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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 3: Black Opal]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

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You dream that you are made of gemstones: fossilized, crystalized, eons spent beneath the earth, diamonds for bones, onyx glittering in the pupils of your eyes, crimson pebbles tumbling through your arteries, red beryl and rubies and cinnabar. Daemon is breaking you apart with a pickaxe, heaving swings and sweat dripping from his brow. He fills a wheelbarrow with jagged, gleaming pieces of you and carts them away to be cut and polished and sold. Then—in the settling dust, in the silence—the viola player comes to the empty space where you once were and kneels, collects specks of you until his palm is full of them, and stores your infinitesimal, shimmering echoes in the pockets of his trousers. Don’t worry, Petra, he is saying. I’ll put you back together. I won’t let you be lost.

You jolt awake as his hand is skimming over your hip. Then, still lying behind you, he grips you roughly and yanks you against him, shoving the hem of your nightgown up to your waist as he opens his robe, his large hands hurried and impatient.

“Yes,” you whisper into your pillows, a soft pliant surrender as golden sunlight streams in through gaps in the curtains. It’s been so long; it’s been ages down in the subterranean darkness. You are starving for this, even if you fear him, even if you hate him, even if Daemon does not try to satisfy you anymore. When you were first married he left you exhausted and breathless just to prove he could, to draw the stark blood-red line between his skill and yours. Now he withholds pleasure—something you find nearly impossible to give to yourself, perhaps five times in as many years—and takes you like this: unceremoniously, unpredictably, with rareness like a jewel’s. Yet still this taste of being desired is intoxicating, cigarette smoke in your lungs, sparkling champagne gulped until your face burns.

Daemon is panting, effort and urgency. You can feel him trying to push his way inside you; and then, when he is not yet hard enough, stroking himself with one hand, grinding himself against your warmth, your wetness, slick mineral hunger.

You moan pitifully: “Daemon, please…”

“Quiet,” he says, and when you look back at him his eyes are closed like he’s trying to imagine you are somebody else.

He is the only man who’s ever had me, and now I repulse him. What can that mean except that I am unworthy, incapable, broken?

Abruptly, Daemon shoves you away by your hips and exhales in a huff, rising from the bed.

You roll towards him and ask without venom, desperate to know: “Daemon…what am I doing wrong?”

“It’s not anything you’re doing,” he says as he ties his robe shut. His eyes are flinty, his words severe. “It’s just you.” Then he stalks out of the bedroom and you are alone.

You push yourself up on your palms and stare at your reflection in the oval-shaped mirror against the wall. Your hair is wild and your eyes forlorn. Your engagement ring, black opal from Australia, glistens on your left hand. There’s a mark on your throat—a gift from the point of Daemon’s dagger—that you’ll need to conceal. You are ashamed of yourself; you turn away.

It’s the morning of April 13th, and Titanic is 1,000 miles from Ireland.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are reclined in one of the pink-painted teak chairs on the Boat Deck and reading a copy of Henry VI, Part 3, which you borrowed from the ship’s small library. You’ve been thinking about the play ever since the viola player quoted it yesterday, here where he was not supposed to be loitering, making his oil paintings and spying on you. You are trying not to glance over at the lifeboats by the railing. You wish you didn’t know that there are far too few to hold all the passengers in the event of a cataclysm. The temperature of the water of the North Atlantic Ocean is below freezing.

“I heard you quarreled last night,” a voice says.

You look up to see Rhaenyra standing in the daylight, blue sky, white clouds, a chilly wind she guards against with a maroon shawl draped across her shoulders. Rhaenyra is dressed like a blood drop: deep gory red, gorgeous but horrible. Strings of rubies dangle from her ears. Strands of her long blonde hair—gradually turning from lemon quartz to a darker, sandier hue—have escaped from her pins and blow in the salt-lashed air.

Daemon told her? Daemon confided in her?

It is just one more humiliation, Daemon unburdening himself to his niece instead of his wife. And whatever version of events Rhaenyra heard, you’re sure it didn’t include him holding a blade to your throat. Reflexively, you touch your fingertips to the thin slice of a wound, covered by several layers of powder foundation and a choker necklace made of diamonds, pearls, and white gold. Your gown is an anemic cream color to match. “Oh?” is all you can think to say at first, inane, pathetic.

Rhaenyra sits down on the deckchair beside you and clasps her hands together, kneading them restlessly. “I believe you could have a contented marriage,” she says. “If only you would allow Daemon the freedom he requires.”

You close your book and scrutinize her with a hard glare. You have not asked for advice; you cannot trust anything she tells you. Rhaenyra will defend Daemon eternally, unflinchingly. They share more than blood. They share a defiance that scalds and singes. You are no dragon, you have never yearned for treasure, prominence, adventure, exceptionalism. You wanted to stay exactly where you belonged. “What sort of freedom?”

“The freedom to make his own way in the world,” Rhaenyra says. “To not be constrained by archaic traditions, or arbitrary bounds of morality, or overcaution, or…or…”

“The freedom to force me to leave my homeland? The freedom to take my child away from me?”

Rhaenyra is stunned. “He’s right here on the ship.”

“And your sons are back in England with the 9th Duke of Beaufort, yet I assure you that you are closer to them now than I’ve ever been to Draco.”

She cannot understand your vitriol. You have cracked the rose-colored spectacles she’s been gazing at the world through. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I have not sought your counsel.”

“Then I’m trying to help Daemon,” Rhaenyra says, flustered, struggling to remain composed. “He is not a young man anymore, and he doesn’t need discord in his own home on top of a transcontinental move and a demanding new position at Tiffany’s.” Her voice goes tender. “I know he does not wish to torment you. Daemon can be headstrong and proud, but he’s not a cruel man. And he’s been so kind while I’ve been mourning Sir Harwin Strong…”

“Kind,” you repeat dully. It is not a word many people associate with Daemon Targaryen.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra insists, as if daring you to contradict her. “Tremendously kind.”

And you notice something strange: one of the rings she is twisting on her fingers is a black opal, huge, rimmed by diamonds. It’s not a stone you can recall ever seeing her wearing before. Your eyes return to her face. Perhaps you have taken the wrong course of action. Perhaps you can appeal to her mercy, one parent to another. “Our quarrel was on the subject of my son. I wish to be a true mother to him.”

Rhaenyra rises to her feet, as if suddenly bored of this conversation. God, she’s so much like Daemon. “Then you will get further by being friends than enemies.” She inclines her head slightly, a dismissive little curtsy, then swishes off in her bloody dress. You watch her go, then open your white handbag to take out a cigarette and your holder. Then you remember you don’t have any way to light it and sigh in defeat, staring morosely at the unplentiful lifeboats.

Can I have one person who’s on my side? Just one?

As if you’ve called for him aloud, the viola player appears. He has added a black wool hat to his stolen regalia, pulled down low over his face. He glances after Rhaenyra as she disappears down the staircase that leads to the Promenade Deck—watchful, anxious—and then turns back to you.

The viola player says, his hands in the pockets of his coat: “You look like you could use a break from your part of the ship.”

You try to resist him, battling a playful half-smile that pulls at the edges of your lips, strings running beneath your skin like the rigging of a ship. “Where else would I go? To fraternize with the third-class degenerates?”

“Oh, we have all manner of degenerates for you to enjoy,” he replies, grinning. He props one shoe up on your deckchair. “The Greeks, the Italians, the Irish. I’m partial to the Irish myself.”

“Good for cheap, expendable labor? Good for dying beneath the railroad tracks?”

“Good for painting,” he says instead. He takes a small aluminum lighter from his coat pocket, flicks it to life, and holds it out to you. As you steady the lighter with one hand, you can feel that there is an engraving on the side of it. You cannot see what it is; as soon as your cigarette begins to smolder, the viola player snaps the lid shut and returns the lighter to his pocket.

