#funerary rights & practices

[serpentface]

This was going to be a panel of a little comic but I got too invested in drawing minute background details so, here.

[vounoura]

my special interest is death practices and I'm doing a dual diploma in funeral directing and embalming. and honestly once you start looking into the incredibly vast and fascinating subject of funerary customs you start to notice just how much of of what is considered weird and transgressive in stuff like fantasy is practiced by real actual people in ways that are significant

[asphodel-flowers]

I like big books and I cannot lie 🎶

some books I gave recently grabbed from the library.

I liked and wanna buy Do I Have To Wear Black? Lots of good info in there on funerary customs. I wasn't sure I was gonna like it because of the Wicca mentions at first but I was actually pleasantly surprised as I got into it. I sort of blew through it tbh because I'm not super interested in like the Kemetic or Wiccan customs, just the Norse/ heathen and Hellenic, but the very general parts at the beginning were really informative. Mortellus is a mortician and 100% definitely knows what in the heck they're talking about.

I skimmed through the Thrifty Witch book and Tarot Interactions before bringing them back because those I just need to have/ buy. I need to buy those. Thrifty Witch would definitely be more useful to me as a resource than something to read if that makes sense.

and similarly with Tarot Interactions, that is an absolutely fantastic excellent book from what I read of it, and I definitely absolutely need to have that as a resource. I also feel like that's something I wanna take my time with, not rush.

Werewolf Magick was meh. I soared through it. I was rolling my eyes at far too much of it to take any of it seriously, and by the time I got to what I was interested in/ what might have helped, couldn't understand it because of all the weird lingo/ jargon that he'd set up at the beginning. Admittedly that's my own fault obviously for trying to skip to the end, but the first part just made me cringe too much. There's too much mixing of different practices in a way that imo honors none of them, and then mixing it with crap like Wicca to boot. I just... no, I'm good, no thank you. I had gotten it out of curiosity, expecting it to not be much and... yeah, it was what I expected.

Witch Queens, Voodoo Spirits, & Hoodoo has been fantastic so far and I have got to finish it. I started it and got distracted and it went back on the shelf and I've gotta get back into it. It starts with Annie Christmas who is none of the things mentioned on the cover, lol, but I love the way it talks about our local myths and legends. Absolutely A+ 100% yes.

Weave the Liminal is... surprisingly better than I expected so far? I'm not quite sure what to make of it. We'll see as we go.

I've had the ones in that first three pictures checked out for a while and I really need to get to them. I was hoping the Shamanism Bible would give me some words to look up, a good place to start research into that but it feels like too much of a chore. The charm bag and ancestor books I just keep forgetting I have, and I expected the New Orleans one to be a quick read but again keep forgetting it's there.

Did I grab too many books? Yes, every damn time. I have maxed out how many I can borrow from the library. Oooops. xD

I absolutely had to grab The Holy Wild Grimoire though when I saw it on the shelf because that has been on my wishlist for a while and I love checking out books before buying them. I feel much better about purchasing when I already know I like them.

[itsalwaysdark]

my tags on that went on for so long i had to go back and edit them to fit tag limit and i still had to delete a bunch of them. Its the autism it literally is

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Forspoken Photo Dump 28: Praenost, Opal Hills, Part 2

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

2,000-Year-Old Fayum Portraits from Roman Egypt: also known as "mummy portraits," these funerary paintings were often fastened to the coffins of the people they depicted

Above: Fayum portrait of a woman from Roman-occupied Egypt, c.100-110 CE

Fayum portraiture was a popular funerary practice among the upper-class families of Roman Egypt from about 50 CE to 250 CE. Given the high mortality rates for children during this period, many of these portraits depict children and youths, but adults were often featured, too.

Above: portrait of a youth wearing a golden wreath, c.130-150 CE; the wreath and the background of the portrait are both gilded

The population of the Faiyum Delta, where most of these portraits were found, largely contained individuals with both native Egyptian/North African and Greek heritage. The Greek lineages can be traced back to the Ptolemaic period, when the Greeks gained control of Egypt and began to establish settlements throughout the region, gradually leading to a cultural diffusion between the Greek and Egyptian populations. The Romans eventually took control of Egypt in 31 CE, absorbing it into the Roman Empire and colonizing much of North Africa, but the demographics of the Faiyum Delta remained largely unchanged.

Above: portrait of a man with a mole on his nose, c.130-150 CE

Many of these Fayum portraits reflect the same blend of ethnic and cultural roots, depicting individuals with both Greek and native Egyptian heritage (a claim that is supported by both archaeological and genetic evidence). Some portraits may also depict native Egyptians who did not have any European ancestry, but had been integrated into Greco-Roman society.

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.170-180 CE

These representations of native Egyptians provide us with unique insights into the actual demographics of Roman-occupied Egypt (and the ancient world at large). Non-European peoples are rarely included in depictions of the classical world; it's also interesting to see the blend of cultural elements that these portraits represent.

Above: portrait of a priest of Serapis, c.140-160 CE; the man in this portrait is shown wearing a fillet/crown that bears the seven-pointed star of the Greco-Egyptian god, Serapis

As this article explains:

In the 1800s and early 1900s, Western art historians didn’t know what to make of these portraits. Scholars of Roman history labeled them Egyptian. Scholars of Egyptian history labeled them Greco-Roman. These binary academic classifications failed to capture the true complexity of the ancient (or, indeed, modern) Mediterranean. In reality, Fayum portraits are a syncretic form, merging Egyptian and Greco-Roman art and funerary practices. They reflect the cosmopolitanism of both Roman and Egyptian history.

Above: portrait of a man, c.80-100 CE (left); portrait of a bearded officer, sometimes referred to as "Perseus," c.130-175 CE (right)

Above: portrait of a young woman in red, c.90-120 CE

Nearly 1,000 of these portraits are currently known to exist.

Above: portrait of a man wearing a gilded ivy wreath, c.100-150 CE

Above: portrait of a bearded man, c.150-170 CE

Sources & More Info:

Curationist: Fayum Portraits

Harvard Art Museums: Giving the Dead their Due: an Exhibition Re-Examines Funerary Portraits from Roman Egypt

Getty Museum: APPEAR Project

Getty Museum: Faces of Roman Egypt

National Geographic: Ancient Egypt's Stunning, Lifelike Mummy Portraits

The Athens Centre: The Myth of Whiteness in Classical Sculpture

Forbes: Whitewashing Ancient Statues: Whiteness, Racism and Color in the Ancient World

[rom-e-o]

A consideration to brighten your day:

Emmrich and Wifey stretched out on the couch cuddling, Em's head resting on her chest as she strokes his head and shoulders, humming softly.

Then Manfred comes along, sees, and, like a clingy toddler pushes/pulls Emmrich up and away from Wifey's embrace. "No! Me! Me!" He quickly crawls right into Em's previous spot and settles stubbornly, and happily, there on Mum's chest. And she just laughs and comfortably snuggles him in with kisses all over his skull.

But also!

The exact same thing happening but flipped, with Manny forcing Wifey out of Papa's snuggles and replacing her.

