#he has become a wizened old man

[hearts-on-the-drumset]

before & after

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

I could say that ASOIAF is a very medieval lit story at heart and you’d be like, “well no shit Sherlock, tell me something I don’t know 🙄”.

And I’d say: “Ok bet. ASOIAF’s medieval core is best exemplified through Jon Snow and Bran Stark, two distinct yet mirrored iterations of one hero-knight whose origins can be traced to Percival and his magical quest. Both are Percival (and both are potentially the grail king) but one is as close a 1:1 copy as we can get (Jon) and the other is the Percival archetype completely flipped over its head before it even begins (Bran). Jon, by the author’s own admission, is the fantasy hero in the most traditional sense. He’s Percival who was inspired by the knights and left his mother’s castle to chase after chivalric glory (Jon III AGoT), only to find out that he has a massive misunderstanding of the knight’s purpose and honor (ACOK/ASOS arcs). No one told him of the ethical dilemmas involved with being a knight. No one told him that he could meet the fair maiden and either be completely incapable of helping her (Gilly) or help her, leave her, and be burdened by her death (Ygritte). No one told him how hard it would be to have his entire world view upended and upon going back to his fellow knights and saying ‘hey friends maybe we should all re-evaluate the system in which we operate and how it might be causing us to betray the vows we swore’ he’d be met with disdain. No one told him that, like Percival, he might look back to his mother’s home and see what has become of it (and his sister whom he left) and upon making the decision to go back to it he dies before he can even get his foot out of the gate. Percival made it back home and Jon might too, but where Percival still had his mother’s shirt to remind him of his boyhood Jon had to kill the boy because the fate of the world depended on it. Jon stumbles and rises, only to stumble again. But nonetheless, he gets to be a knight. But on the other hand, there’s poor Bran! He doesn’t even get to fail at being a knight in the first place because that storyline was fucking taken from him before he could realize his dream of leaving his mother’s home. Jon at least got his call to action. Bran’s dazzling dream of knighthood doesn’t even get off the ground (quite literally). He climbs, falls immediately, and once his eyes are awakened he realizes that he is now incapable of being Percival as he’d wish to be. There’s no battling evil knights. There’s no saving fair maidens. But then he’s visited by a wizened old man who’s like ‘hey Percival, you can never be a knight but I’ll teach you how to be a mighty wizard!’ And that would be cool and all….BUT BRAN WANTS TO BE A KNIGHT GODDAMNIT! When he auditioned for the medieval lit play, he picked up the Percival/Arthur script. Yet that’s not what he ultimately got when the cast list finally got out. Because who the fuck switched it out his hero-knight script for the Merlin one??! So now he has to try and figure out how to be a knight who’s actually a wizard, and it fucking sucks y’all.”

[lipglossanon]

♔ 𝔖𝔦𝔵 ♔

• A Dozen Roses • Fairy Tale AU •

Warnings: MDNI, dead dove, incest, possessiveness, abuse of power, mentions of suicide, depictions of bodily harm, off screen death

The King sends out a courier to every neighboring kingdom before you rise from your bed the next day. Your chambermaids are all a flutter, whispering amongst themselves in hopes you won’t hear anything. 

It doesn’t take long for your ladies-in-waiting to gather you from your rooms to walk with you down to the great hall. One of them discretely tells you that your Father is summoning all the lower court today for an announcement. Nerves make your hands jittery, but you keep your composure and walk sedately with your ladies. The tryst between you and the King left no physical marks and yet your entire body bears the moment deep in its bones. 

The lower court members are seated and gossiping when you enter the room. Many of the lords give you dark looks with their wives and daughters looking upon you with undisguised pity. Their judging eyes are nothing new, but the room is filled with an unspoken tension. Skirts rustling, your group of ladies block you from view as best they can, ushering you to your chair. 

Seated in your usual spot near the head of the table, you try to parse what the gentry are muttering to themselves but without luck. It’s all for naught as the room falls silent once the King enters with a couple of his knights. His cold eyes scan the table, landing on you for half a beat too long before shifting away to finish his perusal. 

