#glacial fortress

[mtg-art-daily]

Glacial Fortress

"Iceworld. A space trading colony on the dark side of the planet Svartos... I think there's something interesting going on there, Mel." —The Seventh Doctor

Artist: Néstor Ossandón Leal

[chrollogy]

18+ MDNI; very light smut, basically just making out with wrio and driving him insane with teasing, dry humping (briefly mentioned). divider: cafekitsune

── it was days like this that wriothesley could not thank the heavens above more for intertwining your fates. it was after hours, no more paper work, no more meetings, no more patrols around the fortress—just you and him, alone. wriothesley could almost feel himself becoming one with the crimson velvet sofa beneath, the plushness of it slowly engulfing his body as your index finger tantalizingly made its way up and down his clothed torso. wriothesley’s breathing came out in short pants, throat hitching ever so slightly as your digit ghosted over his racing heart—glacial blue eyes staring intently at your pretty face.

despite the iciness of its colour, his stare held nothing but a burning fire; full of heat and carnal desire. almost like a lone wolf amongst the snowy fields, ready to pounce on its unknowing prey. but wriothesley’s arms remained rested atop the vermillion sofa, fists clenching and unclenching as a result of your teasing; his arms remained glued to its position even as you swiftly removed his tie, head dipping low to nip and suck at his newly exposed skin. oh, it drove wriothesley absolutely feral whenever your tongue traced the scars running up his neck—hips involuntarily bucking up against your own, followed by a soft curse that bounced around the walls of his office.

wriothesley loved taking the lead, he wasn’t going to deny that fact but the way you were devouring his body as if it were a mere use for your own pleasure was absolutely hot—the way your cunt languidly rubbed over and over his hardened length, pleasure shooting throughout his body despite the layers of fabric between you two. even just the feeling of being sandwiched between your body and the couch pushed wriothesley to a never-ending state of bliss. “stop teasing me. .” your lover grumbles, voice breathy as you kissed your way up his jawline and toward his right ear, gently nipping at the flushed skin.

a cold shiver runs up his spine as you give his ear a kiss before whispering, “patience, your grace. .” saccharine and velvety, almost purring into his ear as his title rolled off your tongue. he didn’t have to see it with his own eyes but he knew you were smirking. it made wriothesley clench the sofa a little tighter, sapphire eyes rolling back from your warm breath. oh he’s absolutely going to ravage you to oblivion once you get home.

[merakiui]

sigewinne who pretties you up for wriothesley by gifting you all kinds of makeup products and jewelry. you don’t want to let her generous goodwill go to waste, especially when it’s the highlight of your days in the gloomy confines of the fortress of meropide, so you always take care to wear the things she’s given you, even if you don’t see the point in looking pretty while in prison. it makes her immensely happy when she sees you wearing it, so at the very least you’re glad to put a smile on her face. it’s the least you can do after she goes to such trouble to pick something that suits your tastes (even if she may not be entirely correct in her guesses and judgment when it comes to human aesthetics, but she’s doing her best!).

wriothesley on the other hand… while he won’t go into detail or say something shameless outright, he does offer you his playful acknowledgment. “i see our head nurse has taken to playing dress-up with you yet again. how goes it as her doll, hm?”

you hiss at him to be quiet with his teasing, stalking off towards your dormitory in a flustered huff. you miss the way he watches you, a covert hunger concealed behind glacial eyes. you’re tempting in a way that he knows you shouldn’t be. because he’s warden and you’re prisoner; it’s a dangerous line to walk, a tantalizing power imbalance. but, really, do such trivial things truly matter in the eyes of his grace? :)

[mrs5sn0w]

Serenade of Shadows

I : A Dance of Shadows -> II : Whisper of Deceit -> A Symphony of Heartbreak-> IV : Fractured Reflections -> V : Shadows of Allegiance -> VI : Echoes of Decent

Series Masterlist

Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

warnings: Arranged marriage, MILD ANGST, unrequited love, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers

Reader's surname : Flare

Time frame : Before, during and after tbosbas

synopsis: In the events of Panem's political dynamics and the 10th annual Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow and her find themselves entwined. Standing at the brink of an enforced union, 6 years later, their mutual trust unravels amidst a damaging misinterpretation, prompting Coriolanus to believe the wrong. As the glacial barriers guarding his emotions begin to melt, a revelation of profound feelings unfolds, initiating a sprint against time for redemption.

The grandeur of the Capitol unfolded like a tapestry of opulence on the day Coriolanus Snow and her were bound in matrimony. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, and the opulent venue shimmered in the soft glow of chandeliers. The Capitol's elite had gathered to witness the union of the President of Panem and the Flare family, one of the most prestigious families in the whole Panem, their wedding was a spectacle that rivaled the most extravagant of royal weddings.

As she walked down the aisle in her resplendent gown, a vision of ethereal beauty, the weight of the ornate veil seemed to mirror the heavy burden on her heart. Coriolanus, standing at the altar in a meticulously tailored suit, wore a mask of composure that hid the turbulent emotions within.

He did not want to be there. He does not want to marry her.

The ceremony unfolded like a symphony of obligations, the vows echoing through the grand hall as if scripted by Capitol decree. Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, met with his cold and indifferent eyes. The congregation, unaware of the loveless undertones, erupted in applause as the Capitol celebrated the union of the two.

As the reception commenced, Snow and her navigated the intricate dance of social formalities. In front of the Capitol's watchful eyes, they exchanged pleasantries and smiled for the cameras, their every move orchestrated like pieces on a strategic board.

In a quiet corner, away from the prying eyes, she summoned a smile that barely concealed the turmoil within.

"Corio-"

"It's Snow." He reminded her not to call him by what she called him years ago.

"Snow, we are the talk of the Capitol today," she remarked, her voice carrying a hint of wistfulness.

He nodded curtly, his gaze fixed on the swirling dancers. "It's expected. our union of significance, a merging of legacies."

A fragile smile played on her lips while Coriolanus' eyes remained impassive, a fortress against the vulnerability she tried to breach.

"Sentimentality has no place in our world. Our duty is to uphold the Capitol's ideals. I'm just doing my duty by marrying you."

He then continued

"Don't get ahead of yourself if you think you can have a chance. Everyone may have forgotten what you did, but not me."

"Cor- Snow, I did what I had to do, to protect you-"

"protect me ?" He scoffed

"The only protection you did was throw my future away"

"But you're here now" she argued

"You still did it to me. It will never change." he demanded

He still believes that she did it.

but until this very day, he did not know the whole truth of what she did.

As the night wore on, the facade of marital bliss cracked in the shadows. She resplendent in her gown, felt the weight of isolation. She approached Coriolanus with a delicate grace, her eyes seeking a connection amidst the artifice.

The reception continued, a lavish display of decadence, but in the hidden recesses of their shared existence, the echoes of unspoken pain reverberated. She was once Coriolanus Snow's closest classmates, and she found herself as a stranger in his indifferent world.

"Snow," she began, her voice tinged with both sadness and defiance,

"do you ever wonder what our lives could have been if things were different?"

He looked at her, the coldness in his eyes softened by the moon's gentle caress. "Wondering is a futile endeavor. Our reality is the only truth we know."

"The only thing i wished to be different is that I didn't have to marry someone like you"

"Anyone but you"

Before she could respond, the distant strains of music heralded their return to the festivities. The grandeur of their wedding, an illusion of splendor, concealed the fractured emotions beneath the surface.

As the night waned and the Capitol reveled in the spectacle, Coriolanus Snow and his wife danced through the shadows of their union, a poignant duet of obligation and unspoken regret.

Snow's wife would always remember this day as the day she gave her life up to be stuck in a loveless marriage.

It didn't matter to her, as long as she was married to the person she loves even when he hates her with every beat of his heart.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: The Bleakfather’s Throne

The world is heavy here, cold knaws at the bones of your companions making every step forward a struggle and the desolate wind sounds like a lamentation. Coming over the rise you see it, the regal corpse that rivals the surrounding mountains for imposing grandeur, the source of this dread season that seeks to smother all good things beneath its sorrow. 

Not all archfey are tricksters or stag-crowned gentry. Like the realm they inhabit, they embody stories, emotions, and the strongest aspects of nature.  The Bleakfather is an aspect of winter at it’s most cruel and deadly, as well as the sorrow that saps the will to go on living, all too common in those long, dark months. For ages untold he has sat his mountain-hewn throne, mummified by the cold winds of his domain as the depths of his misery chokes every spark of life from the land. 

So titanic in size, the bleakfather’s throne is itself a fortress inhabited by ice giants who claim decent from the archfey and raid in his name. They fear their father’s stirring from his glacial malaise, and so listen for his voice on the wind and scour the surrounding lands for any note of happiness that would defy the tyrant’s sorrowful reign. 