Awwwww, this is too precious!!! 🥹💕

Wifey just stroking his hair softly, placing a kiss on his hairline and earning a besotted chuckle. They’re curled up on the chaise together after a long day. They’ve both just collapsed in a heap, tired from a long day. Maybe he and Guinevere have just come back from mingling at a long soirée, or he and Belisma are relaxing after a day of practicing funerary rites. Something that has tuckered both of them out, and requires some refueling through quality time.

The couple is lounging away, when Manfred pops his head in the door. “Papa? Mama/Mum?”

He sees them cuddling, and after only a moment, jingle-jangles his way inside. Those jeweled doorknobs (?) in his eyes rotate slightly upward.

Manfred, surprisingly strong, squeezes his way in. Emmrich gives his boy an incredulous chuckle (“Manfred, my boy, honestly!”) while Wifey just laughs. They allow themselves to be separated while Manfred settles over Wifey, cuddling like a little kitten or toddler. I feel like G’iney might be more familiar with seeing those toddler moments in him and identifying them as such (since she has siblings) but Belisma is just as amused and endeared to his antics.

W: Aww, Manfred! Why, hello there.

E: Was he jealous?

Manfred lets out a little hiss, inching closer to his mom while she laughs and leave little lipstick-marked kisses on his skull.

W: Not anymore, haha! I’m sorry, my dear. I’m afraid you’ve been replaced.

E: (mock offense) ‘Replaced’?

W: Look on the bright side - you were just saying how you wanted to change into your dressing gown but didn’t want to get up to do it. So, he just decided to lend a bit of a helping hand. In his own, charming way, of course.

E: As always. (Rolling his eyes with a laugh) Manfred, always so helpful.

M: (Pleased hiss)

I love little Manfred doing it to both of them, haha. Emmrich claims at first Manfred is just an apprentice and friend, but we know better. Once he and Wifey are together, I imagine some of that childlike wonder/possessiveness comes out a little bit more. And especially after Manfred gives his life for Emmrich, and he brings him back? There are many more hugs and soft gestures.

The next time, when Wifey and him and snuggling and getting ready to exchange some kisses (maybe get a little handsy) Manfred suddenly shuffles over, gloved hands going to Wifey’s shoulders. He pulls her back, and SHAMELESSLY settles right in her spot, kicking his little boot-covered feet in glee at his antics. Emmrich lets out a loud laugh and Wifey feigns shock.

E: Oh, you little scoundrel!

M: (Mischievous hiss)

W: Oh, I see how it is.

They exchange loving looks over Manfred’s giggly skull. This is their life now, they think, and honestly. It’s perfect. Emmrich settles and arm around his boy and kisses his forehead. “Oh, Manfred. Whatever in the world would we do without you?”

And neither of them will have to ever know. 💕

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Cyd Charisse (The Bandwagon, Brigadoon, Singin’ in the Rain)—LEGS LEGS LEGS I would sell my soul for the legs of Cyd Charisse - she oozed style and glamour and sex appeal!! And she could DANCE! She was dancing next to the greats - Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire but they are never who you're looking at because why would you when you can look at her. I will only sit through too long ballet breaks for her. If there was any woman who you could call sex on legs it was her. These dances are everything to meeee (she comes in at the minute mark) and this dance too of course is iconic. In the words of Fred Astaire 'When you've danced with Cyd Charisse you stay danced with'

Suchitra Sen (Harano Sur, Chaowa Pawa)—Suchitra Sen! She had a 25-year career in Bengali films, and was at the height of popularity for a solid two decades as half of the wildly beloved pair of Uttam-Suchitra, who were practically the entire romantic genre of Bengali films by themselves. She acted in literary adaptations, romantic comedies, (melo)dramas and inspired-by-current-events films. She was the first Indian actress to receive an international award at the Moscow International Film Festival. In 1978, after the release of her last film (a box-office flop) she pulled a Garbo and put herself out of the public eye completely. She made no appearances, gave no interviews, refused awards, all of it. She didn't even show up for her daughter's or grand-daughters' debuts! She was taken for funerary rites in a covered hearse! The glamour! The mystery! That blinding smile!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Suchitra Sen:

Not to take away from her costars in Devdas (1955), but the great Indian cinematic tradition of Tragic Romantic Yearning would not, I argue, be what it is without Suchitra Sen's performance in that film. I root for things to turn out better for her every time, even though I know how things are going to go.

A Bengali cinema icon. Liked crows (per Gulzar, "It was an astonishing sight. The crows used to pick at the grapes from her hand").

Linked gifset

She once rejected Raj Kapoor's movie offer (one of the most successful actor and director at the time). She was quoted saying, “In men, I don’t look for beauty. I look for intelligence and sharp conversations. I had refused Raj Kapoor’s offer almost immediately. He came to my residence offering a lead role and, as I took my seat, he suddenly sat near my foot and offered me a bouquet of roses while offering the role. I rejected the offer. I did not like his personality. The way he behaved – sitting near my foot – did not befit a man.”

Legendary poet, lyricist, director and writer Gulzaar had this to say about her "Glad that my ‘Sir’—that’s what I call her— got the Dada Saheb Phalke award during her lifetime. Contrary to people’s perceptions, Suchitra Sen is an extremely warm and very very friendly person. I adore and respect her. But she has the right to choose her friends. Surely she’s justified in keeping away from every Tom, Dick and Harry. She’s the only example of such quiet dignity in show-biz. That’s why the media compares her with Great Garbo. Suchitra Sen is my Sir. I’ll explain. During the shooting of Aandhi she started calling me Sir. Everyone in Kolkata calls her Madame. Since I’m her junior I requested her not to call me Sir. But she insisted. (We always converse in Bengali). So I call her Sir and she calls me Sir.”

Linked musical number [won't let me display embedded for some reason]

Cyd:

Photos do not do Cyd Charisse justice, unfortunately, because she is at her hottest while dancing, which she was exquisitely good at. Just go watch her first number in Singin' in the Rain, in that green dress; nothing I could say here will be more convincing that that.

She had amazing legs, and she knew how to use them! You probably know her best from the dream sequence in Singin' In The Rain. She was such a stunning dancer, and all her dance scenes are hard to look away from.

Dancing in the Dark clip:

She's an amazing dancer and my favorite from the period. Here's her and Fred Astaire in the Band Wagon:

I just like a woman who's there to be really incredibly good at dancing.

One of the most talented female dancers in Hollywood history, but what sets her apart from other competitors for that title is that she...umm...well let's be blunt, she was the dancer who put sex into it. The one who said "Hey, you know that A+ leg tone that naturally develops from doing this for a living? Why don't I let people see that? Like at every opportunity?" She reportedly insured her legs for five million dollars after hitting it big, which just goes to show that fame makes you crazy. It should have been ten million.

Arguably the Best female dancer of her time, she supposedly insured her legs for $5 million dollars. Stole the show whenever she had a dance number, even if she went uncredited. Musicals started to go out of fashion so unfortunately she didn't have as many big roles as she should have, but those she did are unforgettable. The Broadway Melody number in Singin' in the Rain - the green dress!

