#grain dole

[tyresdeg]

josef newgarden and scott mclaughlin | 24 hours of daytona 2024

[porcelainseashore]

Buckle Up and Enjoy the Ride

Pairing: Dominant! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: There are many things Leon uses his belt for — some of which involve you.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Consensual kink, belts, bondage, impact play, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving).

Author's Note: Happy AO3 Posting Anniversary to my lovely friend, AliBelleRosetta / @alibellerosetta! 🎉 I’m so glad to have met you and cheers to many more fulfilling creative writing experiences. Here’s my naughty little gift to you, enjoy! 🎁❤️ (P.S. I tried to wrap Leon in a box, but he wouldn’t let me, lol)

AO3 Link

Leon’s always been a practical man with a penchant for multipurpose items. The more ways he can use an item, the better. This often means leaning heavily into his creativity, something which he prides himself on.

Take, for example, his trusty belt that has served him well through countless missions, slinking over his slim fit jeans or tactical pants, resting just above a certain pair of assets. That very same belt which he has secured over his navy blue suit trousers, whenever he needed to head into the White House for a formal function. In a pinch, he could use it as a makeshift weapon, vicious and deadly in his hands. However, there are other uses for it that he would much rather keep private, like a clandestine secret shared only between you and him.

When the layers of clothes shed off, so does his prim and proper golden boy veneer, which he wears like a mask around strangers and friends alike. The only time he lets loose is around you. You kneel down obediently before him when he unbuckles his belt, knowing full well what is to come next. He teases you by running the smooth, supple leather against your lips, the natural grain against your skin. You close your eyes and sigh, breathing in its warm, earthy smell — the smell of him.

He likes to take his time to play with you. Frequently, you find your wrists tied to the bedpost, the firmness of his belt restricting you from moving too far, separating him from your touch. Meanwhile, he does what he wants with your body, exploring every dip and curve with his tongue trailing along your bare skin. It’s only a matter of time until you feel his hot, shaky breath against your mound, and with a feverish hunger, he takes your pussy into his mouth, lapping at your clit as you squirm against him. You feel the leather around your wrists tightening and creaking under the strain of your pulling. He holds your hips down firmly with his hands and continues as you cry out his name.

Sometimes, after a bout of relentless teasing, or if you’ve done something particularly naughty, he rips his belt off, pulling it taut between his hands as you hear it snap to attention. “Wanna play?” he smirks at you.

Bending you over the mattress, he doles out a few experimental taps with his belt on your ass, just to warm up. Gently rubbing its soft, fleshy cheeks, he whacks you properly this time, adjusting the intensity to how you react, timing it perfectly with every gasp and hitch of your breath, as pain mixes into pleasure.

“You like that?” he growls, voice thick with lust, in between sharp smacks. Your ass is sore and marked up red; you’ll be feeling it tomorrow. But every wince is a hushed whisper of what took place the night before, and every imprint an insatiable reminder of who you belong to.

Other times, when you’re both too horny to wait any longer, he throws you onto the bed, wrapping the belt around your waist roughly. You’re on all fours, and he listens out for your word before tugging at you forcefully, leather bound around his hand and wrist like a leash, as he yanks your pussy back onto his hardened cock, stretching it out as you take in every inch of him. 

He rails you into the mattress deeply; you can feel his cock twitching and dragging along your sensitive walls. He savors every moan and scream in ecstasy that he manages to draw out of you, until your throat is hoarse and you’re nothing but a whimpering mess beneath him.

There’s a loud rap on the front door and he throws a towel around his waist, answering it top naked, as if to spite whoever it is. Turns out it’s another noise complaint from the neighbors from hell, so it’s back to keeping quiet and stealthy.

He fits the belt across your mouth and you clench down on the strap. His hips snap against yours, fucking you at a merciless pace as if he had never stopped to begin with. Teeth marks show on the gummy leather which he’ll wear like a badge of honor, a lucky charm he’ll never lose in a fight. 

Your words are muffled, when in actuality you’re uttering a string of curses and his name over and over like a prayer.

“What was that again, sweetheart?” he grits out, teetering on the edge, yet signed off as usual with his irresistible cocky grin.

You want to wipe it off his smug face, but as he brings both of you over the threshold where you’re riding on a high, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

-the old king is dead, long live the king- (edited version)

I was thirteen years old when I ascended the throne. My memory of the most important day of my life--exceeded by only my birth--was nothing but a frenzied whirlwind of fanfare. It's difficult to describe the experience if you've never been in that position, but I'll do my best. I felt helpless, out of control, like a rider on a runaway horse; I could do nothing except cling on for dear life and pray for it to be over soon. One false move could end with me bleeding and lifeless on the palace steps. 

I had started the morning by vomiting discreetly behind the royal carriage, and my mouth still tasted sour. Eunuch Zhao, one of my long-time attendants who was not much older than I but already impossibly calm and worldly, had held onto my robes so they wouldn't get dirty. Afterwards, he rubbed my back and whispered raunchy jokes into my ear because he could see I was on the verge of tears.

The tears were not for the dead king, though I let them believe it was. Custom dictated I had to wear the mask of the filial son in the same way I wore the cumbersome long guan and the heavy, brocaded robes. My life had always been full of these flourishes that served no practical purpose, and I was used to it. I only dared to be honest in the privacy of my mind. I'm glad he's dead. I thought viciously whenever the roiling feelings in my heart threatened to break their banks. I don't care. I don't care. He had it coming. Does this make me heartless? Maybe so, but I'd rather be heartless than dishonest. The truth of the matter was that I had no sympathy for the lofty stranger they called my Father, always doling out judgement and criticism from on high--who had callously abandoned my mother and I in the middle of enemy territory all those years ago and only deigned to fetch me when it was convenient to him.

The arbitrary nature of filial piety had always rubbed me the wrong way. Why should I worship a man just because he sired me? Even dogs and pigs can do that much. If someone wanted my respect, they should have to earn it first. If the ancient kings of Zhou could lose their heavenly mandate through incompetence, then so could a father lose the love of his son. I would have been more saddened by the death of a single, hard-working farmer. A farmer would have at least contributed a single grain of wheat for my bowl, and that would still be miles more than Father ever did for me.

My tears were not for the dead king. I was mourning myself. Mourning the boy who had once been Ying Zheng, that dreamy little idiot who had been content to spend his days lost in his studies, chin on the windowsill, convinced that he was safe and unimportant. I knew I would inherit one day, but I had naively assumed it would be years down the line. After I had a chance to travel the world, marry, and finish my education. Never in a million years could I have guessed it would be like this, with the former king dead under murky circumstances, an overbearing regent who had skyrocketed in power, and myself thrust suddenly into the open without a single ally in my corner. 

With the pounding of the procession drums still echoing in my chest, I bowed in the four cardinal directions and lit the ceremonial ding, moving carefully to avoid knocking askew the guan, which was an unfamiliar weight on my head. The next thing I remember was climbing the stairs to the throne. An attendant supported me under each arm. Zhao Gao had been left behind at the foot of the steps, along with my carriage and the rest of my servants. These eunuchs were the Prime Minister's creatures; they looked docile now, but I knew they were as trustworthy as vipers. I can still remember the stern lecture Prime Minister Lu gave me at yesterday's rehearsal. The King is supposed to move ponderously as if weighed down by the affairs of the state. He must not rush. He must not trip. He must not stutter, or cry, or misbehave in any way. 