Adventure Hooks: 

With his eyes on becoming Jarl of the Bleakfather’s Children, an upstart Jotunn by the name of Talfjarn has assembled a warband and is going raiding in the realm of mortals, hunting the coast on longships the size of wargalleys with an enchanted storm at their back. Though he’s willing to crack towns open in the hopes of gathering pillage and slaves, he’s heard tell of a dragon slumbering somewhere up river that he wishes to test his mettle against. 

The giants have constructed a great temple in the vault of their father’s sword hand, where the trophies of great battles are heaped and the haunted wind howls between his pillar like fingers. Here there shamans divine the Bleakfather’s will, and listen for disturbances that might dare wake him.  Unluckily for our heroes, a celebration they attended ended up getting rowdy enough that its echoes were heard all the way in the feywild..and now a squad of towering winter warriors will be showing up to crash the party and put an end to their good times.   

There is power in mythology. It’s said in years beyond counting that the Bleakfather destroyed the ancient dwarven kingdom in order to steal a relic of great beauty upon which the dwarven lords and ladies swore their oath. Seeking to reunite the warring clans, a would-be hero has set her sights on breaking into the archfey’s vaults and taking back the relic.  It’s only after the party aid her in this daring task that they realize that her advisor had a very different end in mind: Waking the Bleakfather and letting him rampage through the material plane in a jealous rage, to better clear the way for a new order with the advisor at its head. 

[chaosbarelycontained]

The Bones of You

North Country Boy Chapter 10

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x AFAB!OC

TW: None, I was feeling sappy

Words: 2k

Synopsis: The mission goes slightly awry

The team of six, small yet dangerously effective, stopped a mile from the ancient fortress, their vehicles partially hidden from view by giant boulders that littered the edge of the glacial valley. Jules had managed to tamp down the spectres of the past, locking them tightly away, and was now back in her ops head-space. She listened with laser-sharp focus as the Captain briefed them one last time, slapping each of them on the chest or shoulder in encouragement. He looked at Jules, scanning over her face for a second then winked and nodded before the team split into two groups and began to make their way stealthily towards their target.

The fortress was perched on a low rocky outcrop at the point where two valleys converged, the dusty red limestone craggs blending into the carved stone blocks of the fortress’ foundations. When they reached the halfway point, Soap broke away, heading for the higher ground he’d scouted out to bed himself down with his M249 and a cracking view of the majority of the fortress compound. Price’s voice through her headset confirmed that Roach had done the same on the other side of the fortress.

The early morning sun had not yet breached the walls of the valley, leaving the expanse before them thick with shadows. It served to keep them hidden all the more and, for that, Jules was grateful. She was barely winded when she and Ghost reached the foot of the fortress and began to scramble up the ancient rock walls.

“West clear,” Soap verified from his vantage point.

“East clear,” Roach agreed.

“Copy that,” Price responded, huffing a little through the mic as he hauled himself up the rock face.

It was one of the easier climbs Jules had attempted. Time and erosion from the fierce steppes winds had left gaping cracks between the layers of rock and then the large stone blocks of the fortress.

“Reached the top, good to go?” Ghost said into his mic.

“Affirmative,” Soap verified, his comment echoed by Roach not a moment later.

Jules followed the Lieutenant up and over the wall, dropping down as silently as they could onto the worn slabs of the fortress’ courtyard. They stayed hidden in the deep shadows cast by the walls as they skirted around the perimeter, on high alert for any potential hostiles. They didn’t encounter any as they silently moved towards the room that Jules had identified as potentially holding the server, and that put her on edge. The other half of their team had only encountered two guards, who they swiftly executed with deadly precision.

Fortunately the fortress wasn’t of great size, which was normal for structures of that age, so it didn’t take them long to reach the small collection of buildings that they targeted. There were no doors to bar their way, and the windows held no glass, so their entrance into the first room had the advantage of being soundless. It meant that the two hostiles they found within were caught by surprise and were easily dispatched by Ghost’s deadly knife as he shouldered Jules out of harm’s way.

She couldn’t form words, as astounded as she was by his audacity, and simply gaped as he wiped off his blade on the leg of one of the hostiles.

“What the fu-“ she hissed, ready to tear him a new arsehole regardless of his rank, but stopped abruptly as Ghost stiffened and held his cupped hand to his ear.

She froze, listening intently, her grip tightening on her rifle as scuffs could be heard from the room beyond. Ghost closed his fist, pointing his thumb to the floor before raising a single finger, and Jules nodded in confirmation. Moving as one they flanked the doorway and then burst into the next room. It was mere seconds before Ghost had the hostile immobilised on the floor, his neck pulled back at an excruciating angle.

“Server,” he growled lowly, in Russian.

The hostile spat, refusing to speak, but Jules left them to it, her attention drawn to the rest of the room. There were no windows there but there were wires coming through the doorway and running along the wall up to the high ceiling. She tracked them with her eyes, splitting her attention to remain alert for any incursions. High up on the far wall there was a wide ledge, probably for some sort of raised storage in days gone by, but there was a congregation of wires leading to it and Jules could see a faint blinking light to the back of it. Bingo.

She stalked back over to Ghost, who still hadn’t manage to elicit any intel, and drove her knife into the hostile’s jugular, slicing it across his throat for good measure.

“No loose ends,” she murmured. “I found it.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell. No flies on you, eh?” Ghost muttered, staring at Jules as if he was seeing her for the first time. He managed to mentally shake himself, dropping the body like a sack of potatoes and rising to his feet.

“Giz a boost?” Jules asked, gesturing with her chin towards the ledge.

Ghost complied without question, boosting her up onto the ledge and then standing guard below.

“Shouldn’t be long,” Jules muttered, accessing the port on the server and plugging in the palm-sized tablet she carried.

“Accessing the server now,” she said into her mic, informing the team of her actions.

It was laughably easy to begin transferring the data. There was barely any security on the system and the firewall they had was about as ancient as the structure they were standing in.

“Building cleared,” Price said, his voice carrying a note of surprise. “Thought there’d be more. Don’t let your guards down.”

“All clear out here too,” Roach agreed. “Too fucking quiet.”

Jules watched as the percentage bar filled, coming closer and closer to the end of the transfer. A light blinked in the corner of her eye and she turned her attention towards it. It flashed again, and then again, a rhythmical pattern that seemed to get faster. Weird. The little yellow LED was on a small box attached to one of the side ports on the server, with two wires leading away from it. They ran along the ledge and then, once they reached the edge, tracked down the wall. Jules’ tablet pinged its completion and she disconnected from the server but not before she realised that the little LED was blinking even faster than before.

“Done,” she announced, before rolling and dropping off the ledge.

The expected contact with the floor didn’t happen as two large hands wrapped around her waist and stopped her descent, slowly lowering her to the ground. She froze for a second, the hands not moving - in fact she swore she could feel them tighten a little - as she stared up at Ghost’s enigmatic expression.

“Gerroff!” Jules snorted, wiggling away from the Lieutenant and trying to ignore her racing heart as she stalked over to the edge of the room to track the wires from the ledge.

She found them again and followed them, hunkering down as they disappeared into a crack where the wall met the floor. A waxy substance filled the crack and a sinking feeling filled Jules’ chest. She swiped a gloved finger along the mystery substance and raised it to her nose, pulling down her bally to get a better whiff.

“Soap, you copy?” She croaked, nervously.

“Copy, Tiger,” he responded.

“You know of any IEDs that smell like almonds?” She sensed Ghost stiffen behind her, not knowing if it was from her discovery or the undisguised apprehension in her voice.

“No’ that I…wait. What colour?”

“Green?”

“Fuckin’ shit balls,” Soap cursed. “Archaic bastards, usin’ 808. Primed?”

“Affirmative,” Jules swallowed thickly.

“Get tha fuck outta there, Tiger,” Soap exclaimed, a hint of panic in his voice. “Captain, I recommend ye hoof it.”

“Copy that, Soap. Everyone evac, sharpish,” Price commanded.

They wasted no time in retreating. With the fortress clear of hostiles they headed for the closest gates, not even considering to attempt the struggle of scaling the walls once more. Jules ran as fast as she could, her legs pumping and her chest heaving, but the giant strides of the Lieutenant quickly began to extend the distance between them. She wasn’t sure they were out of the blast radius yet but Ghost slowed just a little to let her catch up. She didn’t look at him, focused as she was on getting as far away as possible but then there was tension on the back of her vest, her feet were off the ground and she was flying through the air as an explosion sounded from behind them.

Air rushed out of her lungs as she was crushed by the 6’2” behemoth that landed on top of her. A pain shot through her ribs and she winced as she looked up into Ghost’s whiskey-coloured eyes.

“Did you just fuckin’ chuck me?!” She hissed.

* * *

“Rob’s just upstairs puttin’ three tubs worth of gel in his hair. He’ll be down by next Christmas,” Jules said to Simon, who leaned against the counter in her kitchen as he waited for his best friend. “I swear half his kit bag is gel when he comes home for a visit. Where y’off to anyway?”

“Just the pub.” He beckoned her towards him and she went eagerly, standing in front of him with a grin. “Wish you were comin’ with us.”

“Yeah, I know, but Rob don’t want me crampin’ his style.”

