, invincible. And he knows, with a certainty he has never felt before, that there is only one way to answer your question.

“Yes.”

~~

TWO MONTHS LATER

Wonwoo sits inside the metal box – a vehicle, you’d told him; a car – leans against the transparent glass at his side. To his left, you’ve got your hands on a circular device, fingers tapping against the smooth, not quite soft material it’s made of. The car makes a loud, booming sound. The sound used to scare him, but he supposes you were right in saying it’s something you get used to quickly.

You turn to look at him, remove a hand from the wheel to grasp one of his. “Wonwoo,” you murmur, thumb stroking pleasant circles into the skin of his palm. “Are you awake?”

He turns to face you, takes in the appearance of a human in its natural habitat. You’re cleaner than you ever was in the forest – thanks to a miracle of a machine called the shower – dressed in a large sweater and pants made out of a coarse, blue fabric. Your hair is tied behind your head and a pair of dark tinted glasses rests at the tip of your nose. There’s something vibrant and alive about your features that he never used to see in the forest. His chest tightens, but it’s a wholly wonderful feeling. 

“Yes,” he replies, twists his hand to grasp yours, intertwining your fingers. For weeks, the two of you have been on the road, searching for what you call ‘the hunters’. It sounds like an ominous sort of organization, but you reassure him that they are, as you call them, ‘the good guys’. “Have we arrived?”

You sigh, lean back against the soft backrest of your seat. “No, not yet,” you mutter, an apologetic tint to your voice. “This is proving to be much harder than I thought it’d be.” 

You don’t need to tell Wonwoo that; he can see the signs of fatigue easily in the lines of your face. Dark circles paint the underside of your eyes, your body language slower than it used to be. Wonwoo wants to soothe your ailments, to will your tiredness away. As it is, all he can really do is squeeze your hand. He hums. 

“We’ll get there,” he says, though he doesn’t even really know where there is. He puts his trust in you, refrains from voicing his concerns about your appearance. “We should stop for the night. You’re tired.”

You open your mouth, a deep, loud exhale falling out from between your lips. He’s right, and he knows that you know it. You only ever make a sound like that when you’re about to give in. His mouth twitches with a self-satisfactory smile.

“The car tonight, then?” You ask rhetorically; there’s not a single house in sight, only a road that seems to go on forever. “I’m sure you’re glad you gave up your immortality for this.” You try to play it off as a joke, but Wonwoo hears the bitterness, the latent sorrow of a return that did not go as planned.

A cult, you’d called it; a group of zealous people with a singular goal and the moral depravity to obtain them by any possible means. Returning to your home outside the forest had sent you right into the middle of a meeting between a dozen masked humans, each more shocked than the next at your appearance. They had seemed nice enough at first, if a bit too interested in Wonwoo’s clearly inhuman form. 

A mere fortnight had passed before they had attempted a second sacrifice. Wonwoo swears that the sight of you, tied to a pyre in the middle of an otherwise friendly looking town square, will never quite leave him. Dryads are, first and foremost, creatures of peace, of tranquility. But Wonwoo is no longer a dryad, and his allegiance rests solely with the human he has sworn to spend his now limited lifetime protecting.

He wonders what his King would say, had he known that Wonwoo used the tiny bit of magic he has left to slay an entire human village. 

Or what he would say, had Wonwoo told him he would do it again. 

“Even death,” Wonwoo says, bringing your hand up to his face, leans against it and brushes his nose against your knuckles. “Would be worth your safety and happiness.” It’s a strong sentiment, way past the range of emotions Wonwoo used to feel just a year ago. Not as strong, though, as the sentiments he keeps to himself, the ones that feel too big, too grand to say out loud. 

Something as simple as the fact that he loves you, so much and so strongly that not even the darkest creatures of the underworld could shake his commitment. It feels like a statement too true to say out loud, as if the magic would be broken if he opened his mouth.

“Even losing your home? Everyone you love?”

But then, you always had a way of forcing his hand.

“You are my home,” he says, gazing out at the darkness of the outer world. So many things he has not seen yet. Things bound to be worse, better, stranger than the cult and the forest. “You are–”

The car stops, and you twist around quickly to face him. There’s a genuine sort of smile on your face, a more common occurrence now than ever before. You take his face between your hands, fingertips tracing the lines of his cheekbones. A warmth spreads through his body as he places his own hands on top of yours. “Silly plant boy,” you murmur with affection. “I love you, too.” You press a kiss to his lips, a quick, casual thing. Even that feels like a blessing; a closeness so comfortable that gestures need not be grand anymore.

“We’ll figure it out,” you add, confidently now, seemingly invigorated by your own confession. “We’ll find the hunters and stop that stupid cult,” you grimace at the mention of your previous home and the implications of their depravities. “But first, let’s get some rest.”

Wonwoo might never get used to sleeping in the back of a car, your body heavy on top of his own and your even breathing tickling at his throat, and he might never truly get rid of the queasiness that comes with hours spent riding inside it. But the feel of your hand resting at his side, your legs tangled with his and your lip pressed to the pulse of his neck–

that he’ll adjust to just fine.

[veryace-ficrecs]

Hobbit Culture and Customs Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Lionheart - A Marriage Day in the Shire by Windholm - Rated G

Hobbiton was bustling with excitement, the entirety of the Shire was... Or Just a little fanfic about Frodo not following Gandalf, Bilbo and the last elves to Valinor, remaining instead to be with his one true love, and the very day their union is finally coronated...

Leaves of Years by StalwartNavigator (Fallwater023) - Rated G

"Frodo and Sam had wandered off a short while ago, and he could just make them out, sitting in a clearing that caught the last of the daylight. It looked like they were weaving flower crowns." Boromir is oblivious, Merry is panicked, Pip is also a bit oblivious bless him, and Frodo and Sam are done waiting.

Now See Here by onward_came_the_meteors - Rated G

"It's, ah… what, now?" Boromir asked. "Rock, paper, scissors. I know what you're thinking, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate--" "No, but… what, now?" Oh. This, he hadn't thought of. "Do they not have rock, paper, scissors in Gondor?" Frodo asked. Pippin and Merry also looked quizzically toward Boromir, who shifted his shield. "I suppose not, since I've never heard of that in my life." "You explain it then, Pip." ______________________ A mishap while traveling leaves the Fellowship with an unlikely solution. And no, Aragorn, no one cares what the game was called in Rivendell.

Tea's At Four by firesteel - Rated G

“Er, hello? Are these the Halls of Mahal?” Thousands of disbelieving eyes stuck to Bilbo as he stepped forward cautiously, already quite fed up with the rudeness of dwarves. Who puts an anvil there? Nobody answered. “I’m looking for dwarves. Thirteen of them-- not anyone, mind you, but thirteen very specific dwarves.”

From the crowd, thirteen voices start yelling at the same time.

Midwinter by determamfidd - Rated G

The different peoples of Middle-Earth have their own ways of farewelling the old year and greeting the new. Each race has its own rich customs and traditions to mark the winter solstice and the longest night of the year. Each is as distinct and unique as snow is to fire.

(But as the wise know, people are always people.)

A Confusing Hobbit Afterlife, as told by Frodo Baggins by Tamloid - Rated G

Frodo Baggins, like most hobbits, never really expected to have an afterlife. It was perfectly pleasant here in Yavanna’s Garden, he supposed, it’s just...where in the world was his Uncle Bilbo? And why was there a large mirror behind Bag End?

The Hobbit Way by ChisakiTenko - Rated T

Bilbo was known for being patient, but one thing he would sit on no longer was his dwarves and their lack of proper breaks! It was high time someone taught them how to do things the hobbit way - with lots of singing, dancing, eating, and a cute fauntling running about.

Slipper by Saentorine - Rated G

Pippin is caught stealing extra portions of the company's provisions, and Aragorn and Legolas connect over a particular way Elven fathers get their children's attention.

Petals to the Metal by Tamloid - Rated G

Dwalin, son of Fundin, was one of the mightiest warriors of his generation, but even he couldn’t hold out against such a relentless foe. It seemed that he would have to be the Daisy King.

The Statute of Finwë and Míriel by bunn - Rated G

Bilbo Baggins has left the Shire forever, and gone to live in Rivendell. He's beginning work on his Translations from the Elvish, and has started on translating an obscure text which puzzles him greatly. Elrond has some helpful ideas.

when i consider everything that grows by wrishwrosh - Rated T

Frodo was not precisely certain what a hobbit in love was supposed to do. He had taken to staring at the ceiling while thinking about Sam’s eyes, and frequently reliving in his mind’s eye every time he had ever made Sam laugh. In which Sam is Frodo’s first love, and Frodo has no earthly idea what to do about it.

Of Shields and Love by Porphyrios - Rated T

As the dwarves began to sort the hoard of precious items, they discovered that Smaug had brought things from some undiscovered hoard in the north when he took the mountain. Tensions rise as the elves seek to reclaim their lost treasures from Gondolin. Most interesting of all is a shield…

Fairy-tales, Cabbages & Potatoes by bunn - Rated G

"Many's the talk I had with [Bilbo] when I was a little lad" Sam Gamgee says, and then much later: "I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales...you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book." So here is young Sam Gamgee hearing far-off tales of Elves, Bilbo Baggins, trying to piece together the tale of the Silmarils for the first time, Frodo Baggins being a wild young mushroom-stealing tearaway who matures into an earnest scholar, and Merry Brandybuck and Sam Gamgee getting started on their great Conspiracy.

[spacebarbarianweird]

Omg hi!!! Love your Writting, could you make an Astarion x Eladrin! Reader please? It can be and fey eladrin or a celestial eladrin (tough i prefer the celestial ones). I'm surprised no one asked for an eladrin hc already, they're such dolls)

Hi! Eladrins are truly interesting. The difference between two types depends on what edition you play - before the 4th edition Eladrins were native to Arvandor, distant cousins to elves. Beginning with the 4th Edition, they're fey creatures from the Feywild.

As there is more relevant info about Fey Eladrin, I will write this HCs based on them but the difference between different types of Eladrin isn't really big.

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion x Eladrin!Tav

Your ancestors were casted away from Arvandor along with other elves but instead of going to Material Planes they chose Feywild as their home.

Many of your kind have slowly lost their humanoid form and allowing the wild magic of the Faierie to change them.

The seasons for you aren't times of the year, they are places you can visit and the form you can take.

When you are a Spring Eladrin, you sing and dance but so easily fall in love that you lose yourself.

When you are Summer, you are a stubborn fighter.

As Autumn you are kind and generous but to trustful.

But as Winter you are depressed and melancholic.

In trance you change your season like a dress and your change appearance as well.

It drives Astarion insane because you have four different personalities and four different skins.

Fey Eladrins and stability are complete opposites.

But at the same he is attracted to your wild magic, so alive and bustling, nothing like what his undead existence is.

You are also a gender fluid since sex and gender are too limitimg when defined.

Sometimes you feel like a man, sometimes like a woman, sometimes you are both, sometimes you are none.

The adventures on the Material Planes is just another fun experience for you since you are not intedning to stay there.

As for Astarion he doesn't truly knows what to do.

The Undead don't belong to Feywild, he can't go there with you and he isn't sure he wants all this fey madness.

Meanwhile the Material Plane is too exhausting, too stable, too bleak for you.

But you decide to stay.

To stay to get him the cure.

Astarion doesn't remember being alive, but you know how miserable he truly is.

Hunger. Cold. Pain.

There must be the way.

Astarion gets used to your changing nature. You just become a very complex person to him but luckily your pysical appearance betrays your mood change as well and he always knows which "you" he is going to deal with today.

You spend a century looking for ithe cure but nothing helps. It's just a ghost you keep searching for.

And the Material Plane is draining you, sometimes you are so week,you can't move for months, lying motionless in your trance and remembering the Feywild.

Astarion begs you to go.

He will be fine. This century was the the best time he ever hoped to have. He will remember you. He will cherish the memories of you.

But you have to part ways. He is an undead, he belongs to the Shadowplace and all what is dread. He will wander the roads for eternity as the creature of the dark. And you will live your long life in the magical place of fey wonders.

He will never forget you.

Beaides there isn't anyone like you, his tiny wild love.

You dissappear like a mist in the morning and he hopes you are happy in the magical feywild.

He keeps living

Hunting monsters .

Adebturing here and there.

Sometimes he makes griends, sometimes he takes lovers

But in his reverie he remembers only his eladrin of tje feywild the magical creature who gave him hope.

A century passes.

Lonely ten decades.

Astarion meditates and his meditation is so deep it is more like a real sleep.

He feels that something is beside him someone warm, someone familiar.

He wakes up and sees you.

You lie beside him in your atumn form warm like a lantern.

You break the silence and brush his cheek, making him sniff.

"I know how to cure you."

You spare Astarion of details, he doesn't need to know what price you paid.

A century of slavery. Of servitude. Of humilation.

A fey, powerful and cruel, shoved the cure up to your nose, bragging they have it and you don't.

A century. A terrible, difficult century with every day worse than another.

Losing your humanoid form. Being an ugly beast for a decade. Losing yoir mind and doing the most disgusting things for your master.

The feys are cruel when they know you need them.

The transformation is painful and long and you are afraid the fey bitch lied to you.

They didn't.

Astarion opens his eyes and they are emerald greem like Feywild woods.

It takes him time to adapt to his mortal body but it's much easier in Feywild than it would be in the Material Plane.

You don't know what the future holds for you two.

The elven nature is fluid and unpredictable.

But deep inside you know you have always meant to be together, you are thiramins, elven soulmates. Maybe, you knew each other in your past lives. Maybe you are both something new.

And you have centuries ahead to figure this out.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume @brainfullofhotsauce @coffeeanddonutscafe @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen

[when-wax-wings-melt]

Keeper of the Lost Cities: A Love-Hate-Love Relationship, And What It Can Do To Your Psyche 

This is the essay you guys wanted to see after this presentation dropped; to be clear, this is the final draft. The presentation was made from the rough draft, so it's rather different.

Also, the essay prompt was to make it personal. So the italicized bits are where I was trying to do that, and they are both separate and a part of the essay. They break up the flow, but are also a response to the normal bits of the essay. You get it. Here we go.

In total, the Keeper of The Lost Cities (KOTLC) series by Shannon Messenger has over 7000 pages, split between nine and a half books (Book 8.5 was, uselessly, a novella) with a planned tenth coming in late 2024. It’s the kind of series that hooks you the same way a fisherman hooks a fish: with a promise of a treat that goes very, very unfulfilled. This is to say: KOTLC is a good series, at least at first. It’s certainly been my core obsession for a good (or bad) five years. It’s a hook because you can’t escape once you’ve begun. It’s my own personal brand of heroine, as Edward Cullen might say if Bella were a too-long book series that doesn’t resolve any plotlines or character arcs and instead piles more information on top of worldbuilding until contradictions are more plentiful than the packed main cast.