Feeling satisfied with what he finds, your Father makes his way to the head of the table. You squirm in your seat, body feeling hot under your gown at the remembrance of his touches from the night before. Heartbeat thundering loudly in your ears, you try your best to school your expression into a mildly pleasant facade. Once he reaches his chair, the knights flank either side, all three now facing the people gathered. 

“Today is a day for celebration,” the King announces, voice clearly ringing out into the hall. “I have decided upon who shall have my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Your eyes drop to the clenched fists in your lap. It’s not like you didn’t know this day would come, but the betrayal of the King choosing someone after what you have given him is breath stealing. 

“She shall wed me and rule at my side as the new Queen.”

Gasps are the only thing to break the stony silence, everyone’s eyes now falling on you while you gaze wide eyed up at the man who has become your betrothed. 

“My liege,” a lord at the end of the table nervously stands. “It against the law is it not? To wed with one of your own line?”

A few other men stand from their seats, chiming in with agreement, pointing out their fellow clergymen who nod along with their claims. 

“Tis not right,” a wizened man steps completely away from the table. “You’ll smite us all with your blasphemous ways. We tolerated your witch wife, absolved of that sin when she took her own life.”

Your head jerks in his direction, “My mother?”

“Aye, lass,” a sneer crosses his weather worn face. “She communed with a devil and earned her fate on those cliffs. She—“

“Enough,” the King cuts off the old man’s tirade. He snaps his fingers and one of the knights leaves his side to roughly grab onto the ranting lord’s arm. 

“I know what you are,” spittle flies from his lips. “Coveting her damns us all. The spawn of that heathen—“

The King nods and the knight grasps the jaw of the elderly lord. Squeezing tightly, he wrenches the old man’s mouth open, and pulls a small dagger from his side. With one quick slice, the lord’s tongue falls to the floor with a wet splat, blood bubbling from his mouth like water in a fountain. 

It feels like time slows to a crawl. The old man cups his mouth, trying to stop the flow of blood and yet it drips like rubies from his wrists. A few ladies scream, including his wife, while the other lords who stood in solidarity slowly take their seats. The knight marches the elderly lord out of the hall, his garbled cries growing fainter until they are heard no more. 

“I will take your concerns into consideration,” the King levels his cool gaze at every person of the lower court. “But it is my divine right to choose what I will. Any insubordination will be met with a swift rebuke.”

He claps his hands and servants flood the hall with platters of food. 

“Now, let us rejoice. Enjoy this bounty provided by your King.”

He sits down, the knight standing at his side shifting to stand guard at his back. You’re unable to look at him any longer, questions running rampant in your thoughts. The old man spoke of your mother in a way you’d never heard before. Glancing down the long table, you catch sight of the man’s wife. Her glassy eyes staring vacantly at the far wall as maids quickly clean the mess left behind by her husband. 

Avoiding your Father’s gaze, you force yourself to take bites off of the plate prepared for you. The jangling of armor pierces the quiet as the other knight returns, blood coating his chainmail. Your stomach roils at the knowledge of why. 

Faking illness comes easily enough; you truly are not feeling yourself— it’s easily believed by your ladies-in-waiting so the King dismisses you to your chambers. Surprisingly, he does nothing more than kiss your knuckles as he bids you farewell. 

Stepping out of the hall, you wave down a serving boy to summon the newly widowed lady to your rooms. She arrives looking frightened and reluctant. It takes all of your willpower to adhere to decorum and not demand answers outright like a brute. 

The tale she weaves is bitter and sad; of a new bride found in the forest; whispers of her witch blood and the blood thirsty king silencing those who oppose. She speaks in urgent stilted sentences, telling you of the sadness that draped the new Queen like a leaden cloak. That she had another love before the King coaxed her away. The sudden news of a child growing inside her, a gift of their joining. 

The old woman clasps your hands in hers, a tight grip that makes your knuckles hurt. 

“Your mother tried to leave and your father couldn’t be seen as weak. He followed her to the sea. She would not return, even for the babe she bore. The King would have taken her by force if she did not jump. Some say she melted into the sea foam and still haunts those cliffs.”

A lady-in-waiting rushes in with scared eyes, warning of the King’s departure from the Hall. 