You take a drag, peering up at him, thoughtful. “Are you extending an invitation of some sort?”

“I am,” he says, pleased that you’ve asked. “Think you can find your way to the Third-Class Dining Saloon? It’s all the way down on F-Deck. Every night after dinner there’s dancing and card games and…uh…” He gestures vaguely, flirtatiously. “Camaraderie for the lonesome.”

You chuckle. “I see. And do you have an Irish girl down there to entertain you?”

“Not yet. But I’m trying.”

You consider him as you smoke. The viola player waits, though he glances around uneasily, as if afraid his disguise will be seen through like a pane of unfogged glass. “F-Deck, you said?”

He nods. “In the middle of the ship, in between the two main staircases. Right next to the Turkish Baths.”

“Oh, good. I can ask Laenor for directions.”

“I can wait somewhere for you, if you want, and take you down there myself. But…” But people might see us.

“No, it’s better if I go alone,” you say. “When does the most wicked of the debauchery begin? 9 p.m.?”

“9 is sinful,” the viola player agrees. “10 is irredeemably villainous. And by 11 we’ve always begun the orgy, we’re very punctual, you could set your watch by it.”

You laugh, loud and freely, your cigarette holder tucked between your index and middle fingers. “Perhaps I’ll make an appearance this evening, Picasso.”

“I hope so. I’ll be looking for you.” Then he steps down off your pink deckchair and saunters off, soon out of sight, his black coat and hat vanishing into crowds of first-class men—heirs and tycoons and aristocrats and politicians—dressed the same way.

You try to return to your Shakespeare play (now Margaret of Anjou is declaring war on the Yorkists) but it’s no use; the viola player with all his knowing, crooked grins has filled your skull like water pouring into a sinking ship, and for a moment you have forgotten about Daemon, and Dagmar, and Rhaenyra, and this is a feeling one could get addicted to, a warm softness that polishes away barbed edges, a numb haze like too much cider or champagne.

The wind is getting stronger, and you haven’t brought a coat or a shawl. You wander back towards your staterooms—impatient for dinner, and for what will come afterwards—and on your way, down on the Promenade Deck, you find Dagmar sitting on a chair with Draco, bundled up in more than enough layers as his short white-blonde hair blows around chaotically. Dagmar is reading a book to him: Scandinavian, of course, The Ugly Duckling. She has a different voice that she uses for each character; her ancient face becomes bright and animated, as if she is draining the life from them like a vampire. Draco giggles as she reads, and you stop to watch them, standing alone on the deck and shivering in your ivory-pale dress.

Draco spots you, blinks a few times, then smiles and waves with his little hand. You can feel yourself smiling back. “Hi, Mam.”

“Hi,” you say, stepping closer. Dagmar’s blue eyes go frigid and sharp like ice. Her fingers that grip the book are knobby, gnarled, bestial. “Are you enjoying your story?”

“Yeah! The duck is so ugly everyone makes fun of him.” Draco is beaming as he announces this. You are unsure of how to respond.

“Well…maybe things will get better for him. Could I…” You point timidly at the book. “Could I finish the story, do you think? Could I read to you?”

Draco turns to Dagmar. “Can she?” he asks, and he sounds almost…hopeful.

“She doesn’t know how to do the voices,” Dagmar says curtly.

Draco frowns at you. “Do you know how to do the voices, Mam?”

“No,” you confess quietly. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. But I could try to learn.”

“Maybe next time,” Dagmar says. She flips a page and resumes reading aloud. Then Draco is swept back up into the story, and you are forgotten, and you wait there for a while to see if he’ll notice you again before giving up and retreating back to your staterooms, a kicked dog, an unopened letter.

In the sitting room, Fern is bustling around straightening up and dusting. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she says when you walk in, peering over one shoulder. “You look cold. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please, whenever you have a moment.” You drop down onto the sofa, distracted and low. Your gaze drifts to the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace, dusk-colored gemstones glinting in its eye sockets. Why can’t I make Daemon love me? Why did he give Rhaenyra a black opal ring?

You can hear Fern heating water for tea. Abruptly and vividly, you remember how she wept when Rush dragged you away from Draco and Daemon summoned you to your bedroom to be punished.

“That must have frightened you last night,” you say, still looking at the dead tiger’s head. “I’m sorry you had to witness it.”

An uncomfortable pause. “It’s no trouble at all, ma’am.”

“I bet you wish you were somewhere else. Just like I do.”

“No, ma’am,” Fern says, startled. “Please don’t send me away. Not ever.”

You turn to look at her. She stares back wide-eyed from where she is pouring steaming water into bone china teacups patterned with blue flowers. “You want to work for Daemon? Despite everything?”

“Lord Targaryen is the best boss I’ve ever had,” Fern answers, and she appears to be genuine.

“Is he really?”

“He pays me what he said he would. Doesn’t yell too much. Doesn’t try to touch me. And besides…” Fern is smiling a little now as she brings you your tea. “I spend more time with you than anyone else.”

You are heartbroken for her—where must she have been for Daemon to be a sanctuary?—then move over to make room for her on the sofa. “Pour yourself a cup too, and sit down with me.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I couldn’t possibly. It wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m your boss when Daemon is gone. And I want someone to keep me company.”

“Well, alright,” Fern agrees bashfully, trying not to show how delighted she is. “I suppose five or ten minutes won’t hurt.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At dinner—sweet ham and fatty ribs of beef, green peas and mashed potatoes—Laenor is joined once again by his new Parisian friend Hugo. You ask Laenor the way to the Turkish Baths in case you decide to visit them tomorrow, and he heartily recommends the facilities, sharing a puckish simper with Hugo. You think of Rhaenyra’s three boys and their dark hair, and their pug-like noses, and the whispers that forever swirl around them in the shape of Harwin Strong, and despite all of this Rhaenyra will suffer no consequences: beloved by her father, emboldened by her uncle, cherished by her sons, enabled by a husband who does not crave her attention anyway. She has broken the rules, and you have done everything right, and yet Rhaenyra is the one glowing tonight as she laughs along to Daemon’s stories, her new black opal ring flashing on her hand, and you are all but forgotten as you drink too many glasses of champagne.

Your guests tonight are Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress Léontine Aubart, a French singer to entertain him while his wife is at home in New York City with their three daughters. Ben’s father made his fortune in mining and smelting, and so like Daemon he understands that one can rule the earth by pillaging what lies beneath it.

You swim up into the conversation from under a warm, numbing sea of amber champagne. Now Daemon is quoting English novelist George Eliot: “These gems have life in them: their colors speak, say what words fail of.”

“Hear hear!” Ben Guggenheim agrees, holding his drink aloft, not champagne but brandy. “Daemon, how old is your son now?”

“He’s four,” your husband replies with obvious fondness, and Rhaenyra seems to bristle. “And a complete terror, a tiny blonde Napoleon, he’ll take over the world someday…”

Beneath the table, you twist your own black opal ring on your wedding finger. You think of the night Daemon asked you to marry him—in the garden of Lough Cutra Castle, bats flapping in the twilight and long-eared owls hooting, not down on one knee but standing taller than you were, his green eyes glinting like the Connemara marble in your father’s quarry—and you wish you could go back and say no.