KOTLC is a good series, but the idea of recommending it feels like I’d be violating several articles of the Geneva Convention. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and yet the thought of it ending is an impossibility on the scale of the apocalypse and I hope (I’d rather) the world ends before this series does. KOTLC is a minefield of sloppy worldbuilding, deeply compelling characters, and---where am i without it?---bits of myself woven into the many, many words, sinking under my skin and revealing what I think I have to offer. 

Sophie Foster is the protagonist of the series, trudging the long, never-ending path to what hopefully will be a happy ending. Like the author, Sophie has blonde hair and brown eyes, making her unique among her fellow elves, who all have blue eyes, including the rare-among-the-main-cast people of color.

There are so many things that make Sophie weird, strange, unique, attractive to every boy who sees her, and otherwise out of the ordinary: for example, she has five special abilities that allow her to teleport, read minds, inflict pain, speak any language, and enhance the abilities of others---i cannot do what she can, but she breathes and i do too---There are certain things she has very much in common with her fellow elves, such as her slender build and flawless skin, but much more makes her, as her childhood bullies would say, “A Special Sophie-Flake.”

Sophie was raised by humans, which not only means that the steadily growing pile of unique traits is now tottering dangerously above my head, but also that she’s clumsy and wildly insecure. This insecurity has a purpose and a source, making it one of the most annoyingly (and terrifyingly) accurate depictions of teenage anxiety in middle-grade media (if I were a vampire pulled from normal vampire lore rather than Twilight and I looked at her, I’d be invisible)---so do you get it? do i? 

which one of us is me---Sophie has intense imposter syndrome, never believing she’s worthy of the overwhelming support, approval, and desire heaped upon her throughout her years in the Lost Cities. In Book One, four teenage boys were no less than obsessed with her, possibly because she, presumably, talked to them sometimes. Valin, a “drooly boy” (named due to his constant drooling, as one might expect), is forced to ballroom dance with Sophie in detention, and later gives her a card and a bracelet professing his admiration. Dex Dizznee manages to sustain his crush until he finally makes his move in Book Six, and is rejected in humiliation after she kisses him to make him realize his feelings aren’t actually real---when I know that he was lying to himself, is lying to himself. truth is a phase and it ends once you hit age eight---After Book Six, only two remain: Fitz and Keefe, each of whom has made their crushes very, desperately, embarrassingly clear to someone who very clearly returns both sets of feelings.

“Sooner or later you're going to have to solve the triangle. Or should we get real and call it a square?” (Messenger Neverseen), notes Keefe, with his usual subtle confession of his feelings---only leaving me with questions: did he want her to know at all? is he chasing the person or the change? the girl or the excitement? the wanting or the wanted?---The love polygon of however many vertices is both acknowledged and not by Sophie— she’s aware of her feelings for Fitz from chapter two of Book One, becomes aware of her feelings for Keefe in Book Nine, and mentally friend-zones Dex every other sentence, even when it’s not really relevant to the rest of her inner monologue. Her inability to believe with confidence that she might be worthy of a crush (or any sort of positive acknowledgment) is layered beneath every thought where she considers the possibility of being liked, and then promptly dismisses it.

---she knows that admitting it means being wrong. i will be wrong, unless i guess right and am big-headed, full of myself. who am i---

Sophie’s oblivious nature stems from her human upbringing, directly resulting from the trauma of developing the ability to read minds at age five. She hears her parents wishing she were normal or better at making friends and fitting in, her sister complaining about her presence, and her classmates at school judging everything she does.

She sticks out like a sore thumb in the human world, only to come to the elven world and be called a freak, malfunctioning, a genetic experiment, and a failure, just when she thought she might fit in---when i am a puzzle piece, a corner without the connection---Her alienation in the human world (referred to as the Forbidden Cities in the series) comes from her level of success, skipping five grades due to her elven intelligence and photographic memory, and getting into Harvard at age twelve.

While she hates the combination of jealousy and admiration she’s constantly showered with there---who hates it and loves it at the same time? isolation and contradiction---in the elven world, she’s hated for other reasons: accidentally breaking laws, making mistakes, or simply being a blip on the seemingly perfect streak the elven world has for peace and security. Is there any mystery as to why she would never believe that people actually, genuinely care for her? She’s formed her protective coating of denial that lasts her through every time Fitz gives her a gift and she convinces herself it means nothing, or every time Dex shows his jealousy, or every time Keefe goes to her before anyone else.

Even when she kisses Dex, after he tells her in anything but words that he likes her, she doubts herself—are two sides of the same coin, where heads is insecurity and tails is egotism. question: who is she?---She doesn’t think he actually likes her, appreciates her, admires her. This doubt works its way into everything she does, every relationship she has, platonic, romantic, or otherwise. Yet again, she shows her status as a reflection---answer: she’s a mirror. i know who i am because she exists---reading into everything and still not believing or trusting that it truly exists outside of her imagination.

Any time Sophie sees a girl she perceives as prettier, more elegant, or smarter than she is, she instantly develops a jealousy complex—relating either to how Fitz acts around them, or how they project the confidence and normalcy she wishes she can achieve---to tell me whether or not i am alone---She surrounds herself with people who are described as incredibly stunning even in a world where every elf naturally matches the ideal Western beauty standard.

Yet she refuses to believe that she, too, might be beautiful, and instead considers herself dull and boring next to Biana, Linh, Marella, and Maruca---(and ten books later, i still do not have an answer)---Even Stina, who has committed the number one crime (it’s a federal offense) of having “a mass of frizzy curls” (KOTLC 164), is considered beautiful when her hair is “tamed” and slicked back. This framing of beauty applies to the boys, too, but none of Sophie’s descriptions are quite as detailed, quite as admiring, or quite as wistful as when she’s describing Biana Vacker’s heart-shaped, perfectly glossed lips---so, yes, i look at her and see myself. is that what i’m trying to say? is that what i am?---

But the queer-coding doesn’t stop (or begin, really) with Sophie’s dedicated denial of both her worth as a human being and her desire to kiss her pretty girl friends. A connection called a “Cognate Bond” is often referred to in the text as the closest two elves can become, emotionally and mentally.

Cognates exist when two Telepaths (such as Sophie) have such a deep and unbreakable trust bond that they become more skilled together than they were apart. In creating and maintaining this bond, they have to complete trust exercises and not hold back secrets keeping them from total confidentiality---she thrives on secrets---Sophie’s cognate is her friend (and love interest, and, debatably, ex-boyfriend) Fitz, whose romantic relationship was in a large part focused on their cognate one. Their trust exercises involve staring into each other’s eyes, holding hands, having matching rings, and Fitz telling Sophie that she’s the only person he can truly trust.

Fitz also asks his father at one point if cognates are allowed to date each other— his father affirms the statement. Notably, Alden has the authority to do so since he himself was a cognate, only undergoing a nasty breakup— sorry, only losing the bond, after his cognate, Quinlin, kept too many secrets. It’s implied that two other characters were once almost Cognates, only to grow too far apart when one of them, Prentice, had his sanity forcibly shattered and was locked in prison, leaving his (gay lover) best friend, Tiergan, to raise his son---while cognatedom thrives on truth, and also regret, and also the denial of both---The choice to parallel Fitz/Sophie, Alden/Quinlin, and Tiergan/Prentice was possibly not a conscious one but it still resonates with hundreds of queer teen readers who look at the portrayal of utter devotion and trust between two men and think, Wow. This is what I see in myself---but without the denial, without the regret, what are we left with? what do we see?

we see the truth.

We see ourselves.

There are so, so many other issues that I could easily delve into in this series (such as the strangely Western portrayal of gender roles, the racism concerning the Song family, irresponsible adults and the ethics of genetic experimentation, the girlboss and cardboardification of quite literally every woman, etc) and just as many things that make Keeper of the Lost Cities worth it (Fitz’s anger, the development of villains, Sophie’s trans-coding, Keefe’s trauma, physical ramifications of guilt, Marella and Fintans’ pyrokinesis/queer-coding, whatever Dimitar has going on, etc).

The series tends to skew to the “not good” side, although on occasion it will topple abruptly into the “incredible work of art and exploration of wildly interesting character dynamics” before rising like an angel back to heaven into its original position as “questionable in terms of taste.” Mostly, what defines KOTLC is how it’s interpreted rather than the content itself. Someone far different (and with far worse taste) than I might see Fitz’s quest for vengeance and call him a red flag in elven form, while I call it a ridiculously interesting exploration of what grief, near idol worship, toxic standards, and guilt can do to a teenage boy past his limit.

But I am not the voice of the fandom (even though I definitely should be). I look at Sophie Foster and see myself, but that does not make her me. These characters always feel so painfully real, desperately relatable, as if Messenger cobbled together a main cast from bits of my life, but they are not. In the end, they are just characters. In the end, it’s just a series made for middle schoolers, in the same way the sun is just the sun, and the stars are just there to twinkle merrily and not to be explored.

(where am i without it? I cannot do what she can, but she breathes and I do too so do you get it? do i?  which one of us is me when I know that he was lying to himself, is lying to himself. truth is a phase and it ends once you hit age eight only leaving me with questions: did he want her to know at all? is he chasing the person or the change? the girl or the excitement? the wanting or the wanted? she knows that admitting it means being wrong. i will be wrong, unless i guess right and am big-headed, full of myself. who am i when i am a puzzle piece, a corner without the connection who hates it and loves it at the same time? isolation and contradiction aretwo sides of the same coin, where heads is insecurity and tails is egotism. question: who is she? answer: she’s a mirror. i know who i am because she exists to tell me whether or not i am alone (and ten books later, i still do not have an answer) so, yes, i look at her and see myself. is that what i’m trying to say? is that what i am? she thrives on secrets while cognatedom thrives on truth, and also regret, and also the denial of both but without the denial, without the regret, what are we left with? what do we see? we see the truth. We see ourselves.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Elven 'Physiology' and Quirks

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index[tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. There's a lot of lore; I don't know everything. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Physiology and quirks | Names & Clans and Houses || Pan-Cultural things: Social life | Time and Age Categories | Homes | Language | Art | Entertainment | Technology || Elven 'Subraces' still a wip || Philosophy and Religion & Pantheons || Half-elves | [WIP]

In my continued desire to procrastinate on reading two novels and cross-referencing about three sourcebooks for drow culture, I met myself in the middle and did this instead.

Also I really need to rehaul some of the lore compilations...

Unlike elves of other worlds, the Tel'Quessir – except drow – are as tall as humans, but finer boned and typically narrower in build – except for aquatic elves. An elf weighs less than a human of the same build and height, which appears to be something to do with their bone density, as elven bones (especially winged elves’) are light (though ‘surprisingly sturdy’). Their fingertips taper, and their hands and fingers are longer than a humans… although I still think saying they’re 50% longer (palm and fingers) is a bit much.

Elves are noted for their androgyny, which goes both ways; there's not much difference in the skeletal structure and elven women are noted by humans for their narrow hips, which led to a comment that it must make childbirth agonising in comparison.

Elves are also noted for their distinctive 'dance-like' motions while walking due to walking on their toes and the balls of their feet: 'Most seemed to have a lilt and swing, like dancers. Ah, that was it—none strode flat-footed; even the tallest and most hurried of the citizenry danced forward on their toes.' - Elminster in Myth Drannor

They don't grow much in the way of body hair - they appear hairless, with the only visible hair on their eyebrows and scalp. Elves unused to mixed company find non-elves disturbingly hirsute.

The shape of their facial features, regardless of ‘subrace,’ are as varied as humans. The only rules of thumb are about their eyes and ears:

Elven ears are always pointy – but can vary greatly in shape and length otherwise. They’re somewhat prehensile; elven children can move their ears, but generally this ability is lost with maturation. Maintaining it seems to be a genetic quirk. Whether the shape or whatever, elves have sharp hearing.

Elven eyes are larger in proportion to their face and spaced a little further apart than human eyes, slightly slanted in a manner that gives them a wider field of vision and more acute vision in general.

If you're using recent editions then elves can see in very low light conditions (able to see perfectly clearly by starlight alone). Drow can see in perfect darkness.

If you want to go by older editions you're looking at infravision: elves, like other beings that can 'see' in the darkness, were able to change their sight to the infrared spectrum, perceiving heat signatures. Drow vision was further ranged and more acute than surface elves'.

Elves aren't diurnal, and have no particular circadian rhythm, they just get four hours in whenever and communities are have a consistent level of full activity all day and night.

The elven olfactory senses are much sharper, as is their sense of taste. Drow raised in the Underdark have a sense of smell on par with humans, due to overexposure to incense and other strong fragrances used in ritual and covering up the fact that living crowded together in caves doesn't always spell great. Elves are picky eaters, both due to taste and texture, deriding non-elven cuisine as ‘over-spiced animal flesh and other abominable foods.’

Elves are biologically wired for music somehow, able to recall melodies flawlessly and engage in music theory , 'the elven faculty for music is uncanny in comparison to most other races,' which they credit to the divine influence of the Seldarine.

While this doesn't always come up in the rules, elves are immune to the paralytic effects of ghouls, due to an incident involving either Corellon Larethian or Lolth, and the ghoul deity Doresain, who in the version of his backstory given for the Realms was a green elf back in -11,200 DR whose recent ancestors were of the nation of Eiellûr and betrayed their people to the dark elven empire of Ilythiir. A rather brutal bastard and slaver who eventually killed and ate the raw flesh of the ruling family of the last surviving green elven nation of Southern Faerûn as part of a pact with the demon lord of the undead, Orcus for eternal life. When Doresain later fell in combat during one of the many skirmishes of the Crown Wars, Orcus brought him back as a unique undead horror and King of the Ghouls and Orcus’ proxy on Toril (so that Orcus could focus on important matters in the Abyss). Doresain eventually became trapped in the Abyss, trapped in service to Yeenoghu when Orcus ignored his pleas to save him (despite his ‘domain’ Orcus despises the undead). Most Torilian sages claim that Lolth intervened and freed him, bringing Doresain back to Toril in exchange for imbuing the drow with immunity to his children and swearing that ghouls would never attack them, which indirectly affected all elves (except for the ‘not attacking’). Others claim he prayed to the gods of his living years, the Seldarine, and they took pity on him in exchange for the same service.