She could pirouette in pointes or tear it up in taps. Fred Astaire called her "beautiful dynamite" and wrote, "That Cyd! When you've danced with her you stay danced with." Gene Kelly partnered with her three times. Her legs were (reportedly) insured for $5 million in 1952 ($57.8 million in 2024 dollars)! Everyone in this poll will be iconic, but for raw physical grace, Cyd is up there with the best.

Legs for days, beautiful dancer in the most iconic scenes of Singin in the Rain. She's glorious. As some guys sung to her in It's Always fair weather, 'baby you knock me out!'

Incredibly, Cyd Charisse only started learning to dance as a rehab exercise to strengthen her body after a childhood bout of polio. She was in high demand as a dance partner, Fred Astaire called her beautiful dynamite and said "When you've danced with her, you stayed danced with". She was one of a few leading ladies to dance with both Astaire and Kelly, declaring them both delicious. Kelly apparently was stronger, while Astaire was more coordinated. She also said her husband would always know who she had been dancing with because Kelly left her bruised, while Astaire didn't leave a mark. She's better known for her dance numbers today, but she was a leading lady in her time! Her Scottish accent in Brigadoon leaves a lot to be desired, but compared to the other actors in the movie, it's almost good. She appeared in The Harvey Girls alongside Judy Garland and Angela Lansbury in her first speaking role, but she really burst onto the scene with Singin' in the Rain and her infamous Broadway Melody Ballet number with Gene Kelly (no one could handle a length of fabric like Cyd Charisse). She was brought in because Debbie Reynolds wasn't really a dancer and Kelly was notoriously a stickler about his Vision. After that she starred opposite Astaire in The Band Wagon, which was a bit of a flop but created some enduringly incredible dance numbers. She went on to star in a number of MGM movies, and was one of the last of the Studio era stars to remain on contract. Since we've got up to 1970, I'm including her opening routine in The Silencers (1966) to show just how long she was making a splash - she's into her 40s here and still a siren:

and of course, the iconic Broadway Melody Ballet -

[katakaluptastrophy]

So we all know how Ianthe became a Lyctor for “ultimate power—and posters of [her] face.”

And I'm sure someone made a nice icon.

But you know who would have definitely gotten a poster of their face? Coronabeth.

Think about it: every House but the Ninth has lost a scion. In a culture that thrives on melodrama and the conspicuous consumption of death, there is a wave of hysterical funerary fervour to mourn their lost leaders. And the Third - the House of glitz, trendsetting, and political intrigue - has lost its beloved Crown Princess.

We don't know a huge amount about funerals in the Nine Houses, but we do know a bit about Third House funerals:

The front coffin is distinguished from its fellows by its gorgeous arrangement of flowers and wreaths. The flowers are all in hues of gold or violet, and are fake. The coffin is hinged open at the front, with its contents hidden from view by the flowers. A tray of meat is rested on the closed bottom half of the coffin. A queue of gaudily masked mourners process past the coffin, slowly, each one taking a strip of meat, then stopping by the head to lean within—kissing or feeding; we can’t be sure. - TUG

Apparently, a Third House funeral - unsurprisingly for flesh magicians - focuses on the physical. The reverence of/fear of/(lust for?) the body. A wake on steroids. But they received no body for Coronabeth. So I can only imagine larger than life posters of Corona decked with flowers, the weeping crowds surging through the streets of Ida, etc etc... Poor Ianthe, second place once again to a 'corpse'.

Moving past Ianthe to House funerary customs in general, and to the awful aftermath of the Lyctor trials in particular, it seems especially unfair that neither of the flesh magic Houses got a body back to mourn. Obviously Corona wasn't actually dead, but for those who believed her to be, the lack of a body for such visceral funerary rights must have been traumatic.

We don't have as many details of Seventh funerals, but the House famous for it's "beguiling corpses" likely also focuses much of its post-mortem ritual around the body. Dulcie suggests that the deceased might even leave specific instructions in their will about the appearance of their corpse:

That drawing looked nothing like me. I loved it. You don’t know this so it doesn’t help, but I included it in my will and put down that I wanted to look like that after I died. I thought maybe it would give you a laugh at the funeral, you know? - TUG

Meanwhile, the Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth receive their perfect pairs of "statuesque and incorruptible" bodies, preserved beyond the wildest dreams of the Seventh. These Houses are all spirit magicians. The Fourth, for whom thanergetically detonating oneself on a battlefield far from the rays of Dominicus isn't unheard of, almost certainly have funerary rites that don't presuppose a body. And the Fifth, whose necromantic practice is far more concerned with the spirit than the body, likely centre their most significant funerary rites around the ghost.

Y'know, the bit they don't have? Just as the flesh magicians of the Third and Seventh would have been unable to mourn their lost scions with rites around the body, the Fifth would have been unable to call their ghosts, trapped in Harrow's River bubble.

So amidst all the grief and awfulness, and the Emperor refusing to answer any questions about what happened (why are they all dead? Why are so many bodies missing? Where are the ghosts? Why are the bodies so creepily perfect?), half the Houses can't even mourn their dead in the way they normally would.

[astra-ravana]

The Power Of Ley Lines

Ley lines are straight lines or tracks, essentially energy grids that stretch across the earth in every direction. The ancients marked these lines with stone monuments and pagan temples. Our ancient ancestors could feel the magick and power emanating from these lines, so they set up natural sanctuaries and called the intersections of the ley lines sacred places.

If we look at some of the world's most important sites on a map, we can draw straight lines between them. These lines form a grid-like pattern across the entire surface of the planet. Stonehenge, the Great Pyramids of Giza, and Machu Pichu are sacred sites the connect, through the lines, with many other sites, including landmarks like Mt. Everest.

You won't find the ley lines on a typical geographical map or in a history book. They are mostly a topic in occult books or folklore. The contemporary concept was developed by Alfred Watkins in 1921, who believed so strongly in ley lines that he organized a group, that gathered in England and walked the countryside in search of them.

Faerie Paths and Corpse Roads

Spirits often travel the earth along ley lines. In England and throughout Europe there is a concept referred to as a 'corpse road'. A corpse road was a path taken by funerary processions to escort the recently deceased to their final resting place. Terrifying stories are told of supernatural creatures on corpse trails that, more often than not, correspond with ley lines.

Faeries, also known as the Fae, the Fair Folk, or the Sidhe, are known to travel along specified paths as well. There are many stories from Ireland and the British Isles that describe Faerie pathways leading into hills or over Fae bridges. These paths also follow ley lines. People are warned not to ever travel a Fae path during twilight hours (dawn or dusk) or at night, for fear the Faeries would steal them away.

The Importance of Ley Lines Today

Though the concept has ancient roots, ley lines are just as relevant in modern practice and very much affect us. The planet is like a living being, in and of itself. It produces energetic vibrations that we can both feel and interact with, if the conditions are right. The ley lines are like earth's veins; sacred sites where the planet allows us to easily tap into her essence.