“Dagmar is a splendid governess, we are so fortunate to have her,” Daemon is telling his audience, and he always seems to have one. “She looked after me and Viserys when we were boys…I was her favorite, of course.” There is a dutiful chorus of chuckles. “She can be bit prickly with adults, but she is entirely devoted to children. She treats Draco like her own. I always wondered about her own family when I was young…I was petrified that one day she would take me aside and tell me that she had to go away and be with her own children now. Surely she had a life of her own out there somewhere. As it turns out, she had a drove of sons with her husband, four or five of them, and then the whole household was wiped out by scarlet fever. Everyone except Dagmar.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” Ben’s French mistress sighs, pressing a hand to her chest that glitters with a massive necklace of bruise-colored Tanzanite, worth a fortune. “But what a blessing for her to have found purpose again with the Targaryens, a lifeboat for her, I’m certain…”

A lifeboat indeed, you think dizzily. Dagmar climbs in and I am tossed out, sinking down into the cold, crushing, miles-deep darkness.

Ben Guggenheim is saying: “I spoke to Captain Smith today as I was taking the air on the Promenade Deck, and he informed me that the last of the boilers have been lit and we are full steam ahead towards New York Harbor. We might even arrive a day early! On the 16th instead of the 17th! Think of the headlines.”

This alarms you. One day less with the viola player? And you realize all at once how attached you’ve grown to him, and perhaps you are learning what it feels like to have a lifeboat too.

As Daemon’s party exits the First-Class Dining Saloon, chatting away carelessly, you tell your husband that you’ve been invited to the Reading and Writing Room to socialize with the other well-bred women of Titanic, and that you probably won’t return to your staterooms before midnight.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine, dear,” Daemon says, barely listening as he escorts Rhaenyra up the Grand Staircase. You linger for a while in the reception area—exchanging bland gossip with the Countess of Rothes and Madeleine Astor, so childlike and yet older than you were when you married Daemon—and then depart, not up the steps towards the Reading and Writing Room on A-Deck but down into the depths of the ship and through the Turkish Baths, closed for the evening and unattended.

You hear the Third-Class Dining Saloon long before you find the entrance and step inside, lively music and raucous laughter that echoes down white corridors. Through the doorway you find low ceilings, exposed support beams, and tables and chairs that have been pushed against the walls to make room for dancing. Men are toasting pints and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, women are giggling at their jokes and thieving sips of the men’s dark frothy Guinness. Standing on top of one of the tables is a quartet of strings and a man singing, not dressed in fussy black suits but in corduroy trousers and plain half-unbuttoned shirts, the air hot and painted with yellow-gold artificial light. The viola player is with them. He sees you and smiles, but he doesn’t set down his viola. He has to finish the song, of course. They are performing Whiskey In The Jar.

“I went into my chamber for to take a slumber

I dreamt of golden jewels and sure it was no wonder

For Jenny took my charges and filled them up with water

And sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter…”

You find a seat in a corner of the room and wait for the viola player to join you. You purposefully wore something rather plain to dinner—a pale pink gown, matching wool coat, and morganite jewelry—but still you are overdressed. The third-class passengers sitting nearby gape and ogle at you. You wave shyly as you shrug off your coat and hang it over the back of your chair. They bring you a pint of Guinness and, when you take it out of your rose-colored handbag, a burly middle-aged man lights your cigarette with a match. You fiddle with your cigarette holder for a moment, then put it away and smoke like the women here do: bare fingers, no niceties.

The viola player has abandoned his fellow musicians and plops down into the chair across from you, laying his instrument on the table. He grins, boyish and sly, like he has won a bet. You puff on your cigarette and act like you are here by pure coincidence. Oh, festivities down on F-Deck? Well of course everyone knows about that. Thought I’d swing by for a half hour or so, had nothing better to do.

“How are you?” the viola player asks, still smiling.

“Impatiently waiting for the orgy to start.”

He laughs and leans across the table, settling in. “Have you picked out a conquest yet?”

“Maybe one.” You exhale smoke and he watches you, intrigued, perhaps a little nervous to say the wrong thing. “How long have you been running from your family?”

“Five years.”

“That’s the same amount of time I’ve been married.”

“I know, I remember,” he says. “Enormous wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Royalty were invited.”

You furrow your brow at him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs, evasive. “I must have read about it in a newspaper or something.”

“And this is what you do now,” you say, drawing a circle of smoke in the air with your cigarette, meaning the Third-Class Dining Saloon, meaning the sort of people he’s chosen to spend his life with. “You make pennies by playing viola and selling your oil paintings.”

“Doesn’t take much to live on.”

“No?”

“Not the way I live. As long as I have something to eat and a bed to collapse into at night, I’m content.”

“You never get lonely?”

“Well I didn’t say the bed was empty.”

It was a joke, but you don’t laugh. You remember how Daemon pushed you away this morning, how ashamed he has made you of your lust, animal yearning smothered and ignored, an able body gone to waste.

The viola player realizes he’s made a mistake. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, are you…are you alright…?”

“What line of work is your family in?” you say instead.

“Uh…” He hesitates. “Land ownership.”

This is interesting. “Really? Do they have titles?”

“Um, no, nothing like that.” He shakes his head, his eyes darting around the room. “What about the distinguished Lord Targaryen?” the viola player asks, contempt in his voice. “There must be hereditary defects run amok in his lineage.”

“His older brother is a duke, as you know.” You put out your cigarette in a plain porcelain ash tray and take a slurp of your Guinness. It joins the champagne in your bloodstream, sloshing around until your thoughts are blurry and harmless. “But Viserys is…” You try to decide on the right words. “Daemon thinks he’s weak and indecisive. Maybe he’s right, I’m not sure, I’ve only met Viserys a few times.”

“Viserys stays in England,” the viola player says, sounding more like a statement than a question.

“Yes, with Rhaenyra and her family. They’re very close.”

“And what of Viserys’ other children?”

You cackle. “What other children?” Another joke; this time it’s the viola player who isn’t amused. “After many, many years of neglect in cold dreary England, Alicent Hightower removed herself to Manhattan and lives there in opulence with her father Otto, her loyal bodyguard Sir Criston Cole, and her four Targaryen-blonde offspring, the eldest of whom is poised to inherit the Dukedom of Beaufort, much to his uncle’s displeasure.”

“Aegon,” the viola player says softly.

“Daemon hates him.” Your voice is hushed like a conspiracy. “Idle, useless, cowardly, effortlessly receiving fame and riches that Daemon believes he has rightfully earned.”

“Hm.” The viola player is smiling faintly.

“So now Daemon will gust into New York City like a storm, and capture the fascination of the elites there, and—with his orderly, intact family and jewel-mining dynasty built by his own hands—he will humiliate Viserys in the most brutal way possible. He will prove that he was the more worthy brother, that he should have been born first.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that he shouldn’t have been born at all.”

You both laugh, sad and cynical. He looks down at your hands where they rest on the table, perhaps at your black opal wedding ring. Then he motions to the room at large. “How does it compare to your usual dining accommodations?”

“Far less caviar and duchesses,” you say. “What do the third-class cabins look like?”

The viola player raises an eyebrow. “Are you asking to see my room?”

That’s not how you meant it; but now that he is teasing you with flushed cheeks and one of his crooked, toothy smiles, you aren’t sure you want to decline. No, no. You definitely don’t want to.

“It’s unoccupied at the moment.” The viola player nods to a group of men dancing on the other side of the rowdy dining saloon. “My roommates are presently trying to convince those lovely Russian girls to get pregnant with their bastard children.”

“What a tempting prospect! Who could resist?”

He waits for you to say more. You stall, fiddling with your rings, gazing nervously down at them. “Hey. Petra.”

You look up at the viola player. “Yeah?”

“Don’t fear. That is not my design. There are no bastard children in your immediate future.”

You chuckle and then stand, smoothing out the skirt of your gown with your fingertips and putting on your pink wool coat. “Alright, show me your cabin. As my only poor friend, it is your obligation to enlighten me.”