The Seldarine are always depicted as genderfluid or agender – if depicted in art in humanoid form they are shown with two bodies as afab and amab, or possessing both characteristics in a single form. Occasionally a mortal elf is also born who takes after the gods; marked by their androgyny (by elven standards) and the ability to alter their sex characteristics at will, these elves are considered blessed by Corellon and closer to the gods by many elven cultures. They haven’t been given an official word, but the elven word for ‘Blessings of Corellon’ on Toril is ‘Cormiira.’ According to the most popular take on the elven creation myth, the People are born of Corellon’s blood (and possibly Sehanine’s tears as she wept at seeing him gravely wounded), which many elves attribute this as evidence for. The Tel’Quessir do have several other creation myths however.

Elves have an innate connection to the Weave, which is why they're 'the wizard race' and something to do with their connection to the world. Elves are more likely to have the innate ability required to become arcane spellcasters, and some say the Weave is what gives them their lifespans.

Going into purely non-published realmslore from word of god:

The elven gestation period takes two years (this I’m pretty sure is in published DnD somewhere?) Elves tend to avoid being pregnant unless they actively want to and have generally mastered the art of not being pregnant, the threat of being side-lined by shorter lived peoples who have more children and faster be buggered.

The elven diet primarily consists of raw plant matter and fish. The elven digestive system can handle vegetation that others’ cant. They can eat meat, and many do – especially those who grow up around humans, who have developed a tolerance that makes it easier for them to digest – but it’s not a ‘natural’ part of their diet nor does it play a large role. Apparently drinking small quantities animal blood is a reasonably common enough way to consume land animals (I’m not clear on whether this is in the form of soups or beverages).

Elves are severely allergic to cannabis and can't use it, though they have found unspecified alternatives.

While getting it is unpleasant, they are only inconvenienced by bubonic plague and its not considered a dangerous disease.

Elves also draw energy from the sunlight, which bolsters their metabolism, allowing them to eat less and possibly playing a part in their ability to digest previously mentioned plant matter. Access to fresh water (not just drinking it) also plays a part in their overall health. Somehow. Dark elves in the Underdark have adapted over the centuries (or maybe from the High Magic ritual that binds them to it) to draw from the faerzress radiation.

Elven vocal chords can reach pitches higher than humans can reach, and there's a gene that can allow the elf to produce two notes at the same time, which with training allows them to sort-of say two things at once (a 'ghost' vocalisation beneath the spoken words). This is described as 'genetic but not racial' so I assume it can pass to half-elves and any non-elven descendants through them.

---

Reverie/'Eedqa':

Elves do not sleep, unless something has gone wrong (injury, illness, exhaustion). They also can’t be forced to sleep, and are immune to magic that would do so (but not to being whacked over the back of the head and knocked out with something heavy).

- Elves enter a state called the Reverie (or just reverie) in Common, and ‘eedqa’ in Elven. The elf finds a quiet place to relax, gradually tuning out the world and slipping into a trance-like state where they re-experience their lived memories, occasionally interspersed with memories from past lives and visions from the gods – which will be vague and puzzling and probably require a priest to decode, the Lady of Mysteries did not earn that nickname for nothing. - They are somewhat aware of their surroundings in reverie, but pulling themselves back out of their mind is disorienting and waking early is extremely disorienting, much like waking any sleeping individual. Physically, they are immobile, not necessarily lying in a normal sleeping position (sitting or reclining is the norm), their breathing slows into a torpor and their eyes remain open and unfocused, which has occasionally caused panic in acquaintances who’ve never witnessed reverie before and think the elf has died (elves in turn are known to find the 'heaviness' of sleep disturbing to behold).

The only elves who deliberately sleep are priests of Sehanine Moonbow, who occasionally enter the deeper state of unconsciousness to communicate with their goddess, and the majority of drow (whose struggles to achieve reverie have been credited to the Underdark 'fragmenting' their natural instincts, and their inability to relax enough to enter the state).

Elves experience their first reverie in the womb, as pregnancy forges a temporary Rapport between parent and developing foetus where the offspring experiences the parent’s life and learns of their family and culture through them (how much the child can learn varies by parent; quality of education not guaranteed). Young children, lacking experiences of their own, are more likely to experience memories of previous lives unless they share in the reveries of other elves. The occurrence of the first ‘current life’ reverie is a life milestone and typically marks the end of childhood.

It’s very taboo amongst elves to interrupt another elf’s reverie.

-

Communion and Aleirin:

'Elves who lived even in reasonably close contact were so connected to each other through the Reverie and the Weave that they shared at least some shadow of each other’s emotional experiences.'

Elves have something of telepathic abilities, such as the ability to sense their own kind, a ‘sense of welcome,’ ‘warmth’ and ‘safety,’ although this can be obscured. This extends to the ability to enter each others minds and share thoughts, emotions and memory. Although that’s not to say that elves are living in each others heads, nor that they can (or are willing to) do it simply or constantly.

The state of ‘mind melding’ is communion, which is accomplished by sharing reverie while in physical contact (holding hands or pressing palms together, usually). The elven term for communion is apparently quor, however I can’t say for certain that applies to this mystical variety. Communing is credited with the sense of community elves experience, is an important part of elven religion, and they’re noted to anticipate sharing themselves with loved ones and struggle to understand non-elves due to their lack of ability to do so. However, it’s not a state entered into casually, as it requires deep trust and a willingness to be vulnerable with your entire being – you are exposing your every emotion and memory to another. Preparation may take weeks of mundane communication as the elves do away with any prejudices and air concerns to be resolved beforehand. It’s also physically and emotionally draining, and while in communal reverie the elves are entirely unaware of anything but each other and are vulnerable to surrounding hazards. Up to four elves may participate at once.

This awareness of each other lends elves an understanding that allows them to predict each others moods and actions acutely, and aids them to work in sync or borrow one anothers skills for a time (for example an elf who doesn’t know how to speak a certain language may temporarily ‘know’ after borrowing the knowledge from another elf.) Extended use of communion may cause loss of individuality however, as the elves begin to blend into each other.

Elves who isolate themselves from their people - whether this is by their own bitterness, malice, scheming, etc, or if the source is due to external magical affects like the Shadow Weave digging out these emotions (which; Shar, that’s what she does) - lose the ability to reverie and the ability to commune with it. Other elves cannot sense them, describing them as feeling ‘asleep.’

Drow may or may not be capable. They are capable of reverie, which would indicate that they can, they just don't know they can, or plain don't (Lolth would firmly discourage it with torture and death regardless).

Some elves, when they trust each other implicitly, may chose to make the link more permanent – a communion that never ends, in a form called Rapport or aleirin, or aleiryid if the nature of their relationship is romantic. The bonding is permanent, and can usually only be made a single time. Those born of multiple births like twins have rapport with their siblings, but outside of this it’s still uncommon for an elf to make this level of commitment and most are happier with normal, less co-dependent relationships (especially because, if you want to bring in the Complete Book of Elves, the shock of one partner dying can kill the other). A rapport can be made with non-elves, a ranger could even choose to establish one with their animal companion, but such bonds are so rare as to be practically unheard of.

The ability to commune has been attributed to a gland in the elven brain, which produces a magic that veils their minds. At rest it forms a shield that isolates them (and some scholars believe this is where the elven resistance to enchantment magic comes from), but they can lift it or expand it to bring other elven minds in.

The elven resistance to enchantment spells has also been credited to elven culture itself, since magic saturates their world so heavily elves grow up exposed to a constant background radiation of enchantment magic, for lack of a better word, and build up a tolerance. Others have said it’s the elves fey ancestry.

--

Souls/'Ues':

Like most sapient beings who are not humans – or mostly/half-human (excluding half-orcs) dwarves, gnomes or halflings – elven souls, ‘ues’ in elven, are somewhat different to the norm. sometimes differentiated in lore by calling them ‘spirits,’ and do not stay permanently in the afterlife, instead residing in the outer planes for a time (varying from days to millennia) before reincarnating back on the Prime Material Plane. While 5e claims drow are locked out of the cycle, the original lore included drow, and suggested that elves who decide to be evil little bastards in life and bar themselves from Arvandor will find themselves reincarnated as drow (vice versa: a drow who rejects Lolth is unlikely to find themselves reborn in her clutches).

(Elves do not have access to DnD sourcebooks and do not have any concrete idea of this kind of thing, so elven religion and philosophy varies heavily and may or may not reflect these things. Some elves don’t even believe in reincarnation.)

Another traditional side effect was that raise dead didn’t work on elves, only resurrection. Space was made for DMs to hand-waive this if it was getting in the way (because it makes elves expensive to have in the party), and the rule seems to have been officially side-lined for convenience by this point.

--

Ageing:

How elves age has varied by edition and writer. Sometimes they're human aging, sometimes a bit slower, sometimes much, much slower.

In most sources, including 5e core, an elf matures at the same rate, physically and psychologically, as a human, later developing into elven psychological stages as the centuries pass and they outlive the human experience.

It's also been said that Torilian elves are physically mature at 25.

In older editions, including realms sources, elves could age slower, taking between 30-60 years to hit puberty (which lasts another 50-85 years). Psychologically, non-elves are known to find elven youths to be rather mature for their age (due to longer lives and communing with the adults in their lives), though they’re still inexperienced by elven standards and hormonal. Elven children are left to pursue their ever shifting curiosity, instincts and impulses which means they generally don’t master any skills and end up about level with any other race by early adulthood. Drow have the fastest rates of maturation, Gold elves the slowest. Wheras in humans afab are known to hit puberty first on average, elves mature at the same average speed regardless.

Elves also have a mystical land-connection thing and are noted to be shaped by their environments, and it has been said of the latter version of ageing that elves may mature faster outside of the slow pace of elven cultures, particularly in dangerous and stressful situations where they need to grow fast.

Bizarrely, and I’m assuming this is a typo, it seems that the process of elven puberty is a bit like getting steroids because they get strength and dexterity bonuses. Or maybe elven teens are just stronger and more agile than their human counterparts, which is probably more likely if it isn't a typo.

[fallow-hollow]

Hi may I request Pattadol with gn tall-man reader where she crushes on us when she and canaries came for their work? I really want canaries to tease her(ye even slowly rehabilitating Mithrun) I can imagine her trying postpone their departure to at the very least confess before leaving after everything's done, coming up with weird reasons until her new job given by the Queen allows her to stay a bit(by elf standards) more.

deadline extension

ft… pattadol, the canaries

tags… pining, fluff, open-ended, reader is a tallman, the canaries being nosy, marking as spoilers but honestly there isn’t much

word count... 1654

notes… WE’RE SO BACK BABYYYYYYY if you cannot tell by my blog theming, i love pattadol, so of course i’m gonna be super excited to write for her as well!! i started this request a while ago and only finished it up recently, so I apologize if it strays a bit from the prompt by accident!! i live to create good side characters fics for you guys <3

Being as high strung as she is, there’s no way Pattadol will react well to this.

Most of her interactions outside the Canaries are purely for work purposes, and since her team never stays in one place for too long, making friends with the locals was never a priority of hers.

Truth be told, though, it only really takes one compliment to have her smitten. All her coworkers pretty much never take her seriously, so it’s a nice change of pace for someone to actually listen to her for once…

“This dungeon is currently in what we would call stage four.” The other Canaries stood a slight distance behind Pattadol, most appearing generally disinterested in a speech she had most certainly given many times before. “We separate the life cycles of dungeons into five stages from beginning to end. The fifth is the most dangerous, so we do our best to avoid it at all costs, which is why we do our best to seal the dungeon during the third or fourth stage.”

The whole time she spoke, you stood at attention, enraptured by her words. “So dungeons are like their own living organisms, then?” A bright spark danced in your eyes, burning brighter when fed this fuel of information. “I’ve never seen another adventurer think of dungeons as much except for a dangerous place with money to be made.”

She watched the way your fingers flexed while you held the hilt of your sword, but never quite unsheathed it. In fact, she’d been so engrossed by your body lactate that she squeaked in surprise when you continued.

“Your knowledge is very impressive. I see now why the elves of the west have such a widespread reputation!” After a pause, the corners of your smile rose just a bit higher to add, “however, I’m sure your individual merit is just as evident.”

“Ah!” Behind her, Cithis smirked when the shorter woman’s ears perked up. Trying to show humility at your praise, a pale hand waved in front of her. “Such is expected of someone in my position. We are all here to ensure the safety of the public!”

Though, she highly doubted there was another member of the public as pleasurable to serve as you were.

You come back each day with more questions, and, time permitting, she’s happy to answer. At times, she will have to wave you away when she’s busy with other matters, and the disappointed look on her face almost makes her wish she hadn’t.

Before any of them catch on, her coworkers are mostly either annoyed at her getting distracted or relieved to have even a moment away from her watchful eye and strict attitude.

The first to realize what’s going on is pretty much a tie between Cithis and Mithrun, though I’d say Mithrun realizes just a bit earlier, but doesn’t say anything to the others, of course.

The captain’s gaze was practically drilling holes in the back of her head, so much so that she feared she’d start getting a headache sooner or later. With no warning, he appeared at her side, and she wasn’t sure if he used teleportation or if she was simply that distracted. Nonetheless, Pattadol feigned composure and looked at her superior attentively.

“Is there anything you need, captain?”

Her expectations were some sort of order, needing directions, but certainly nowhere close to what actually fell from the captain’s lips.

“Don’t get distracted.”

If she wasn’t so busy standing stock still in embarrassment, she would’ve demanded to know what he was insinuating. Not like she needed to, of course. The subject of his statement immediately came to mind, and all she could do was furrow her brow and clamp her mouth shut.

Oh, she was doomed, wasn’t she?

As much as she wants to be, Pattadol isn’t subtle. It doesn’t take long for the rest of her coworkers to get the picture. The teasing was strong at first, happening nearly every time you two were near one another, but I think they’d get bored eventually. After all, they’ll be gone after the dungeon is sealed, and you’re a short lived race! The idea of the two of you getting together was pretty much impossible in their minds.

The rapidly approaching departure was both a blessing and a curse to Pattadol. On one hand, she wouldn’t have to endure these treacherous feelings getting in the way of her duties, and soon, the judgmental gazes of her coworkers would shift their focus away from her love life and back to her just being a “stickler”. After all, she wouldn’t even see you anymore!

But on the other hand… she wouldn’t even see you anymore.

To her own shock and horror, she actually starts looking for reasons to stay.

Now, Pattadol is literally the furthest thing from dishonest one could imagine. She would rather die than lie to the queen of all people, but if there’s something like, say, some damaged runes that can’t be read but could easily be done after the dungeon is sealed, she’ll choose to do it now under the guise of due diligence.

The other Canaries will definitely notice her demeanor changing, but a slower pace definitely isn’t a bad thing for most of them, so as long as the job gets done, they won’t exactly object.