Simon snickered. “That muppet wouldn’t know style if it hit ‘im in the cock.” His hands went to her waist to pull her closer.

“You got that right, an’ yet he manages to pull a bird every bloody week. Y’should ‘ave fun tonight, the pair of you.”

“There’s only one bird I’ve got my eye on,” he said, squeezing her waist a little.

“Oh yeah, that Tracy that lives near the park. I heard she’s a right goer,” Jules teased.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Y’such a dick, come ‘ere.”

Jules grinned cheekily and slid her arms around Simon’s neck and stepped into him, raising her face as he dipped his head down to kiss her. A quick kiss became another, and then another, each deeper than the last until Jules found herself lifted and placed on the kitchen counter. She wrapped her legs around his waist as they both became lost in each other.

“What the fuck is this?!”

Jules froze with a gasp and Simon’s head whipped round before he turned his body to put himself between her and an irate Rob.

“Easy mate,” Simon rumbled placatingly.

“Easy? I come back from Preston an’ see you wi yer tongue down our Jules’ throat! How long’s this been goin’ on, eh?” He craned his head to look at Jules. “Don’t tell me yer shaggin’ him.”

“What if I am, Rob. S’none of y’business,” Jules snarled, her chin raised defiantly.

“How long?“ Rob asked the pair of them.

“Long enough,” Simon replied.

“Long enough for me to love him, alright, Rob? So shut yer gob, yeah?” Jules blurted, her face heating. She felt Simon stiffen and then he turned, grinning at her with his eyebrow raised. “Oh, y’can wipe that cocky fuckin’ smirk off yer face an’ all, Riley. I said what I said. Fuckin’ deal with it.”

Rob laughed, his hands raised in surrender. “Fine, fine. Whatever. I mean, I know I said take care of her, pal, but I din’t mean literally.”

“Yeah, well, sorry mate.” Simon gave a sheepish shrug.

“Are we goin’ to the fuckin’ boozer or what?” Rob announced, as if the revelation of their relationship had never happened.

“Yeah, you sure ye’ve got enough gel on your head?” Simon quipped.

“Piss off,” Rob threw back as he sauntered out of the back door.

Simon turned to Jules, a soft look on his face. “Thought he were gonna twat me for a minute,” he admitted.

“Well at least we don’t have t’sneak around anymore,” she said quietly.

“True,” Simon hummed, dipping his head to kiss her softly. “Love you too, Princess,” he murmured, before following Rob out of the door.

Taglist: @aykxz98 @spicyspicyliving @wickizer

[the-kingshound]

Part 2 of the series about MC's siblings reaction to discovering MC is going to marry King Arthur.

Ghaven

Ghaven goes through their morning in the same way they did the past weeks. They ignore the tension in the air as they wake their wife and help her choosing her clothes. For some reason, Cathair seem to enjoy letting them have control over her dresser. Almost everything else has to be done by her own rules, but in this she trusts Ghaven to choose for her.

They get dressed in silence, exchanging only glances that are at the same time practiced during years of marriage and stiff.

Ghaven takes in a breath just before gripping the handles of Cathair's wheelchair and pushing her out of the bed chamber. As soon as they are out and crossing the hallway, two servants come dutifully by Cathair's side.

"Any news from the King?" she asks, voice rough and slightly cracked like it has always been since Ghaven met her.

"Yes, Ser," answers the servant, handling her a letter which she hands Ghaven without opening.

Despite being retired, Cathair demanded for everyone to keep addressing her as her former Knight title rather than her newly acquired lordship one.

"We'll be in the study. Deal with everything that needs to be done in the meantime."

The servants bow, and Ghaven leads Cathair to a spacious room, functioning as a study and filled with most of the books in the fortress. They separate once they close the door, Cathair wheeling herself to the overfilled desk without sparing another glance at Ghaven, who instead walks slowly towards the window.

They produce a knife out of their tunic, carefully opening the letter from the King. A knock interrupts them before they can do anything else, but they lower their gaze when it is just a servant leaving breakfast for the both of them on a table.

Once they're gone, Ghaven takes a steadying breath and starts reading. They can feel a penetrating gaze on their back; and for some reason it feels vaguely comforting rather than intrusive.

Their heart beating rather loudly in their ribcage, their eyes skim through the letter, going through it quickly to catch the most important sentences. Once they're done, their heart rate only increasing, they read it again.

And then a third time.

They expel a breath our of their lungs, an uncomfortable emptiness settling inside their chest instead.

So... this is what was traded. Their sibling.

They become aware of the slight sensation of dizziness just once they look away from the letter. They feel a detachment from their limbs that is there only in the rare occasions something shakes them.

Then they become aware of Cathair, moving away from the desk.

"Ghaven, come here," she orders, commanding though not unkind. Ghaven walks to their wife, sitting stiffly on her lap.

They stay like that, in silence and unmoving, for several long moments. Very slowly, some tension leaves Ghaven's body.

They tilt their head to the side, meeting the former knight's glacial eyes.

"Do you think they fought?"

"I would have made them."

Ghaven once again feels a bit off, the weight on their chest solidifying. A hand moves from behind their side to reach out towards the breakfast tray.

"We will check," Cathair says, breaking freshly made bread.

Ghaven opens their mouth to be fed, still on her lap, when their wife puts bread into their mouth. They eat the rest of the food in silence, comfortably close.

[larkspyrr]

chapter ix — and all i can breathe is your life (wc. 4.6k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next (coming soon!)

reblogs are appreciated!

Lucy, the beautiful, loyal creature that she was, carried Wriothesley directly to you like a creature possessed, hooves stamping at the earth in a furious gallop.

She missed the trees closing in on either side of her by mere inches—whip-thin branches lashed against Wriothesley’s face and arms and chest, drawing blood wherever they bit into his skin. He didn't notice.

Finally, the lush green gave way to a barren little camp, and as Wriothesley slid out of the saddle, all he could see was you.

You were on the ground, cornered against an old tree with your legs pulled up against your chest, smears of blood on your neck and hands. Your hair and clothes were matted to your skin by something too light to be blood but too dark to be sweat. The unmistakable smell of gasoline permeated the entire camp, and Wriothesley suppressed a gag at the overwhelming odor.

Your eyes were wide with fear, but your brow and jaw set in defiance. Scared, but not cowering; not conceding defeat.

His eyes were drawn to a flash of light near the opposite treeline. Fire flickered from the head of a torch held by a man who was—who was fucking smiling—

Every part of Wriothesley's body thrummed with violence, his vision pulsing against his shoulder with glacial wrath. He felt frost gathering at his hands, the familiar frigid mist condensing into the unforgiving steel of his bespoke gauntlets. He basked in the weight against his hands, tightened his fists with the reassurance that he would never be unable to help those he cared about again.

He looked once more to you. To ground himself. To remind himself.

He stepped into the clearing.

The blizzard followed.

Wriothesley fought like you danced.

He was lethal; graceful. Beautiful. You had seen him in the ring, time and time again, but nothing could have ever prepared you for what he would be like when lives were on the line—your life. He was fluidity; he was raw power; he was precision and brutality. Those gauntlets you had only seen a few times before concealed the kind hands you’d come to know so well; channeling ice and snow and biting, savage cold into overwhelming waves of frigid righteousness. A one-man fortress, hewn from ice.

You gasped as a shaft of ice impaled the ground not far from where you sat, startling you from the viscous haze of awe and terror that clawed at your throat. It caught the sunlight, out of place, stark against the verdant green, glittering, wicked, and sharp.

Your eyes shot up. Wriothesley caught your stare for only a fraction of a second before sending out another cascade of ice toward the Treasure Hoarders, but the flick of his gaze to the shard told you everything you needed to know.

Wriothesley was giving you the choice. You were not powerless—not this time, not ever again.

Your heart hammered like a drum. You didn't hesitate, your body knowing what you'd choose before you had even consciously made the decision, darting forward of its own accord across the frosted grass. On shaking knees, you began sawing at the bindings around your wrists with hurried, cautious precision, freeing your hands to quickly untie the ropes restraining your ankles. With your movement unrestricted, you felt the first full breath fill your lungs in far too many fear-stained minutes, the cold air crisp and dizzying.

You were not powerless.

Paquette may have robbed you of your choice once before, nearly stripped you of so much more than that, but he could decay in the Abyss for the trouble; for believing that he could coerce and manipulate you into compliance. Into submission. Nothing would keep you down again. Nothing would keep you from standing at your rightful place: the world unfolding before you, the wind at your back.

This shard of ice was the reminder you needed—that you weren’t done, you were never done, not as long as you still had a way forward.

You leapt, diving for the brush, praying that the Treasure Hoarders hadn’t noticed you were loose as you turned all of your focus toward the dark thicket. You didn't so much as wince as thorn and bramble bit into the soft flesh of your palms and wrist; you continued patting through the tangle desperately, searching for—

There. Cold, hard Fontainian steel. Your fingers curled around the familiar hilt, feeling as your power rushed back to you like water from behind a collapsing dam, flooding all of your senses. All of your limbs vibrated with restless energy; with the hunger that had hounded you all your life, insisted that you were meant for something else than what you had been born for.