'Why not dress a lapdog in my regalia and call it a day?' I thought bitterly and felt more bitter still because I did not dare to voice these thoughts. Lu Buwei was the one who made my father heir back when he was nothing but a useless middle-ranked prince. Father was so grateful he promised to make Lu Buwei the prime minister when he became king. After that, a series of incredible coincidences happened. My Grandfather died just three days into his rule. My father died within three years. Now, it was my turn to sit on that unlucky throne.

I might be inexperienced, but I am not stupid. Grandfather was not old, and Father was not sickly. Life and death might be the domain of Heaven, but there was plenty that mortals could do to speed up the process. Nothing could be proven, of course, but one common thread runs through these events, and his name is Prime Minister-Regent. He benefited every step of the way, and now he will benefit more. Even a child can tell you that a thirteen-year-old king is easier to control than a thirty-year-old one. 

I sat trembling on the throne as hundreds of my father's ministers--now my ministers, if only in name--bowed and scraped, reciting in unison, "All hail the King of Qin! May His Majesty live ten thousand years!"

Construction for my mausoleum began on the same day.

notes:

someone left a ton of nice comments on my gao jianli fic so now im on a writing roll!

ying zheng's critique of the one-sided power dynamic of filial piety is a representation of his non-comformist mindset and willingness to break from tradition. his administration also did away with heritable titles and awarded positions based on proven competency.

he's still a semi-idealistic person at this stage. i want him to start high so we can watch him fall and see his values become corrupted.

im going to try to work the extracts i wrote about ying zheng's childhood + his dad's backstory into the Ode To Grief -verse. current plan is to just publish them in the order they were written, with some edits.

[pileofmush]

the sun still rises ☼

pairing ➸ monkey d. luffy x fem!reader

synopsis ➸ luffy catches something in the water. it's a girl, to his dismay. not a fish.

details ➸ tags: pt. i, angst, introspection // cw: very much a vent fic, near-death experience, struggles with mental health, i gave reader a name bc i can, an attempt at prose // wc: 1.4k // series m.list

Water crashes against a rocky shore. It whispers; it sings. Rising and rolling, the water recedes; it warns. 

A thud. Feeble knees collapse into wet sand. Salt lingers on your tongue, though you’ve scrubbed your mouth three times now. You choke on the grains still lodged in your throat. Blink the sand out of your eyes.

Alive. You’re alive, you think to yourself. Your cruddy boat is gone, washed away somewhere. But you remain—alive. And the sun still rises and the world still spins.

Not that the world would have stopped spinning had you died. Not when death makes the world go round. Still, the sun rises. Still, the ocean’s tide sings. The tide drapes over you, blocking out the sky. Perhaps you should have fled, when you had the chance. But you didn’t-- you don't, and the wave crashes over you as consequence. You are moved. Moved by the wave; moved by the weight of your circumstances. No one prepared you for this. Your mother didn’t dole out this particular lesson in her long spiels about the meaning of life. And now, she will never speak again.

Mother leapt. 

Mother crashed. 

Like waves against a rocky shore. 

If only you could take on the attributes of the sea. The sea knows no god. She does what she wishes. But you? You bend. Bend to the will of those who want harder than you. Bend to the magnificent wave’s power as it drags you back, back into the godless sea. You are nothing, in comparison. Flotsam.

You don’t want. But there are things that you don’t want.

For instance: you don’t want to return to your mother. 

Oh, you thought that you did. You thought a lot of things. You once thought your mother believed in the hollow words she said. She didn’t. You once thought dying would be easy. 

It isn’t.

Dying burns. Like the burning in your lungs. It takes, and it consumes, until there is nothing left of you but a mound of ash. 

And, dying squeezes. Squeezes you out like a dirty dish rag, until out spills every morsel of fear, frustration, desire and hope that once existed inside your fleshy body. And, there you are. Your essence, pooled into the ocean for all to see. And in your last few moments, you are left to wonder, perhaps I did exist; perhaps I should have lived. 

You inhale. You don’t want to die. There has to be more to life than drowning in the waters of a strange island, strange ocean, stranger world. Saltwater fills your lungs as you begin to mourn the life you never lived. 

Dying, you find, is a color. A deep, solemn purple. The color of a fresh bruise; the color of your mother’s wine; the color of regret.

Cupped hands cut through water, frantic, as you try to rise; as your head spins. Above the waterline, above your flailing body, the wind howls. It warned you, you know. The ocean warned you. And now the wind howls, though the wail doesn’t quite reach your ears. Not over the deep blue croon of the ocean, and your own pained gurgles. 

You can’t think, any longer. Only feel. 

Feel your fingertips just barely breach the surface. Feel your legs kick with a renewed sense of urgency. Feel the sudden intake of air—sweet, glorious air rushing through your body—almost too much, but not even close to being enough. Feel the hands that wrap around your torso like a lasso, firm and sort of rubbery. Feel your body fling through the air, and your stomach lurch, before you collide into a person. 

It knocks the breath out your lungs, and you choke, for a second time.

The same hand that deftly plucked you out the ocean whacks your back, while the other keeps you upright. You would wave your savior off if you had the energy. You possess no devil powers—you dare not make a foe of nature itself—yet the ocean saps your strength, anyway. Takes what little you have left to claim, like she took away your mother. 

You’ve yet to open your eyes, but you can reason you’re on a ship. You can hear the calls of a woman over the song of the wailing sea, preparing the ship for docking in the middle of a thrashing storm. You hear the grunts of men, and the flapping of wind-beaten sails, and the stamping of several feet, scurrying across a wooden deck. 

When you’re finally done hacking your lungs, the savior makes to set you down. Your knees buckle.

 “Woah there,” you hear them exclaim, then let out a boyish laugh. The stranger hoists you up by your arm pits, like you’re a drenched cat. “You’re not a fish!” 

This is true.

You blink the water out of your eyes. In front of you: a boy. Just a boy with a wide, proud grin, and a curved scar underneath his eye. A yellow straw hat hangs from his neck. 

You cough up water as a greeting.  

You know of this strange, savior boy. He belongs on fading, brown parchment above big, bold letters—Wanted; Dead or Alive—his toothy grin immortalized on the bulletin board outside the pub back home. But he isn’t just any old criminal. No, this boy is far worse. For he looks at the expansive blue sea—godless, boundless—and has the gumption to declare it his playing field. 

He looks at what the world has to offer him with wide, peering eyes, and yet, he is still not satisfied. Surely, the world has more to give. Surely, it has more to take. That’s what he does, and it’s what he will continue to do: take and take until he’s had his fill. 

He’s a pirate, after all.

The boy sets you down on the deck and you are finally centered—reunited, at last, with the ground. He’s kind of awkward looking: gangly and disheveled and bright, but his carefree countenance wraps it altogether and ties it in a messy red bow. He tilts his head at a 90 degree angle and stares at you point-blank, thin black brows furrowed in confusion. 