You thank the woman and gift her a brooch for her trouble. She straightens up and gives you a solemn nod before leaving your chambers. The maids bustle around you, ushering you into a chair and stoking the fire. You avoid their presence, the thinly concealed pity coating their tongues. 

Once they leave, you find your mother’s journal and begin to reread the passages in a new light. Your mother��knew she could not keep a journal secret from your father. All of her possessions were buried or burned in honor of her passing. Angry tears fill your eyes as you read over the description of her ancestors—your ancestors.  

From her writings, you now knew what it meant for her to give herself back to the sea. That old woman was right even if she did not know it; your mother melted into the foam like her mother before her and her mother before her. A note of longing and resentment that the forest witch could not do as such; that wood magic had its own rules that did not cede to the waves of her home. 

As the sun begins to set, a blistering determination blooms in your chest like a briar rose. You ready a small satchel of the items you think you’ll need: the little jewelry you own, your mother’s journal, the apples left near your table. Hiding it while you’re alone, you wait, and once the chambermaids ready you for bed and depart, you slip into the simplest dress you own and make your bid for freedom. 

You don’t have much of a plan, but you know that you cannot stay, not with these questions burning your mind. The forest witch is closest; hoping she yet still lives. 

It’s easier than you thought, making your way from your rooms to the edge of the garden in the dark. The guards patrol at intervals easily skirted around and the darkened forest beckons you into its shadowy arms. 

Taking a deep breath, you charge forward, hope a small flutter of wings. 

[lupinekvinen]

Double Trouble (Professor Black & Professor Lupin AU)

I can't get the idea of Sirius becoming the Charms professor in Harry's 4th year out of my head!! I read a fic ages ago which followed this idea but it has since been deleted and I can't find something that scratches the itch in quite the same way. I've never posted on here before but I figured I'd share the part I've written and see if anyone is interested!

The night of the 1st September, 1994 started off normally, that is to say, with the wide-eyed panic of dozens of eleven-year-old boys and girls. The juxtaposition of these statements was, of course, entirely lost on the occupants of Hogwarts – the scores of wizards and witches perched eagerly on their benches, watching each tiny eleven-year-old child be engulfed in the brown patchwork of a wizened hat, to be promptly directed to their housemates by a somewhat reluctant cheer from the respective table. 

In fact, the only seemingly strange event was the reappearance of Remus Lupin, Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. This was not odd in and of itself; during the previous year, Professor Lupin had been well-respected by staff and students alike. However, excited gossip amongst the students confirmed that – at a shocking rate of employee turnover – no Defence Professor had ever been known to last more than a year. With the rumoured curse surrounding the position defiantly disproved, hushed whispers erupted throughout the tables, only to be quickly silenced by the stern gaze of Professor McGonagall.

Amidst the chatter, few students paid any mind to a seat left empty. Though those who did noticed that Flitwick’s usual space was lacking any sign of the cheerful Charms Master.

As the final first years found their seats, curious eyes turned away from the faculty table to instead focus on more important matters – the overflowing dishes of roast potatoes, beef, and yorkshire puddings which were rapidly materialising from the kitchens below. A few glanced back towards the teachers, confused, finding Dumbledore’s failure to regale them with the standard ominous warnings regarding the forbidden forrest somewhat disconcerting. 

What was more disconcerting, however, was the sudden and rather thunderous boom of the solid main door being slammed open. The intruder – a well dressed, black haired man whose primary goal appeared to be making everyone jump out of their skin (at which he succeeded) – paid no heed to the minor property damage incurred. Instead, he chose to saunter through the entryway with the air of a catwalk model. 

Silence, it seemed, was not the reaction this man had been expecting. In spite of his less-than-warm welcome, his confidence did not appear to dissipate.

“Apologies for my late arrival, Albus.” His voice rang out, aristocracy clear in his eloquence. “I was delayed by… pressing business.” 

No one quite knew what to make of that. At the faculty table, Professor Lupin could be seen with his head in his hands. 

Silence. A pin drop, and then…

“Is that Sirius Black?”

[gacha99]

I did the Shamane event and I have to say his story is really gut wrenching T_T Even though it was super depressing, I found it be a really cool story nonetheless. I feel like Shamane's story is one about acceptance and moving on, as well as how to relearn your empathy for others after they've hurt you, or after your empathy has led you down the "wrong path".