She was supposed to be gone, wasn’t she? A confused expression took over your face when you caught sight of the long, blonde hair and the green cape. To you, she was unmistakable.

“Hey, weren’t you supposed to leave this morning?” The reaction to your voice was near instant, with Pattadol’s head turning just a split second after her ears perked up in recognition of the sound. Though she was smiling, there was a hint of something apologetic in her eyes.

“Well, we were,” a stray lock of hair was moved into place as she spoke. “We ended up finding some tunes on the walls that were partially damaged, and even once the dungeon is sealed, they’ll still be of great interest to the queen, so her orders were to restore and decipher them to the best of our ability while we were still present in the area. Decided that it would be more efficient.”

After that long string of words, she inhaled deeply, and you couldn’t help but notice her cheeks were slightly flushed. It looked good on her.

“So you’ll be here a little longer?” Even if she hadn’t specifically requested more time at this location, she couldn’t have said no to you. Not like this, when your eyes were so hopeful and your smile so contagious.

Grinning now herself, she acquiesced to your unspoken wishes. “Of course. We value doing our work thoroughly and properly.” Your eyes met once again, and the both of you knew that wasn’t all that she had to say.

“That aside, I’m glad to be here. I’ve wanted to speak with you a bit more…..”

A confession would likely be meticulously planned out by Pattadol, each word carefully handpicked into a linguistic bouquet that could express how she feels.

Your acceptance would shock her, really. In her mind, there was such a large gap between the two of you, and considering her position, there was little chance of anything truly working out in the long term.

Trying to reassure her that the two of you could make things work might fall on deaf ears at first, considering her emotional state. Writing letters was always an option, of course, but it just didn’t feel right to do that to you. You deserve someone who could be with you every day! She wouldn’t want you to spend your life waiting for her while she was overseas carrying out the bidding of the queen….

Many nights were spent deliberating her predicament, pacing back and forth in the Canaries’ quarters while muttering to herself. So many, in fact, that her coworkers decided to help her for their own sanity.

Pattadol, was, of course, against it at first, and even more against trying to bargain for more time, but soon enough she realized that she’d have absolutely no peace of mind if she left, either.

“W-we can’t do this!” The other Canaries ignored the frantic waving of the guard’s hands, signaling in every way physically possible that she wanted this all to stop. “It’s dishonest, it’s against the code! And- and it wouldn’t even work! Better to spare me the heartache!”

From the bottom bunk bed behind the panicking blonde, Lycaon propped himself up on one arm. He observed Pattadol with a largely unamused expression, waiting for a quiet moment to say his piece.

“So you’re saying…” he waited for his superior’s head to turn towards him before continuing. “…that if you left this lover of yours as soon as humanly possible, you would feel little heartache and get over it quickly?”

The look on her face, crestfallen and lost, said all that he needed to know.

Feeling defeated, Pattadol could only hang her head and sigh. “….Just don’t do anything outrageous, please?”

The methods aside, with Mithrun’s influence as captain as well as his lack of fear towards behaving out of line goes quite a bit farther than Pattadol, who was only really willing to use believable excuses. She’s practically tripping over herself to thank them, but most of them are just happy to get a break from nonstop work. Except for Mithrun, probably, who might even try to get reassigned down the line to get back into a dungeon sooner, but that’s Mithrun for you.

When she sees you next, she’s elated, telling you that she’ll now be here for a much longer time with you! Sure, it’s only a measly ten years, but it’s something! Perhaps you can work out something more down the line?

…Huh? Why do you look so confused? Did she say something strange?

[middleearthpixie]

The Ties That Bind ~ Chapter Four

Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.

War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.

An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.8k

Read on AO3

Sunlight streamed in through the canopy and bounced across the bed to hit Thorin square in the face, waking him far earlier than he wished to be woken. He regretted opening his eyes as soon as he did so, and brought up a hand to shade them as he rolled onto his side to offer his back to the offending light. 

His bed was soft and comfortable, he was cozy and snug beneath smooth linens and warm quilts. But despite the comfort and coziness, Thorin’s mood wasn't a good one. He’d hoped that the previous evening would have ended with him realizing what a mistake he’d made in fighting Dís about marrying Princess Eirlys. 

However, after having met her, he was convinced their union would be doomed from the start. He’d expected her to be demure and reserved, to by shy and blush when she met his gaze. 

In short, he’d expected her to be a very different person from the one she was in actuality.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to assume how she would behave. After all, her father was not the most diplomatic of men, so why should she be? He was a fool to think she was anything other than the brash, lippy woman who seemed to speak her mind without hesitation.

Going back to sleep was impossible. His mind whirled too much for him to even attempt to sleep. So, with a sigh of irritation, he kicked back the linens and sat up, then slid to the edge of the bed to rise. 

The room was chilly, biting into his bared skin as he stood, then padded to his trunk, where he pulled out fresh small clothes, trousers, and a heavy dark gray henley. He was just buttoning his trousers when there came a knock at the door.

“Who goes?”

“It’s me, Thorin.”

His henley in his hand, he padded across the room to pull open the door. “Dís? What’re you doing up at this hour?”

“Same as you, I’d imagine. The sunlight doesn’t often stream into my chambers back home.”

He smiled despite his heavy mood. “You would be correct. I don't even know what time it is.”

“Not even seven, I think. May I come in?”

He stepped aside. “Of course.”

She swept by him and as he tugged the henley over his head, she said, “Last eve did not quite go how we thought it might, did it?”

“And how did you think it would go?”

“Well, I thought the princess would come back out onto the dance floor.”

He emerged from the neck hole of his shirt, frowning as he moved to lace the front. “Why? Dís, I think you expect too much, too quickly.”

“Well, she certainly didn't look happy when she left the great hall.” She offered up a long look. “Why might that be?”

“Why are you asking me? I assure you, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Thorin.”

“What?” He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“She seemed all too happy to let me step in.”

“As I said,” he sank onto the edge of the bed to tug on his hose, and then boots, “you expect too much, too quickly. She is no happier about this marriage than I am.”

“Well, with the way you brood, I can hardly fault her.”

He looked up. “What is that supposed to mean? Dís, I don't know this woman. And yet you think what? We should have been sneaking off to find a darkened corner?”

She gave him a long look, then rolled her eyes. “There is a happy medium, you know. Something in between mortal enemies and aroused lovers.”

“There is no happy medium, as there is nothing there at all. I’ve only just met her, remember.” He finished tugging on his first boot, then reached for the second boot. “I know her name and that she says what she thinks and not much else.”

“Oh, from your tone, I gather you do not like what she thinks?”

“I do not care for what she thinks, no.”

“And what does she think?”

He didn't answer, but finished pulling on his boot, then rose. Dís stared balefully up at him, arms folded across her chest. “Thorin? What did she say that was so unacceptable to you?”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Thorin.”

“No, Dís. This was a terrible idea and we should not have come here. I should never have agreed to this and I am sorry that I did.”

With that, he turned and thumped out onto the terrace, where he braced his hands upon the railing and drew in a deep lungful of crisp, wintry air. There was no way to explain to his sister what an ass he’d made of himself by allowing himself to be overheard by Eirlys. 

But Dís, being Dís, did not take the hint and followed him out, wrapping her arms tightly about herself. “Thorin, what happened?”

He ignored her, staring out at the trees and foliage, all dusted with a layer of snow. Snow sparkled across the forest floor, where a path wound away from his terrace, and into the woods. Perhaps a walk through those woods would do him good, would help clear his head some, for he rarely had a chance to be alone in Erebor and even when he did, completely getting away from everyone often proved difficult, as it meant either crossing the plains to Dale, or going up behind the mountain, where Ravenhill was, and while he didn't mind being in Dale, the latter was also to be avoided if at all possible. 

“Thorin?” Her hand came to rest on his forearm. “What happened?”

“It’s none of your concern, little sister.” He slowly turned toward her. “So, let the matter drop.”

Her brow furrowed. “Did the princess insult you? Did Thranduíl?”

His irritation bubbled over and he snapped, “I told you to let the bloody matter drop, and I meant it! Now, if you’d not mind, I think I wish to be alone.”

He didn't wait for her to reply, nor did he think twice about the hurt that swept across her face, but instead swept past her to step down from the terrace and onto the path that wound deeper into the forest.

He didn't know where the path led to, but at that moment, he didn't much care. The last thing he wanted was yet another lecture from his sister. Dís meant well. She always meant well. But she always meddled and always overstepped and rarely realized it until he pointed it out. It aggravated him each time, but today he’d had enough. 

The blanket of snow muffled his footsteps, muffled the sounds of the forest around him. Every now and again, white powder filtered down through the treetops and more than once, a snowy owl swept overhead or a deer bounded across the path. The woods were peaceful. Tranquil. Perfect for thinking.

However, the way the path wound up and down and around meant that it didn't take much or very long for him to lose his bearings. In his irritation at Dís, he’d forgotten that one simple rule in regards to Mirkwood—it could and did muddle one’s mind and toss their bearings if one failed to pay attention to their surroundings. 

In short, he was lost.

A muttered oath rose to his lips as he turned about to first his left, than his right, only to see that everything looked the same. Each tree looked identical to the other, and so did the bushes and even the path looked odd. Snow began falling once more, and it didn't take long for his tracks to be obliterated by it. Still, he turned to try to follow the path back, only it seemed to him that it no longer ran in an east/west direction but now he felt as if he moved south. Or perhaps north. Without being able to see the sun, he had no idea which way was the right one. 

Still, he plodded on. Snow fell more heavily now, the gray skies darker by the minute. The temperature dropped just as quickly, and since he wore only his clothes and no outer garments, the chill settled into his body until he shivered even as he moved. 

How could it grow so dark when it was midmorning at the latest? He’d forgotten how Mirkwood could bend time until it meant nothing. Had forgotten how it liked to play games with one’s mind over all.

He wrapped his arms about himself as he stopped once more to look about. For all the good it did. If anything, he thought he might be even more lost now.

“Wonderful.”

Branches crackled around him. The hair along the back of his neck prickled. He whipped about to glare into the shadows. “Who goes?”

No response.

The wind picked up to whip through the treetops, sending even more snow swirling about him. He felt very much as if he’d gotten trapped inside a snow globe, only this was far more disorienting. His stomach roiled as if the ground rose and fell beneath his feet. Dizziness set it, slowly at first, but it took almost no time before the entire world seemed to spin around him.

He reached for something—anything—upon which to steady himself, but as he did, he stumbled. He swung out his hand to grasp whatever he could reach as his head spun with more force now and the terrible feeling that he was about to be sick surged through him.

The arrow came from nowhere. Whistled by the left side of his head, splitting the spindly tree  around whose trunk he’d wrapped his hand. A sharp sting rose in its wake, along his cheek, grazing the top of his ear to knock the heavy silver ear cuff he wore to the ground with a soft tink.

He staggered back, reaching for the sword that he’d actually left in his chambers, and let out a loud oath as he realized he’d foolishly stormed off unarmed. 

Another arrow split the air, only this time, he saw a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and as he turned, the flash became a person who, with a flick of a dagger blade, sent the arrow careening off to Thorin’s left.

“Are you mad or just a fool?”

He stared at Eirlys, who now stood before him, tucking a silver-bladed dagger back into its sheath. Unlike him, she was dressed for the wintry weather, in heavy-looking trousers and tunic and thick, fur-lined boots. Her white blonde hair had been drawn back into a heavy braid that fell to her hips and at the whistle of yet another arrow, she spun about with lightning-quick reflexes to knock it off its trajectory with the blade she’d just re-sheathed. Her movements were fluid and fast, as if she knew exactly where the next arrow would come from.

“Come with me.” She grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him forward, out of his stupor, dragging him behind her deeper into the forest. “We need to go. Now.”

“Where are you going?” He tried to tug his arm free, to tug her in the opposite direction, but her grip was like iron and not so easily broken. “The path is that way, isn’t it?”

“No.” She didn't look back at him, nor did she slow down. “It is this way and you were a terrific fool to go wandering off as if you know these lands. You’ve been here but twice and still haven’t learned, have you?”

That rankled him, as did her assessment of him as a fool, no matter how right she was. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are fortunate your sister knows you’re a dolt at times. One of those arrows might have found you, and then where would you be. Now, the guard has been dispatched and I am to bring you back to the palace, but if you’d rather die out here…”

Embarrassment seared him from head to toe. “Lead the way.”

“I thought I was.” 

He fell silent, his gut churning as she led him back down a path that showed itself so clearly now, he couldn't believe he’d gotten lost and wandered so far away from it. He thought about tugging free of her grasp, but then thought better of it, knowing that if he did, the path would most likely vanish on him once more. 

“You know where those arrows came from?”

“I do, I think.” The covered walkway came into view and Eirlys slowed her stride, then turned to face him. “Orcs have been testing our boundaries, coming a bit closer each time.”

He turned to look down the way they’d come. “Orcs? Here?”

“They’ve been growing bolder of late. It’s part of the reason my father is so eager to marry me off to you. He fears they’ll grow brazen enough to simply storm our borders and swarm the palace.” A hint of resignation crept into her voice. “And he will not allow me to face them, as Legolas does.”

“And you think you could do so?”

“Of course I could.” She gestured to the dagger still in her hand. “I’ve been trained with both bow and steel and am just as skilled as my brother.” 

“That’s good to know,” he replied softly, carefully drawing his wrist from her grasp, “for then I will not have to worry about you being able to defend yourself, should the need ever arise.”

“As if you would worry.” 

With that parting shot, she turned and started back toward the palace, as he called after her, “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She stopped once more, slowly pivoting to meet his gaze again. “You would?”

“Of course I would.” He closed the distance between them. “I am not a monster, you know.”

“Well, of course you aren’t. To suggest otherwise would be silly.” She cast her gaze downward for a moment, but then brought it back to meet his. “But you don't want this marriage.”

As her eyes met his, he was temporarily lost for words, for he’d never seen eyes as blue as hers. And when he remembered was words were, he struggled to make his voice louder than a whisper, failing as he murmured, “It isn’t personal.”

“Even so…” She held his gaze. 

“I would still not want to see any harm befall you, Princess.”

“Then it must ease your mind to know I’m quite capable of defending myself, as you said.”

He didn't say anything at first, but instead just gazed down at her as the maddest urge to curve his hand against her cheek, to see if her pale, smooth skin was as soft as it looked surged through him. Mirkwood casting its spell once again, no doubt, but the air crackled around them as she held his gaze, her eyes seemingly softer with each passing moment. His heartbeat sped up, but not in the same way as it had when he’d realized he’d gotten himself lost. No, this and the heat that seemed to swell within him had everything to do with the way she looked at him and with the sudden need to lean in and kiss her. 