“Gladly,” he agrees; and as the two of you are weaving through the crowd of dancing passengers—Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish—the viola player takes your hand so you are not separated, and it feels so natural you don’t even think to resist him.

It is a long walk to the third-class cabins, located deep in the stern of the ship. You must pass through hallways reserved for other passengers, first-class, second-class, more worthy breeds of people. The viola player drops your hand as soon as he sees stewards flitting about with armfuls of linens and cups of tea, casting you puzzled looks.

“Ma’am?” some of them ask you. “Do you require any assistance? Can I escort you somewhere?”

But no, no, you politely demur, and follow after the man in green corduroy trousers and a half-unbuttoned white shirt, handknit green vest, messy blonde hair, no coat, no hat, a viola and its horsehair bow in his grasp. At last you reach stark corridors in which no stewards are darting around to ensure the passengers are comfortable, and he opens a door to reveal a tiny space, smaller than your bedroom: white-painted pine wood and pink linoleum floors, two bunkbeds, a single sink with a mirror mounted above it. You can hear the reverberation of the ship’s engines and feel their tremors through the walls.

This is awful. This is unendurable.

“Impressive, huh?” the viola player asks, perhaps a bit anxiously. He hopes he hasn’t horrified you.

“It would be just fine for rats. Humans, I’m not so sure.” You sit down on one of the bottom bunks to test the mattress. “What on earth is this full of? Straw?”

“Yes ma’am.” He’s standing by the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, not displeased but not relaxed either.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You can come over. I won’t scream and have you arrested or anything.”

He laughs. “What a relief.” He walks over to the bed—very slowly, as if expecting you to change your mind and tell him to stop—then sits down beside you as you peer around the cabin. His portfolio and easel are lying underneath the opposite bunk. On the paper clipped to the easel you can see a new painting: a woman too beautiful to be you smoking on the Boat Deck, wearing the same choker necklace of pearls, diamonds, and white gold that was clasped around your throat this afternoon. In the bottom right corner is the name he’s given you: Petra.

You turn to the viola player, bewildered. “Why do you keep painting me?”

He does not answer; instead, he tilts your head to the side to inspect the shadow of a gash on the side of your neck, a shallow gift from Daemon’s dagger, obscured by layers of powder but not erased. His murky blue eyes are haunted, his voice desperate. “I want to help you.”

“You can’t.”

He is watching you, his fingertips still resting weightlessly on the curve of your jaw. You imagine him painting your skin until all of you is covered: brushstrokes down your throat and over the bumps of your collarbones, lines tracing your spine and swirls on your belly, dabbing gingerly at the inside of your thigh.

“I wish you could,” you whisper; and then he kisses you, the roughness of his short beard, the softness of his lips, and you hope he doesn’t mind the bite of alcohol you’ve tainted yourself with to dull all the blades that have ever cut you: disappointment, terror, pain, despair. Now the ship is punctured and the water is rushing in, not freezing and a bottomless inky blue but warm, golden, effervescent like champagne in a crystalline flute, and Daemon has never touched you this way, gentle but burning, wanting you, needing you. Your palms are on his chest; your muscles and tendons and ligaments are opening for him; you are imagining being known by him, this stranger who sees you, this unremarkable man who is somehow so exceptional, who has dug you up from the gloomy depths of the earth and given you a once-in-a-millennium glimpse of the sun.

And then, with sudden torturous clarity: Daemon unable to get hard for you, Daemon shoving you away.

“No,” you gasp, breaking the kiss and shrinking from the viola player. Your voice is so quiet, so weak. “You won’t like me.”

He shakes his head. You’ve hurt him worse than dagger, you’ve aimed for the heart. “Who were you before all of this?”

Seventeen, in the garden with my books, drinking tea with my parents, daydreaming of legends and love. “I don’t even remember.”

“You can’t stay with him. It’s killing you.”

“You don’t understand,” you whimper, thinking of Draco.

“Look, I have to tell you something.”

You rise from the bed, headed for the door. “I can’t stay, I’m sorry—”

He leaps up and grabs your hand, not to bruise you or to scare you but to beg you to listen. He bursts out: “I’m a Targaryen.”

You stare blankly at him. “You play viola.”

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m also a Targaryen.”

“That’s not possible—”

“I’m Aegon,” he insists, pounding on his own chest. “I left my family in New York but I’m one of them, Alicent is my mother, Helaena is my sister, Aemond and Daeron are my brothers, I’m a Targaryen and I know what it’s like to run away and I can help you.”

“No, you can’t be—”

And then he rips his lighter from the pocket of his green corduroy pants and he presses it into your palm and you see what is etched into the side: the three-headed dragon, the crest of the Targaryens. You abruptly remember what Daemon said to him back in Galway: You look a bit familiar, boy. Have we met before? You study his hair and realize it is almost the same shade as Rhaenyra’s.

“You have to stay away from me,” you say, petrified, clutching his lighter. “Daemon hates you. He’ll kill you.”

“I’m not leaving you with him.”

“Aegon, I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“When we dock in New York, I can help you escape.”

“No,” you sob, a miserable choked wail. “I can’t abandon Draco, and Daemon would never stop hunting me if I took him away.”

“Maybe you can’t save Draco, but you can still save yourself,” Aegon pleads, his eyes huge and glistening. “Maybe he’s a lost cause.”

“He’s four years old!” You tear your hand out of Aegon’s grasp and yank open the cabin door. He goes after you.

“Wait—”

“Do not follow me,” you command him, low and seething as you stand together in the doorway. “You endanger us both.”

“Let me help you,” he says; and they are the last words you hear before you vanish into the maze of hallways, running up the Grand Staircase, ignoring the stewards who offer you assistance, fleeing from the man who makes you want things you didn’t believe were possible.

Aegon, you think, still in disbelief, still clasping his lighter in your palm with such force your hand aches. His name is Aegon Targaryen.

You fly into your staterooms, through the sitting room, towards your bedroom where you can be alone with your longing and your horror, your tears and your treason. You don’t see anyone else. You don’t hear anything over your own ragged breathing and strangled sobs. You are at your bedroom door. Your fingers close around the knob.

The door leading out to the private promenade deck opens and Rush appears with a half-finished cigar in hand, looking shocked to see you. “No!” he shouts, but it’s too late, you’ve already opened the bedroom door. The blood that crashes into your face is scalding and a deep gory red like rubies. The bile rising in your throat is green like Connemara marble.

There on the same bed where this morning he shoved you away from him—revulsion, coldness, impotence you could not cure—Daemon is twisted up with Rhaenyra, passionate helpless moans, deep savage thrusts, her long citrine hair spilling over the sheets and his eyes turning murderous when they catch on you.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x female reader

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sumwan · 1 year ago

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I thought it would be interesting to look at c!Dream's inventory and ender chest both before and after the prison.