“If you’re not a fish, what’re ya doing in the middle of the ocean?” he asks bluntly. Like you could help getting swept up in the current of Mother Nature. Like his crew mates aren’t currently scrambling to safely dock this ship. 

Your voice sounds strangled when you speak, words getting caught in your throat and roughly tumbling out of your mouth. “Drowning. I was drowning,” you manage to say. 

The rocking of the ship you’re on is not kind to you. Hunched over, your hands brace against your knees as you huff. Your fingers are pruned grapes, wrinkled and trembling.  

“That’s dumb,” the boy tells you. “Just swim next time.”

Maybe he has a point.

You look to the sky. It’s a deep, foreboding gray, pregnant dark clouds looming above and promising rain. Somewhere, you register, behind the clouds… is the sun. It’ll set, yes, and plunge the realm into night, but by dawn it will rise again. And the world will spin. 

“Who’re you then, if you’re not a fish?” The boy draws you back to him, demanding your attention. His eyes are dark as coal, round with open curiosity. You burn under his gaze; greedy and intense. 

Your back straightens. “I’m Yuna.” 

“Like Tuna?” he questions.

“Just Yuna.”

He accepts your answer with a swift jerk of his head and a slight pout. In the distance, you can hear the woman from before calling the the ship to anchor. One of the men—this one has a slender frame and long, long legs—leaves the helm and drops an anchor to the ocean floor. 

Your gaze flickers back to the boy who saved your life. “I’m Luffy! Monkey D. Luffy,” he introduces himself, then reaches for his straw hat to place atop his head. A red ribbon wraps around the base. 

Things make sense when the hat is on, you think to yourself. He makes sense. 

“Remember that,” he demands and jabs a thumb towards his chest, something like passion lighting his coal eyes aflame. “You’re talkin’ to the future king of the pirates.” 

As if the heavens already bow to him, this future king, it begins to rain. He pulls off his hat and looks up. Water droplets kiss tawny skin. They roll from his cheeks, to his chin, down the curve of his neck. 

Rain, your mother liked to say, is good luck. Fathers renewal. Change.

You hope she’s right.

[diddlesanddoodles]

"The Uphill River"

A small little blurb from chapter ten of the rewrite. Yes I am still writing it.

The next task she was put to was pulling stems of apples for Quinn and Kol as they worked on the list of the Queen’s pastries. Yale assisted in gathering whatever ingredients needed for their work, dashing to and from cold storage to fetch various dried and fresh fruits and herbs. And a crock of butter almost as tall as Nenani. She walked around it, eyes wide in wonder, battling the very real urge to stick her finger into it. Without even looking away from the list in his hands, Yale reached over to lay his fingers on her shoulders and gently turned her away from the butter. He pointed to a spot closer to him in a wordless command and another bowl of apples needing their stems plucked for the Ibronian pastries they were making.   

Nenani knew a little of Ibronian cooking, only due to having lived in fair proximity to the Ibronain sailors and dock workers littering the port. They liked their wine sweet and liberally applied anywhere there was room. The apples Nenani prepared were lightly crushed, only to break them open, and put aside to macerate in wine as the dough came together.   

“Are ye sure it doesn’t say anything about butter in this recipe? Even at the end?” Kol asked as he pressed the shaggy dough into a pile and drive the ball of his fist into the center.

“I’m sure,” Quin replied, reading over the recipe one more time. “No butter. The next recipe looks like it uses a good bit, but not for this one.”

“Don’t seem right not to have butter in the dough. It’ll be flavorless.”

Quinn flicked Kol’s ear as he passed him with the bowl of apples and wine. “If you add butter and we get torn into because ye broke some sacred Ibrinaian pastry law, I’m shaving yer head after we’re released from the stockades.”  

“Fine, I won’t add any butter,” Kol replied with a petulant frown. “Just don’t see how it’ll taste very good. Would make a nicer crumb.”

They stopped their work briefly to eat a small meal. Bowls from one the large cauldrons that Yale called “the perpetual brew” were doled out to everyone. It was a dark colored stew not unlike forever pottage, but instead of a thick soup of grains and barely, there were root vegetables, various bits of meat, and several types of beans.

As Nenani ate her portion, she fished something odd from the bottom of her bowl. It was as long as her finger and looked very much like a stick. She tried to bite into it and grimaced. It was a stick. When she showed Yale, he and the bakers all burst into laughter.

“Must be a bit of sweet pine,” Quinn said.   

“I forget sometimes Humans don’t really eat trees, eh? Supposed yer teeth are too soft for it,” said Yale.

“What? You eat trees?” Nenani asked.

“Sometimes,” Yale explained. “It’s more common to eat them in winter when stores run low. Ye cut down a few in spring when they’re sweetest and store them in the cellar for winter. Grind it up for bread. It’s not as nice as wheat, but it’s food. Mostly folks pop a few branches into soup for the flavor. Like ye were saying about the bay laurel.”

“And if ye can’t afford sugar or honey, lots of folks use a spoon carved from sweet pine and use it to stir tea and it’ll sweeten it a bit,” Kol added in. “Not as much as sugar or honey, but it works well enough.”    

Nenani observed the stick held between her fingers with equal measures of curiosity and revulsion. It had softened somewhat from its time spent boiling in the stew. But it was still unmistakenly a stick. She could not decide if they were trying to trick her or not. Looking between the three of them, they seemed sincere enough. She put it back into her mouth and chewed on it. The fibers broke apart and she could taste a faint sweetness. “It’s a little sweet.”

“Told ye,” said Yale.

She removed it from her mouth. “But it’s still a stick.”

“Ah, yer teeth are just too soft to fully appreciate sweet pine,” Yale replied. He fished a piece of sweet pine from his own bowl and ate it, chewing happily as Nenani made a face at him.   

  Quinn laughed and added, “Don’t tell her about pinecone jam.” 

[p-clodius-pulcher]

They all wanted a piece of that grain dole pussy

[girlcaelius]

bona dea scandal in the romegaverse…. what would that look like. pheromone blockers involved. somehow. iknow there was a grain dole what abt the distribution of blockers to the masses. an omega tribunate advocating for it. the galli being bitched. the possibilities are endless

[catoswound]

did i ever mention that paper i read that was like clodius came up with the grain dole and cato paid for it. ok whatever. fucking cyprus

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Canary Media:

When prominent entrepreneur Jigar Shah took over as head of the Energy Department’s Loan Programs Office in 2021, he had one primary mission: To get ​“dollars out the door.”

Now the office, which offers financing to clean energy technologies that struggle to borrow from banks and received a huge boost of money from the Inflation Reduction Act, is rushing to do just that before President-elect Donald Trump takes office in January. The incoming president, flanked by Republican majorities in both chambers of Congress, is expected to target unspent funds under the IRA, including LPO programs — putting at risk billions of loan dollars yet to be granted or finalized.

With Inauguration Day looming, the office has increased its activity in recent weeks. Since last Monday alone, the LPO announced four new conditional commitments for loans and loan guarantees and finalized a pending offer.