“There you are! Where did you find him, Princess Eirlys?”

Thorin started, but kept himself from leaping away from her as Dís came hurrying down the path toward them. A hint of color rose along Eirlys’ high cheekbones, but it was gone so quickly, he thought he must have imagined it.

“I found him on the northeastern border. Just as the orc pack found him.”

Dis’ eyes widened. “Orcs?”

Thorin sighed softly. “I was an idiot for wandering off the path as I did. I should have remained close. A mistake I’ll not repeat, I assure you.”

“I think you owe the princess a show of gratitude as well, Thorin, since she went after you.”

He nodded, turning to smile at Eirlys, whose eyes were no longer so soft. “I do thank you, Princess.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t do it again.” 

With that, she turned and hurried off, leaving him there with a puzzled-looking Dís, who peered up at him. “Did something happen out there?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Only that she saved my sorry skin.”

“Really?”An impish smile accompanied her words. “Because I almost feel as if I’d interrupted a moment.”

“Well, worry not, because you did no such thing.” he told her, brushing by her. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am nearly frozen through and wish only go indoors and warm up by the fire.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He strode back to his chambers, fighting to keep his mind from wandering back to that moment in the woods, when all he wanted was to kiss Eirlys of Mirkwood. 

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Divider by @cafekitsune

[aeondelirium]

Here is my gift for the White Oliphaunt event! Have a lovely, healthy, happy new year. ❤️

Frodo had been intrigued by the elf since he first saw a glimpse of his injury; a thin sliver of greyish flesh spotted between the the cuff of a sleeve and the trimming of a glove. Illness was rare among the elves, and it had begun to make a small loneliness in Frodo’s heart that grew as Bilbo went from old to ancient and he himself was getting on in years. Master Elrond was a healer of great skill, nor was he the only one eager to see to the comfort and health of the hobbits; still he could not halt the march of time. Frodo felt that it pained the elves to witness the slow failing of their mortal bodies. More than once he had seen their neighbours flinch or quickly avert their eyes when Bilbo struggled to rise from the bench outside his home, or when an indrawn breath gave away a sudden pain in his joints. Frodo felt reminded of an old yellow tomcat who had liked to sleep on the warm cobblestones by the well outside Bag End, and the way he had flinched to see him limp away in the evening as his days drew near their end.

The elf with the injured hand drew similar looks of mingled pity and distaste, though Frodo had been made to understand that he had earned the latter. He found it difficult to picture soft-spoken, withdrawn Maglor either as a joyful minstrel or a ruthless warrior; rather he felt as though an invisible hand had plucked kin strings in their souls, and loneliness sung in both of them.

One afternoon, Master Daeron’s beautiful harp had been carried out to the shore by no fewer than four strong elves, and the hobbits had spent a delightful time listening and singing until Bilbo’s rhymes reduced most of the audience to tears of laughter. Frodo’s smile had grown somewhat fixed when he found he was no longer certain that the merriment stemmed from his uncle’s cleverness, rather than the jolly nonsense of his wandering mind. Frodo’s gaze lingered on Maglor, who had not laughed along with the others.

“Does it hurt still?” he found himself asking. Maglor did not turn his eyes on him, but his burned hand twitched inside its glove.

“The hurt is less a thing of the body and more an ache of the soul” he said softly.

Frodo nodded. “I’ve some of those hurts myself.”

“I miss my harp” Maglor confided, his eyes still fixed straight ahead as though he were speaking to himself. “That is perhaps the greatest hurt of all.” There was a silence. Frodo knew no comfort to give the elf.

“Pimpinella Bracegirdle”, said Bilbo beside him, stirring from a brief rest against his shoulder, “loved to dance.” He fixed his watery old eyes on Maglor with an intensity that finally forced the elf to turn his head and acknowledge him. Bilbo manoeuvred himself upright with a huff and a puff and wet his lips, ready to spin yet another yarn.

“Now the trouble was”, he continued, “her dear Hugo was lame in one leg whenever the weather was about to change, an old injury from when he was a lad … I seem to recall he’d stepped on a bee and rolled down the hill up near Sandson’s farm …”

Frodo felt a slow flush creeping up his neck and put a gentle hand on his uncle’s arm, hoping to dissuade him from his tale. Bilbo, however, was undeterred. Maglor simply looked at the old hobbit, his face betraying neither amusement nor disdain. He listened with the careful attention of a minstrel.

“Now, a little further down Bagshot Row lived a hobbit who didn’t care much for dancing, despite having two good feet at the end of two good legs. We called him Daddy Twofeet, if you can believe it, for he’d more sense in his toes than that foolish head of his, heh. So on every other feast day, if the weather was about to change, and Pimpinella wanted to dance, Hugo would limp over to Daddy’s hole, and borrow his good right leg, on the condition of course he’d have it back by morning. And then he and Pimpinella would dance the night away, and they didn’t care who knew about it.” The old hobbit finished with a snort and a shake of his grey head.

“Oh Bilbo”, Frodo sighed. 

His uncle bristled. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young hobbit! Hugo and Daddy were my neighbours for many years, and every word is true.”

“Bilbo-”, Frodo began, but the old hobbit shook his hand from his arm.

“Why, I ought to send you to bed without your supper!” he sputtered, now truly querulous in a way only the elderly can muster.

“To bed, yes”, Frodo agreed wearily, and made to rise. “Perhaps it is time for bed.”

“Perhaps you ought to listen to your uncle, Master Baggins.”

All three of them stopped and looked up to where Daeron was watching them, a twinkle of merriment in his bright eyes.

“I think there is some wisdom in his tale”, he went on, and raised a graceful hand in beckoning. Beside the hobbits, Maglor stiffened where he sat, not unlike a rabbit hoping to elude the hunter’s searching gaze.

“Come, Maglor. Sit with me.” Daeron’s voice was gentle, yet brooked no argument. Maglor rose, but doing so cast a sideways glance at Frodo, who could not help but feel he had done the elf a bad turn.

“Show me”, Daeron said as Maglor settled himself on the smooth rock next to him. He opened his hand in invitation, and received Maglor’s own in return. None around them spoke or even shifted as Daeron gently peeled the glove away, a shadow of pain passing over his features at the sight of the marred flesh.

“The skin has hardened”, Maglor said in a voice barely above a whisper, forcing the words out quickly as though they hurt him. “The fingers are too stiff to play.”

Daeron hummed a soft note of agreement, turning the hand over and gently extending the scarred digits. “Yes”, he said at last, “that hand is hardly fit to pluck my harp.”

His finger’s tightened around Maglor’s wrist to prevent him from drawing away. Daeron removed from his shoulders his own lovely blue scarf, and, resting Maglor’s hand in his lap, gently pulled the soft fabric over it.

“Between the two of us we have three good hands to play.”

The tune was halting and strange at first. Taking half of two famed minstrels did not, Frodo thought to himself, make a whole one of outstanding skill. Yet there was not a face in the audience that did not smile, or shed a tear, or both.

Beside him, Bilbo rested his wizened head back on his shoulder. An elf maiden draped a soft woollen blanket around him against the evening chill. And when the old hobbit begun to hum along in his faltering voice, the music was sweeter than any that had been heard on that shore in a long time.

[lunastrophe]

I’ve been getting really into drow lore and your blog has been so amazing to read through!!While looking for inspiration for my drow character I found out about aracholoths, who are results of failing the first test of lolth (the test of darkness) kinda like driders. There just isn’t a lot of info at all about them so I’m curious if you have heard of them or have thoughts about them!

Hello and thank you for visiting my blog! 🙂I recall one official D&D source that mentions aracholoths and gives us some details on them - The Punishments of Lolth by Eric Cagle, published in Dragon Magazine #298 (3e, if I remember correctly).

According to this source, being transformed into aracholoth is a typical punishment for drow who fail the first test of Lolth - Chwineka, or the Test of Darkness. During this test, Lolth is said to inspect the heart of a drow, to decide whether they are truly worthy to be a member of drow society or not.

🕷️About Chwineka - it is believed that Chwineka comes suddenly, without any warning, and always when "the drow is performing some deed within view of other dark elves". Using D&D rules, Chwineka typically occurs when a drow has gained enough experience to advance to 2nd level.

During this test, the drow feels their heart suddenly "swell with pride, power, and drive, tinged with a sensation of being watched from afar". This sensation is Lolth inspecting their feelings. To pass the test, the drow cannot give off any indication of self-doubt or unworthiness - they need to possess a natural sense of superiority.

In case of failure, the drow feels a "terrible pain" clutching at their heart and then the transformation begins.

🕷️ Transformation Into Aracholoth - considering the description, it is horrible and painful: "without any warning, the zwy'il's (candidate's) body begins to convulse and transform. Her eyes blacken and grow to enormous proportions, while six smaller eyes emerge around her face. Two huge poisonous fangs emerge from the zwy'il's mouth. Lastly, an extra pair of spider-like legs grows from her torso".

Aracholoths, just like driders, are said to be feared and persecuted by drow.

🕷️Aracholoth's Appearance - aracholoths are described as aberrations, "a half-mix of drow and drider". They appear a bit more humanoid than driders, since they have only four spider-like legs growing from their torso. They also have a shiny black carapace, presumably covering mainly the lower part of their body - the upper part resembles a drow.

Aracholoth's face is said to be particularly terrifying. It resembles that of a drow, but it's two "principal" eyes are completely black and disproportionately large. It also has six smaller black eyes that resemble that of a spider, and huge poisonous fangs growing from its mouth.

🕷️Aracholoth's Life - just like driders, aracholots are dangerous and vengeful creatures "that hide in the darkness looking for prey. They hate drow with a passion and will band together with driders to hunt them down".

Typically, aracholoths attack their opponents from the distance first, pelting them with arrows while hiding in the darkness. Then they charge at them, trying to horrify them - the gaze of their huge black eyes has a similar effect to the spell that causes uncontrollable fear. Aracholoths pursue fleeing creatures and then attack them with their poisonous bite.

They have spell-like abilities like dancing lights, darkness, faerie fire, suggestion and web. They can also climb. They tend to be solitary creatures, but sometimes they join their forces with other aracholoths, driders or small monstrous spiders.

Aracholoth on illustration from the article (by Anthony Waters):

🕷️ Personally, I find the concept of aracholoth quite interesting - particularly because its gaze can very literally cause fear - but generally, it gives me vibes of a "lesser" drider.

And in a way, it is probably meant to be one. Aracholoths are probably created mainly from younger members of drow society who only recently started their adult life. Most of them are probably not very powerful.

I have no idea to what degree they retain their personalities after transformation, but I have a feeling that their huge fangs may prevent them from using articulated speech.

Also, description of their faces (two large black eyes, huge fangs) reminds me, in a way, of a jumping spider. So... who knows - maybe aracholoths look kind of cute (at least for spider-like monstrosities), but because of their ability to cause fear with their gaze, nobody can see them as cute? 🤔Just a silly thought 😉

[lizaoverlord]

The Dreamer | The Servant. I absolutely love the kinds of tarot type cards where one side shows a positive meaning and the other a reversed or negative one. I had so much fun figuring out how to portray a card like that for Deimos Hekar, my dark elf warlock.

In the past Deimos was non-magical. However, there is one small spell all dark elves in Dungeons and Dragons have: Dancing Lights. When Deimos would cast it the four lights of the spell would only appear for a short moment before flickering out in seconds. Despite his difficulty with casting spells, Deimos was a promising and proud inventor of the arcane. His calculations becoming powerful inventions.

The current situation for Deimos is on the other side of the card. The Servant. Through his gifted warlock powers he can now cast spells easily. The Servant side of the card shows a more openly confident Deimos but it is hiding his fears. Fearing the moment his warlock patron Vannatir turns everything against him as retribution.

The tarot card border is designed with the theme of time in mind. Since the character is shown in Past vs Present. Every line has an arrow at the end like the hand of a clock, both the smaller hour hand and the bigger minute hand. The main part of the border depicts an hourglass.

[chimcess]

→ Chapter Eight: A Murder Pairing: Jimin x Reader Other tags: Werewolf!Jimin, Witch!Reader, Shifter!Reader, Shifter!Jimin, A/B/O Dynamics, Alpha!Jimin Genre: Supernatural!AU, Werewolf!AU, Angst, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Smut, Word Count: 11.9k+ Synopsis: Within the four realms of Lustra lay the Bangtan forest home to the Foxglove pack of the south and known as the “land of magic.” It is also home to the Bridd, a powerful witch from a cursed bloodline who is one of the sacred guardians of the forest. Y/N is the newest Bridd, a young girl who was given her position too early. Now a woman, Y/N is revered amongst the wolves as the most powerful witch they have ever known, but hiding under the surface is a woman who has to battle between her duty and her heart. Warnings: ANGST, strong language, PTSD, flashbacks, self-hate, self-depreciation, talks of death, nosey birds, Moland is a lot of fun to write about, (sorta) theft, home sickness, magic, crying, reader is lonely, new character introduced, creepy monsters, talk of death, nightmares, very tame A/N: Our adventure has officially begun. I'm so excited to show off some of Lustra outside of Bangtan! Be prepared for a lot of angst from here on out. Thanks for reading :)

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I blinked, trying to shield my eyes from the invasive sunlight slicing through the room. My body felt like it was made of lead, each muscle protesting as I forced myself upright. The sun had just begun its ascent, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. Soon, the others would wake, and Moland's hunters would pick up my trail. Time was my enemy.

Thelma's house, usually a sanctuary, now felt like a trap. Would I be able to return after this was all over? Would they hate me for leaving? Questions with no answers haunted me as I rose, wincing at the crack of my joints. Sleeping on floor cots was a necessity in the swamp; anything else invited mold and worse. I stretched, my back groaning in protest, and went in search of sustenance. Thelma always had food stashed somewhere.

The fridge was stocked with cured meats, a testament to Thelma's culinary prowess. But my stomach churned at the thought. I wasn't about to change my vegetarian ways, not now. Mi-Jeong’s noodles danced in my memory, a comforting reminder. I found some grapes, hidden away like treasures in the cold box. Perfect.

I ate the grapes slowly, savoring each bite as I prepared my bag. The weight of Moland's proximity pressed on me; I needed to put distance between us quickly. The swamp's cacophony was a welcome distraction, louder than the forest's oppressive silence. Most predators were still asleep, granting me a temporary reprieve. I charmed my items, readying myself for the journey ahead.