Of you feel particularly revitalized after visiting your secret hiking spot, swimming in a body of water, or digging your toes into a patch of dirt or moss, then you know a taste of the potency that comes with being near a ley line.

The Affects of Ley Lines

• If your home is on a ley line, it may make thr energy more intense or chaotic.

• You may not be able to relax and sleeping may be difficult.

• You may experience increased paranormal activity, including apparitions, disembodied voices, and encounters with spirits, Faeries, or elementals.

• If your business is on a ley line, you will most likely notice an increase in energy, positive or negative. Your business may be considered haunted.

• When ley lines intersect, any building located on the intersection will have a constant flow of energy. This will cause supernatural occurrences and regular chaos.

• At ancient/sacred sites on ley lines, you will experience spiritual development, enlightenment, awakenings, visions, feelings of peace, messages from beyond or spiritual downloads.

Discovering Nearby Ley Lines

Finding your local ley lines is easier than one wound expect. Think of any historical landmarks in your area. Native, ancient, and pagan landmarks are excellent starting points, as are caves, rivers/creeks, manmade mounds, burial grounds, etc. The ancient natives were very in tune with nature and knew the lines intimately.

In addition, consider local sites with well-known hauntings, supernatural activity, or legends attached to them. Locations with high paranormal activity are most often on or near a ley line. For example, Gettysburg PA, Washington DC, and further, every state capital are located on ley lines.

Locating a Ley Line

After investigating your local sites and finding possible line spots, it's time to make the journey to confirm it in person. This is a sacred journey and you should prepare as such. Cleanse yourself before traveling to any sacred place so you can be as spiritually pure as possible. This will make the energy from the lines easier to sense. It's also a wise idea to bring along a pendulum or dowsing rods. Once there, be open to any sensation. You may feel nervous or excited.

You can dowse and find which areas have the highest energetic charge, test each place with the pendulum/rods, if they spin or swing vigorously, you are very close to the ley line.

Ley Line Magick

In addition to being excellent places for spirit work and necromancy, the energy of the lines can be harnessed to super charge manifestation. Enlightenment is primary. It should go without saying that visiting a ley line give you divine insight, spiritual downloads, and/or a total spiritual awakening.

Healing is another prominent form of magick performed at ley lines. While there, ask the earth and the spirits to send healing vibrations up through your feet and throughout your entire being. Stand still for a while and feel the healing energy pulse through your body. Few sensations match this potent connection.

Other forms of ley line magick include drawing love, abundance, meditation, grounding, cleansing, and charging. You can perform entire rituals on top of ley lines to add primal power to the working and drastically increase the success rate of your spell.

Ley Lines in the US

• Montana Megaliths, MT

• Pryor Mountains, MT

• Bighorn Medicine Wheel, NY

• Sedona, AZ

• Serpent Mound, OH

• Mount Shasta, CA

• Mount Denali, AK

• Tocobaga Indian Mound, FL

• Uinta Basin, UT

• Chicago, IL (Lake Michigan)

• Yellowstone National Park, WI

• Pine Barrens, NJ

[mothiir]

all is fair in love and war, part i

In which our favourite diplomat faces an assassination attempt, and Sicarius and Roboute must address some feelings.

Cw: gore. No sex. That’s in the next part.

—

—

An Inquisitor is aboard the ship. An Inquisitor is aboard your ship, in your space, they are here. Fear pulses through you; the instinctive dread of a prey animal learning that the wolf is just around the corner. You have no firsthand experience of the Inquisition, but by the Emperor you have heard stories — colleagues who were threatened into taking part in the cruellest of traps, luring rebellious worlds into an accord, only for the Inquisition to burn the planet to cinders. Worse than this: you have heard stories of those who refused — lobotomised, servitorised, and not just them but their families, their friends, punishment that runs along the most tenuous of connections until everyone who heard the name of the would-be hero was dead, or wished they were. It cannot be chance that the Inquisitor has arrived now, when the Primarch has taken all of the battle-ready ships and most of the men to deal with a section of the webway benighted by daemons, coming to the assistance of their Eldar allies, a comradeship that you were instrumental in brokering. Aboard the diplomatic vessel the Hestia, with nothing more than a barebones crew, sheltered deep in Ultramar’s space you thought yourself safe. And you are — but only from external threats. 

The rot within the Imperium still finds you here, apparently. 

As the most senior civilian official here, you join the welcoming party, standing beside Captain Icarus, a now-retired guardsman who — having served decades on the frontline of the Imperium’s battles — knows the ways of the Inquisition all too well. There are no Astartes aboard the ship, only baseline humans — formidable foes, practiced veterans all — and yet as the Inquisitor and her retinue board your ship (the continent-sized bulk of her ship dwarfing your own, blotting out the stars) you find yourself possessed by the mad urge to gather the men beneath your non-existent wingspan, to shelter them. 

“My lady Inquisitor,” you say, with a deep and respectful bow. “It is an honour —“

”Are you really the most senior diplomat here? Hm. I suppose you will do, until the senior officials arrive,” says the Inquisitor. Oh, what a promising start. What a truly excellent start. You straighten up immediately. “I am Kagha, of the Ordo Xenos. I was under the impression that the Lord Primarch was resident here and came to offer my services.”

You take a moment to gather yourself, trying your utmost to keep your eyes fixed on Kagha — and not her Deathwatch bodyguards, looming like obsidian-wrought gargoyles; nor the cherubim hovering behind her, fleshy abominations with blank, unsettling faces. The other woman is a little shorter than you, hard-featured and haughty, but possessed of an ageless, sharp beauty that speaks of those rejuve treatments the upper-classes so love. Her copper hair is swept up in an elaborate braided style, ornamented with gold skulls with glowing red eyes. You would wager your life’s savings on those hairpins being secret, deadly weapons. Her outfit is equally impressive: a long black leather coat, embroidered with a motif of heretics burning in a flaming pit while an impassive angelic figure watches; skin-tight trousers; an elaborate lacy blouse that closes at her throat with a ruby the size of your fist.

She’s wealthy. Well-connected. Experienced. And yet there is something not right; an itch under your skin. 

You look to the Deathwatch marines, as briefly as possible. There are five of them — more than enough to annihilate the paltry crew here, should they wish — and all are helmeted. Two carry shields slung over their shoulders; huge oblongs of metal longer than you are tall, ornamented with strange milky stones, like opals, and yet somehow familiar —

Your blood turns to ice. Spirit Stones. The funerary custom of Craftworld Eldar is to keep the souls of their dead in these psychic tombs, thus preserving their fallen comrades, and keeping them safe from the endless maw of She Who Thirsts. To break a Spirit Stone is to send the soul contained within to eternal damnation; it is one of the cruellest fates you can imagine. And to decorate your weapons with them — and to bring these weapons to the ship of a diplomat you know brokers peace with the Eldar —

You know then what is happening, and you would laugh at the flagrant arrogance of the Inquisition, if you were not so fearful. They are so used to having nothing stand in their way — why would they be subtle about an assassination? You make a quick gesture with your right hand, keeping it pressed tight to your side. In battle-cant it means call the Primarch. Bring him back. We are in danger. 