Before the prison

The latest time he showed his inventory before the prison was on August 31, 2020, when he was remodeling the Community House [x]

Armor, weapons, and tools

Netherite Helmet (Protection IV, Unbreaking III)

Netherite Chestplate (Protection IV, Unbreaking III)

Netherite Leggings named "Punzo Chaps" (Protection IV, Unbreaking III, Mending) (given by c!Punz after c!Dream fell and lost his armor)

Netherite Boots (Protection IV, Unbreaking III, Feather Falling IV, Depth Strider III, Mending)

Netherite Sword named "Netherite Sword11" (Sharpness V, Unbreaking III, Looting III, Fire Aspect I, Mending)

Netherite Pickaxe named "pp2" (Efficiency V)

Netherite Shovel (unenchanted)

Netherite Axe (unenchanted)

Bow (Punch I, Unbreaking III, Power V, Flame, Infinity)

Crossbow named "DEFINITELY NOT PENIS" (Quick Charge III, Piercing IV)

Shears

Food and support items

2 full stacks of arrows

16 ender pearls

1 water bucket

56 golden apples

2 enchanted golden apples

2 full stacks of steak plus one stack of 62 and one stack of 25

Various building blocks for remodeling the Community House

Ender chest

He doesn't show his ender chest in this stream, so the latest I could find was on July 31, 2020, which is shortly before the L'Manberg revolution war. [x]

1 full stack of diamonds and a stack of 22

2 full stacks of golden apples and a stack of 11

4 full stacks of iron ingots plus two stacks of 32

4 enchanted golden apples

1 dark oak log

60 arrows

1 full stack of steak

Diamond helmet (unenchanted)

1 pink bed

3 full stacks of ender pearls

1 potion of swiftness

1 netherite ingot

1 Cat music disc (not c!Tommy's disc)

1 Blocks music disc

After the prison

The last time c!Dream showed his inventory and ender chest after the prison was on April 22, 2022. [x]

Armor, weapons, and tools

Full set of enchanted Netherite Armor (given by c!Punz)

2 Netherite Swords (one given by c!Techno and one picked up from c!Bad during jailbreak)

2 Netherite Axes (also one from c!Techno and the other from c!Bad)

1 Netherite Pickaxe (given by c!Punz)

1 Netherite Shovel

1 trident (Riptide)

Shield (either given by c!Techno or picked up from c!Bad)

Bow named "Wardens Bow" (Infinity, Flame, Power V, Unbreaking III) (picked up from c!Bad)

Food and support items

1 splash potion of fire resistance

1 splash potion of strength II

4 full stacks of golden apples

10 enchanted golden apples

2 stacks of steak, one of 59 and one of 57

1 milk bucket

2 water buckets

1 full stack of regular arrows

54 harming arrows

1 full stack of obsidian

12 TNT

4 full stacks of ender pearls and a stack of 9 ender pearls

2 WARDEN ACCESS keycards

Various random items and stacks of dirt

Ender chest

53 diamond blocks

46 iron blocks

1 lava bucket

1 full stack of steak

1 full stack of flint

2 full stacks of gold blocks

6 netherite ingots

1 book and quill (unknown content)

2 full stacks of golden apples

1 full stack of feathers

1 full stack of arrows

7 nether stars

There's a lot that can be said about this, but I'm sure it's very normal to have two swords, two axes, and four stacks of golden apples on you at all times.

#he's completely fine he can't run out of food this way #he also needs all those arrows even though his bow has infinity #c!dream

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hallsoffandom · 11 months ago

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Reading the patch notes of the new stardew valley update just has me going back and forth between thanking ConcernedApe or cursing him out

For example:

"Slightly increased rate at which skeletons throw bones or shoot spells." Why the hell would you do this its fast enough already

"You can no longer lose the Golden Scythe, Infinity weapons, or tools." Oh thank Yoba do you have any idea how many times ive lost my pickaxe

#stardew valley

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anyamaris · 8 months ago

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Title-Golden Hour

Word Count-2273

Summary-You have no idea how you got here, and the people you encounter aren't helping. It's time for you to remember what they said.

Trope-Ateez lore au

Pairing-Lost!F!Reader x Ateez (Lore based au Ateez)

Warnings-None really, it's a little unhinged in a weird ass way. Mentions of drinking. Memory loss, lots of chickens. A cock to the face.

A/N-So I wanted to go completely off the rails and explore some of the fun of the mv as well as Ateez lore. I'm planning on exploring each member in upcoming fics based in this. This is just the intro!

Dedicated to @sanjoongie because you let me scream about this and support my unhinged ideas. I hope this helps to get you excited, don't worry. Bandit San is coming.

A huge thank you to @frenchkisstheabyss for beta reading it and supporting my insanity, I love you so much, hyung.

The song playing during the dance is Blind off the new album.

Tags- @cultofdionysusnet @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @yoonguurt @shinestarhwaa @stardragongalaxy @kpop-stories-21 @starlitmark@millennial-fangirl @ericssmile @wooahaeproductions@changbinslovelylegs @yeosxxx @millennial-fangirl @starillusion13 @duchesskaren @minki-moo @woosanbby

@cafekitsune Thank you for banners and dividers! 🤍💜🤍

“Golden hour

The brightest moments in life

Those moments are like quick flashes

And never come back”

You’d been driving along this dusty road since before dawn, miles of desolate desert stretching behind you.

Blinking, you try to clear your head, the only memory you had were those softly spoken words and an almost hypnotizing hum bouncing around in your exhausted mind.

Then everything was static.

Wiping the sweat from your brow, you shield your eyes from the hot noonday sun.

Your old, reliable car was smoking behind you, the hiss of whatever had caused your breakdown filling the air.

Distant outcroppings of rock terrain are all that greet your eye beyond the rusted old buildings surrounding you.

The faint repetition of pickaxes echo through the open area as you survey where you’ve been stranded, the tings and clinks setting an almost eerie soundtrack for your current predicament.

Where in the world am I?

Turning to look towards the run down motel, you manage to catch a glimpse of some cowboy hats bobbing in conversation.

It must be nice to be drinking this early, you muse, studying the three figures in chairs gathered around a small table, the crystal of their whiskey glasses reflecting the sun's harsh rays.

A bell rings and your attention is drawn to a tiny building with a red door surrounded by green.

Is that…a diner?

Your stomach grumbles in response, causing you to take a step towards the sudden aroma of chicken hanging in the air.

It didn’t appear that anyone was at the gas station at the moment, though the sign proclaimed “mechanic on duty.”

Your stomach growls at you once more, and you decide that you can inquire inside the diner while you appease your appetite.

Walking towards the impossibly small building, the chime of a bicycle startles you and you leap out of the way as a pack of people ride by.

Not one of them looks back at you, but for some reason you feel as if each and every pair of eyes are on you.

You swear you didn’t even see his face, but you can almost picture the blonde man leading them with the beret grinning maniacally at you.

Hongjoong, a voice your own and not your own ping pongs around your brain.

Remember what I said.

A soft giggle echoes in your mind, tickling more than just your aural senses.

It’s as if you can feel that laughter under your very skin.

Trying your best to ignore the creeping confusion teasing at the edges of your mind, you step forward to push open the red doors.

The man behind the counter wearing a trucker hat turns to study you as you enter, tilting his head as he narrows his dark eyes.

His name tag reads, ‘Yunho’.

You glance away as you take in the inside of the diner, walls lined with gold albums, one L-shaped counter taking up the majority of the space.

There are other diners in colorful, flashy clothing seated on the red stools as your empty stomach gives another howl of protest.

Blushing at the embarrassingly loud noise, you nod your head to the other customers as they turn to eye you.

The tall man in the hat’s expression changes at the sound, tapping his spatula in his palm.

“Sounds like you could use a bite to eat.”

His blinding smile seems to take up your entire vision and suddenly you’re pushing open the red doors once more.

“Remember what I said!”

Your brow furrows, turning to see the cook waving to you as you leave.

Remember…?

Your memory is only filled with the buzz of static as you try to recall anything that happened after you entered the building.

Frowning, you realize you’re no longer hungry; your stomach is full and you can only scratch your head in confusion as you bid the strange man goodbye.

Yunho.

At least you recall something from the hazy lunch.

Glancing across the way, you notice that your car is no longer where you left it.

Instead, it’s on the side of the building, and the form of a man moves around inside of the building as the blue ‘ice cold’ sign flickers.

When did I move my car? You wonder, somehow knowing it’s being taken care of.