His family situation is complicated, because he's constantly dealing with this inner turmoil and guilt over what happened because he feels like he was way too flippant about his families warnings against humans, and their need to stay away from humans all together. He feels that he is the one to blame for what happened to his family, even though it was humans that did that awful crime at the behest of Manus Vindictae.

Even when he's in that nightmare, he's looking for someone else to blame or someone else to point the finger at besides himself, which is why his mind keeps conjuring up Kumar even though he knows she wasn't even there that day.

But in actuality the only one to blame is the Manus, not Kumar or Shamane, or even Shamane's empathetic nature towards all things human or arcanist.

During the time we see him with the shaman, Shamane is trying to learn from this wizened old man who has made a place for himself in the wilderness. He respects and knows all of the rules of the place he's in, and he doesn't try to take claim over the land or food. When a sheep of his own gets captured by wolves, he stops Shamane from even helping because in his own words "No life should belong to me".

In a sense, he has learned how to adapt to the environment he's in and he respects the rules of the critters and animals in the forest, just as they respect him. To me, the old shaman that Shamane meets is a representation of the struggle that Mor Panhk faces with its Human and Arcanist community.

Unlike how Shamane learns from the shaman in the woods how to live peacefully among and with the nature around him, humans in this world cannot seem to trust or tolerate arcanists even if they "act civilly" (Hell, i'd even say Toothfairies story event was a prime example of how humans will never really respect or care for Arcanists even if their family is influential or rich) We never really learn the full extent of why those human friends of Shamane essentially betrayed him and decided to burn their tree down, but that lack of empathy towards Arcanists is what the Manus used to their advantage to have the tree burned in the first place.

I also think that the act of what the humans did and what the manus ordered them to do had such an effect on Shamane's family that it didn't allow for them to even love each other in that adversity.

The lack of empathy for others is ultimately the thing that led them to this path, not the other way around. And that's what Shamane learns from the shaman, and why he spends so much time learning how to live with the environment around him. Because he learns that everything around him is impacted by his own choices, and he has to try and walk in the shoes of a critter or a wolf to understand why they do what they do, rather than view them as monsters to be destroyed.

And even when his empathy for other creatures lands him hurt and injured once more, it doesn't matter because he still cares in the end and tries to help even a small little carbuncle. Shamane decides to offer up the empathy his family was never offered by humans, rather than let the actions of them ruin his own image of the world around him.

It's not really a story about forgiveness, but about how to heal and become a better person after you've faced a terrible action done toward you.

Anyways if I don't get him im gonna be so sad </3

[n1nchawrites]

Ancient Agony

The pain of a needle on skin. A black tear, on the right pectoral. He is a boy turned man; he has killed his first man today in the name of the Bethnals - the gang he has pledged his life to. Only eight years of life, and yet he has been wizened by life on the streets of Quintus.

The pain of a blade breaching flesh. The euphoria of a killing blow. The agony of a botched surgery in an alley. The pride of a second tear. He stands tall, carries himself with certainty and confidence; he believes he is invincible.

The weight of a pistol in his hands. The fear of discovery. The shadows cascade across his features. He rises from his hiding place. Four men fall to four cracks of an stub pistol. The thrill of carving off their tattoos with his pen knife. He returns to the Bethnals. His four tears were earned well that day.

The shame of discovery. The guilt of a conscience warped by five years of bloodshed. The shooting cramps of hunger. He sits in a cell. He waits. He hammers on his door and demands to eat, it has been days. The guard comes in. The raw agony of a boot to the jaw. He cries out, a hail of stomps and baton whacks rains down upon his form. He is left shivering and cold. There will be no food for the rest of the week.

The confusion of being selected. The strange dichotomy of feeling free yet caged. Bound by obligation. The training begins. He is stronger now, his senses sharp. The scalpel splits his flesh, he sleeps a dreamless slumber. The implant is placed within his body. He awakens new and improved.

They ask his name. He answers with his old name - his gang name. They beat him. They ask again. He answers with Alkhun. They ask who he is loyal to. He answers with the Bethnals. They beat him. They ask who he is loyal to. He answers with the Eighth Legion. With pain, obedience is reinforced.