On Tuesday [December 3, 2024], long-duration energy storage company Eos closed a $303.5 million DOE loan guarantee to help it scale production. The day before [December 2, 2024], the DOE stated it planned to lend up to $7.5 billion to finance two electric vehicle battery manufacturing plants in Kokomo, Indiana. And one week earlier, the agency announced a conditional loan guarantee of nearly $5 billion to finance Grain Belt Express Phase 1, an interregional transmission line that will run between Ford County, Kansas, and Callaway County, Missouri.

Last Monday [November 30, 2024], the agency also announced conditional commitments for a direct loan of $6.6 billion to Rivian to build an EV manufacturing plant in Stanton Springs North, Georgia, and a loan guarantee of $290 million to Sunwealth to deploy up to a thousand solar PV systems and battery energy storage systems across 27 states.

Under the Biden administration, LPO has so far doled out just under $55 billion in funding across 32 deals for battery and EV manufacturing, nuclear reactors, ​“clean” hydrogen facilities, virtual power plants, and critical minerals projects. The majority of the LPO’s investments have gone to Republican districts, according to a Politico analysis.

Most of the financing deals LPO has announced — about $41 billion worth — remain conditional, meaning the loans or loan guarantees are not yet finalized and depend on the companies meeting certain benchmarks.

Legal experts say that while the LPO’s 14 closed loans, which total more than $13 billion in investments, should remain safe from Republican backlash, delaying or undoing conditional funds could be much easier. ​“Immediately following inauguration of the new president, there is likely to be a period of inaction on financial assistance awards that are in negotiation and on announced funding opportunities,” wrote Hogan Lovells attorney Mary Anne Sullivan.

[saintsmith]

The vowing table in the landsaint’s barracks was lopsided as Raam peaked over the lip of Aurenna outside – and not just because one of its legs was worn too short. A saintsworn was absent; Nojjeth never reported in last night. Her silver handprint, shaped to her large Dromag hand, was bare. But the Greshtal Ulashkr and the Aajakiri Fhelleid planted their palms on their silver handprints, connected by a thin silver ring to the golden print that held Imreb’s hand.

A landsaint’s vowing table was where they and their ‘sworn made their vows to their community. The ‘sworn vowed to the saint, who swore them all to Raam himself. He was represented at the center of the table by a magically lit candle upon a raised golden circle, connected by a single gilded line to the landsaint’s handprint.

Ideally, the circle of hands is complete before vows are made. But exceptions are often necessary.

“Before we begin,” whispered Imreb so as not to disturb the candleflame, “do either of you know of Nojjeth?”

“Nay, saint,” boomed Ulashkr, the candleflame vibrating with his heavy voice. “I have not seen her since yesterday’s vowing.”

“Nor have I,” admitted Fhelleid, her brow-plates still. “Perhaps she got lost.”

“No jokes at the vowing table,” chided Imreb. She pushed her hand into the golden handprint and turned to face Fhelleid. “Ser Fhelleid. Your saint requires you patrol the undermarket and keep watch for hooligans and burglars. Do you so vow?”

“So I vow, saint, by witness of Raam.”

Imreb turned to Ulashkr. “Ser UIashkr. Your saint requires you seek out absent Nojjeth and return her here by nightfall. Do you so vow?”

“So I vow, saint, by witness of Raam.”

Closing her eyes, Imreb made her own dedication: “Landsaint Imreb makes her vow to seek out the recent apprentice of jeweler Glaa’ib for interview regarding an ongoing investigation. By witness of Raam.”

“Saint,” interjected Fhelleid, “I should assist you. I am familiar with this matter.”

Imreb opened her eyes to glance at Fhelleid. Was she the one who suspected her? But the central candleflame blew itself out. 

“The vowing is complete,” said Imreb sternly. “Keep your vow as promised, Raam your witness.”

Fhelleid’s brow-plates sank, but she said nothing. The three left the barracks and went to pursue their vows.

-

Thus spake Ngashiik:

The world kills emptiness on sight. Empty your mind and allow the world to murder it. Take in the world writ large, and return the favor. At the bottom of that darkness is a light: Raam.

Raam is the zenith of the heavens; Raam is the nadir of the mind.

-

The landsaint’s barracks were on the other side of the river from the bulk of the surface town. A sandstone-brick arch crossed the flowing coppery water to the sandrock formation on the other side which hid the town. Only smoke vents and tall crimson banners revealed its presence to the observant.

Imreb followed the worn road to the north gate: two enormous slabs of engraved sandstone, presently cracked wide enough for single-file trade caravans. Nodding at the guards, who bowed gently at her presence, Imreb slipped between the rear of a grain-bearing wagon and a beast of burden behind to enter the city.

Under rays of morning light slanting through cracks in the west, the huts carved from the sandstone gleamed bright. Smoke from last night’s recently-extinguished braziers filled the air, the perfume of foreign wood and ash leaving behind a thick pale haze. But through the haze one could easily see the brightly-colored murals, frescoes, and graffiti impressed upon nearly every open flat surface of the cavern.

Imreb nearly ran into a Greshtal carrying a crate of produce, but ducked just in time thanks to her saint’s reflexes. The caravan she’d followed in was being unloaded, state supplies being doled out to various warehouses and storerooms, and trade goods being delivered to the nearby elevator to the underground.

Imreb passed a Dromag laborer toting a great pot of spice as big as she was. With each step the overfull pot dashed fine ruddy powder into the air, a fair amount clinging to the Dromag’s beard. It didn’t seem to bother her, but Imreb caught a whiff and wondered how it couldn’t, unmistakable the hot, pungent smell of kezzac root. Imreb quickly zipped away from the puffs of dust and pursued a nearby passage to the right.

Imreb followed the graffiti-scrawled alley along the outer rim of the rock-cliff’s cavern, occasionally passing shafts of light from the left where the alley opened up into one of the major chambers. The rest of the way was darkness – but the eyes of a saint, blessed by Raam, saw light where it was scarce. The alley curved first west, then south, and the dim graffiti grew more and more desperate and more and more profane as Imreb neared the southside.

Finally the passage opened up into the south gate cavity, the old market. Most merchants had fled underground long ago, but a handful still stubbornly remained, like the old jeweler, Glaa’ib. He sat on a stool in front of his small shop, whistling tunelessly and stirring a kettle with a stick – both spoon and pestle. He was close enough to the gate to catch the morning breeze, but just out of the sun’s harsh light to hold onto the cool shade. 

He stopped whistling and raised a great red-and-black Dromag hand to wave Imreb over. “Saint, saint!” he cried with his old raspy voice, a pitch higher than Imreb’s ears would have liked. “Come, come! Breakfast is near ready, and a good blessing is needed!” 

Imreb crossed the empty old market to the elderly Dromag, his sparse shock of still-red hair glistening with condensed steam from the brass kettle. She took a look inside, but the smell told her long before what he was cooking: mashed and stewed and mashed-again silc beans, the grey flesh of the blue legumes thickening endlessly into a dense, viscous paste, popular among elderly Dromag whose teeth have lost their edge.

Indeed, Glaa’ib grinned at Imreb, his once-pointed teeth now rounded like tombstones. “A pleasure, a pleasure! Moreso when the miisilc is blessed, yes?”