Flying would be faster, but daylight was a double-edged sword. I had no choice. I needed to move. The grapes, now warm and less appealing, were still a better option than hunger. I knew Moland well enough to navigate its treacherous paths, but beyond lay the unknown. Quietus territory promised fewer encounters with elves, but there were other dangers.

Shifting form, I felt the discomfort of my bag's straps against my wings, my trousers rubbing irritatingly against my feathers. I needed to find a more practical outfit for flying. My mind wandered to Jimin. By now, he would be awake, brooding over his tea. Would he come looking for me? Doubtful. The village would soon realize my absence. Sol and Bo would be the first to panic, their reactions predictable.

Flying during the day was exhilarating, the wind under my wings a rare pleasure. But the weight of my bag made it unsustainable. I needed to rest. Finding a sturdy oak, I landed and shifted back. The berries growing nearby caught my eye, a small consolation in my weary state. Jin had taught me well, our foraging trips a distant, bittersweet memory.

As I ate the tart chokeberries, I thought of Jin and Yoongi. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. I missed them, but the present demanded my focus. I saved some berries in a spare shirt, careful not to crush them, and set off again.

The marsh ahead was teeming with life. Birds gossiped above, unaware of who I was. Their chatter was a comfort. Stripping down, I entered the water, scrubbing the dirt from my skin. The birds' bickering provided a soundtrack, their voices a reminder that I was not alone.

“What are you?” one of the birds asked, breaking the spell.

Ignoring them, I continued to wash, the water murky but refreshing. My thoughts drifted to the journey ahead. Danger lurked in every shadow, but I had no choice. I had to keep moving, keep surviving. 

As I finished, I looked around, the swamp's noise a constant reminder of the world I was leaving behind. With one last glance at Thelma's house, I took to the sky, determined to outfly the shadows of Moland.

“Hey!” Pip’s voice sliced through the swamp’s murmur, harsh and grating. I turned, annoyance simmering beneath my skin. “You didn’t answer my question.

“Maggie, lay off,” Pip shot back, his tone defiant. Maggie’s scolding fluttered away like a discarded leaf.

Scrubbing the muck from my skin, I figured a brief answer might quiet the incessant crows. The last thing I needed was more attention drawn to me. The swamp was quiet, but not so quiet as to hide the lurking dangers. The thought of oversized snakes slithering in the murky waters made my skin crawl.

“I’m a shifter,” I said, my voice flat and edged with impatience.

“Oh,” Earl’s laugh rumbled, deep and unsettling. “Should’ve guessed. I’m Earl.”

“Margeret,” Maggie chimed in, bowing her head with an air of exaggerated politeness, as if she’d just stepped out of a Northorn court. “This is Floyd, my beloved, and Price, his brother.”

I hummed a noncommittal response, eager to escape the swamp's oppressive humidity and the crows’ probing questions. The longer I lingered, the greater the risk of a snake bite or worse. I debated whether to get my hair wet, the thought making me shiver.

Pip wasn’t done. “What’s your name, shifter?”

“Nixie,” I said, the name slipping out before I could stop it. I winced, relieved that my face remained hidden. Why Wendy’s sister’s name surfaced, I didn’t know, but it was too late to change course. I had to make it work.

Maggie’s shrill laugh grated on my nerves. “From the shore, are ya? Named after water nymphs, I suppose?”

I was taken aback. These birds were sharper than they let on. The sea coven named their girls after water spirits, and Nixie fit the bill. I hadn’t expected crows to be so knowledgeable about such things.

“Yes,” I said, relieved they were building my backstory for me.

“What brings you out here?” Pip’s question broke through my thoughts.

I trudged out of the water, feet sinking into the sticky mud, feeling the cloying discomfort with every step. I glanced at the crows, considering how best to craft a story that would satisfy their curiosity without revealing too much. The swamp’s whispers seemed to echo the urgency of my situation.

“The elves destroyed my home,” I said, grabbing my damp clothes. “I’ve been wandering and hoping to find my way to Whopping to warn my sister.”

“Bless your heart,” Maggie cooed, her accent thick with the same twang as Thelma’s. “We heard about the raids. Foxglove Village nearly burned down, they said.”

“A friend mentioned the guardian witch broke her curse,” Floyd added.

I kept my face impassive, hiding my surprise. The crows were more in the know than I’d anticipated. I was uncomfortable with their conversation but tried to remain polite.

“Watch yourself,” Earl advised, peering eastward. “Seen a lot of camps ‘round here.”

“If I were you,” Pip added, “I’d ditch that bag. It’ll make you stand out.”

Maggie scrutinized my bag with a critical eye. “Big thing must weigh a ton. Don’t know how you manage.”

I forced a weary smile. “I’ll leave it behind when I find a safe place to stash my stuff.”

Floyd’s excitement was palpable. “Stop by Mama Jean’s in Magnolia. She can help with directions and maybe feed you.”

“Don’t risk it,” Earl interjected quickly. “Mama Jean’s deep in the bayou. There’s dangers beyond just elves.”

“Yeah,” Maggie said, her tone dripping with condescension. “Some witches aren’t fond of newcomers. You’ll be defenseless.”

“She’d probably figure out a way to kill you twice if you lied,” Pip joked, a smirk in his voice. “Best to fly straight through. Sleep in a tree and keep moving.”

I nodded, absorbing their advice. I didn’t want to draw any more attention, but their insights were useful. I glanced at the setting sun, knowing I’d need to find a place to camp.

Maggie offered a final gesture. “If you need us to pass on any messages, just say so. We’re headed south to escape the violence.”

Touched by their willingness to help, I decided to part with my last bunch of grapes. Maggie and Floyd protested, but Earl, ever the opportunist, accepted them with glee.

“If you can,” I said, “find someone named Kim Seokjin in Foxglove. He’s a witch who talks to animals. If not, his mother and aunt, Hoji and Heji.”

“What’s a witch doing with wolves?” Pip asked.

“Safety,” I replied briefly. “After the attack, we sought refuge.”

“Let her finish,” Floyd scolded.

“Tell him, ‘Birdie is fine,’” I said, “and what you know about the elf camps.”

“‘Birdie’? Sounds juvenile,” Maggie complained.

I laughed, a bittersweet sound. There was a time when those names were a part of me, when magic and laughter were constants. Now, nostalgia mingled with the ache of loss. I missed them all—Yoongi, Jimin, my old life.

I missed them terribly.

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” I said, my voice cracking with the weight of old memories. “No one knows I’ve left. I just want them to know I’m okay and to be careful.”

“Brave girl,” Earl commented, his beak dripping with grape juice. “We’ll head that way tonight. Should reach there by morning. We need to swing by a friend’s place first. Elves have been causing all sorts of trouble for witches.”

“Of course,” I agreed quickly, a hidden surge of relief flooding me. The extra time to escape the swamp was a gift. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Pip grunted, snagging a grape for himself.

“We birds stick together,” Earl added, his tone more solemn.

I chuckled, their camaraderie starting to grow on me. As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, I knew it was time for me to move. The river was still a distant hope, and the thought of hauling the bag any longer made me ache. The bag’s weight seemed to bear down on me more than I’d anticipated. My fear of exposure gnawed at me. If the elves knew I was out here, alone and vulnerable, they could use it against me. I could almost hear the whispers of my enemies in the dark corners of my mind.

“I should get going,” I sighed, bracing myself to carry the burden again. “Thanks again for everything.”

“Thanks for the grapes, honey,” Maggie said with a grin. “Stay safe. Hope we cross paths again someday.”

I smiled at her. “I’m sure I can find you.”

Taking a deep breath, I set the bag down and began to shift. My clothes fell away in a heap, and it took some fumbling to extricate myself from the pile of fabric. The crows watched, their beady eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and awe. I used my beak to open my sack and stuffed the clothes inside. I’d only shift to ease the burden of the bag, so the clothes wouldn’t be needed for a while.

“We’re kin,” Pip joked, “Glad to see something besides a wolf pull that off.”

“Too bad I’m the bigger cousin,” I teased, gripping the bag’s strap with my talons.

“Probably older, too,” Earl cracked. “Too bad we could kick your tail if we really tried.”

“Safety in numbers,” I agreed, though I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy for their flock. “Too bad I don’t have my own. Where’s the rest of your murder?”

“Leeside,” Maggie replied. “You might run into some of them. They’re usually not friendly, so if you mention us, they might back off.”

After a few more pleasantries and warnings, along with detailed directions to the Syrena River, I took off. The bag’s weight made flying awkward, and I grimaced as it jostled against my back. Maggie and Earl’s kindness was a balm, while Pip and Floyd continued to devour the grapes. I had managed to get rid of them, even if it was a bit more effort than I’d planned. Cordelia would have scolded me for being so sentimental.

Lost in thought, I nearly crashed into a tree, barely swerving in time. The memory of Cordelia struck me like a blow. Her eyes, cold and distant, haunted me. The weight of her small body, the dirt-streaked hair clinging to her face, and the fire’s consuming heat pressed on me like a physical force. The acrid smell of soot and ash filled my senses, forcing me to the ground in frustration.

Dropping the bag, I landed with a heavy thud. Shifting back, I panted, my grief and despair overwhelming me. The forest around me was eerily silent. The cicadas’ electric hum and the songbirds’ melodies were replaced by a stifling quiet, more oppressive than the Bangtan forests. The absence of sound was a stark reminder of my isolation. I wrapped my arms around my bare shoulders, letting the tears flow freely. I knew I had no time for this—elves could be nearby at any moment—but the weight of my sorrow was too heavy to bear alone.

The silence pressed in on me, the only hope for solace lying in the distant promise of the frogs’ crooning when night fell. But that was a long way off. The darkness would come soon, and I had miles to fly before I’d be near another body of water.

I wiped my face, telling myself that at least the crows would keep the worry at bay for now. It was the only consolation I could muster. Never had I felt such foolishness for leaving so impulsively. I was so wrapped up in everyone else’s troubles that I hadn’t stopped to think about the chaos I’d wrought on myself, or how it would hurt them. Jimin’s words echoed in my mind, a relentless whisper that made me crumble to my knees. He was right. I was tangled in my own self-pity, blind to how my actions were tearing him apart. This wasn’t an act of love; it was selfishness.

I could barely stand myself. My tears came hot and relentless, leaving wet trails on my cheeks. My frustration boiled over into anger. I slammed my hands against the dirt, the force of my rage almost feeling like a physical entity. I wanted to fight something, anything. My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms, I bit down on my tongue until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I swung at a nearby tree, feeling the sting as my knuckles collided with the rough bark. The pain was a dull roar but enough to snap me out of my spiral.

Trembling, I took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to steady myself. My hands shook uncontrollably, the knuckles already darkening with bruises, blood oozing from the small cracks in the skin. The anger ebbed away, replaced by guttural sobs that shook my entire body.

I wanted to go home, but where was home now? My cottage was a ruin, the palace felt like an empty shell, and Mi-Jeong’s house was no refuge with Ji-Hyun there. Even Jimin’s place, once a haven, now seemed tainted by the knowledge of how he saw me. I was adrift, unmoored, with no place to return to.

As I struggled to breathe, memories of the past came crashing back with startling clarity. I remembered a night filled with regret and anger. Aldara and I had a screaming match the day before. I couldn’t even recall the cause—defensive magic, or some petty argument we often had. When I showed up for breakfast the next morning, she had prepared a feast, an olive branch I refused to acknowledge. I had been too stubborn to listen, too angry to see her genuine attempt to make amends. I stormed out, leaving the food untouched, the cold plate a symbol of my petulance.

Yoongi was my refuge that day. We sat in the forest as I vented my frustrations. He’d called me melodramatic, and I’d insisted I was standing up for myself. Jin and Wendy found us later, and together we walked to Syrena. On the beach outside Wendy's house, I let my anger manifest in bursts of flames that danced across the sea. Jin’s jealousy as he asked to see my fire was a vivid memory, his voice tinged with awe.

Fire had always been my domain. I wielded it like an artist, creating flames that burned blue with heat. It was the one thing I excelled at, praised by Aldara with a spark of pride in her eye. But now, the furnace within me lay cold. The joy and mastery I once felt had been extinguished by the wolves’ attack.

I lifted my hands and inspected them, feeling a strange disconnect. Fire had never harmed my skin before. I took a deep breath and pressed my palms into the dirt, my voice a soft murmur as I wove a spell. The earth responded, encasing my hands and arms in a protective layer. It sought out the blisters, cooling them as it climbed up my body. The spell ended, and the dirt fell away, leaving no trace behind. I wiped my face and stood, relieved to see that my old magic still worked, if imperfectly. The burns were less noticeable, a small victory.

“Egnis,” I commanded, raising my hand. A small, lackluster flame appeared above my fingers. It was nothing like the vibrant, dancing fire I once controlled. It flickered weakly, a poor shadow of what it had been. I felt ashamed.

“Hello,” I greeted the ember. “I’m sorry I’ve neglected you.”

The flame offered no response, its silence a stark reminder of how distant I had become from my own power.

“I’ll try to do better,” I promised. “I think we’ll need each other again. I’m not great at fighting without you, and these spells drain me too much.”

The flame remained still. With a sigh, I let it extinguish. The sun was low, casting long shadows, and night was approaching fast. I enchanted my bag and slung it over my shoulder, shifting into my other form. It was easier to bear the transformation without clothes.

I kept low, weaving through the trees. I was out of my element, and the dense forest made navigation treacherous. Flying higher would risk losing my way. Speeding through the thick foliage, I knew I wouldn’t outrun the setting sun. I’d have to stop sooner than I hoped. At least, I thought, I’d be far enough from home. No one would be coming for me.

It was a bitter thought, but I reminded myself they’d probably searched for me all day. They wouldn’t come this far north because of the elves, but they would have looked. My foolishness had put me in this predicament. I should have waited, stayed, understood better. But I hadn’t. Now I was alone in a darkening forest, surrounded by the threat of elves, and feeling more lost than ever.

The one silver lining was that I was alone. The hymns of the ielfen wouldn’t do me any good now; they were mere noise against the cold reality of my predicament. But their songs weren’t their only weapon. They had numbers, and if fatigue got the better of me, I was done for. I needed to bolster my endurance and overcome my aversion to fire. There was no room for melodrama or sentiment in the face of such raw, unrelenting danger.

As night draped itself over the forest like a thick, suffocating blanket, I began my search for a suitable tree to crash in. It wasn’t the first time I’d slept as a bird or perched on a branch, but it was the first time I’d attempted both at once. Back in my younger days, I had reveled in sleeping outside. But then, I hadn’t yet learned the art of shifting, and even when I did, I’d never allowed myself to sleep in that form.