One look over your shoulder had you adjusting your grip and charging forward.

Wriothesley's eyes flared with surprise as you spun into the fray, knocking away the enormous claymore before it could make contact with his gauntlet. The woman wielding it nearly screamed in frustration as she beheld you, upright and furious before her, but just for a moment, your eyes were elsewhere.

You felt your face heat from that mere moment of Wriothesley's focus—of having those blazing eyes focused solely on you, a pride and a hunger reflecting right back, a perfect mirror of your own.

You stood firm by his side, sword drawn, and felt as though your soul was lifted on a brisk winter wind.

After some time, the clearing was finally quiet, the ringing in your ears replaced by roaring silence; your wrath now calmed to an echoing emptiness.

Your assailants hadn’t stood a chance. They attempted to regroup, to recover, but they could do nothing in the face of your joint onslaught, twin fangs of ice and steel. Quickly, so quickly, the five lay on the ground, unmoving. Dead or unconscious, you couldn’t say. You didn’t care. Bodies dotted the clearing; you could see some of their chests rising and falling in the stillness.

Over. It was over. Your body felt stiff.

You heaved but the air seemed to go right through you. Your lungs burned. You were unsure of how to loosen your fingers from the hilt of your sword. It seemed that your limbs had reached their limit for obeying your command, leaden in this bloody aftermath. Your eyes struggled to focus on your surroundings.

“Hey. You alright?” Wriothesley said from somewhere outside your blackening vision, voice muffled as though he were underwater; or maybe it was you who was submerged, somewhere deep and murky in the Fontemer. Everything was quiet, muted, sluggish.

Nausea roiled in your gut. You'd spent hundreds of hours sparring over many, many years. You'd fought harder battles than this in the ring, and yet this had been so unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.

You had fought; you had won. But the adrenaline was gone. The thrill had faded. You were not dead. You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn't breathe.

“Hey,” Wriothesley said again, slow and careful. There was a hint of something in his tone; worry, maybe? For you?

Why? You were alive, weren't you?

“Talk to me,” he said.

You were alive. Somehow. You were still alive.

Wriothesley had come. Even after you'd hurt him with open eyes and a shuttered heart, he'd found you. You had wanted him away, far, far away; you hadn't pulled your punches, repaying all the kindness he’d shown you with cruelty and dishonesty. You had aimed to sever; to break.

The look on his face had haunted you every moment since. The tragedy of your killing blow, the shattering of a promise. You had let it burn itself into your retinas, a reminder of the consequences for your myopic selfishness; for thinking that you could have it all, your family's happiness, your independence, and maybe even... maybe—

It was foolish. Impossible. Your waxen wings had been reduced to nothing more than drops in the sea, and you barreled down, down, down alongside them.

And here Wriothesley was, his good heart made plain with peace offerings disguised as spears of ice, and you had fallen in seamlessly by his side, happy to take even more that you were not owed; whatever he would give you.

Saved from the plummet you had earned yourself. You thought you’d never see him again. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

You fought to regain your composure, taking stock of what your senses were telling you—using them to center yourself. You were still covered head to toe in accelerant—a strangely alluring odor, thick and sweet. Your hands were frozen and shaking, your eyes wide and bone-dry. Slowly, your vision cleared bit by bit, and your eyes fell on a shaft of wood that lay beneath the reddened edge of someone’s coat. Charred but unlit; impotent.

You turned to further observe the camp and your eyes immediately fixed on the dark silhouette of the duke as his gauntlets clicked away in a flash of frost, faster than a blink. The wisps of blizzard that still remained dissipated as though the storm had never raged at all. A bird from somewhere in the wood began to sing again, life slowly creeping once more into the forest, unbothered by the violence that soaked the ground at your feet.

Your mind raced, spinning and spinning like a wheel in fresh mud. Wriothesley walked toward you, each step even and deliberate and you stubbornly looked away once more, but he was undeterred; his every footfall like a brand on your skin until he finally stopped, too close, not close enough, lifting his hands—when had he removed the fingerless gloves?—the bare skin of his scarred, freezing fingers sliding across your cheek, into the hair behind your ears; holding your face in his palms like you were something to be cherished, smearing the blood on your neck, your lip.

You allowed it. You swallowed the pulse of shame that threatened to overcome you, grappling with the instinct to flinch away from his touch, even as you craved for him to press closer, to drive his fingers into your jaw hard enough to leave a mark.

Your gaze flicked once more to the extinguished torch only a handful of steps away. The promise of death that had been smothered by a sheet of hail and rendered benign.

You screwed your eyes shut. You had been so close. So sickening close to—

“Look at me.”

His voice was quiet but calm; it was a command. A buoy in disquiet waters.

You exhaled. Reached for the salvation. Trusted Wriothesley to keep your head above water.

Your eyes finally met his.

His eyes—the exact same shade as the Fontemer—held yours, evenly, calmly; no further trace of the cold fury or the hurt or the defiance, only—

Archons damn it all.

Your free hand lifted to grip at his elbow, his sleeve bunched in your trembling fingers before you even realized you’d moved. He continued to hold your face, gently rubbing his thumb along the line of your cheekbone, beneath your eye, tracing a path so like the one that curved cruelly just beneath his own.

You breathed. He waited for you to speak.

“You're here,” you whispered. Your voice had never sounded like that; so hoarse, so quiet. The words scratched your throat.

Wriothesley’s eyes wrinkled at the corners, just barely. He held you afloat, kept you from drowning. “I'm here.”

You blinked, shaky breaths coming faster. Your rapid pulse had nothing to do with the fight. “Why?”

“Because—” he began, but then frowned and went silent, a clear, abrupt end to the thought he had started. You nearly winced as his hands fell away from you, your fingers flexing in his sleeve against your will, reluctant to let him go. You loosened your grip, letting your hand fall back to your side. You buried the ache. You didn't have the right to ask for any more than what he gave. You had already taken enough. “Because regardless of... everything else that's happened, I would never let anything happen to you if I could help it.”

Your face burned and you swallowed, wrenching your eyes away, already feeling bereft at the absence of his palms on your skin. You breathed, counting the steady ins-and-outs as you continued to regain control of your body. You scanned the clearing; eyes catching on the prone figures scattered throughout, the clumps of fabric mottled with dirt and blood.

“...Any dead?” you asked finally, dreading the answer and resenting your weakness for it.

Wriothesley scowled, looking up from the bandage he had been adjusting around his forearm. “...No. Banged up but alive. I figure the knowledge that they will have to deal with me for the foreseeable future should bring me satisfaction, but it does not.” He paused, eyes lowering to glare at the shallow cut on your neck. There was something like disgust on his face and you nearly recoiled at the sight of it. He stares at you for a moment too long before shifting his attention back to the camp. “Nothing I could do would ever be enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Wriothesley pauses and shakes his head, brushing off your question entirely; an unexpected surge of irritation rising in your chest at the dismissal, but you swiftly push it back. He cleared his throat, and you recognized the shift back to Warden. “Neuvillette will be here shortly and each will be taken in and charged in accordance with their crimes.”

“I…" you began, and then exhaled roughly. "Thank you. For finding me. I would have died if you had not.” You fidgeted under his frustratingly unintelligible gaze. "Your Grace," you finished awkwardly.

Wriothesley's expression shuttered and he sighed, turning away. You wanted to scream, to run for the hills, to shake him, to pull his face down to yours and erase that stony expression for good.

Wriothesley, on the other hand, seemed to not want much at all.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

You nodded, but then stiffened as a thought dawned on you—one you had nearly forgotten in all the chaos. Something you needed to do; to see for yourself.

“Wait," you started, your voice catching. You realized for the first time that Lucy had somehow returned, and Wriothesley was patting her snout, murmuring to her too quietly for you to hear. He paused, looking over his shoulder at you, one dark brow raised. "Please, just... give me a minute?"

Wriothesley's brows furrowed but he nodded. “We can stay as long as you need.”

“It'll only be a minute,” you assured again, vaguely noting the flatness in your voice; the distance. Your eyes were fixed on the center tent. “I just need to be sure.”

Wriothesley followed your gaze and froze, understanding widening his eyes. He nodded again, more hesitantly than the first time, his cautious eyes trained on you as you stepped forward.

To the purple tent. To the table inside it.

To the folder.

You lifted the beige paper, let it fall open, looked at the documents within as they spilled out and across the hastily thrown rug on the ground. The untouched cot. The wooden table, bare but for the folder that had lain front and center.

Like bait.

The blood drained from your face. You had known, deep down; accepted it before the fighting had even begun, yet some part of you had still held onto the hope that the reality couldn't be so cruel. That this was just bad luck. That it was a misunderstanding.

But there had never been a job. There had never been any sensitive documents to recover. This task had had one goal and one goal alone.

Your death.