To Kagha, you beam, trying to appear every inch the young idiot she appears to think you are. “Would you care to join me in my quarters for tea? I can send a vox to my senior — he is currently aboard a ship in the Ultramarine’s fleet, and will answer as soon as he can.”

A bluff, of course. You have no senior. And yet Kagha — arrogant, stupid Kagha — nods tersely. “This is acceptable.”

—

You do not think it arrogant to claim that you are more that a little adept at the finer points of conversation — it is, after all, much of your job to be personable and engaging. Indeed, this talent is in such short supply across the Imperium that you sometimes wonder if you count as a prodigy, just because you can engage in small talk without threatening anyone, or going on a half hour diatribe about the Emperor’s endless benevolence. You once even made a Harlequin laugh! Yes, it was because you fell over — but it still counts. 

And yet Kagha is a brick wall — no, that is an insult to masonry. She either does not answer your questions, or does so in a way that suggests she considers you the stupidest woman alive for even raising the point. Still, she is kind enough to pour the second round of tea, so you sip, and resign yourself to silence. 

After around twenty minutes, the ring on your index finger — a nondescript circlet of silver, set with a tiny little sapphire — tightens minutely. Thank goodness for that. You offer Kagha a bright smile. 

“If I were you,” you say. “I would have a word with your sources.”

Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

”Well — they’re clearly quite out of date. I did have a superior diplomat overseeing my work here — her name was Sara Buchanan, and she was wonderful — but she returned six months ago to be with her grandchildren. I’ve been running the show here ever since.”

Kagha’s brow furrows. “If you are suggesting —“

“I am not suggesting. I am telling. Do you really think you are the first member of your Order to come calling to the Primarch’s fleet, thinking that they can disrupt our mission here? Granted, you are the first one to approach myself directly — but we know your sort. The arrogance of you! You’d see the Imperium remain steeped in shadow and ignorance if it kept your position safe.”

Genuine anger bleeds into your voice, and your throat tightens. You cough into your hand, cursing the sudden flare-up of — what? Allergies? Gunshots echo outside; lasgun facing lasgun. The Primarch has returned home, and is not best pleased with what he finds. 

Kagha’s lips skin back, showing her teeth. “You stupid xenos loving bitch — you have no idea what you are doing here.”

”I know exactly what I am doing here. Following my Lord Primarch’s orders. You are the heretic who claims to know better than the son of the God-Emperor —“ you break off into another bout of coughing, this time more strenuous. It feels like something is clawing up your throat. The door to your chambers crashes open, Cato Sicarius storming in, wreathed in smoke, spattered with blood. 

“Careful!” you yell out at the gunfight outside. “Don’t break the stones on the shields!”

”We know that,” Sicarius snaps at you. “We are well-aware of the Deathwatch’s tactics —“

Whatever he was about to say is amputated as you double over and vomit. A dark grainy substance puddles at your feet, like recaf-grounds. Behind you, Kagha sniggers. 

“So, so clever — but didn’t think to check the tea, did you?”

Oh for the love of the Emperor’s left bollock — you curse your oversight. She’d poured the tea. Ample time to slip poison into it, even though you had been watching her the whole time, because Inquisitors are nothing if not swift with their petty, lethal blows. You choke on another upsurge of bile, pain now radiating from your stomach, and collapse onto the floor. 

The next two things happen so swiftly as to be synchronous. Kagha reaches for her hairpin, presumably to activate some kind of suicide device, and Sicarius leaps towards her. Before she can complete whatever last-ditch resort she was planning, Sicarius has flipped her upside down, holding one scrawny ankle in each of his gauntleted hands. Kagha shrieks in astonishment — a shriek that soon turns to a wordless, senseless wail of agony as the Astartes moves his forearms, just a little, and rips her in half. Gore showers him, and you avert your eyes, but you can still hear the wet slop of organs falling to the ground in a bloody puddle; the popping and breaking of bones, rent apart like matchsticks. 

“That is my woman,” growls Sicarius — or, at least, you think he does. The world is starting to blur at the edges; the pain is receding — or perhaps you are receding, falling away into the dark. Your last image is of Sicarius bending down to you, reaching out. And then it is all black, as black as the void between stars. 

—

You blink awake to cool white light, and soft white linen. For an absurd moment you think you’ve perished, and this is the Emperor’s rest — an endless bed, where you can sleep as much as you wish (sleep being the one resource you were always so scarce of). 

Then —

“Ah, the wench awakes. Good. I was getting sick of looking at your sleeping face.”

Cato Sicarius sits by your bed, a paperback book open on his knee. The title reads Duty and Love: The Steamy Romance of a Kriegsman and a Sister of Battle — but before you can comment on it, he’s whisked it away, hiding it in one of his armour’s many compartments.

”How long — how long has it been?”

Your voice is rough; your throat aches. Sicarius tosses you a canteen of water. 

It’s metal. It’s Space Marine sized. You can’t catch it; it hits you in the chest and bounces off, leaving another bruise to deal with. 

“Next time, catch better.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. With shaking hands, you unscrew the lid and gulp at the icy water. 

“The poison ate through your oesophagus,” says Sicarius, conversationally. “Just as well it spared your tongue — a mute diplomat is no use to anyone, and we would have had to get someone new aboard. Can’t be doing with that.”

Perhaps it is your drug-induced delirium, but you smile at him. “Are you saying you’d miss me?”

”Absolutely not. Give me that.”

He snatches the canteen back, spilling water over you both. It’s his canteen. There’s a jug of water on your bedside table, and he gave you his canteen — but before you can dwell on that , Sicarius is back to grumbling. 

“We had to divert our entire mission because of you. Lord Gulliman was not best pleased that the Ordo Xenos was causing trouble for him and his, so we had to go halfway across the galaxy to Kagha’s home base. He’s spent the last five days putting every Inquisitor he can find to the sword. Burned a couple of planets that were still perfectly useful just because they wouldn’t tell us what we needed to know.”

There is far too much there for your sluggish brain to process. You manage: “Five days?”

”Yes. You’ve been out for six. That poison almost killed you. It didn’t. Fortunately.”

You stare down at your hands. They are almost as pale as the sheets: sunless, drained. “And the Primarch —?”

As if in answer to your question, the door opens, and Roboute himself enters. You immediately try to greet him properly — stand, curtesy, even salute — but your body won’t obey, and you just manage to tangle yourself up in your sheets, tumbling from the bed. The Primarch catches you before you hit the ground, swaddling you up in your linen like a newborn babe, settling you back onto the bed. His armour is tarnished, swathes of it stained rusty with old blood, and he reeks of smoke. Deep shadows hang under his eyes. He looks like he has come fresh from the battlefield. 

“There,” he says. “Better? Glad to see you with us.”

Your arms are pinned to your sides, which is just as well, since you suddenly want to stroke his tired brow, comb your fingers through his hair. 