Exhaustion clawed at me as I fought to keep my eyes open. I needed to find a place to land soon. I was lost, but I kept northeast as Earl had instructed. Once I was clear of the tree line, I’d know if I’d followed his directions properly. Ancola, with its red mud and sparse life, would be my guide. A small desert marked the northern border, the only one in Lustra, and would signal if I was on track. If I veered off course, the snow would alert me, and if I went too far north, the tall, thick grass would ensnare me like a labyrinth. I was confident I’d find my way back if I got lost.

When I finally landed on a branch, the pain was immediate and unforgiving. It was an uncomfortable necessity on the road to Ozryn. Complaining wouldn’t change anything. I wrestled my now-tiny bag from my back and secured it on a smaller branch that jutted out from my perch. Once it was steady, I closed my eyes and let myself drift into a fitful sleep.

Morning came with the sun’s harsh rays stabbing at my eyes. I didn’t feel too stiff yet, but I knew that would change once I shifted back. Digging my nose into my bag, still hanging nearby, I fished out a berry, contemplating whether it was safe to shift in this strange place.

“Comfortable, little firefly?”

The voice startled me, and I let out a loud, panicked caw. My feathers fluffed up, my throat hackles extended, and I scanned the area for the source of the voice. Nothing. Not even a bug. Frustration turned into fear as I clicked my tongue, a sharp, echoing sound that ricocheted through the forest. By the twelfth click, the voice came again, and I snapped my bill shut, fluffing my feathers more.

“No need for that, child. You’re sitting on me, after all.”

That gave me pause. I was sure I’d fallen asleep in a tree. Yet here I was, confronted with the impossible. In Bangtan, it was rare for the ielfen to grant permission for someone to rest on them, but it was the only explanation I could come up with. Curious and apprehensive, I slipped my bag onto my back and took flight.

“It’s not every day I have a visitor,” the tree spoke again, “especially a little hybrid like yourself.”

It was an ordinary oak tree—or so it appeared. There was no reason it should know I was a hybrid or understand my language. Yet, here it was, talking without a mouth. I blinked, incredulous.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said, weary and confused. “I didn’t realize you were… animated.”

The tree laughed, its leaves rustling with the force. “Offended? Oh, my dear, quite the opposite!”

Suddenly, the tree began to move. Its branches twisted and shed their leaves, the trunk splitting down the middle to reveal a pair of long, spindly legs. I flapped away in terror as the once-normal tree transformed into a towering, humanoid figure. It loomed above the treetops, its face now visible.

“I can’t remember the last time I had such a delightful morning,” the tree-man boomed, his voice echoing through the forest.

I winced and flew up to meet him. His body was covered in moss and leaves, his skin dark and bark-like, with fungi sprouting from his feet. He was lanky and rough, with no discernible joints. He resembled a Ghillie Dhu, but I needed to see his face to be certain.

“Ah,” he sighed, stretching his enormous arms skyward. “It feels so wonderful to stretch out again. Been like this for years!”

The Ghillie Dhu’s loud voice would attract every living creature in the forest if he kept it up. I broke through the canopy to face him directly. His bright green eyes were kind, his face rugged yet strangely beautiful, with a nose that was slightly too long and pointed. Satisfied with my assessment, I tried to figure out how to shrink him back to a manageable size. After all, he was a fairy.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ghillie Dhu,” I said softly, “but could you lower your voice? There are elves nearby.”

The Ghillie Dhu’s eyes darkened, his grin fading. In an instant, I was enveloped in darkness. I flew, colliding with something cold and wooden. The scent of mildew was comforting. The creature was holding me.

The space around me shrank until I was set down. Disoriented, I shook my head and flew around a few times. I heard the Ghillie Dhu creaking and groaning nearby. At least we were now better hidden. I couldn’t believe any elf patrols hadn’t already discovered us.

“And you are?” the ielfen asked, the creaking stopping.

“I’m the Bridd,” I introduced myself, flying closer.

In his current form, he looked much more beautiful, his skin smooth and free of imperfections. His nose was still long and pointed, his eyes green, but the fungi had vanished. His hair was an odd dark green, spiked like leaves, and patches of moss covered his body. He almost looked familiar.

“I know,” he said with a smile, his bubbly personality returning. “It’s wonderful to see you again. I don’t recall you being a bird last time we spoke.”

I recognized him now. He was the fairy who had helped us when we thought Jin was trapped in a fairy circle. Elated to see a familiar face, my heavy heart lightened. 

“My name is Isylwin,” he said with a courteous nod. “Forest guide. What brings you here, little firefly?”

“I’m on an adventure,” I replied. “Elves have started attacking Lustra, and I’m trying to get aid back to Bangtan. Flight is the fastest way out of Moland.”

The darkness returned to his features. The long-standing feud between elves and ielfen was well-known, a bitter conflict dating back over forty thousand years. No one knew the exact cause, but legends spoke of an elven king’s vengeful act against a water nymph. Isylwin seemed unaware of the current elf presence until now.

“That’s troubling,” he said thoughtfully. “We must warn my brothers immediately. They need to prepare for a fight.”

He gestured to my small form with a kind smile. “You may shift. I’ll ensure no harm comes to you, firefly.”

Embarrassed by the nickname, I ducked my head and put some distance between us. Landing on the forest floor, I removed my bag and fished out some clothes. I wasn’t keen on being naked in front of the fairy. Seemingly unaware of my discomfort, Isylwin waited expectantly.

“Would you mind looking away?” I asked, feeling self-conscious.

“Oh,” Isylwin chuckled and turned his back. His thick moss and leaf covering meant he had no need for clothes, which eased my nerves slightly. “My apologies. I haven’t been around many women.”

Trusting his word, I shifted and quickly dressed. My bag and its contents grew in size, and I slung it over my shoulder. With another body nearby, my confidence was bolstered. Two were better than one in a fight.

“I’m decent,” I said, clearing my throat. “You can turn around.”

Isylwin was immense, towering even over the wolves. He looked slender and fragile, but I knew better. Ielfen were formidable fighters, their cunning and tricks making them difficult to gauge. I was certain Isylwin was using glamor to appear more human, but it could vanish in an instant. Ghillie Dhus were among the most gentle fairies, but stories of their power were legendary. My friend could easily dispatch an elf if provoked.

“So interesting,” he mused to himself. “Humans age so differently from us.”

“I’m sorry?” I raised an eyebrow.

“You look like a woman now,” he said, “when I was expecting a child. Is that normal for your kind?”

Baffled, I shrugged. “We mature faster than you do, if that’s what you’re asking. It slows once we reach adulthood. I’m not human, so I can’t say if there’s a difference.”

“Fascinating,” he said as if I had unveiled some cosmic truth. “Forget that—” he waved dismissively, “—we must find my brothers and alert them about these elves.”

He grabbed my hand, twirled around, and started walking. I pulled away, confused and alarmed. Isylwin looked at me, his head cocked. I wasn’t sure how to explain my hesitation without seeming selfish. I almost felt guilty for stopping him. Almost.

"I can’t afford to go off track," I stammered, nerves fraying at the edges. "I've got a family waiting for me, counting on me to get to Naida."

The moment I mentioned Naida, the tension eased in Isylwin’s eyes, replaced by a kind of understanding that made his earlier confusion vanish. There was a shared mission here, a common goal, and I had to trust in his capacity for empathy. He'd helped me before, and if he was as reliable as I hoped, he’d help me again. At the very least, he’d make a formidable ally if things turned nasty.

"Don’t be afraid," Isylwin’s voice was soft, almost soothing as he regarded me. "I’ll help you reach Clarcton. The rest will have to wait."

"Will they be angry with me?" I asked, my voice tinged with anxiety. The last thing I needed was to be blacklisted by his kin. I would follow Isylwin’s lead if it came to that, but it wasn’t my preferred option.

"No," he shook his head emphatically. "We’re fair, if nothing else. Mother would be more upset with me if I didn’t offer my aid."

I had no idea who ‘Mother’ was, but I didn’t care to ask. Whoever she was, as long as she didn’t get in my way, that was enough. I cringed inwardly at my own self-centeredness. I sounded just like Ahn. Trying to shift the focus, I nodded appreciatively.

"Thank you, I really do appreciate it." Turning my back to him, I adjusted my bag and set off. "We should get moving. The elves might be curious about what’s woken a fairy from its slumber."

Isylwin walked beside me, the silence stretching between us. I used the quiet to gather my thoughts. We’d been lucky so far, but that luck could run out. It wouldn’t shock me if a group of elves leaped from the shadows to ambush us at any moment. Stealing a glance at my companion, I finally broke the silence.

"Do elf songs have any effect on your kind?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.

He smiled, his face a curious blend of youthful softness and grown man’s frame—a combination that struck an odd chord. Looking at him for too long felt unsettling, like staring at a mask that was just a little too real. His glamor seemed to be wearing thin.

"No," he said, his voice carrying a tinkling quality that was almost otherworldly. "They won’t work on me, and by extension, they won’t work on you."

That was a relief. I was still grappling with the idea of defensive magic, and despite my resolve from last night, I knew the prospect of fire would only push my already strained emotions to the brink. I couldn’t afford to fight with the same blind rage that had served me before. It would be a disaster for me and anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire.

"That’s comforting," I said, and we lapsed into silence.

Then, out of the blue, Isylwin’s tone shifted, taking on a gravity I hadn’t heard before. 

"The forest is in awe of you," he said, more serious than I’d ever heard him.

"Pardon?"

"We communicate with one another, the trees and I," he said wistfully. "Word reached us about your death and rebirth a few days ago. That’s why I decided to help you. It’s not often I get the chance to bring peace to someone enduring such hardship. Fairies live such pampered lives in our world; finding empathy for those in your position is rare."

"Why are you telling me this?" I demanded, my defensive edge sharpening.

"Because," he shrugged, his gesture so disarmingly human it made me uneasy. "It’s only fair you receive the same respect one of my kind would if they were in your place."

"My people," he continued, "generally have little interest in others. But your involvement, your bloodline, changes that. Mother holds great respect for your ancestors and the principles you stand for. She pities you and the losses you’ve suffered. That’s why I don’t see this as a favor."

I’d forgotten about the debt I owed him from years ago. He hadn’t called it in, yet he chose to help me anyway. He could have asked for anything in return, even if it meant I’d have to divert my path. But he didn’t. Confused, I asked him why.

"Your debt was settled when you informed me about the elves," he said, running a hand through his hair. I took a step back, uneasy. "My people weren’t aware of their presence in Lustra. The trees sensed a looming darkness, but your loss made them shut their eyes again. We thought the great Bridd had abandoned her place in the spirit realm."

"I won’t pry into what’s happened unless you’re comfortable sharing. Your eyes reveal enough—your fear, your pain. It doesn’t matter to us. Whatever the case, we’ll join the fight, not for Bangtan, but for ourselves. Lustra is as much our home as it is anyone else’s."

I felt a glimmer of hope. With the ielfen fighting alongside us, the burden of the conflict might shift off my shoulders. Fewer battles would mean less risk for my family. I knew they wouldn’t extend their aid beyond this, but that was a concern for another day. Their involvement was all that mattered.

"Regardless," I said quietly, "I still want to thank you. It means more to me than you know."

We fell silent again, neither speaking during our rest stops or when we reached the Syrena River, where I drank deeply. As the miles passed, Isylwin’s glamor unraveled further, a casualty of our distance from his kin. By the time we neared the border of Ancola, night had cloaked the world, and it was time for Isylwin to part ways.

"I can’t leave these woods," he said, genuine sorrow etching his features. "If I could join you, I would. But I’d wither away outside of Moland."

"It’s not your fault, Isylwin," I said, trying to soothe him.

He went rigid, his eyes widening with fear. That’s when I realized he’d given me not just a name, but his true name—a sacred gift among the ielfen. It touched me deeply, though it left me puzzled. Once he saw my reaction, he relaxed. I apologized profusely, guilt twisting in my stomach. The idea of him revealing his real name had seemed so absurd, I hadn’t even considered it.

“No need to apologize,” he said, a grin creeping across his face. The smile cracked his earlier facade, revealing something far more primal and beastly beneath. Instead of sending me into a fresh bout of panic, it brought a strange sense of relief. I preferred this raw, monstrous form over the humanoid mask he wore earlier.

“I hadn’t realized the power you’ve handed me,” I said, my voice steadying with resolve. “I promise not to misuse it.” I glanced at him, noting how his glamor had faded, revealing the unease etched into his features. “You should head back to the forest. You’re starting to look restless.”

“Take care,” he warned, his eyes pleading now. “If you find yourself in dire need, call for me. It won’t be pretty, and my glamor won’t hold up outside the swamps, but I’ll do my best to be of use, even if only briefly.”

His kindness threw me off balance. Ghillie Dus was known for helping children, a role he saw me fit into, but this level of reassurance was beyond anything I’d expected. I shivered as I stepped into the frigid desert. The emptiness stretched out before me, a stark contrast to the forest’s sheltering embrace.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice cracking as I sought reassurance. This was the point of no return, and I needed a reason to keep moving forward. “I understand the need to fight, but this kindness seems so out of character for your kind.”

His face was now an impenetrable black sphere, with two glowing circles where his eyes should have been. Dark moss covered his form, a tangled mess that defied human solidity. He was otherworldly, struggling to maintain his composure. I felt the discomfort creep back in.

“Your bloodline has safeguarded the forest for ages,” Isylwin said, his voice resonating with an eerie calm. “I’m a man of the trees, as we all are beings of the forests and swamps in Lustra. We’ve always respected your kind, but the Bridd before you held a special place in our world.”

“Mother adored her,” he continued. “She saw her strength and spirit as something extraordinary. Her death saddened her deeply. Your actions the night she burned earned you great respect in the spirit realm. We see you as a legend in your own right. Once they learn where you’re headed, there will be no question that your name will be remembered as the most remarkable witch ever.”

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief. The notion that the ielfen saw me as they did their mythical heroes seemed almost laughable. I wanted to dismiss it as nonsense, but I knew better than to doubt his sincerity. Fairies couldn’t lie. Overwhelmed, I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside me.

“What does that have to do with you?” I finally managed, regaining my composure. 

“Naida is a difficult challenge,” Isylwin said, his voice tinged with a genuine sense of purpose. “I’m helping you because it’s the honorable thing to do. Like the rest of us, I seek to be seen as useful. By aiding you, I hope to earn Mother’s pride. Your debt to me will be settled once that happens and never mentioned again.”

“And if I succeed?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. I knew fairies could be bound by their word, and his promise of help might be ironclad. 

“You’ll have my help,” he said, bowing with a gravity that made me uneasy. “Indefinitely.”