All of them. Each page. Every single one.

Blank.

“The trials are today.”

The sun was warm on your skin; the late summer morning bright and cheery and out-of-place. Flowers bloomed just beyond the confines of your sitting room window in every color imaginable, happy and vivid and blissfully oblivious to the turmoil swirling in your heart. You'd been sitting in the floral-printed armchair for hours, an untouched book buried in the folds of your dress on your lap. You couldn't recall the title; the genre, even. It lay all but forgotten as you stared out the window towards an opera house hidden behind miles and miles of burgeoning landscape.

“I’m not going."

“Oh, of course you aren’t,” Clorinde said imperiously. She huffed. “And what about your testimony? Don't you want justice for what that snake tried to pull?”

Your brow twitched in annoyance. “Of course I want justice,” you said, shooting her a glare. “I gave my witness testimony about Paquette in private to the Iudex. He said it was for my safety, but I also… I just couldn't stand to be put on display before the Court like that. To see them.” You scowled, turning your focus fully on Clorinde, abandoning your bitter vigil of the summer day that dared to be a summer day with no regard to your bad mood. “And I have nothing else to say about Thibeault besides the fact that he's a dick, which is already common knowledge. The only evidence we have against him is Wriothesley's word, though I don't think anyone is surprised that he's involved in any of...” You sniffed, waving your hands around in a vaguely all-encompassing gesture. “This. And what is with the attitude? Are you pissed at me?”

She scoffed. “Of course I’m pissed at you,” she clipped, but then sighed, some of the tension draining from her posture. “I’m mostly so glad that you’re safe. Grateful Wriothesley has as much of a knack for not minding his business and getting into trouble as you do. Relieved that you’re even here for me to be pissed at. But I am still pissed.”

In the face of her obvious concern, you immediately felt guilty for your vitriol. The defenses you'd had queued up died on your tongue. Your fingers played absentmindedly with the pages of the forgotten book—it seemed like you had grabbed one of Chloe's tedious history tomes— and your shoulders slumped. “I know,” you said pathetically. “I don't blame you for being angry. I’m sorry.”

Her gaze was unflinching and unmoved. “What were you even thinking?” she demanded. Her lovely face contorted in anger and—to your further dismay—hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? Do you have any idea what it would do to the people who care about you if you had, Archons forbid, died?”

Your chest ached as though she'd struck you. “I didn’t want to endanger anyone else,” you said, hoping she could understand. “I only did any of it to try and protect my family. I didn't want to drag anyone else into it. Burden anyone else.”

“You don't get to decide what would be a burden for me,” she retorted. “I would never have been in danger.”

“You can’t fight your way out of every problem, Clorinde,” you snapped, and then reigned in your instinct to be defensive; took a slow, even breath. Then another. “This is bigger than just one group of Treasure Hoarders. Paquette has influence. A huge network of allies. I couldn't say what they might do to punish those who interfered. My hands were tied.”

“And what of your promises to me?” she said, purple eyes narrowed. Your stomach lurched.

“I didn’t want to break that promise,” you said honestly. “I was trying not to get him hurt. That was the problem.”

“You didn’t just break that promise," she reminded you. "You broke both.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Clorinde sighed, and the room went silent for long enough that you began to count the ticking of the clock in the foyer. Clorinde's eyes never left your face. Six. Seven. Her mouth tilted into a thin frown.

“...You were hurt, too,” she said quietly. Her eyes flicked to the healing wound on your neck. “In more ways than just the obvious.”

The pain pulsing just beneath your skin surged back with a vengeance, seeming to want to drive her point home. The knowledge—the force of it—was almost enough to bring you to your knees. You had lost more than your pride. More than your safety. You had maybe lost more than you were truly willing to part with, something you hadn't even realized you'd wanted to keep.

“I don’t know what to do,” you said at last, voice weak, feeling exposed. Bare. Your eyes stung. “I don't know my way back from this.”

Clorinde leaned in. Her beautiful features were schooled into a calm, steady expression that soothed you just enough to keep your clarity when it teetered so precariously on the edge of despair.

“A good place to start?” she said. "Fix it.”

You fought your hardest to stop the tears from falling; and failed. You felt warmth trailing down your cheek. “How?”

“Try telling him the full truth, maybe,” she said easily, leaning back from you to fiddle with her pistol; once more giving you the space you didn't know you needed—but she did. Clorinde always understood when to push and when to pull away. She let the pistol drop back into her holster, a faraway look on her face that began to edge suspiciously close to a smile. “And make decisions based on strength, not on weakness.”

You sniffed, swiping at your cheek. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Sure you do. And take it from someone who cares about you,” Clorinde said with a pointed look. “And him. There are some risks worth taking. Talk to him."

You smiled weakly. “I’ll consider it.”

She nodded and shrugged, back to her usual self, and made her way to the door. She leaned against it for a beat, scanning you with that calculating look that always made you wish you knew what she was thinking. You were certain you never would. “You’re sure you’re not coming to the trials?”

“I’m sure.”

���Okay,” she said, but didn't move from her spot. Her gaze softened minutely. “I really am happy that you’re alright,” she said. “Definitely still pissed though. Next time, let me know. I’d be happy to wipe the floor with some Treasure Hoarders. Or corrupt nobles. Maybe even a Fatuus or two. Dealer's choice ”

You laughed, soft and watery. “Perhaps a Ruin Grader? As a treat?"

Clorinde gave you a mischievous smile before closing the door behind her, leaving you alone in the silence of the sitting room to continue not-reading Chloe’s tome.

You put it down, no longer willing to even entertain the facade that you were going to read it.

You'd had enough of ruses to last a lifetime.

Sigewinne clucked as Wriothesley finally dragged himself into her clinic. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Wriothesley offered her a wry smile, already smelling the blood in the water at her tone, so unlike her usual playful lilt. He had been wary at her request—her demand, really—that Wriothesley come pay her a visit at the clinic and his suspicions were now unfortunately confirmed. “Are you upset with me?"

Sigewinne lifted her chin, neatly tucking away a roll of clean bandages into a tall cabinet and pulling out a stack of paperwork from a different one. Wriothesley couldn't help but feel like she was working aimlessly for lack of anything else to do with her deft hands.

“No,” she lied, flipping through the documents.

Wriothesley's smile turned a bit more genuine, hit with a wave of fondness for the Melusine. “Why are you upset with me?” he asked gently.

Sigewinne sniffed. “I'm not upset at you,” she said, closing her eyes and setting the papers she had been sorting through on her desk. "It's just that I’ve known you for a very long time, Your Grace. You forget what that means.”

Wriothesley hummed. It was true—he was fairly sure the only person he had known longer was Neuvillette, and even then only because he had been the one to sentence Wriothesley for his crimes. It was hardly like the friendship they had now. Sigewinne, on the other hand, had been patching him up since he was a teenager whenever he got into a scrap—and Wriothesley was always getting into scraps. It had been she who first offered him the salve he still used to ease the pain when the old wounds on his body flared up. It was also she who always offered him an ear or a shoulder when the wounds on his soul ached or burned, too.

In many ways, he owed the man he eventually grew to be to her. Her care. Her patience. He would never be able to repay that debt, no matter how many years he lived but, Archons, would he try.

Wriothesley tilted his head. “And what does that mean?”

Sigewinne crossed her arms, a familiar look coloring her features—one that meant she was going to speak her mind, and Wriothesley was going to listen. “In all the years I’ve known you, I have never seen you as happy as you were when she was around.”

Wriothesley's smile fell; his heart fractured further, cracks spidering out from the weak points that had already been gone over with a pick. “There’s nothing I can do about it, Sigewinne,” he said softly, knowing there was no point in trying to convince her she was off the mark. She knew him better than anyone, had spent many years analyzing his tells and body language. She had Wriothesley down to a science. “Ultimately, it’s not up to me.”

“You could try being honest.”

“I never lied to her.”

“You omitted truths.”

Wriothesley dragged a hand through his hair, further ruining his thin efforts to make himself presentable. “It isn’t that simple.”

Sigewinne's topaz eyes were bright and sharp, unrelenting —Wriothesley sometimes forgot how much older than him she was. How much wisdom had such a being amassed over the centuries?

It made him feel so young again.

Sigewinne stayed silent for a long while.

“Do you care about her?” she asked at last.

"Of course I do," he said simply. He frowned. "I think that much has been made obvious."

“Then it really is just that simple, Wriothesley,” Sigewinne said, a tiny triumphant quirk to her lips.

"She doesn't want this."

“I’ve seen you fight for what you want time and time again. Why not this? Why not her?”

“She doesn’t want me, Sigewinne,” he said, barely more than a whisper. He felt another streak of pain at the words. “She’s made that abundantly clear.”

Sigewinne rolled her eyes, then leveled an unimpressed stare at him. “Stupid isn’t a good look on you, Your Grace."

Wriothesley balked. "Rude.”