Rubbing your eyes, a sudden weariness takes over as you plod over to the run down motel, figuring it’s best to at least find out if there are lodgings.

The three men who were drinking before you entered the diner are nowhere to be seen as the old motel sign creaks and groans above you.

Entering the dilapidated building, you notice the silhouette of a man at the desk, his chair squeaking as he turns to glance at you in surprise.

As he opens his mouth, a rooster flies into your face with a flurry of feathers, causing you to reel backwards.

Landing on your ass, you find yourself in front of a motel room door, white chickens grazing around you as you ponder what the hell just happened.

“If you need anything, I’ll be around. And remember what I said.” a deep, velvet voice says, and you turn to watch the man who was in the office saunter back into the rusted main building.

Yeosang.

His name is all you can summon from the strange black hole of your mind, recalling the plaque on the desk that told you as much.

Looking down at the golden key in your hand, you just chalk your fuzzy memory up to exhaustion, slipping the key into the lock.

Before you can enter the room, you freeze as a man in a white suit and hat slowly strides towards the gas station.

Is he riding an ostrich?

He raises his a red lollipop to you, winking as if to say-

Remember what I said.

Seonghwa.

The moment you think it, he nods and turns to continue on, yet there’s no recollection of meeting him before.

Massaging your temples, you enter the small room, collapsing immediately upon the bed.

Remember what?

Why does everyone keep saying that?

Why do you know these random names but can’t recall any interactions?

It’s like you’re losing time here.

Maybe this is all a dream…

Before you can even open your heavy eyelids, you can hear music coming from the old television set on the dresser.

“All you need to do is remember what I-”

“Said.” you mutter, peeking an eye to glance at the screen.

The form of a purple clad man in a top hat with a cane beams back at you, looking almost satisfied that you finished his sentence.

Mingi.

It’s strange how you keep recalling these strangers' names, yet somehow…

You don’t even remember your own.

Rising from the strangely comfortable mattress, you finally glance around the room you’ve been sleeping in.

More framed albums, posters of random music shows, awards and accolades fill the walls.

Slipping your legs off the bed, you find yourself stepping on the litter of dollar bills all over the floor.

Frowning, you lean down to pick one up, rubbing your fingertips over the paper to see if it’s real.

This place is insane and you can’t help but feel like you’ve fallen down some kind of crazy rabbit hole.

Chicken hole, you think, eyeing a white chicken as it struts out of the bathroom, clucking at you happily.

Music plays from the television, drawing your attention to the spectacle of a man in a blue suit, with a red flower on his lapel.

A mariachi band plays in the background as he bows, looking up at the screen to give you a sassy little smirk.

“Tonight, we dance til the sunrise! Remember what I said.” He proclaims, causing you to flop back on the bed.

Wooyoung.

STOP IT!

Soft laughter fills your head as you glance over at the screen, a wanted poster of a man with a mask in all black on the screen.

“Have you seen the Masked Bandit? Call 1018-1117!”

That’s not even a real number, you think.

Opening the door to go back outside, another commercial plays before you can shut the door.

“Don’t be like Jongho-remember what we said-”

Static overtakes your mind, and suddenly you’re outside, chickens pecking the ground at your feet.

The sun is dipping below the horizon, and you hear the loud laughter of a large mass of people in the distance.

A large red brick building looms and you can see some colorful banners as if decorated for a party.

Was that here earlier?

Following the sounds of music, you suddenly hear the loud roar of car engines and you rush over to see what is going on.

Cash litters the ground even out here, and your foggy brain starts to register more of your environment.

Dollar bills are being used as banners, hanging in windows, and thrown all over the ground like confetti.

As the sun sets, you approach the peculiar celebration going on, eyes wide at the sight of the colorful outfits, the loud music playing, the vast array of curious eyes as the turn to take in your arrival.

“You came.” A voice says, the hand on your back gentle yet firm as it guides you towards where everyone is gathered.

“San?” you ask, shocked that his name came out before you even thought about it.

The man in the black hat and vest grins at you in delight, dimples peeking out as he gives you a single nod.

Before you realize what’s happening, the sky is darkening and the blaze of a fire is lighting up the night.

Music seems to come from everywhere and nowhere as you turn in circles, the beat of the song coursing through your very bones.

Yeah, it spreads when I see you, fire

The sound of an accordion playing catches you off guard, and you notice the song is in so many different languages yet you seem to understand everything.

All you can interpret is the red moon rising, the blaze of the fire as the beat takes over.

Before you can take another breath, you’re being spun around into someone’s arms.

You barely sense the bodies writhing around you, compelled to sway your hips and get swept away with the atmosphere.

I feel an unbearable thirst, crazy

It’s as if you’re in a fever dream as you take in the gleaming eyes of the man holding you in his arms, his blonde hair tinged with red as you hear his delighted giggle.

I'll whisper to you until the sun rises, singing

You blink and suddenly your hand is in the man in the blue suit’s, as he twirls you around happily.

Dance just for you tonight, follow, follow

Another blink, a set of strong hands holding your hips, swaying them as he holds you close, his deep voice singing along to the song.

Singing only to you.

I'm tickled, I'm going to cut off all the perfect lines, babe

The man in the top hat and cane is dipping you, whispering yet another line,

Come closer, come dance with me-

Your hands are in the long, dark tendrils of a man with big doe eyes, his tongue darting out as he mouths the next line.

I know you want to, let’s dance

Strong arms pick you up and swing you around, a delighted laugh escaping your throat as you lose yourself to this fever dream.

His angelic voice rings in your mind, whisking you away to another world-

Until the break of dawn

My love I'll sing for you all night

A tall man yanks you to him, his large hands splayed over your lower back as he guides you through steps you shouldn’t know, yet you move confidently with him.

Matching steps under the moonlight, cha-cha-cha

Feel my heart getting hot, pam-pam-pam

Your hands meet the bare skin of a chiseled chest, the now familiar dimples greeting you as he grips your hips to sway in time with the music.

Over and over, you’re spun around, with each breath, a new face greets you, until you’re looping back around.

You’re becoming almost familiar with them each as you feel them draw you deeper into their forbidden dance.

Hongjoong, Wooyoung, Yeosang, Mingi, Seonghwa, Jongho, Yunho, San….

Over and over they blur in and out of your vision until the chorus builds and their voices combine gloriously, hypnotizing you;

Dance tonight, in this burning night

Queen of the night, star of my eyes

Wake me up with your gaze

Take my soul, take my heart, love is blind

Take my soul, take my heart, love is blind; Let's go

The night sky gleams golden as the edges of your vision start to fuzz, many sets of arms assuring you that you won’t fall as the world goes black.

The heat of the sun beats down upon you, the clucking of chickens invading your sleep hazed mind.

Holding your hand over your eyes to shield them, you look up at the men standing above you.

They're dressed much differently than the previous night, and you sit up slowly, wondering what happened.

Clad in wide brimmed work hats, shovels and pickaxes in hand, the maniacal eyes of the blonde man meet yours as he kneels beside you.

“Come on, love.” he says, his voice dancing as he tucks a tendril of hair behind your ear.

The sound of a clarinet fills the air as a distant rooster crows.

“What…where are we going?” You ask him, looking around at the eyes studying you.

“Gotta work.”

#cultofdionysusnet #ateez au #ateez lore au #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #Ateez work au #Ateez golden hour au

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a-book-of-creatures · 2 years ago

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It’s been nagging at me for a while, so I’m going to try to put together my thoughts on the Quetzalcoatlus sequence in Prehistoric Planet 2. In the grand scheme of things it’s tiny, insignificant, and I loved Prehistoric Planet, but I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to talk at length about scavenging birds.

(Spoilers (?) for Prehistoric Planet 2 ahead. Go watch it!)