Blessing food was a formality; it was nowadays known that many factors played into the safety of food, and none were spiritual. But the saints and priests allowed the faithful to still believe. Imreb held her hand over the kettle, in the cooler upper reaches of the steam, and mumbled a prayer to Raam, and to Byilo, old Saint Holy of Right Cuisine.

“A pleasure twicefold, saint!” Glaa’ib reached behind for a cracked and chipped bowl. He gave the miisilc a last good pound with the spoon-pestle and used it to tear off a steaming glob of slop into the bowl, and offered it to Imreb. “Here, here, saint! Eat, eat!”

Imreb glanced at the grey mush with barely-hidden fear. “No, thank you, Glaa’ib.”

“No, no, saint!” said Glaa’ib with a shake of his head, his red-and-white beard swaying back and forth. “No harsh spices. You are Aajakiri, I know such flavors do not favor you.” He extended the bowl further.

“Thank you, Glaa’ib, but I’m fine.” Imreb tried to push away the bowl.

“Oh, oh, of course!” Glaa’ib exclaimed, withdrawing the bowl. “The saint likes it sweet!” The Dromag reached to the side for a small pot of white powder. With his large hand he grabbed a mighty pinch of sugar and poured it into the bowl, then offered it again.

“Glaa’ib, no!” said Imreb, nearly losing her patience. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.” It was a lie, but she’d rather starve than try to swallow miisilc, no matter how sweet.

Glaa’ib’s smile finally fell a bit, hiding more of his teeth. “Very well, saint,” he said, taking the bowl for himself. He dipped a couple of fingers into the miisilc to scoop up a bit of the bean-paste. “How may I –” he stuck his fingers in his mouth and began chewing, “– helb you?”

Imreb sighed. “Tell me about your recent apprentice.”

Glaa’ib groaned. “Goo’ stuff,” he mumbled through his chewing.

“...Glaa’ib?”

“Sorry, sorry,” mumbled the Dromag after he swallowed. “Mrogem, you mean. Nasty brat. No eye for detail. Couldn’t tell emerald from peridot, sapphire from aquamarine, diamond from quartz – much less cut anything right. Told him so one day and he got so angry, I never saw him again.” He wielded his spoon-stick like a club. “Give the boy his dues, I would, if he dared come back!”

“No weapons,” warned Imreb.

“Oh, it’s just my stir-stick,” said Glaa’ib, returning it to his kettle. “Don’t contort yourself.”

Imreb pulled the flawed thoughtstone from her pocket; she winced at its speech, having forgotten to brace her brow-plates. She showed it to the jeweler. “Did he cut like this?”

With his cleaner hand Glaa’ib took the sapphire and gave it a brief once over. “Hm. Looks similar. Seems he’s still been practicing, but it’s still shit.” He brought the sapphire closer and squinted. “Is this thing filled?” he asked, shaking his head. “Raam above, why’d you use it?”

“I didn’t fill it,” said Imreb. “Someone else did. I’m trying to figure that out.” She held out her hand to take back the sapphire. “Do you testify this is Mrogem’s handiwork, Glaa’ib?”

“I so testify, saint,” said Glaa’ib, handing back the thoughtstone. (She wiped it quickly on her sleeve before putting it away again.)

“Do you know where I might find Mrogem?” Imreb asked.

“Cursed if I know,” Glaa’ib admitted. “Maybe ask some of the young Dromag?” he suggested. “You know the rascals, too big for their feet. Barely grown their beards in, scrawling profanities on the walls. Like, like…”

“Kheloz, perhaps?” offered Imreb, optimistic.

“Yes, yes! He’s one of their lot. He might know where to find blasted Mrogem.”

“Thank you, Glaa’ib. You’ve been very helpful. Blest day.”

“And you, saint, a blest, blest day!” returned Glaa’ib, but Imreb had already turned to leave.

-

This ancient dune overlooking the fields flanking the Heljaar river as it wound its way east to the distant coast was Imreb’s favorite place to meditate. But her eyes were open, scanning the landscape before her, discerning discrepancies. Raam was high in the sky at his apex, his light harsh upon Kolqust, but illuminating the river’s arc like the bent swords of ancient desert tenvo, a wicked streak of bronze, ending in a sharp point on the distant horizon.

Before the farmland disintegrated into sand, the fields of precious crops clung to the precious coppery water. The fingers of grain and stalks of beans danced to the tune of the wind rolling down the river’s course. She listened to that familiar sound, and her mind began to drift towards contemplation…

Wait. Her ears twitched as she focused her hearing. That wasn’t the song of the wind – not entirely. There was a distinct melody hovering over the land, almost haunting it. She slid down the dune to follow the tune.

Tracing the small irrigation rivulets separating the fields, she located the source: a young Dromag in a fallow field plucking at his tellish, a stringed instrument with three courses of two strings each, a seventh drone string, and a wide, deep body. Unnoticed, Imreb listened silently.

It was a deep-desert Kolqusto ballad Imreb didn’t know the words to. The player didn’t, either, or else didn’t want to sing for some other reason. He played soulfully, jostling the tellish on some notes for extra vibrato. His large fingers gracefully danced upon the frets, wringing from this piece of molded wood and wrought metal one of the sacred blessings of the world: music.

“Kheloz.”

The musician missed a note, spoiling the composition. He stopped and craned his neck to see Imreb. “You’re a very sneaky saint,” he observed with a sigh.

“And you’re a wonderful tellish player,” she added.

“I imagine,” Kheloz said, laying down his instrument flat on his lap, “that you’re not here to compliment me. Is it about the thoughtstone from yesterday? I don’t have it on me.”

Imreb’s listening brow-plates said he was lying, but she decided not to pursue it. “Not that,” she said. “I’m looking for someone. A friend of yours.”

Kheloz fiddled with the strings idly. “I’ve got a lot of friends. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“A Dromag,” said Imreb, “by name of Mrogem. Apprenticed under Glaa’ib the jeweler.”

“Not for very long,” Kheloz muttered. “Yeah, I know him. Deep-desert bastard. Bet the ‘prentice job was a grift. He’s always on some grift.”

Imreb squatted next to seated Kheloz. “Where could I find him?”

“And why should I tell you?”

Imreb narrowed her eyes, her brow-plates contorting in what she hoped the young Dromag would recognize as a threat-display. “Because I’m your landsaint.”

He met her eyes for a moment, but didn’t seem to take notice of her brow-plates. He stared back for a moment before relenting, looking down at his tellish. “Yeah, yeah…fine.” He nodded his head towards the main rock of the above-ground city. “Like I said, he’s deep-desert. But he lives away from his tribe, in some ruins a few miles south of town, all by himself. I’ve never been there, so that’s all I know, saint.”

Imreb stood, wiping dirt from her legs. “Do you stand by this testimony?”

Kheloz sighed, and gave his tellish a dissonant strum. “I so testify,” he groaned, as if his mother had just ordered him to bed.

“Good, good. Blest day, Kheloz.”

“Blesdy, saint.”