Sigewinne offered him a small, playful grin in return, her gemstone eyes gleaming in the harsh clinic light before her smile faded. Her eyes were no less gentle when said said, “Just try talking to her, Wriothesley. Don’t let this be the first time you surrender.”

Wriothesley was… Well. If he hadn't already experienced the entire range of human emotion in a few short days, he couldn’t be sure he'd have been able to put a cap on the waterworks. As it was, he wasn't sure how believable his composure was.

Knowing Sigewinne, she wasn't convinced.

She quirked a brow at him. Definitely not convinced.

Wriothesley dipped his head to the Head Nurse, ready to flee so he could go think—fall apart, his mind unhelpfully corrected—in his office. “Thanks, Sigewinne. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He turned to leave but was halted by the sound of a throat clearing meaningfully behind him.

He turned and Sigewinne grinned, holding out a small jar with a colorful liquid that made Wriothesley audibly groan.

“Don’t forget your smoothie,” she said innocently.

The Steambird — September 14 Paquette Convicted and Thibeault Exonerated in Murder-for-Hire Conspiracy

a\n: sigewinne appreciation lifestyle

title from 'iris' by the goo goo dolls

this is kind of an interlude where the kids get a good talking to from the Common Sense Duo which was deceptively hard to write lmao. someone explain to me how i can write 95% of a chapter in one sitting like a madwoman and then struggle with the last 5% every. single. time

sorry for the delay (again), thanks for the comments (as always), and i hope everyone had a happy, healthy december ❄️

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Set against the backdrop of a dusted pink sky, the icebergs almost glowed with an eerie luminescence. Glacial structures like these form and break away from Antarctica's sprawling ice shelf, drifting out from their fortresses into the water like sentinels scouting the open ocean. In the pastel shimmer of dusk, the world seemed perfectly still. But I knew deep beneath these icy giants was a symphony of frozen crystals forming and shattering; the silent call of the polar South.

By Cristina Mittermeier

[dark-longings]

Resistance (The Black Idol), František Kupka, 1903.

Black golden sun under wings strigine, eclipsing, vast as battalions of the ancient fall, thundering, assaults the fortress of God.

Glacial piercing sun over mythical mountains magnetizes the cursed, doomed strain, in fratricidal strife, to the gloomy joy of Belial.

[chronotsr]

Purpose & Index

This blog is a project for me, and maybe you, to walk through DND's modules in release order. So this blog has basically 3 goals:

Show off some weird interesting ideas from older modules

Shine light on obscure modules

Look at how modules grew as an art-form

Isn't that's fun and interesting?

Index

I will try to keep this up to date, bug me if it goes untouched for too long..

Pre-G1, part 1: Temple of the Frog, Dave Arneson (1975)

Pre-G1, part 2: Palace of the Vampire Queen, The Dwarven Glory, and The Misty Isles, Wee Warriors (1976-1977)

Pre-G1, part 3: Lost Caverns of Tosjconth, WinterCon Ver. (1976)

Pre-G1, part 4a: City-State of the Invincible Overlord, Tegel Manor, Modron, Judge's Guild (1976-1978)

Pre-G1, part 4b: The Thieves of Fortress Badabaskor, GenCon IX Dungeons, Citadel of Fire, Judge's Guild (1978)

Pre-G1, part 5: The Tower of Zenopus, Eric Holmes, (1977)

G1, The Steading of the Hill Giant Chief, Gary Gygax (Jul 1978)

G2, The Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl, Gary Gygax (Jul 1978)

G3, The Hall of the Fire Giant King, Gary Gygax (Jul 1978)

D1, The Descent into the Depths of the Earth, Gary Gygax (Aug 1978)

D2, Shrine of the Kuo-Toa, Gary Gygax (Aug 1978)

D3, Vault of the Drow, Gary Gygax (Aug 1978)

S1, Tomb of Horrors, Gary Gygax (Oct 1978) 7.5. 1978 Reflections, and the Halls of Mystery (Dec 1978)

B1, In Search of Adventure, Mike Carr (January 1979)

[bullet-prooflove]

Weak - Peter Stone x Reader

Tagging: @luckyladycreator2 @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @caracalwithchips @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @htariq @readingbookelf @cosmic-psychickitty @crazy4chickennuggets @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @1234-angelika @mysoulisasunflower

Peter knew you made him weak. He was used to being steady, impenetrable. He likened himself to a fortress with walls so high that no one would find their way to his battered heart. Somehow you had gotten past all of that. He didn’t know how and when it happened, only that it had. Now he thought about you all the time, he text you to see how your day was going, scrolled through selfies the two of you had taken while out and about. He smiled more; his world seemed lighter.

Then came the fall, he knew it had to happen because the universe dictated that he couldn’t be happy for long. He’d been exiting the courthouse when he’d gotten the call about his father’s death. It felt like a punch in the chest, sending him into a tailspin for the rest day. He couldn’t focus on what he needed to do, he simply stared at the baseball on his desk willing it to give him some insight. The grief was agonising, he felt it crushing down on him like a house collapsing and he blamed you.

If he hadn’t opened himself up, if he hadn’t fallen in love, he wouldn’t be feeling anything like this. He had been fine, by himself locked away in his ivory tower. This anguish it made him rage, he wanted to kick and scream and punch something but that wasn’t Peter, he didn’t lash out, not physically.

It was late when you turned up at his office. The desk lamp was on, and he sat at his desk cradling a glass of scotch to his chest as he stared into the abyss. Something was wrong, you could see it in the tension set in his shoulders, in the way his eyes appeared glossy and wet. He refused to look at you when you stepped inside, instead choosing to focus on the tumbler in his hand.

“Don’t sit.” He said, holding up his hand. “You aren’t going to be here long.”

You paused, your hand coming to rest upon the back of the guest chair.

“Peter, I don’t…”

He shook his head cutting you off.

“Don’t talk, just listen.”

You frowned at the coldness of his tone; you had never heard him sound so glacial before, especially not with you.

“Whatever this is.” He told you, “Whatever this was. It’s over.”

“Peter, just take a minute ok.” You said softly. “Just talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He snarled, raising to his feet. He slapped his palms down upon the surface of his desk, the noise responding through the room like a slap. “We’re done.”

Love Peter? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[dndhistory]

50. Gary Gygax - G1: Steading of the Hill Giant Chief (1978)

The first official adventure module published by TSR, it is the first of many, many such modules, now that Gary Gygax finally realised that people wanted these modules. He wrote this as a way to take a break between writing the Monster Manual and the Player's Handbook so it actually came out before we even had a PHB for AD&D. 

This is a very barebones adventure, clocking in at some 8 pages, but it's still a beloved adventure, frequently coming very high on "best adventure" lists and this is not only due to a nostalgia or historical factor. This is an adventure that rewards lateral thinking and planning, as the adventurers have to raid a Hill Giant Fortress inhabited by a large number of giants and their servants/slaves, if they go in "guns blazing"... well "swords blazing"... this is going to be a hard adventure to get through. The feasting hall near the entrance is chock-full of powerful giants and even a cave bear which will leave a party either dead or severely depleted before they even get to the dungeon level. Sneaking around is definitely the smart option here, also seeing as the treasure is mainly in treasure rooms and armories and not with the giants themselves. Remember that in early AD&D most XP came from treasure and not killing monsters.

As the PCs get to the dungeon level they will uncover a number of potential allies that they should really use to facilitate their progress an by the end of the adventure they will have a pointer towards the next part of the campaign, G2's The Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl, which we will cover next post. A great start to a long and influential campaign in only 8 pages! Well done Gary.

[venstm]

❛ there’s nothing you could have done. ❜ (wriothesley to neuvillette!)

Neuvillette is an impartial judge, it has always been the code by which he conducted himself, however, it did not spare him from witnessing the consequences of those verdicts. Some go forth to rectify their past crimes, learning from them, becoming better than they once were, others seethe with ire and allow indignation to cast shadows over the remainder of their lives. To remain an equitable authority that preserved order meant he often did not get to see those outcomes, hearing them through the duke is perhaps then alleviating to the part of him left wanting in spite of that. Wriothesley’s story isn’t unlike others, yet the darkness that dwelled in his past didn’t dictate how he led the rest of his life, with his own two, capable hands he had decided what he would become. In the sovereign’s eyes it was a commendable act, resilience that the warden does not flaunt but is adamantine all the same. He cannot efface the remnants of those quiet regrets and despite resigning himself to remaining eternally detached he also cannot fully quell that intrigue.

❝ Even so, that sentiment remains unchanged. ❞ there’s a solemnity to his cadence that whilst befitting trials perpetuates the notion that something separates their omniscient judicator from others. He feels the other’s glacial gaze upon him, appraising the regal visage which belies little of his actual sorrow. He owed no repentance for the conviction adhered to the warden’s chest, an insignia of his time as an inmate before becoming administrator and yet, his old, lachrymose heart ached with or without his sanctioning. The skies above fontaine are a melancholic gathering of mourners, their tears however, remain unshed. ❝ There are moments where even I anguish over the outcome of fontaine’s trails.❞ His gaze is a glimpse beneath that reticent veneer and after holding the duke’s gaze for a perennial span of time he returns it to the streets below, many have gathered beneath awnings as the first drops of rain lament in his stead. ❝ I cannot bring myself to forget them.❞ the confession was tacit but unmistakable, Neuvillette had not forgotten the trial that had condemned the warden to spend his days immured within the walls of the fortress, he never would. 