They carve him open. New scars appear. Years pass. Decades. He is wearing the battle-plate of his Legion. He is a scout now. Pain holds a new meaning now; pain is not something to fear, it never was, but it has become something to relish: it tells him what he is doing wrong - not what he should fear, but what he should scorn.

The pain of a needle on skin. Over his left pectoral, the numeral 'VIII', and on his left shoulder, the fearsome symbol of his Legion, the baleful skull on demonic wings. He stares at his bare form in the mirror. Sick pride burns in his heart. He is a God amongst men.

He is an Astarte. He is proud to serve. He loves his brothers, despite how deranged some may be. The Bethnals are forgotten. He has found a new gang. He has found a new family.

Ambush. The bolter barks. A Xeno falls dead. Smoke trails from the gaping wound in its chest. He walks over to it. He notes tattoos plaster its grotesque form. Deja vu. His hand moves to his power blade instinctively. He shudders and walks away.

Hundreds of battles. Hundreds of wounds. Hundreds of agonies. He screams, he is lifted over the stubby body of the machine. He screams again, hate burning in his heart. The Xeno inside cackles maniacally, drunk on the power which the ramshackle contraption provides. He screams, feeling tension around his waist.

He awakens in the infirmary. The apothecary is speaking to him. He cannot focus over the pain. Where are his legs? He looks down. He sees tubes, cables, needles, and machines of healing. A word breaks through the haze of confusion and hurt. It makes his stomach - what is left of it - tie itself in knots. Dreadnought.

This pain is different. The cables run from his back to the various systems of the machine. Life support is offered by a giant node connected to his heart and running alongside the rest of the cables. His rebreather manually pumps air into his lungs. He feels weak. This agony is not just one of the body, but of the soul.

He enters a dreamless slumber. He is awoken. He kills. He enters this deep sleep once more. Is this all life has to offer anymore?

He is awoken. Hate burns inside of him. Life is naught but pain and distain. He is bitter. The Legionaries speak to him. They speak of abandonment, of betrayal. He agrees. The Emperor forsook him long ago. It would have been better to die a hero than live a husk.

He watches Nostramo burst apart. It is a strange feeling. Meaningless words bubble up to the forefront of his mind. Quintus. Tattoos. Family. Bethnal. Bethnal? A nonsense word. A nonsense word, yet he cannot help but feel the prickle of a tear rolling down his haggard face as he remembers it.

He slumbers. He wakes. He kills. He slumbers. He wakes. He kills. He slumbers. He wakes. He kills. He loses himself to the maelstrom of hatred which festers inside of him. He doesn't even bother to know who or where he is fighting. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

The Legion wakes him up. They are at the gates of Sol. He fights with contempt the likes no man can rival. He is invincible.

He marches on Terra. He stands atop a mound of bodies. Their armour is drenched in blood, he cannot tell who their allegiance was with. Around him, chaos reigns. Thousands die by the minute. He takes a moment to bask in the atmosphere. A war horn blares distantly. The Dies Irae. He cannot count the men that have fallen to his weapons array on this day alone. He can hear something. The muffled weeping of an infantryman. He lies bloody, pinned by a corpse, presumably a brother in arms. He looks up to the Night Lord and begs for mercy, or at the very least a swift death. Alkhun grants him that wish.

The war continues. The Great Angel lies dead. The Warmaster has perished. The Astarte retreats with his Legion, fleeing as the tide turns. What was once burning hate is now sorrow. He reflects on himself as they evacuate. This pain he feels. This hate he feels. This grief he feels. What kind of monster has it made of him?

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

[fireemblems24]

Scarlet Blaze Ch 15 (Final)

Last one, everyone! After this, I finally get to play Spiritfarer which I got on . . . Christmas 2022.

NARRATION

Last chapter. Finally. Killing so many people in this route is really awful. Especially since you just . . . don't in the other two.

I think the last chapter will take place at the monastery.

Oh, great, does this mean I have to protect Bernie's dad in this route? I hope Rhea kills him, like gets this badass cut scene where she cuts him down for perverting her faith by using it as a propaganda tool.

So TWSITD showed up and is attacking Rhea and the Empire.