Roboute looks over at Sicarius. “Thank you for your watch, brother.” To you, he adds: “Sicarius stayed —“

”Here because I was ordered to, and now I must leave to attend to proper business,” says Sicarius, all in a rush. 

Gulliman stares at him. And stares at him. Then looks at you. Then back at Sicarius. 

“…is that really what you want to say,” he says, in a tone of infinite, weary patience. “Really. After all this. That’s your parting riposte.”

Sicarius stands up straight, throwing up a parade-ground salute. 

“I fulfilled your orders, my lord. Watched her for the five days and nights. But now I have to return to my battle brothers for my actual purpose.”

Gulliman stares at him for another long, long moment. You twitch in the cocoon that Gulliman has forced you into, feeling deeply awkward but not entirely sure why. 

“Last chance,” says Gulliman. Sicarius frowns. 

“Not sure what else I should say, Lord Father.”

”Right,” says Gulliman, and sighs, turning back to you. He tucks you in more firmly — clearly intending it to be a comforting gesture, but managing to strait-jacket you to the point where you think your fingers are going numb. “Theoretical: the potential of losing you drove me to depths of fury that I had not felt in quite some time. This was in part due to the Inquisitor’s meddling, but largely to do with the prospect of not having you by my side.”

He strokes your hair gently.

”Practical: when you are well enough to stand, you will come to my quarters and we will have nice non-poisoned tea. And we can talk. And enjoy one another’s company.”

You squeak. “S-sounds like an excellent strategy, my lord. Yes. Please. Would like to play my part for you and the Legion and —“

”Perhaps not the entire Legion,” says Gulliman. “Not yet, anyway. Oh, and Sicarius? Why are you still here?”

Sicarius’ face is frozen in a rictus of pure, delirious rage. “No — no reason at all Lord Primarch. I will…I will take my leave.”

No one can say Gulliman did not give his idiot son a chance. He leans forward and kisses you gently on the forehead, pausing to inhale the scent of air. It smells of home. 

[svartalfhild]

ooo either 12 or 20 please :3

I'm going to see if I can combine these.

12. nervous embarrassment around them (blushing, fidgeting etc) 20. clumsy attempts at flirting

Rook didn't want to admit it to a single soul, living or dead, but she was completely out of her depth when it came to romance. It had always seemed like something other people did and usually only in novels.

She'd grown up in the Grand Necropolis where romantic love was the purview of the dead or grieving, and even amidst the Mourn Watch, well, she hadn't been social enough to witness romance in action between her colleagues. She'd always been strange, even for a Mourn Watcher, as the elf crypt foundling with ghostly white hair and eyes, and thus she'd always found it easier to befriend spirits than people.

Then she'd been cast out for her own safety. And Varric had taken her in, given her new purpose, and taken her all over Thedas. Even after a year, so much of the world and the intricacies of interpersonal relationships were new to her. She was a quick learner, though, and she liked to think she was a decent actor too, capable of pretending she was normal, even if she didn't exactly look it.

Varric and Harding had helped her a lot at first. They were gentle in correcting her blunders, for which she was eternally grateful. She still winced at the memory of the etiquette teacher she'd had growing up. Of course, that class had been meant to prepare young Watchers for behaving appropriately with the bereaved and the nobility. Common folk were a bit more forgiving, she'd found, as long as you were laid back, kind, and had a sense of humor. It worked really well for Varric and Harding, and it worked really well for her too, especially once she learned to stop casually using what Varric called "gold coin words" and mentioning anything to do with death or funerary practices.

After they'd come to the Lighthouse, though, things had changed. Rook was in charge now. Varric was bedridden, and she couldn't constantly be running off to the infirmary for advice he may not even have the energy to give. Harding was available, but Rook didn't want to disturb her too much, since she had a lot going on with the whole Titan magic thing. Rook just needed to toughen up and learn to handle things herself. She was a grown woman. She should be able to figure out social dynamics on her own, especially now that she knew she could rely on her positive attitude and helpful nature to deal with difficult situations.

Romance, though. That was a different animal, one she'd never thought she'd personally encounter. But then she'd met Emmrich, and all the work she'd done to appear socially competent just sort of went directly out the window. Or perhaps more accurately, right over the balcony of his beautifully appointed tower. He was just so...so...talented and knowledgeable and handsome and caring and dapper and well-spoken and generous and patient and...well, attractive. It didn't matter that he was twice her age. Her brain slid out her nose, skipped away, and left the building whenever he so much as said a nice thing to her. For some bizarre reason she did not yet understand, her gut reaction was to try to flirt with him, even though she had no practice at it, and her understanding of flirting was entirely based on things she'd read in fiction.

That being said, she felt she wasn't too bad at it. He hadn't reacted poorly to her flirting so far. In fact, though he often seemed surprised at first, he was always receptive. That didn't necessarily mean anything, though. For a while, she'd thought maybe he was just being kind and trying not to make her feel awkward because she was failing and he wasn't interested, but he still wanted to be friends with her. But then he'd told her he was interested and flirted with her so expertly that she'd been utterly swept away by it. And then he'd kissed her in the Memorial Gardens, and she knew she was so stupidly in love that there was absolutely no going back now.

So she kept at it.

One evening after returning from an excursion to Arlathan with Neve and Bellara, Rook snuck off towards Emmrich's tower while the others headed for the courtyard. She gave the door her unique little knock, and she heard his distant voice tell her to come in. She slipped inside and didn't see him in the immediate area of the study, so she nimbly climbed the spiral stairs to find him returning some books to the shelves.

"Hello," she greeted, trying to sound soft and a little sultry.

"Ah, Rook! How was your trip?" he responded cheerfully, tossing her a smile before shelving another book. She approached him in what she hoped was a casual manner. Was it always so warm in the tower? She didn't remember it ever being this warm. Her hands were sweating.

"Oh, you know. Magical. Like Arlathan always is." She gave a little chuckle, one which she hoped came across as charming and not nervous. Not that long ago, she would have just launched into a monologue about all the exciting magical phenomena she'd encountered in the forest, but these days, she was committed to being a bit more charismatic than that. "I got you something." She reached into the back of her cinch belt and pulled out a purple flower with a bent stem to hold it out to Emmrich. Her smile faltered when she noticed the bent stem, and she swallowed the swear that wanted to burst from her lips. Emmrich fully looked over at her after quickly sliding the last book into place, and a grin instantly spread across his distinguished features.

"Oh, how lovely! Cyclamen hederifolium! Thank you, darling!" He stepped closer to her and gently took the flower from her, his fingers brushing against hers and making her heart flutter.

"Sorry it's bent. I had to tuck it in my belt and I didn't notice until just now," Rook blurted out. Shit, that was awkward. She needed to find a way to recover. "I saw them while we were walking and thought of you, so I picked one," she added, attempting a casual lean against the nearest bookcase. Sure, that worked.

"How sweet," Emmrich replied, giving the bloom a sniff, his hazel eyes never leaving her as he did so. He then straightened the bend in the stem and swiped a fingertip over it. After a brief glow of green, the damage was repaired. "There. Nothing to trouble yourself over." Wow. She wished she knew how to do that. Maybe he could teach her. Oh, but as she watched him hold the flower, she realized he may not even have somewhere to put it. It wasn't a rose. It didn't have a long stem. He probably didn't have any pots small enough.