I’m talking about the part where a Tyrannosaurus is driven off from an Alamosaurus carcass (presumably carrion and not killed by the tyrannosaur). The tyrannosaur is expressly stated to be concerned about losing an eye to those Whopping Big Beaks. The pterosaurs aggressively fly over it a few times and honk angrily until the tyrannosaur walks away in Shameful Defeat, leaving the carcass to the pterosaurian pterrors.

And that confused me.

Before I go on, I want to point out that this is not a Who Would Win discussion, I’m not going to argue for or against one or another. Not going to discuss if Tyrannosaurus should really have won because of the massive weight advantage and lack of fragile bones/wings, or if the big landlubber had it coming and the numbers and aerial advantage was too much. I’m not arguing about Quetzalcoatlus being scary or not either (it’s scary as all hell).

No, the issue I had was with the beaks.

This is the Quetzalcoatlus as it appears in the show.

Impressive beak, isn’t it?

But it’s not the beak of a flesh tearer.

Let’s back up a bit. Birds that eat meat by tearing it into manageable chunks typically evolve sharp, hooked beaks to make up for the lack of teeth. Like this eagle for instance.

Majestic. They make the cutest sounds too. Look up golden eagle sounds, don’t believe the red-tailed hawk propaganda.

Raptor bills look intimidating, but they’re not there for killing. They’re cutlery. The talons do all the work, and then the beak tears up the meat into delicious gobbets of protein.

Even shrikes get in on the act. They don’t have killer feet, so they use their ripping bills to impale prey and tear at it.

Aw, look at it, it thinks it’s accipitrids.

The Quetzalcoatlus’ bill, though, doesn’t have that hook. It doesn’t look like the bill of a bird that dismembers its food. The closest thing I could think of to compare it with was stork bills. Specifically the marabou.

Ol’ pickaxe-for-a-face. This is the beak of an animal that stabs smaller prey and swallows them whole with minimum processing.

But a bill this long and pointed, turns out, is good for stabbing but not for tearing meat. Marabous are scavengers, but they won’t tear apart a carcass on their own. The “[b]ill [is] not well designed for dismembering carcasses, so [it] normally steals scraps from vultures or snatches up morsels that are dropped” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992).

As you can see, vultures retained the hallmark accipitrid steak knife face, and are much better at Ripping and Tearing. This one (the lappet-faced vulture) generally goes first, being big and strong enough to Rip and Tear tough hide and get to the fleshy interior.

In fact, “[d]espite its huge bill, the [marabou] stork can rarely dominate a carcass and normally stands by the much more numerous vultures and nips in from time to time to snatch morsels which are dropped by others, though Tawny Eagles (Aquila rapax) in turn often steal food from the stork. The bill is not apparently very effective for cutting up meat and dismemberment is normally carried out quite simply by pulling” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992). And if marabous have trouble with the average carcass, I wouldn’t imagine Quetzalcoatlus would fare much better with a titanosaur, which presumably has rather thick skin too.

One big happy family. That’s a much smaller carcass being shared (with the obligatory squabbling) by a whole bunch of dinosaurs. Neither vultures nor marabou are trying to monopolize it.

So... I don’t see why the big stork pterosaurs would chase away a perfectly good meat processor. I know everyone wants to see Big Prehistoric Animals Fighting With Lethal Intent, and everyone wants to see Tyrannosaurus Getting Knocked Down A Peg By The New Hotness, but I think it would have been a more interesting and believable scene - not to mention more in keeping with Prehistoric Planet’s attempt to be as scientifically believable as possible - if the pterosaurs acted like marabous the size of giraffes, both them and the tyrannosaur keeping a respectful distance of each other, and snapping up bits of meat left behind. And maybe the pterosaurs pulling the dinosaur’s tail for good measure, the way ravens bully eagles.

But it would make for a much less exciting scene. Who wants to watch a bunch of scavengers milling around a carcass and honking at each other as they jockey for the best morsels and settling their differences in ways that involve as little risk as possible? I mean, I do, but I don’t assume the average viewer does.

And that concludes my altogether far too long opinion on a single scene from a great series. Of course, I’m not a paleontologist and never will be, I’m only approaching this with what I know about birds, so please feel free to let me know if there’s any details of Quetzalcoatlus anatomy that do in fact suggest it could rip and tear!

References

del Hoyo, J.; Elliott, A.; and Sargatal, J. eds. (1992) Handbook of the Birds of the World, Vol. 1. Lynx Edicions, Barcelona.

#prehistoric planet #prehistoric planet 2 #dinosaurs #pterosaurs #quetzalcoatlus #birds #paleontology #paleoblr #long post #disclaimer: I am not in any way throwing asparagus at Prehistoric Planet 2 #I'm not panning it in any way #tyrannosaurus #azhdarchids

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 13 days ago

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My sleep schedule has been out of whack all month. I'm just not getting tired anymore until well after 3 or 4am. I've tried staying up all night so I could be tired the next day and fall asleep at a normal hour, but invariably I end up passing out around 5am and sleeping until close to noon. This last night I gave myself a meaningless task to keep myself awake; I started playing minecraft around 3 with the goal of collecting one of every ore with a silk touch pickaxe, both stone and deepslate variants. Deepslate coal ore was way easier to find than I thought it would be, and regular diamond ore was way harder. Copper, redstone, lapis, gold, iron, all pretty easy in both variants, but emeralds have been kicking my ass. I spent the last two and a half hours stripmining under a mountain at y=0 looking for deepslate emerald ore, the rarest in the entire game (even rarer than ancient debris in the nether), and I have turned up completely empty. I swept back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across a twenty or thirty chunk area to no avail. I eventually got bored and gave up (about damn time, because both my hands are cramping). It's 6:30 at time of writing, and if I can stay up until sunrise I'll be golden. I can go about my day like normal, then get some well earned sleep before midnight tonight.

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idvlover · 3 months ago

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can i get some platonic FG x surv reader headcanons?

Platonic Fools Gold Headcanons:

Fools Gold is definitely the very protective type of friend towards the surv. So much so that he even protects them from other survivors, too.

It matches he doesn't always go easy on them, but he also knows he is a bit overwhelming to go against, so if he sees they're having a bad day, he let up some. Maybe target other teammates and just give the surv dungeon.

Depending on the age of the surv, he'll either be a brotherly type or a fatherly type. Either way, they're getting teased constantly by him. He would be the type to walk back and forth between dungeon and chair, just to spook them a little. (He gives them dungeon)

He tends to keep the surv on his shoulders in duo hunters to keep them from being chased by the other hunter. The other hunter normally doesn't bother him about it in fear of getting a pickaxe to the face. (It's happened before)

In tarot... He completely forgets that he is supposed to go after the other survivor but goes after the hunter instead... He got banned for a bit...

"Why did I get banned?"

"You attacked Nightmare???"

"And he had it coming, so what's the problem?"

Surv has to talk him down a lot from his impulsiveness. Like the urge to protect them from everyone is strong.

Norton will chase the surv in a friendly match at first. He likes doing this to give them a heart attack. It's not till he downs them and carries them around they realize he's friendly

"You could have just said something..."

"Now, where's the fun in that?"