They're mostly after the "beasts" (aka Nabateans? Or humans?)

I wish this meant that we teamed up with Rhea, but we know Edelgard would team up with TWSITD first.

Catherine and Rhea got a cool moment together though.

Yep, we have to protect Count Varley, gross.

MAP

No side battles! This final chapter will be super quick, which is nice.

I'm VERY curious what the Golden Deer students say after Claude's moment last chapter lamo.

And if any Lions mention Sylvain :((((

OMG, Ignatz is savage. He only cares about painting the battle. No mention of Claude.

Yuri wishes he could kill Varley instead of save him. Good for him. He really feels more suited for AG/AM/SS/VW than SB/CF/GW.

Well, at least Mercedes mentioned Sylvain. And Ingrid and Annette. Saying they died for what they believed in and admires them for it, since she could never.

Poor Ashe is having a crisis. Still had no idea wtf he's doing in the Empire's war camp. Honestly, this game made him so much more interesting.

Linhardt also has no fucking clue why he's here. I swear he does nothing but complain every map (in a funny way) and wish he was doing literally anything else.

Lorenz is more concerned about his future bc of Claude than worried about him. Man, guy really has no one loyal to him lol.

DOROTHEA & CASPAR C

I swear I did a much better job getting supports in GW and AG.

Caspar has a bunch of books, and Dorothea's horrified by the idea that he'll use them in training.

Caspar plans to read them. Dorothea teases him. Apparently Lin made similar comments.

Dorothea makes him promise not to hurt the books. A woman after my own heart.

Caspar's like, did you know my dad reads! Dorothea's like, yeah . . . how do you think he got his role if he didn't.

Dorothea tells a story about an unlearned commander who studied strategy in books and improved to become legendary.

The only stupid part of this is thinking you can read and understand complicated books in 5 days and become an expect in 5 days. For once, Caspar was the smart one being like, uh, I need more time.

MERCEDES & LYSITHEA B

This support is SB locked, but neither characters are Eagles. It may be the only support like that in the game. But, hey, new Mercie content, I'll take it!

Mercedes comes across Lysithea in the kitchen, trying and failing to cook.

The fruits she wanted to use are moldy though. Lysithea has an idea to use something else for the fruit - a sugar syrup.

Lysithea has dedicated her time to learning how to cook because of how good Mercedes' cooking was, so she credits Mercie for the sugar syrup, which she learned because of that.

Baking also helped Lysithea learn the importance of taking breaks.

Mercie calls her a wizened old grandma, lol.

They arrange a tea party.

SHEZ & LINHARDT A

It starts with Linhardt saying they haven't learned anything about Shez's powers. I wonder how funny this sounds if you get it after the special chapters.

Linhardt says it's find because the war is almost over, so there's less need and chance for the powers to go out of control.

Shez pretty consistently wants to continue working as a mercenary after the battle.

He also seems to have no desire to stay in Enbarr lol.

Linhardt wants Shez as a personal bodyguard. Honestly, not a bad choice.

Then Linhardt says something like "spending the rest of my life with some random bodyguard" and then makes an excuse to leave. so he wants to stick with Shez for life. It's kind of sweet.

EDELGARD & PETRA A

Their only support

Edelgard comes across Petra praying to Bigid gods. In Brigid they pray in nature rather than in churches in Fodlan.

Edelgard asks Petra why she's risking her life in the war because it's bad for Brigid.

So Brigid will only be freed if Petra remains alive.

To be fair, it's because she doesn't know the new leader. Still feels a bit icky for Petra.

Edelgard warns about "tricks" the enemy will use. She really has a beef with anyone using tactics.

Petra just says she's happy to fight and can't run while everyone else remains and fights.

Edelgard says she can't back out, which true, but she could've just not started one. But that's in the past I guess.

Overall, came across better than the Houses one where Petra didn't seem like an equal.

EDELGARD/LYSITHEA/HAPI PARALOGUE

My plan is to have Edelgard and Shez make the other two adjuncts and see if I can't beat the paralogue that way.

It's about TWSITD, which isn't surprising given that character list.

God, I've made SB Shez so fucking stupid. Never understanding anything. It's so funny.