[mrs5sn0w]

Serenade of Shadows

I : A Dance of Shadows -> II : Whisper of Deceit -> III : A Symphony of Heartbreak ->IV : Fractured Reflections -> V : Shadows of Allegiance -> VI : Echoes of Decent

Series Masterlist

Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader

Warnings : Arranged marriage, HEAVY ANGST, unrequited love, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers

Reader's surname : Flare

Time frame: Before, during and after tbosbas

Synopsis : In the events of Panem's political dynamics and the 10th annual Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow and her find themselves entwined. Standing at the brink of an enforced union, 6 years later, their mutual trust unravels amidst a damaging misinterpretation, prompting Coriolanus to believe the wrong. As the glacial barriers guarding his emotions begin to melt, a revelation of profound feelings unfolds, initiating a sprint against time for redemption.

The grand ballroom of the Capitol glittered with opulence, a testament to the excesses of power and control. She, who was adorned in a gown of muted elegance, stood beside Coriolanus Snow, a man whose eyes reflected the iciness of the society that had moulded him.

The festivities, a celebration of their union, felt like a masquerade of emotions, each step a painful reminder of a love lost.

The dance floor beneath them, once a stage for shared dreams, now echoed with the hollow sounds of a fractured connection. Coriolanus, draped in indifference, turned to her with a gaze colder than the winter winds that swept through the Capitol.

"Do remember that our union is a political necessity, not a playground for your emotions." His words, sharp as a blade, cut through the remnants of her optimism, leaving wounds that bled with the anguish of unfulfilled promises.

"Coriolanus, please," she implored, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken pain.

"Can't we find a way back to what we were?"

A scoff escaped his lips, a venomous edge to his tone.

"What we were is inconsequential. The Capitol demands sacrifices, and sentimentality is the first to go."

The cruelty in his words struck her like a physical blow. She felt a chasm widening between them, a chasm fueled by the Capitol's relentless demands and his willingness to succumb to its frigid embrace.

As the night wore on, the symphony of forced smiles and hollow conversations played on, but in the private moments between the grandeur, she attempted to breach the fortress of Snow's indifference.

“Can't you see that we're sacrificing more than just sentimentality?"

Her voice carried the echoes of a heart desperate to be heard, a heart that still clung to the fragments of a love that once defied the Capitol's constraints.

He turned to her, a sneer playing on his lips. "Love is a weakness, Flare."

The words, like acid, burned through her defences. He calls her by her last name, refusing to call by his.

The balcony, once a refuge for shared dreams, now became the stage for the unraveling of her heart. Tears welled up in her eyes, the anguish of his callousness too much to bear.

"Why are you doing this, Coriolanus?" Her plea hung in the air, desperate for an answer that could stitch together the tattered remains of their connection.

He met her gaze with a steely resolve. “Don't be foolish to ask that question again and again. You know why.”

His indifference, a fortress that seemed impenetrable, shattered the last vestiges of her hope. The balcony, witness to the tender moments of their past, now bore witness to the agonizing dissolution of their bond.

"You're heartless, Coriolanus."

His laughter, cold and devoid of empathy, echoed through the balcony.

"Your sentiments won't change our reality. Accept it or suffer the consequences."

The finality in his words landed like a crushing blow. A love that had once defied the Capitol's chains now lay broken and discarded. The dance through time, a once graceful movement, had devolved into a painful and discordant rhythm, echoing the hollowness of their loveless marriage.

As the grand celebration continued below, she retreated into the shadows of her pain. The ballroom, aglow with the Capitol's decadence, became a theater for the tragic unraveling of their connection.

The night was far from over. The masquerade of their union continued, a relentless dance that forced them to confront the haunting melodies of a loveless marriage. Each step on the dance floor mirrored the jagged edges of their fractured connection.

She was a prisoner of her emotions, sought solace in the shadows. The whispers of the past intertwined with the discordant notes of the present, creating a symphony of heartbreak that reverberated through the ballroom.

Coriolanus, detached and composed, navigated the dance with the finesse of a puppeteer pulling the strings. His eyes, devoid of warmth, scanned the room with the calculated precision of a man who had embraced the callousness demanded by the Capitol.

In the quiet interludes between the grand movements, she attempted one more plea, a desperate hope that some shred of humanity remained within the man who had once been her confidant.

"Coriolanus, can't you see what this is doing to us? We're sacrificing more than just love; we're sacrificing our very souls."

He turned to her, his gaze an icy dagger that pierced through her vulnerability.

"Souls are a small price to pay for power. I suggest you learn to accept it."

The words, a proclamation of the Capitol's ruthless influence, left her breathless. She felt the weight of their union pressing down on her, a heavy burden that threatened to suffocate any lingering traces of hope.

As the grand celebration reached its climax, the dance through time descended into a chaotic frenzy of emotions. The ballroom, once a space of decadent revelry, now became a battleground for the remnants of their connection.

Coriolanus, unmoved by the turmoil within her, continued the dance with an air of indifference. The discordant notes of their fractured love played on, drowning out the music of the Capitol's triumphant fanfare.

In the dimly lit corners of the ballroom, her tears went unnoticed. The pain, too private to be displayed in the spotlight of the Capitol's scrutiny, carved deep trenches in her soul.

As the night drew to a close, she, a mere shadow of the woman she once was, found herself standing alone on the balcony. The Capitol, with its glittering facade, seemed worlds away from the desolation within her heart.

Coriolanus, his duty to the Capitol fulfilled, approached her with the calculated demeanor of a man who had shed the vestiges of sentimentality.

“Whatever it is we had it the past, don’t ever look for it, it won’t ever come back.”

His words, devoid of any flicker of remorse, echoed through the empty spaces of her heart. The dance through time had reached its bitter end, leaving behind the fragments of a connection that had crumbled under the weight of the Capitol's expectations.

With a final glance, Coriolanus Snow, now a stranger draped in the trappings of power, left the balcony, leaving her alone with the haunting melodies of a love extinguished. The Capitol's grandeur faded into the night, and she, standing on the balcony, felt the chill of isolation in the air.

As the Capitol slept, shrouded in the deceptive allure of power, she remained on the balcony, grappling with the ruins of her heart. The night, once a canvas for shared dreams, now stretched before her as an endless expanse of emptiness.

In the aftermath of the celebration, the opulent ballroom now lay silent, a stark contrast to the tumult within herself. The masquerade of their union had unveiled the harsh truth — she was entwined in a loveless marriage, a puppet in the Capitol's grand theater.

Alone in the sprawling bedroom, she found herself on the sofa, a cold and unwelcome piece of furniture that mirrored the frigid atmosphere that had settled between her and Coriolanus Snow. The grand bed, adorned with lavish silks and plush pillows, stood untouched, a stark reminder of the chasm that had grown between them.

Her wedding gown, once a symbol of celebration, now felt like a heavy shroud, constricting her movements as she navigated the unfamiliar space. Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting an ethereal glow on the elaborate patterns of the carpet, each thread whispering tales of a union strained by the weight of Capitol expectations.

As she stepped into the bathroom, the opulence of Capitol excess confronted her. The glass-encased shower stood like a transparent witness to her vulnerability. She turned on the water, hoping its cascade would wash away the residue of the day's trials.

The door swung open, and Coriolanus Snow entered with a casual nonchalance.

His eyes, indifferent to her modesty, met hers in the reflection of the gleaming mirror. The involuntary shriek that escaped her lips was met with nothing more than an eye roll from him. He faced the mirror, a razor in hand, seemingly oblivious to the invasion of her privacy.

“Excuse me ? Do you mind giving me a bit of privacy ?” she protested, the words barely audible over the rush of water.

Coriolanus, razor against his jaw, spared her a fleeting glance, his response as cutting as the blade against his skin.

"You know, Flare, the Capitol may find your attempts at modesty amusing. But let's be clear, you're not even interesting to look at, even when you're trying."

In haste, she sheathed her body in a robe, a thin shield against the rawness of his indifference. The scent of expensive bath oils mingled with the palpable tension, creating an atmosphere that underscored the compromises demanded by the Capitol's opulent facade.

As the echoes of his cruel words reverberated in the room, she chose silence.

The night, meant to be a culmination of shared dreams and whispered promises, had transformed into a haunting symphony of solitude. The echoes of distant laughter from the Capitol's revelry reached her ears, a stark contrast to the silence within the grand room.

She gazed at the grand bed, its expanse an unspoken testament to the distance between her and the man she had once called a friend.

"You're sleeping at the Sofa" he hissed

As she settled onto the sofa, the cushions felt cold and unforgiving.