-

Raam hung low in the east, nearly over the lip of the world, casting the desert into bifurcate shades of bruise: the sky a deep purple, the sand a vibrant orange. The concentric azure flowers of the tall gyec cactus took their cue to bloom under the now-visible swarms of spirits above. To the distant northwest the land began to rise, first as tall dunes, then high foothills, then farthest away, the silvery cliffs and peaks of the Raamo mountains at the center of Aurenna, wherefrom the holiest of priests officiated in their sacred temples.

A sudden evening breeze came down the side of a nearby dune, casting a spray of fine sand in Imreb’s direction. She squinted her eyes, tightened the scarf covering her mouth and nose, and fluttered her brow-plates to keep their crevices clear. Heading out deep-desert was far from ideal, but it was part of her duty as landsaint of Ab’Heljaar and its surrounds.

She knew little of the desert here, save for a handful of landmarks. To the west were the relatively recent ruins of an abandoned fort, from a few centuries ago when Kolqust was first conquered and established as a temple-state. Farther south were a few more-ancient remains, long since mostly-buried by the sand. The deep-desert tenvo say this land was not always desert, and that a great empire, counter to the ancient Dromag to the north and Aajakiri to the west, once spread across the fertile plains and forests. They claim the rising of the central mountains by Raam cut them off from rain somehow, and the deep-desert tenvo descendants of that empire still curse his sacred name.

There were a couple ruins that Imreb could think of that matched Kheloz’s description, so she sought them out, following dune-valleys south.

There was a sudden rumbling of the sand beneath Imreb’s feet, and she panicked for a second. Had she wandered into a sinkhole, or quicksand? But the rumbling moved away, and a few yards to her right she saw a sandfish, larger than she was tall, its sand-dusted scales glistening in the dusklight, emerge from the ground, followed by another, and another. An entire school of them swam past, each breaching briefly in turn, reaching twice Imreb’s height into the air. They kicked up sand upwind, so she had to flutter her brow-plates again.

Imreb had heard stories of deep-desert tenvo taming these strange beasts, and riding them across the sands. But she doubted it was really possible, for more reasons than she could count. But she had also heard of the feats of the skytrout cavalries of the western swamps (difficult to imagine such a wet place, out here), how they sailed the skies from pond to pond. So maybe such things were possible.

As she watched the sandfish school swim away, she caught a glimpse of a pillar of smoke through the clouds of dust they stirred up. She changed direction and strode through the sand towards it.

Mostly buried in the side of a dune was part of an ancient edifice of worn sandstone brick, a sunshade embedded in the sand held up by pillars engraved in an unfamiliar hieroglyphic. There was a bedroll and collection of reed baskets and clay pots tucked in the covered nook, but right outside was the remains of a fire – still smoldering, so not long extinguished. A half-cooked desert rodent (Imreb guessed the long-tailed gweld) was still strung from a spit over the warm embers.

Cautiously Imreb inspected the camp, also scanning the surroundings for signs of life, but found none. But it seemed obvious to her that someone had very recently been here.

She checked out the reed baskets and clay pots, and their contents. One had the flour of the benquc tuber, seemingly for making gruel in the dirty pot nearby, or flatbreads in the filthy pan next to it. Two small pots next to it held white powders – presumably salt from a nearby salt-plain and sugar extracted from cactus sap. Another basket had foul-smelling dried sandfish steaks, a deep-desert delicacy that nearly turned Imreb’s stomach from the stench. Another held nearly spoiled gyec cactus berries – but maybe the owner planned to make gyec wine from them, it wasn’t clear.

In the darkest corner of the recess, Imreb’s saint-eyes caught a glimpse of another basket. As she neared it, her brow-plates reacted harshly, nearly recoiling completely into her head. She took a look inside: gems of every kind and shape, some filled, some not, some flawed and leaking, some not. They spoke in a horrible chorus of pain, the cacophony like listening to the entire night sky all at once, but so much worse.

She reached in to grab a thoughtstone, but her instincts kicked in as she heard a subtle shuffling of sand behind her. She whipped around, calling upon earth spirits to turn her hand to stone. 

She caught the rough blade aimed at her head with a hardened palm, wrapping her fingers around it before it glanced off completely. Her attacker was a wiry-bearded Dromag with a shaved head, wielding a bronze “self-defense implement,” and clearly shocked at Imreb catching it so effortlessly.

Still holding the weapon, Imreb ducked low, sweeping a leg under the Dromag’s, knocking him flat on his back, simultaneously wrenching the blade from his hand. She tossed the sword into the air, flipping it to catch it by the hilt. Before the Dromag could catch his breath, the tip of the sword was pointed at his throat.

“Mrogem,” Imreb said, “you’ve just attacked a saint.”

Mrogem looked into her eyes to verify, and fear washed over his face, tightening the lines of his brow. But he returned, “I’ve just attacked a stranger snooping around my belongings. That’s defense of property, saint or no saint.”

“Perhaps try diplomacy next time,” Imreb suggested, “before immediately reaching for a blade.” She pointed back at the thoughtstone-filled basket. “What use does a Dromag have for so many thoughtstones?”

“What?” Mrogem glanced quickly at the basket in the shadowed corner. “Those’re just random gems I found. Honest.”

Imreb sighed and pointed at her brow-plates. “Don’t you recognize an Aajakiri when you see one? I can’t help but hear those leaking ‘stones.”

“Leaking?” Mrogem’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean? They’re cut just fi-” He shut himself up before incriminating himself further.

“‘Just fine,’ hm? You don’t cut as well as you think.” Imreb pulled out the leaking sapphire from her pocket and tossed it down to Mrogem.

He caught it in his hands – albeit clumsily – and looked it over. “Looks fine to me,” he said.

“Glaa’ib was right,” mumbled Imreb just loud enough for Mrogem to hear. “You have no eye for gemcutting.”

“Saint Imreb?”

Imreb planted a foot firmly on Mrogem’s chest before turning toward the speaker, stood at the top of the dune. It was her ‘sworn, the Greshtal Ulashkr. “Ulashkr?” Imreb called back. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was seeking out Nojjeth to honor my vow,” he said solemnly.

“Good,” said Imreb with a nod. “I’ve just honored mine. Help me bind this tenvo and I’ll help you finish honoring yours.”

“I’ve already honored it,” said Ulashkr, his face a grim mask. He pointed east. 

Against the black backdrop of the newly fallen night, Imreb saw crimson carrion birds circling in the sky.

“No…”

-

Thus spake Walfa, Saint Holy of Right Burial, as she was buried:

“It is the blessing of the dead to walk no more.”

[tyresdeg]

josef newgarden | 24 hours of daytona 2024

[intcritus]

He was on his sixth bowl of rice, seasoned minimal but fluffy and warm. Haha-ue really knew how to cook it just right for his reawakened palette. He wasn't to say that all foods were bad, just bland, to a tongue that's been eating the same shit for hundreds of years, it was tiring. As he sat at the table, well rested, bathed, pampered and now filling his stomach - he wasn't at all bothered by the presence of the Uchiha-kai, they were a welcomed warmth. He seemed to slip into the family much easier than he thought himself too…

Though, as he filled his cheeks with rice for the nth time, he chewed in thought and sat up a touch when the conversation lulled abit due to them eating themselves. "May I ask what a Summon is and used for?" His bowl was lowered out of politeness, tea instead taken to be sipped upon and savoured at the moment as he raised his empty bowl towards Haha-ue when she came back for collection with a few other Uchiha's.