"I'll get a cup or something for you to put it in," she offered, straightening up and curling her fingers nervously.

"Ah." Emmrich halted her with the simple sound just as she began to turn to go, and stepped much closer to her, entering her space. "Not to worry, my dear. I know the perfect place for it," he told her softly before carefully tucking the purple cyclamen into her hair.

"O-Oh," she gasped, her ghostly pale cheeks instantly flushing pink. He brushed his fingertips down the side of her face when he was done, and she felt like she was going to melt into a puddle right then and there. Without even meaning to, she leaned closer to him, basking in the adoration that filled his gaze. "But the flower was for you," she said, her voice a little distant as she stared up at him.

"And I would like to see such a beautiful gift adorn the beautiful young woman who gave it to me." She gave him a dreamy smile at this, and her blush deepened.

"If that's what pleases you."

"It does indeed." Emmrich's fingers traced the edge of her jaw before settling under her chin and tilting her head up so he could easily lean down and kiss her.

Rook's last thought before all others abandoned her was that she must being doing this romance thing right if this was the result of her efforts.

[livefromthedas]

That Time Flirting Accidentally Worked

By ClickClickBoom

Chapter 3: Home

Summary:

Rook and Emmrich journey home to the Necropolis for some much-needed time away.

“You really live here?” She asked against the sound of their footfalls that skirted off of what always felt like an endless labyrinth of stone, “You know, I’ve had that nightmare. Repeatedly.” Rook’s gaze landed upon a series of bronze busts, visages of headmasters past and present, at the far end of the hall, and the grimace she pulled was practically loud enough to wake the dead, “Can’t say I cared for it.”

Notes:

I really do enjoy the chance to explore potential places and ideas surrounding characters' lives that we might not get to see in the course of a game, or a show. This is one of those explorations.

Thank you for reading and commenting, you guys know how to make a nerds day feel special ♥

Also! "Bärchen," for the curious, means "Little Bear" in German ♥

——————

Life as a Mourn Watcher was a surprisingly communal affair. Many members of the order lived and worked together from a shared dormitory well beneath the streets of the city of Navarra. It was a life and a line of work that had its members perpetually on call, often working in shifts to oversee the massive undertaking that was both the funerary rights and the protection of Navarra City (and beyond) from any ill workings of its own necromantic elite. It was an eternal vigil full of familiar faces who, for all of their differences and the varying roles they each played within the organization, had an intense devotion to traditions that both stabilized and enriched their entire culture. It was a life fully dedicated to the dead, and in a way, fully to each other, as well.

It had always surprised Rook, then, how very little she and Emmrich’s paths had crossed since her graduation.

She had heard word of his advancements all the time over the years. The release of his various thesis papers from one year to the next had become something of an annual event among the more academically inclined Watchers. His latest thoughts and theories were often groundbreaking, and they would inevitably serve as fodder for endless debates amongst members of the organization for months to come.

Professor Volkarin’s work had a steady and extensive influence on that of the Mourn Watch and had, quite frankly, for as long as Rook could remember. He’d had a hand in helping train many of them through his classes and lectures, and at least where Senior Watchers (perpetually above Rook’s own rank) were concerned he was a near constant fixture in helping keep the more dangerous aspects of their work a little more safe for those Watchers on guard. Yet… she’d rarely actually seen him, even in brief passing.

Rook had only recently discovered the reason why amidst one of countless late-night conversations and a little bit of curious prodding.

Unlike most Mourn Watchers, the Professor’s dual existence as both a high ranking Watcher and an esteemed academic afforded him certain luxuries that were beyond most Watchers’ pay grade.

Well above the lower halls frequently traversed by the Mourn Watch lie the Necropolis’s esteemed Halls of Learning. Beautifully adorned and immaculately well kept, the long, marble-hewn halls of the college still held its breathtaking wonder to Rook, both scale and artistry, even as she traipsed through them at such a late hour, lanterns dim, candles snuffed and long shadows nipping at her heels.

It was also incredibly cold.

After so many months away, between travel all over northern Thedas and residence within the Lighthouse itself, with its weirdly artificial perfection, eternal daylight and flawless weather, Rook had forgotten just how *cold* the unattended spaces within the Necropolis could become at night.

Even this close to the surface, the humidity hung thick and the temperature low, her breath trailing her as she followed Emmrich’s familiar stride through old halls that still felt the faintest bit like home.

“You really live here?” She asked against the sound of their footfalls that skirted off of what always felt like an endless labyrinth of stone, “You know, I’ve had that nightmare. Repeatedly.” Rook’s gaze landed upon a series of bronze busts, visages of headmasters past and present, at the far end of the hall, and the grimace she pulled was practically loud enough to wake the dead, “Can’t say I cared for it.”

She found herself pulled deeper into his side as he guided her along in the near-dark, his presence a reprieve from the deathly chill attempting to needle its way into her bones. Apparently he had caught the faint shiver in her voice as she spoke.

“To be completely fair, so have I,” Emmrich laughed, “But no, the residence is elsewhere on campus. This is merely a shortcut. Come along.”

An unassuming trail that wound through a pristinely manicured courtyard, up a mausoleum-crested hill and down into a warmly lit gully brought them to their apparent destination.

The college hosted a series of academic residencies at any given time of the year. Keeping its professors housed in relative comfort, Emmrich had recently explained, assured that some of the keenest minds in the country remained at the disposal of the Necropolis and the education of its Mourn Watchers alike.

… And as it happened, Professor Volkarin had been on something of an oft-renewed residency of his own for nearly 30 years.

The Residencies Domicile stretched for what would have amounted to nearly two city blocks on the surface. Stately and immaculate in its presentation, it boasted nearly a dozen apartments, each playing host to an esteemed educator or researcher and their families. Emmrich, Rook had learned, had called one of those apartments home since his early days of teaching.

“I dare say our time in the Lighthouse has spoiled us both,” Emmrich teased as he fussed with the lock upon an ornate door of iron and oak.

Rook couldn’t resist a little smile as she watched him ignore the series of unopened letters at their feet which themselves had fallen from an overstuffed letterbox, in favor of a studious once-over of the shivering young woman whose features were suddenly graced by the warmth of neighboring window light.

Rook could only assume she looked every bit as chill-numbed as he did, nose and cheeks pink, and eyes watery against the cold.

“Ah, there you are,” he finally emerged with the right skeleton key among a ring of many at his hip. With a shoulder and enough of a shove that it actually managed to send a bit of his hair falling from its typically perfect coif, he was able to wrestle the door free from growing frost that had nearly sealed it shut.

For a moment, it was no less freezing inside, and far darker. Rook wandered in cautiously, pad footing just beyond the light from the threshold, the familiar scent of a sleepy fireplace, parchments, linseed oil and a warm undercurrent of the cologne she’d not once caught Emmrich without soothing nerves that wiggled and winced in the otherwise unfamiliar space.