Outside of matches, these two are normally found together 99% of the time. Norton can sometimes be seen teaching them about how to process ores or showing them neat rocks

Usually, dorms aren't to be shared, but because Norton has lost a lot in his lifetime and the surv is basically his closest friend, he just moves them into his dorm for the sake of keeping them safe. He knows survivors will play dirty to win. He was one of them even. The last thing he wants is to wake up one day and hear something happen to them

He uses his height to an advantage when surv is being stubborn. Won't leave out the gate because they want to try and detention rescue? Downs them and picks them up by the back of their shirt and carries them to the gate

Won't take dungeon out of spite? Picks them up and quite literally throws them in it before slamming the door shut. Might hear a few taps while he walks away

Or he'll just lift them up to be funny while they flail around angrily because he pulled a sneaky move on them and their pissed

He's also an absolute menace on that golden cove map. He knows that place like the back of his hand while surv keeps getting lost... That on, though, Norton will only go friendly for them due to the simple fact he does genuinely feel bad for them because they are STRESSING

#idv fools gold #fools gold headcanons #identity v #idv #identityv #norton campbell #norton campbell headcanons

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iolypse · 2 years ago

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alright! shit went down last night, huh?

I'm gonna run through the events that took place, then break it all down. (this whole thing is 1.4k+— sorry!)

qcellbit, our newest mad theorist, spent some time going around the island asking the members who've been here the longest about their experiences. how they got to the island, if they remember anything from before the island, the dragon, the duck, the messages, the binary code fuckers, cucurucho, the eggs, etc etc.

one particularly interesting bit of info was given to him by qphilza, who explained the existence of the airships and his investigation of a particularly large one. after showing qcellbit some items he looted from said ship, including a netherite pickaxe, enchanted golden apples, and chorus fruit, he talks about how a binary monster chased him all the way back to mainland, trying to kill him the whole time. he mentions that when accidentally right clicking it, a baby certificate popped up just like what happens when you right click the eggs. he then recounts that qfit threw a bomb to kill the entity, which promptly despawned so they couldn't loot its body.

he says that a short amount of time later, the entity appeared again and gave him a book with coordinates on it. said coordinates lead to an odd machine built at qluzu's house.

later on, qcellbit explains all of this to his fellow theory brothers, and with qphil in tow, they go to investigate. it's exactly as qphil said— an odd machine, specifically a few blocks of which are admin placed, and what looks like a screen that could hold code inside? the machine also has an eight on it. maybe tracking the number of eggs?

(the original number, maybe. there are only seven eggs alive right now, ten eggs have existed total. with tallulah and richarlyson as late additions, yeah, that makes eight original eggs.)

qcellbit, qbad, qmaximus, and qfoolish all discuss this. one of them is suddenly given a book with code that translates to say "LEAVE". they debate this for a little while— is it saying to leave the machine, or leave the island? they aren't sure.

I'm not really caught up on qluzu's lore, but apparently there's some alternate version of qluzu called arin, and arin is a machine of some sort. arin may allegedly be part of the machine they look at now?

they then decide that they need to at least see if it would be possible to escape. the portal that the initial trains came through still exists, so they all leave their kids with qphil and go investigate.

qphil, now alone with chayanne, richarlyson, and leonarda, all of which have a single life, sets up a table and decides to ask them about their past. do they remember anything at all from being kidnapped and returned cracked? no. he turns to richarlyson, then— newest egg, the only one left uncracked— and asks about the dragon. was it small like a little lizard, or large, larger than luzu's house? richarlyson specifically says that he thinks— doesn't know, but thinks— that the dragon is very, very large.

it's then that a binary entity with a name translating to "AI" attacks (very briefly, it appears with cucurucho's skin, though I personally believe this to be a simple glitch unrelated to any actual lore, same with the eggs occasionally appearing with normal mc skins), immediately going for chayanne. qphil quickly sends out messages telling the others to come back now, and he and the eggs try their damned best to fight it off. qphil has to pop an enchanted golden apple, and it seems like the eggs' guns aren't really doing anything. the binary entity isn't going down. it flees just before the others return. they never quite reached the portal.

qphil takes chayanne home after this. chayanne tells him that he's missing his gun. did it break? he's not sure. it might've, but it's gone now.

meanwhile, qroier and qbobby are on a boat ride, far from mainland. they make it to shore, and that's when the binary entity— the same one that just attacked qphil and the eggs he was looking after— attacks. it forces them into the water, and bobby drowns while trying to escape it. the entity exclusively attacked bobby the entire time, not once going after qroier. as soon as bobby was confirmed dead, it swam to the surface and flew off.

there's more that happened after this— I haven't watched the full clips, but some include a mob typically only spawned by the binary entities showing up and attacking qbbh while he and tallulah were making a beach house, and cucurucho appearing within the hidden parts of qcellbit's base while he was in the middle of theorizing.

so! onto the actual analysis part of this bullshit.

the binary entities. there's at least six of them, 01101100 "l" (lowercase L) who originally attacked qphil, 101010110101 (has no direct translation, too many numbers) who attacked arin, 1001010 "J" who attacked qcellbit, 100101001 ")" (?????) who attacked leonarda, 01101001 "i" who attacked qmariana, and now 01000001 01001001 "AI" who attacked qphil and qroier separately (not including other binary entities I may have missed).

some of them are very determined to kill the eggs (looking at AI specifically), while others freely attack players (lowercase L), so it's hard to pinpoint if they have a collective motive here.

I've seen some people theorize that they are the interference in the messages players have been receiving— jumbled numbers and letters and morse code hidden within the videos, a voice asking "are you there?". I would have said they're trying to get players to leave the island by making it more dangerous and more unappealing, getting rid of the eggs so they no longer have any reason to stay, but then there's AI, who specifically attacked while the theory brothers were attempting to escape. A distraction, most certainly— I don't buy that this is a mere coincidence.

something I have noticed is that their activity has been more and more frequent the more the theory brothers spread what they've discovered, today revealing to qroier most everything they've been able to decipher, just a few days ago explaining things to qphil and inviting qcellbit to the group.

clearly they don't want people knowing things. they don't want the code deciphered, they don't want the island residents to learn what's happening beneath the surface.

so they're not trying to get them to leave the island, and the code within the video is likely not theirs (it's in a totally different format anyways— morse code and jumbled numbers and letters as opposed to pure binary code). when they received the book telling them to leave, it most likely meant to leave the machine. they're tormenting the eggs to further build emotional attachment and discourage attempts to escape or solve the code.

so whose code is this, if not the binary entities'?

no fucking clue! I do quite doubt it's cucurucho, and it's most certainly not the duck. it may be an outside source knowledgeable to the census bureau's potential crimes, or a possible survivor and escapist from long ago. the island was definitely once inhabited judging by the run down buildings that existed when the first batch of island residents arrived.

one thing I've been thinking about lately is the fact that they had to bring power to the island.

we haven't really seen anything come of that, have we? why would the island need power? there's odd outlets put in the wall, what's their use? why would something need to be linked to the wall?

wasn't the attempt kind of unsuccessful? both groups fucked up the puzzle in the train station, but they were let out anyway?

small little theory of mine is that they somehow drew power from the eggs to bring the brazilians there, cracking them in the process, but I really don't have any proof or anything to back this up. it's just a potential explanation as to why the eggs disappeared and came back cracked on the very same day the brazilians arrived.

I will say that some of the eggs have acted somewhat different since that all happened. while it may just be a response to the trauma they experienced, I feel like chayanne and tallulah have both been wandering a lot more than they used to lately. they always stuck fairly close to their parents, but it seems like they've both been straying a bit.

I'm honestly spitballing at this point, just trying to get a grasp on all this info. at the very least, I'm almost 100% certain the dragon never existed, and something is super fucking wrong with this island!

#qsmp #qsmp philza #qsmp cellbit #qsmp foolish #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp maximus #qsmp fitmc #qsmp roier #qsmp bobby #qsmp chayanne #qsmp tallulah #qsmp leonarda #qsmp richarlyson #qsmp theory #qsmp thoughts #qsmp cucurucho #qsmp osito bimbo #qsmp binary entities #what is going on

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