As she was giving him another bowl of the glorious grain, he moved to show off the inked tattoo upon his bicep to his family. Contract, as clear as day in its ink formed writing. "I was graced with a creature that came from someone but serves me due to naming it. How does one summon and look after it?" As he didn't know much ninjutsu, or magic in that manner, he could only ask the experts here.

Mikoto loved making sure her family had more than their fair share of food, feeding them means they were not going without and considering Kenta was practically skin and bones, she would not stop filling his bowl until he could eat no more. The fact that he silently asked for more rice merely smiled, collecting other bowls on her way back to the pot. The lull in conversation from the others in the kitchen let her hear his inquiry, a hum in her throat. Most of the Uchiha looked at each other then down to the ink on his skin in amusement and awe. It wasn’t often the deities assigned summons, especially not one as powerful as the one etched into Kenta’s skin. But before any of them could say anything, Amateratsu and Tsukuyomi glided into existence, Amateratsu pouring more tea for Kenta before ruffling his hair with a grin. 

❝ ━ Ohayō, my loves. ❞ She chirps, going around to give headpats and hugs to those she had seen days prior. Is it a common occurrence for the deities to show up ? Not really, but they were always around so it wasn’t a surprise to some of the older Uchiha in the vicinity. Amateratsu settles down after a moment with her own cup of tea, ❝ ━ A summon is life companion, someone to protect you when you cannot do it yourself. It’s essentially a friend that you cannot part with, someone that’ll grow with you while having it’s own autonomy. Aoku, the summon in question, was gifted to you by my brothers. From their perspective, you deserved a gift. Aoku is an incredibly powerful summon, one that can be used for a great many things, protection, errands, or if you need someone to bounce ideas off of. He’s intelligent, mouthy and extremely loyal. ❞

Tsukuyomi hums in affirmation as he takes the tray from Mikoto, doling out the rice bowls and setting Kenta’s infront of him, ❝ ━ Most summons are a rite of passage for most of this family, they range from imoogis, actual dragon eggs, tengu, and so forth. They are a lesson in perseverance, but in your case, you prayed at my shrine once, and while the summoning contract was accidental on Susanoo’s part, we don’t take it back. Aoku will be your right hand, your blade, your conflicting thoughts but he will always be your companion first and foremost. ❞

There’s a pause as he sets the tray back on the counter, leaning against it as moonlit strands tumble over his shoulder, pale eyes glimmering with power. ❝ ━ You need only say his name or think of him and Aoku is summoned. He also responds to the lightest flicker of your emotions. If you’re distressed, he will be summoned. As for looking after him, it’s more accurate to say he will look after you. Aoku is old, he can and will hunt for himself if he needs sustenance but I suppose it’s not farfetched to say that you can preen him, give him praise and talk to him. Nothing too strenuous, child, he is afterall, self-sufficient.❞ Tsukuyomi hid a smile at Amateratsu’s quiet yelp, pulling her hand away from the pot and Mikoto’s wooden ladle, a sheepish smile before she comes back to join the others.

❝ ━ You, child, ❞ Amateratsu drops a kiss to the top of Kenta’s head, ❝ ━ have nothing to worry about. You can share thoughts, he’s good for information scouting too. ❞

Mikoto came over as well, shooing both deities to proper seats so Kenta could eat in peace without them hovering, ❝ ━ In short, Aoku and you will learn about each other, you will grow together, and you will take care of each other. If you need to fly, he will be your wings and if you need aid, he will be that for you.Its a lot to take in, but get to know him as he will know you, okay? Now eat, you’re still too thin.  ❞

kenta gets a forever buddy, again. | @nvrcmplt

[subjectivemortality]

vegetables were a psyop created by Dole company to sell more cans of peas (which are fruit seeds) and asparagus (flower stalks)

all of the foods we call vegetables actually fall under more specific (and more accurate) classifications such as tuber, flower, or even grains. "vegetable" is a made-up classification based more in marketing than in science

[thornfield13713]

You mentioned you have a HoF who ends up with Bethany? Can you tell us anything about their relationship?

I do - Belath Mahariel, who romanced Alistair in the game, then he sacrificed himself killing the Archdemon. After dumping her to be king. She was eighteen when she went to fight the Blight, so she and Bethany are of an age, and neither of them wanted to be Wardens, and that was part of what brought them together once they were.

As for telling you things...I do have a piece about them that I wrote a year or two back, for a codex entries challenge that I wanted to have everything done for all my characters in before I released it. That didn't work out brilliantly, but here it is.

Dear Bethany,

Thank you for your letter - I wasn’t sure whether I’d hear from you again until you were back at the Vigil, but you did write back, so now I’m writing this. Which you know, because you are reading this. Creators, I’m bad at this. I just got your letter this morning coming back into the Keep - you know letters always arrive in one big job lot for some reason, so finding a letter from you in between all the letters of complaint about how we’re going to pay for this year’s grain dole and people asking for the Wardens’ help with one problem or another was a very nice surprise. Seneschal Garavel said the letter had been sitting there for a week already, while we were away on the Storm Coast, so probably you’ve already found these dwarves who were trying to kill you - at least, I hope you have. Please don’t die. I would miss you so awfully much if you did, and it doesn’t seem like a very good way to do it, anyway, being killed by a lot of carta dwarves after surviving the Deep Roads, the Joining and every bit of trouble we’ve been through since.

I know it must be difficult going back to Kirkwall, especially with your sister there. Do you think the carta dwarves were after you because of her? Only, we haven’t had much trouble with the carta since before your time with us, that I can remember, and I can’t think of anything they’d want that they could get by killing Wardens. Are you sure you can’t take Nathaniel along? Your sister will probably take some of her friends, so it seems only fair. I know by the time you get this you’ll have gone anyway, whether you take Nathaniel or not, but I don’t like the thought of you being alone. Even with your sister. Maybe especially with your sister. Speaking of sisters, I know it’s not a fair thing to ask, but if you’re going to be in Kirkwall anyway, and if you haven’t left before you get this, could you check in on Merrill for me? Just so I know she’s okay. I know she can look after herself, but Kirkwall is…well, you know what Kirkwall is like more than I do.

I suppose you’ll want to know what we were doing on the Storm Coast that made me late to answer your letter - Teyrn Cousland sent a letter saying they’d had problems with Blight sickness up there, but we couldn’t find any record of a Deep Roads entrance in the area, which is pretty worrying. Well, I took Velanna, Sigrun and Oghren and went up there to check on things, and Cousland was right. Three or four full villages with outbreaks of the Taint. We recruited where we could, of course, to save as many lives as possible - I never thought I’d be all right with that. But it’s different, when you give people the choice. Some of them chose to stay, and die, but some joined us, so there’ll be some new faces in the Wardens when you get back. We managed to find what was causing the outbreaks, too, though that is…a bit too sensitive to include in a letter like this, really, isn’t it? I’ll tell you when you get home, though. Er- I hope that’s okay. The ‘home’ bit, I mean. I know you didn’t want to join up, and the Vigil still doesn’t feel like home for you, but…back to the Vigil. I’ll just say back to the Vigil.