“Not good,” she heard him mutter just as Emmrich closed the door off from the biting chill outside. His wide stride made its way across the darkened space right before the sudden brightness of a fire that ignited in the stone fireplace nearby.

“Forgive the chill, darling. We’ll have it warm before long,” he said, another flick of his wrist and chime of golden bangles sending warm lanterns alight from various surfaces

In a rare moment of inattentiveness, Rook watched curiously as the man bee lined not for her, but a window near the kitchen. Slender fingers grazed the leaves and blooms of more beautifully potted plants than she could count at a glance, stern gaze clearly trying to assess their damage in the cold. While a little worse for wear, wilting against the chill, they seemed salvageable. Rook stifled a smile at his back as she watched broad shoulders huff a sigh of relief.

“You’ve been away for months, I’m impressed they’re still with us,” Rook noted, “They’re beautiful, though.”

“Thank you, darling,” she heard him smile, before glancing over his shoulder, “I’ve had a colleague looking after them in the meanwhile, although I’m quite certain the ward I set before leaving should have kept it from getting this- - - Ah hah!”

He bounced on his heels, the discovery of an open window not far from the stove catching both their attention at once, “The culprit.”

“Does your colleague leave windows open in attempt to merck your plants often?” She joked.

“Never at night,” Emmrich pushed the window closed and sealed his ward with another quick flick of the wrist, “A simple oversight, I can assure you - She’s 87 and means well. I’ll leave her a note as a reminder - but no. The window is for the cat she’s also looking after. He tends to be insufferable if he’s not able to rest in his own space during the day, bless him.”

“And the man has a cat!”

“Bärchen,” He grinned, “You would love him. Manfred certainly does.”

Rook let slip a theatrical little groan, “Oh, he’s a cat, I already do! And it’s so quiet… not a rampaging baby Griffon in sight. Are you certain we can’t just stay here permanently?”

Emmrich laughed, a charming softness in his gaze, “If it were sensible to do so, Rook, I can assure you, nothing would please me more.”

As the Professor finally extracted himself from Mother-Henning his plants, shrugging his coat from his shoulders as he went, Rook steeled enough nerves to wander a bit, casting a glance across the space around her.

It was cluttered, but gorgeous. Polished blackwood made up most surfaces - Bookshelves and cabinets, tables and chairs - and well-worn, ancient looking stone made the rest, with accents in plush velvet tapestries and curtains. Books and parchments, peculiar artifacts and weeping candles sat everywhere they could find purchase. It was a home well loved, and well lived in, when time permitted him rest.

“There’s a bedroom just up the hall, and another upstairs, along with the study,” Emmrich explained, coat left upon a hook near the door. His nimble grasp snatched a quilt from the tall-backed reading chair near the fireplace, then, and in a swift flurry of movement, he had it unfurled and wrapped warmly around Rook’s shoulders.

Her grin was hampered in the best way - Emmrich guided her toward him with the grip he still had on the quilt. He ducked to kiss her softly, slowly. When he pulled away again, leaving her flush, it felt like her lifeline had been cut.

“Do make yourself at home, darling. I’ve a few more fireplaces to light.”

[plotdesigner]

in my scar colored heart, color will always exist ch 6

Rating: Mature

Warnings: canon-typical aftermath of battle, aftermath of torture, discussion of Silmarillion-era violence

Summary:

Adar finds an unlikely ally in Eragion after his children turn on him in a bout of unexpected battle madness. Surely this time, the elf he’s brought home really will help him defeat Sauron instead of using his mercy as an opportunity to kill dozens of orcs AGAIN. Surely this time he can truly defeat Sauron and keep the Uruk safe, right?

Celebrimbor manages to survive being tortured by Sauron. Now he just has to survive teaming up with the army that invaded his city, the heartbreak of his lover and his smiths turning on him, and the psychic damage that comes from being the son of an infamous kingdom-killer working with someone called Lord Father. (Or: Sauron’s exes unionize, rebound together, and try and get custody of the kids. Canon divergence after ROP s2e6. Let’s get out of Ost-in-Edhil with a lower body count!)

Chapter 6: While Adar makes preparations for the Uruk army's retreat, Celebrimbor gets a proper welcome to being in an orc war camp. It turns out it's easy to make friends when the last elf to be hosted was Galadriel 'double digit body count' Sun-haired.

Featuring: elf generational trauma, the realization young adults are dumbasses everywhere, learning Uruk nudity taboos about two chapters two late for it to matter, funerary practices, and where do orcs go when they die? (and so, so much wiki diving. mr jolkein rolkein rolkein tolkein make your battles easier to spell challenge)

read on ao3

(cover art by greenleaf4stuff!!! )

[itsalwaysdark]

i wish there was a way for me to likeee. semi change this one thingin this one mod. but 1 im not a modder 2 i feel like thats disrespectful. i just want sort of an inbetween between the game and this mod but that is not a thing that exist... sigh

[sohrleas]

Guess who made more art for @lennjamin-o7 's Death Shall Come?

Me! I did!! Look at it!

(honestly, I could probably do better, and there's half a dozen details I want to add, but if I delay showing this until I've got all those details done it'll never be posted.)

This time we get to see the Besties together, dressed fairly casually.

Fun little facts with this one: I mentioned in the previous art post that Sumerians loved Carnelian and Lapis Lazuli, and thought that Techno would wear carnelian more and Philza would wear Lapis more...but they're both wearing necklaces with the other stone. I thought about making the large pendant-gems that they're wearing Emeralds instead, but I couldn't find any examples of that from reliable sources, and I got a bit stubborn about trying to be at least a little accurate. (I can always go and change it later anyways). Also, Phil's eyes are Lapis, Techno's Carnelian. Because I can. and colors are hard sometimes

The Jewelry is based off of Pu-Abi's funerary jewelry; I have more notes at the other post I made as well as sketchy-bits: https://www.tumblr.com/sohrleas/752839783945994240/new-session-archive-of?source=share

Also, have the site I used as reference because it pleases my magpie-brain: https://sumerianshakespeare.com/117701/118101.html

I don't imagine that Techno would be the biggest fan of long robes because mobility, but the length of clothing was directly related to the status of the individual. Since he's King, I imagine that the people who make his clothes for him would make the majority of his clothes look as high-status as possible in order to avoid offending him/getting straight-up smited. Smote?

Philza's wearing clothes that lean a little more to the feminine styles; the wraps that spiral up like that and drape like that I mostly saw on women, but saw similar on men as well. I figured it'd be easiest for his wings. As for the colors, I tried to keep to similar to what natural dyes of the region could do; the gradient is maybe a bit of a stretch but not impossible, it'd mostly be really annoying to get right.

I've been working on this while Lenn's been streaming hardcore, it's been pretty fun! I definitely recommend hopping on if you get the chance.

(little details I want to add but want to practice first: texture to the lapis and gold. Techno's hair shade?? Phil's hair shade?? Wing shading. Better texture for the cloth (I used to be good at this, what happened?). Wing Jewelry! Background.)