I wasn’t entirely satisfied with his answer, but I didn’t press further. I needed to keep moving. I managed a final smile and bid him goodnight. As Isylwin vanished, leaving only a whisper of his presence behind, I knew he had returned to his realm. I sighed, feeling the weight of solitude settle over me once more.

Alone, I pushed past the gnawing ache of loneliness and forced myself to continue. The desert stretched ahead, cold and unforgiving. I found a tree to rest in, climbing up to perch on a branch where I could make myself comfortable. Tonight, I would sleep among the woods. Tomorrow, I would reach Clarcton, evade detection, and plan the next leg of my journey.

That night, sleep came in fragments, haunted by dreams of Jimin and me lying in the meadow by my house. Wildflowers danced around us as he kissed my hand and smiled. But then the scene shattered into flames, the flowers screamed, and the trees wept. Jimin’s eyes turned cold and lifeless as he accused me, his voice echoing with the blame. It was my fault. I woke in tears, the dark sky above, knowing I had only been asleep for a short while. I woke four times, each time more distressed, until I gave up on sleep entirely.

I reached Clarcton while it was still dark, slipping behind a local inn’s shadows. The darkness concealed me from view as I entered the small, quiet building. A young woman stood behind the desk, offering a warm, if weary, greeting.

“Where are you coming from?” she whispered as I scrawled my alias, Nixie, on the sign-in sheet. 

“Syrena,” I replied, lowering my voice to match hers.

Her eyes, pools of melancholy, betrayed a deep well of pity. It twisted my heart, thinking of those back in Northorn and the lands beyond. They hadn't made it this far south yet, but the capital's fate was uncertain. I had to get out quickly to avoid being caught in the chaos.

“Where are you headed?” Her gaze lingered on the name tag pinned to her chest—Hannah. A plain name for a plain girl. “Not west, I hope?”

“No,” I shook my head. “East. Whopping.”

Hannah’s eyes sharpened with a warning, and I caught the subtle shift. We were about to converse in code. “Stay south,” she advised. “Azamar Pass is sweltering this year.”

I offered her a small, grateful smile. She mirrored it, a silent connection formed in that brief exchange. When I paid for my room, I added a little extra as thanks. Hannah accepted the cash with a knowing wink before returning to the book she’d been absorbed in when I walked in. Our shared moment had ended, and we were both retreating to our separate worlds.

“It’s upstairs,” she said, her attention fixed on her book. “Second floor, all the way down the hall to the left. Blankets and pillows are in the closet, and towels are hanging in the bathroom. Rest up. You look like you need it.”

Dismissed, I thanked her again and headed to my room. The inn exuded a cozy warmth, decorated in rich woods and deep reds reminiscent of Jin’s house. The solar witch had a penchant for yellows and oranges, but the cinnamon scent lingering in the air was strikingly similar to my friend’s cologne.

The room was modest, with a single bed tucked into the far-right corner. Across from it, a fireplace crackled, flanked by a large blue chair and a small table. A garish paisley rug sprawled across the floor, and a cobweb dangled from the ceiling fan. The room had a musty smell, dust clinging to every surface.

Clarcton was supposed to be bustling, but I’d ended up on the outskirts, a forgotten corner where travelers seldom ventured. I threw my bag on the blue chair and set out to find the bathroom. A rickety coat rack stood awkwardly between the fireplace and the bathroom door. The knob was sticky, and I had to turn it with a rough twist to open the latch. The bathroom, though in need of a simple dusting, was otherwise clean—a small relief.

I made the mistake of taking a deep breath as I stretched and was immediately struck by a coughing fit. I slammed the door shut and wiped my watery eyes. Lesson learned: breathe carefully. I fluffed the pillows and wafted the sheets to air them out. The knitted quilt was beyond salvaging, so I folded it and set it aside. The thin sheets would suffice for a summer night. I turned off the lights, used a flicker of magic to guide me to the bed, and crawled under the covers.

Exhaustion clung to me, yet my mind remained restless. I missed my friends, my home, and the warmth of my love. Alone at last, I allowed myself to cry softly. It wasn’t the same explosive outburst from yesterday or the tearful departure from Jimin’s house. It was a quiet sorrow, a deep loneliness. I was weary and overwhelmed, haunted by regret.

I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I knew that much. But turning back wasn’t an option—pride, or perhaps shame, kept me from reversing course. I wouldn’t return home empty-handed.

My heart ached at the thought. I longed to know if Jimin and I would be okay, and I wanted that knowledge sooner rather than later. I regretted our argument, regretted not giving him a chance to apologize. I had not even given myself that chance. Instead, I had stormed off and fled like a petulant child. His hurtful words were understandable; he had been through so much, dealing with my injuries and the news of my reckless behavior. I groaned in frustration.

I was angry with Sol but struggled to hold a grudge. She likely thought she was acting in my best interest. Jimin was her friend, and her fear for me might have clouded her judgment. Taehyung would undoubtedly be furious with her, which helped temper my irritation. I would confront her when I saw her again, but it was infuriating to think she had time to gossip while her people struggled.

Ji-Hyun, on the other hand, had no decency. Just the mention of his name soured my mood. The boy who used to throw rocks at his crush’s window had transformed into someone unrecognizable. I had been eager to meet him and Callisto, but his hostility had ruined that excitement. I couldn’t fathom why he hated me so much or why his disdain seemed so intense.

Anger and outrage were to be expected, but his relentless judgment, even after everyone else had calmed down, was baffling. What had transpired between my sleep and waking to inspire such loathing?

I tossed and turned, frustration mounting as sleep eluded me. Tomorrow would be a day of planning and preparation, shopping and strategizing. I needed to navigate this unfamiliar terrain with precision. My heart yearned for home, wherever that might be.

It took a long time for my body to unwind, and even longer for my tears to subside. I didn’t drift into sleep until the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. My eyes were swollen, my cheeks stained. I dreamt of Jimin again, of us kissing in my bed at the end of spring, a bittersweet reminder of what I had left behind.

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[rui-drawsbox]

Okay obligatory DnD person as per the Dungon Meshi post(dnd/fantasy au + our life is amazing and I love it) but also I just wanted to say that there is a subclass of elves in dnd called aquatic elves that are kind of a happy mix between a mermaid and a, well, normal elf. I stick more towards spooky rather than nautical campaigns myself, so I’m not too familiar, but if I remember correctly they’re amphibious but with two legs rather than full mermaid.

Also obviously please ignore if you have different ideas but based off of what people have written about battle roles I could absolutely see some subclasses for the four!

Derek I could absolutely see as a Paladin(subclass possibly being oath of devotion or glory) basically the more defensive tank guys bound by an oath they make to themselves or someone important to them, which gives them a little spellcasting as well as actual auras that buff their allies later on.

Baxter I could see being a Bard (College of Swords), or what I kind of think of as a sort of battledancer. It would be a little less of a full spellcaster, but you can do special flourishes when fighting with a rapier which I always imagine as pseudo-dancing, plus he’d still get all the flashy bard spells. And to top it off, Bards actually use their charm(charisma stat) to cast spells which just screams Baxter to me.

Cove is a little harder but if you were going with him having a fish/animal companion while still being a melee fighter a Ranger(Beastmaster or Swarmkeeper) would be a good fit IMO, obviously with the Cove Creater he’s harder to pin than Baxter or Derek, but Ranger is pretty flexible. You basically get to choose a companion that’s from the land, air, or sea; and they can help you out in battle and follow you around, or as Swarmkeeper he could have his swarm be a school of fish.

Ruri is obviously a bit harder because you know your OC best, but if you really wanted to lean into more into the familiar/animal buddy route. Druid(circle of the shepherd) is always a fun choice! It’s kind of like the more spellcaster version of rangers’ Swarmkeeper where you can summon a lot of critters while still having some super strong elemental spells.

But anyway! I hope this wasn’t too long, I saw some (kinda) DnD our life content and I couldn’t resist! But thank you again for the adorable art of the main boys(and your lovely OC!) in a fantasy setting!

Second ask from dnd anon:

Oh! DnD anon part two!

But basically the theoretical party composition would look like:

Derek = Tank/Damage

Cove = Weapon Damage/Companion(s)

Baxter = Spells/Weapon Damage

and Ruri = Healing/Spells.

Also one last note about Druid is while druids have a lot of elemental spells (create water, spike growth, etc.), they also have the ability to do something called wildshape, where they can shapeshift into an animal for either out of battle(wildshape into a mouse to get under the crack in a door, then returning to normal and unlocking it) or battle (at later levels imagine fighting a spellcasting bear or even dragon) but also has more silly implications like wild shaping into a songbird to sing with Baxter, or a cat or sloth to ride on Cove’s shoulder.

got these asks a few days ago but i let them marinate in my brain hope you dont mind anon KJDSAUH

anyways AQUATIC ELF THATS PERFECT i tried to stick to what i knew about dumenshi rules in that post but for my first fantasy AU ideas i was going to do Cove a half mermaid (Cliff human x mermaid Kyra or elf Kyra [shes just so pretty its insane] x mermaid Cliff) that lived in a house right on the beach lmao, im happy that actually makes sense somewhere in dnd

i tried to look at the aquatic elves wiki from the forgotten realms fandom and omg so much text in the main page

also paladin Derek canon‼‼ imagine he does his oath to his brothers right after something dangerous happens to them when they were kids (im not saying his parents should die but im not saying they shouldnt--)

and bam!! tragic backstory 10x worse than his canon that is already bad enough :DD (try to make him feel less responsable now i wanna see that)

baxter turn rn. DO YOU THINK HE WOULD PLAY VIOLIN? I WANNA SEE THAT (<-this person didnt thought about drawing him with an instrument until it was time to write her thoughts) anyway it would def be a fancy instrument, daddy and mommy wanted to keep appearances i bet

one his spells makes his sword and moves shine and when hes under the sun his enemies become fucking blind

everything about him screams I HAVE MONEY but everytime people try to rob him he just rolls a nat20 in persuasion and they end up giving him money

and omg just imagine Cove's school of fish are all his pet fishes from the game JGASDFJK

im also. not discussing roles when the most i know about dnd is bg3 and i just finished 2 playthroughs. if you say ruri is a druid she's a druid, she makes super artsy flower fields and decorates every tree she sees with organical paint or smth jkfhds

Ruri's forest has a tree that connects with the ocean and they both just hangout sometimes (as if theyre not together 60% of the time already)

DRUID RURI THAT LIKES TO BRAID COVE'S HAIR WITH LITTLE POPPIES‼‼‼

MERMAID COVE THAT LETS RURI (otter form!!) RIDE HIS BACK WHILE HE SWIMS‼‼‼‼

mermaid cove humming a song and ruri falling to the river in trance/j

anyways anon i agree with everything tbh, there's so many ways to do a fantasy AU and i adore the dnd version (id kill for a dnd group or smth in my city)

i also have another fantasy au more vanilla but not-really. basically isekai baxter LMAO mostly an excuse to make ruri and baxter being domestic but before baxter developed any real domestic skill JHASFD

[meluiloth]

Just saw your post for the greenwood headcannons (lemme first tell ya, I also love them to a fault, such a shame we have almost nothing on them that is cannon), and do you have any thoughts about holidays or parties they might have? We know of the Feast in The Hobbit book where Galion drinks himself unconscious lmao (iconic of him btw), but seeing as they are apparently a very happy population in general, I'd wager they have more than just that one yk

Thanks for the ask!

I think the Silvan Elves are a very celebratory people, and will take any opportunity to partake in feasting, wine, and song. There are banquets and parties often, sometimes for no occasion other than to make merry (as is seen in The Hobbit, where the Elves host parties for many nights in a row!) That being said, I do think there are also holidays of special significance throughout the year and are commemorated differently than the common feast. Birthdays, for example, are a citywide affair, as are marriages and new babies; the Elves are a very family-oriented community, where everyone pretty much knows everyone. Aside from those, I've compiled a small list of holidays the Silvan Elves would celebrate!

Among the most well-known and extravagantly celebrated holidays are the Seasonal Masques, which are festivals that take place at the height of each of the four seasons. The Elves honor the bounty of nature and the beauty of every season to the fullest, and a lot of preparation is put into these four festivals.

First is the Spring Masque, which is focused on the joy of new blossoms and blooming fruit after winter. They dress mostly in white during this festival, so as to devote their full attention to the vibrant colors around them, and all of the food is found fresh in the wild: berries, fruits, and greenery in particular. There is no meat consumed during this festival, to preserve and honor the new life in this season.

A few months later is the Summer Masque, which is held on the longest day and is a celebration of the lushness of the forest; this day is full of dancing and song to display the excitement of the wild. The outfits of this festival are quite extravagant, featuring a lot of animal and flower motifs.

When the days shorten and the forest is completely covered in the colors of fall, the Autumn Masque arrives, bringing with it a bounty of harvest, changing leaves, and preparation for colder months ahead. The colors of this festival are warm and rich, and there is plenty of hot food and aromatic spices in every dish.

Finally comes the Winter Masque, and the end of the cycle of seasons. The Elves gather inside the Elvenking's Halls, where it is warm, making this a quieter and gentler holiday illuminated with candles, starlight, and snow; the forest is sleeping, so the festivities are quieter to avoid disturbing it. Often, there is a hunt, and the costumes are very fur-based to keep warm, and fresh spiced venison and wine is served.

There is also the Feast of Starlight (or Mereth Nuin Giliath in Sindarin) which takes place in the early winter, when the trees are bare and the stars are clearest; this is the feast that is featured in The Hobbit films, and, as its name suggests, it is a commemoration of Arda's dearest creations.

However, not all of the Silvan Elf holidays are joyful. Lû-o-fuin, or Time of Darkness, is a period of mourning for the Mirkwood Elves; it is a week-long fast in honor of all the lives lost during the War of the Last Alliance. Though the rest of Middle-Earth celebrates this time for the fall of Sauron, the Silvan Elves remember it for the grief it caused to their people - they lost King Oropher and an overwhelming number of their army, and this also marks the time in their history when the Necromancer first came to Greenwood and the trees began to wither. To honor this loss, the Elves do not eat or drink for a week, and wear only ash-colored robes. On the last day of mourning, they go to the Forest River, where they make small boats out of leaves and set them floating in the water, to signify the souls of those who died returning to Faerie (Valinor).

Those are some ideas for Mirkwood Elf holidays! I hope you like them (because I spent a lot of time thinking about these and even longer looking for the right images...), and thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to share this!

If you're interested in my imagining of the Silvan Elves in Mirkwood, check out my mirkwood headcanons tag! If there's a headcanon you want me to explore that I haven't already, my ask box is open!