She gazed at the grand bed, its expanse an unspoken testament to the distance between her and the man she had once called a friend.

The refusal to share a bed, a symbolic rejection that echoed through the silence, carved a deep wound in her heart.

Tears welled in her eyes as she replayed the events of the wedding night—the vows exchanged without sincerity, the applause that masked the absence of genuine joy, and now, the solitude that defined her first night as Coriolanus Snow's wife.

The sofa offered little comfort, its unyielding surface a reflection of the emotional distance that had grown between them. She slept alone on the sofa, the grand bed bearing witness to the ache of a connection lost.

The first light of dawn painted the Capitol in hues of gold, but for her, it offered no warmth. The reality of her situation loomed larger than the grand structures that adorned the city. She descended from the balcony, her steps heavy with the weight of unshed tears.

Days turned into weeks, and the semblance of a life continued. The Capitol, indifferent to the personal tragedies within its glittering facade, carried on with its relentless demands. She, who was once a beacon of creativity, moved through the motions with a hollow gaze.

Coriolanus Snow, now consumed by the machinations of power, remained a distant figure in her life. The corridors of their grand residence echoed with a profound silence, a testament to the emotional chasm that separated them.

One evening, as the Capitol bathed in the twilight glow, she found herself in the Academy library, a place that once witnessed the blossoming of their connection. The shelves, lined with volumes of forgotten dreams, stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time.

In the quiet solitude of the library, Her fingers traced the spines of familiar books. Memories flooded back — shared laughter, whispered dreams, and the unspoken bond that had defined their youth. She closed her eyes, attempting to capture the fragments of a time when love still flourished.

Weeks turned into months, and the grand wedding, a distant memory, held no solace for her. The corridors of their residence, once filled with shared laughter, now echoed with the hollowness of a connection irreversibly fractured.

As the Capitol skyline glowed with artificial brilliance, she stood on the balcony, a silhouette against the backdrop of a city that demanded everything but love. The echoes of their past laughter lingered, mingling with the distant hum of Capitol life.

Coriolanus Snow approached, his gaze fixed on the sprawling expanse below. The balcony, once witness to their private moments, now served as a stage for the remnants of a connection that refused to be forgotten.

"The Capitol's demands grow more strict, could you stop acting all sad, asking attention from the public ? It’s pathetic, we must play our parts better, give the Capitol what they want so-” he remarked, his voice a detached melody that echoed through the night.

“So you can get more power ?” She scoffed

“What more do you want from the people now that you’re President ?”

A bitter smile played on her lips. "Our parts, Coriolanus, are nothing more than roles in a tragic play. The Capitol demands perfection, but it has no regard for the cost."

His gaze, cold and unyielding, met hers. "Cost is not important when compared to the splendour of power. You knew the rules when you entered this dance, Flare."

The balcony, bathed in the soft glow of Capitol lights, became the theater for a final act. She was weary and disillusioned then locking eyes with Coriolanus Snow — a man she once loved, now a stranger draped in the trappings of power.

"Coriolanus, I once believed in a world beyond the Capitol's expectations. But we are prisoners, dancing to a tune composed by a heartless regime."

His laughter, devoid of warmth, cut through the night. "Prisoners, perhaps, but also architects of our destiny. Embrace the role, or be swept away by the currents of irrelevance."

The question hung in the air, a heavy cloud of unspoken tension settling over the room. Her voice, though calm, carried a subtle edge as she uttered words that dared to touch the forbidden.

"Would it be different if she was the one to marry you?"

Coriolanus Snow, his features frozen in an icy mask, felt the room temperature drop several degrees. The mere mention of Lucy Gray Baird, the elusive victor of the 10th Annual Hunger Games, was like a sharp dagger thrust into the depths of his guarded emotions.

His eyes, usually cool and composed, flared with a sudden anger that he struggled to conceal.

"You dare bring her up?" The words hissed through clenched teeth, each syllable dripping with a venomous disdain that seemed to materialize from the depths of his resentment.

Though she was well aware of the sensitivity of the topic, pressed on with a quiet determination. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the weight of unspoken histories loomed.

"She's the one you cheated the Games for, isn't she? The girl you loved and then conveniently let disappear,"

she continued, her voice unwavering despite the storm brewing in his gaze.

A cruel laugh escaped him, devoid of any genuine mirth.

"You think you know anything about her? About us?"

The tension crackled in the air as he paced, the room feeling suddenly too confined. His anger, a turbulent undercurrent, sought an outlet in biting words.

"Let me make something clear, Flare. Lucy Gray was never meant for someone like you to understand. She was extraordinary, and you…"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over her form with a disdain that cut through the air.

"You're just a pale imitation, desperately clinging to a reality you can't grasp."

Though wounded by his words, she refused to back down.

"And yet, you married me. So, why don't you tell me, Snow ? Would it be different if she was the one standing here in this lavish room, wearing this elaborate dress, playing the part I am assigned ? "

His eyes, stormy and unforgiving, locked onto hers.

"Maybe she would have had the decency not to bring up the past to throw your own indiscretions in your face."

The words hung in the air, an unspoken challenge between them. The room, once a sanctuary, now bore witness to the unraveling of a carefully constructed facade, revealing the cracks beneath the surface of their strained union.

Undeterred by the venom in his words, Seraphina met Snow's stormy gaze with unwavering determination. She fought back, her voice cutting through the charged atmosphere.

"If Lucy Gray was so extraordinary, then why is she not here ? If she really loved you, wouldn't she have stayed ? Or maybe, she vanished because she realized what a heartless, cold creature she had involved herself with."

Her words, a counterattack fueled by the fire of her own pain, struck at the heart of his defenses. Snow's stoic facade wavered for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability surfacing in his icy eyes.

"You want to believe in a love that never wavered, but you're deluding yourself. Lucy Gray saw through you, just as I do now," she declared, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The room felt like a battlefield of emotions, each word exchanged a weapon aimed at the other's vulnerabilities. Seraphina pressed on, refusing to let his harsh words break her spirit.

"And here we are, in this grandiose room, in this sham of a marriage. You can't escape the fact that I am your wife, Coriolanus, and no matter how much you resent it, I'm not going to disappear like Lucy Gray."

A bitter smile played on her lips, a mix of defiance and resignation. The Capitol lights outside seemed to dim in comparison to the intensity of their verbal clash. The echoes of their unraveling union reverberated in the silence that followed.

The room, once a symbol of their forced unity, now stood witness to the fractures that no extravagant facade could conceal. She turned away from the balcony, leaving Snow to grapple with the lingering echoes of her words and the stark reality of their entangled fates.

TAGLIST : @randomgurl2326 @rosewine-5

[dailyadventureprompts]

Drafting the Adventure: To the dungeon!

Recently I worked out a framework for running exploration based adventures , and while a lot of people seemed to like it, a few folks wrote in asking how it might work in practice. I’m only too happy to provide an example, as it will likewise give me the chance to demonstrate how to combine a wilderness adventure with a dungeon adventure, which is something I wanted to do anyway. 

Background: the party is sent off to seek an arcane mcguffin contained in an ancient ruin, with the caveat that no one really remembers where the ruin might be. As such they’ll have to explore a stretch of wilderness looking for signs of old habitation before getting to delve the dungeon itself.

Setup: In addition to gearing up The party might want to talk with some locals to get information about where they're going, which will allow you to drop clues about further places they cam explore. Any Entry marked with a (G) can be hinted at in gossip and research, providing them a hint about where to go.

FIRST ZONE : The Ancient Plains

"Cool winds steal the warmth from your cheeks as your party steps into the wilderness, your goal and the mountains far in the distance and a vast rolling grassland before you. This place was the site of a great battle that nearly destroyed your home, but is now quiet save for the murmur of the tallgrass and your own footfalls.

Design Note: The party can either choose to head to one of the locations they've already heard about/discovered, or spend time trying to find a new location with a perception or survival check, with you rolling a die to decide which one to point them at first. Once the random encounter is unlocked, add one die to the pool every time they travel to an area, and two die if their searching for a new area falls below a reasonable dc.

SECOND ZONE: The Forgotten Foothills

"Like the fingers of a grasping titan, the roots of the mountain-range pull at the earth giving rise to steep ascents and sudden valleys. The trickle of pure glacial melt runs in small streams over this uneven landscape, giving you a refreshing if bonechilling respite from your long travels."

Design Note: Now rather than making simple progress, the party needs to actively hunt for the location of the ruins, with the understanding that taking a surface look at different locations is going to bring a random encounter or two down on their heads REAL fast.

Also shoutout to Yithini, my homebrew goddess of ascension in all its forms.

THIRD ZONE: The Cascading Ruins

"It was no wonder it was so hard to find this old fortress, as the waters pouring down from the cliffs above seem intent on wiping it from the mountainside. The noise and the crush of endless water rumbles in your bones as you make your approach, up a slick half eroded stair that might've been part of the structure's battlements. Most of the structure is lost in the pool of rushing white water below, but a few stretches of old fortification still manage to withstand the siege of time. "

Art