On the upside, while we were chasing ‘round after Blight sickness, I got to see a bit more of the Storm Coast. It really is beautiful up there. I’d never been in that part of the country before the Blight - it wasn’t somewhere my clan really went - but I wish we had. It’s very craggy, and very wet - it rained the whole two weeks we were there. All the way through. I’m not sure I caught sight of the sun once. Very pretty, though, and more than that, there’s a weyr of dragons living on one of the islands off the coast! It hasn’t caused much devastation yet, which is probably why it’s still there - it’s in a pretty remote part of the Coast, so hopefully it will continue to cause very little devastation so it can be left in peace to build up a breeding population - that was the other thing, it looked like the high dragon there was brooding. Sadly, I couldn’t get close enough to make sketches, but I took a cast of some of the drake footprints we found, and now that we know the population is there, I might go on another trip up that way when things are calm again. I haven’t been able to make a firm identification on the dragon breed yet, but it’s one of the breeds that breathes lightning, so my guess would be either a Vinsomer or a Northern Hunter. I do hope it’s a Vinsomer - the breed was completely wiped out by Nevarran dragon hunters centuries ago, and there haven’t been any reliable reports of a sighting of one since the species came back at the start of this Age. It’d be wonderful to know they were still around!

I was able to do some studies of other creatures while we were in the area, mostly just tuskets and spiders, nothing really exotic, but I found some prints and spoor that lead me to believe there might be giants in the area! Bann Mac Eanraig said when I asked that there are legends about giants in the region, but not much more than that - I suppose they must stay well away from inhabited areas and cultivated lands. That is the best way to survive when there are humans out there who want to kill you, ask any Dalish.

Sigrun said to thank you for the book you lent her before she left. Hessarian’s Spear, I think she said it was called? She’s going to bring it to the reading group the week you come back, so you’ll be able to talk about it with her then. She is also looking over my shoulder and complaining that I don’t know how to write a love-letter properly. Is this a love-letter? I mean, it is a letter, and I love you, but apparently that isn’t enough? And I’m supposed to write about how much I miss you and wish you were here. I mean, I do miss you and wish you were here, please don’t think I don’t wish you were here, I always wish you were here. But it sounds like I’m trying to make you feel guilty for not being here, which is the last thing I want - finding that thaig is important, and you’re the only one who can do it, even if it does mean you get attacked by carta dwarves with a grudge against your sister. Apparently that isn’t a very romantic thing to write either. I’m not really very good at romance. I just love you, and I want you to be safe. Or, since none of us are really safe, I want you to kill anything that tries to kill you before it can manage it. Maybe use that gravity thing you can do where things get sort of crushed under their own weight? I always thought that was rather clever.

Well, whatever you do to these carta dwarves, I’m sure it’ll be fantastically lethal. In the meantime, I’m going to have to wrangle with the nobles about the grain dole again. There’s a ship leaving Amaranthine that’s bound for Kirkwall tomorrow - I’ll send this letter with it. Hopefully you’ll still be in the city when it gets there, but if not, I’ve given the messenger your sister’s address. Hopefully that’ll be all right.

Good luck, lethallan,

Bel

Found among the personal belongings of Warden Bethany Hawke, 9:37 Dragon. The paper is thin and almost grey, and very soft to the touch, as if folded and unfolded many times.

[ghilan-maim]

15 for your inquisitor & their love interest? 🫶

15. soothing kisses ty ty! i'll be using my girl ellora lavellan and her man solas during the inquisition era, specifically after clan lavellan is wiped out!

this got away from me and is messy 700+ words that i pulled outta my ass in like the 30 minutes since i saw this so please take that with a grain of salt i havent written in a hot minute!

Her veins are alight—even more than when she has lightning crackling at her fingertips. It had been a rush of bone-deep frigidity before fury burned her to a sweltering heat. Her clan was dead, and sadness and tears would come in the wake of anger. It has, after all, always been the easiest of her emotions to wrangle. It shook through her fingertips as she flitted around her room in Skyhold, packing things here and there for a trip to Wycome.

Deshanna never taught her retribution, but she had learned it anyways. She can almost hear the ghostly whisper of her mentor telling her to cool her rage for who would it serve, how would it benefit the People. It means little to her, now. Her people were dead and gone now—what care did she need to have for the benefits of revenge when it would sooth her so completely?

She’d been meant to lead them, one day. Raised to shepherd them as Deshanna always had. But they were gone now—stolen, as so many elven lives have been.  It seemed a constant throughout history that her people were meant to suffer.

But now, she had power. She had the divine blessing of a dead woman she had no faith in. Who would question the herald of their beloved Andraste in doling out righteous justice? She angrily wipes at the wetness on her ruddy cheeks. Tears had never served her, but they certainly loved to taunt her. Always there at even a brush of strong emotion, disarming and distracting enough that she did not hear her vhenan until he’s just over her shoulder, a cool hand making her pause.

“Don’t.” She chokes out. There might have been a time when she’d have sent him away completely—where his wisdom and his calm would have done nothing more but see her oppose it at every turn. She didn’t have the energy to test him this time, to needle at him in a way that mirrored her earliest dismay towards him.

No, she simply lets her shoulders slump as he turns her to face him, white lashes tacky with tears and violet eyes blooming red. She’s a pitiful sight, one that she’d have liked to shield him from, but his eyes take her in with just as much awe as they ever do. He looks at her as if he can’t quite believe what he’s looking at, and she’s never sure how to feel about it.

“Vhenan,” He says the diminutive softly, his hands reaching for her cheeks as if she’s a spooked halla likely to bolt at any given reason.

“They deserve to pay, Solas.” Her throat is tight, and his brow furrows to match it. “Those shemlen hunted like animals! What use is being the herald of their Makers bride if I can’t use that power to get justice?” Her voice is a furious hiss, breathless for her tears but no less filled with conviction. She doesn’t want comfort, doesn’t want to give him the chance to talk her down. But her eyes flutter shut to the sensation of his thumbs gently wiping around them and she sways into him, clutching the fabric of his tunic and trying to keep her sobs in with a trembling lip.

“Yes, but do you deserve the burden of their blood on your hands?” He says with that insurmountable sadness that she’s noticed before—maybe one day she’ll know its source. For the moment, she is too busy fighting against herself and the comfort he offers, releasing her grip on his tunic to grab his wrists and move herself from his grasp. But when her eyes open again and the tears clear away, the look in his eyes makes her crumble.

She’s buried her face into his chest and let her grief shake through her bones, one anguished cry as he holds her close—not like something delicate and broken, never that, but with a firmness that anchors her to the moment, to him, to herself and all the regrets he knows would follow her rash plans. He whispers sweet nothings to her between kisses to her temple, across her hair.

His lips are a balm but hardly a cure, each soft touch that jostles at her crown sending a soothing shiver down her spine.

When she opens her eyes again, it’s to a dream much more pleasant than reality.

[cirolik]

Women call me the grain dole because I give them wheat and barley randomly