So is this about Cornelia? They found one of her old hideouts.

I had Shez shrug about joining. Hapi got offended.

They're talking about Hubert. I wish he was here. He's my best unit.

I wish Cornelia showed up. She's so fun, but sadly she did not.

They didn't find anything. Hapi was mostly chill about it. Edelgard and Lysithea were more bothered.

Shez could show concern or change the subject. Obviously I made him change the subject since SB!Shez is not intelligent.

CASPAR/LINHARDT PARALOGUE

Like the last time, I just plan to adjunct Caspar and let Shez and Linhardt do all the work.

They're arguing if Caspar saw a ghost or not. Linhardt remains unconvinced.

Lamo, their dads showed up and Linhardt's dad called him a "fountain of positivity" when he brought up their could die any day.

Linhardt is also upset that he has to help.

We're hunting down Empire people who've turned against Edelgard.

I had Shez not want to go lol.

The main battle changed to defeating their dads. I don't think I'm supposed to take this paralogue seriously.

Linhardt had no fun.

Bergliez gave Caspar some gaunlets, and I could either be happy for him or jealous. I obviously picked jealous since it's fun to pick the dick answer lol.

FINAL BATTLE

Why is the S rank reward Edelgard's axe? This is the last battle, right? Is there some post game stuff? Because I'm so ready for this to be done (I don't think I'll do it).

Funny, Edelgard is the one defending the monastery this time, and Varley. Imagine your final battle being about protecting Varley. Ugh.

Only 40 points for the final battle?

Just killed Catherine :(

Cyril just showed up. Rhea's so concerned. Not looking forward to killing a child :((( He died too. This is by far the bloodiest route. I swear no one even dies in AG, and in GW it's only Sylvain's dad.

This can't be it, right? That was too easy. And Cyril as the final boss makes no sense. I'm betting it's a Thales and Rhea fight.

Rhea turned into a dragon. Badass. Glad she was the final boss poper and not Thales.

Spoke too soon. I think they're both here now.

Think I beat it. We're at a cut scene now. Thales is doing magic shit. Rhea attacked him and just ignored Edelgard and Shez like they weren't worth her notice lol.

Wait, that's it?

Rhea pushes Thales off a cliff? So RHEA's the hero??

There's no way they could've survived that - Edelgard. My girl, Rhea is a fucking dragon and Thales can warp. I have bad news from you. Also, Byleth survived a fall too so . . .

What happened to Dimitri? I don't think I killed Claude either?

Is that really it? The war just keeps going. The war just keeps on with no end in sight. Hahahaha. You mean I played how many hours for THAT? I'm going to laugh my ass off if all 3 routes end like this. What a cheap way to avoid killing any of the lords.

OMG. What a stupid ending.

Except for Rhea. She got the big hero moment lol.

I kept waiting for another battle. Esp since there's an S rank reward that's Edelgard's axe, so Idk what's going on.

OMG, this is going to take FOREVER. They're showing the MVP of every single side battle and not just the main ones. I'm only at ch 6.

There was a lot more variety in MVP than I thought. I thought it would be the Hubert show, but it's pretty varied.

Ok, so around ch 10 turns into the Hubert show. I like seeing battle data though, so I sat through it.

Ok, so you get a letter from the person you get a whistle from. Aww, I eventually won Hubert's trust, and he admits he and the army needs us. Glad I picked him.

Wait, no paired endings? That blows. I hope this isn't a new trend since Engage didn't do that either (I love paired endings)

Ok, so it looks like some stuff would carry over to another playthrough on this file. So, in the future, I'd replay AG over my GW or SB playthrough to at least get 2 on the same one. I can't see myself replaying SB or GW. It's not like the story would matter since I could just skip it, but the gameplay is pretty much the same, so why not play the route with my favorites and the most unit choices on top of that?

So you can carry over supports and even unit level. So I could play Dimitri as the absurd level he's at in level one if I saved over my AG file? Because that would be funny. Probably boring. But funny.

Still feels good. One down. Two to go.

xxxx

[catcas22]

Would you think that leyndell is an absolute monarchy while Raya lucaria is a constitutional monarchy? And if so, should leyndell become constitutional as well in your opinion?

Interesting question! Since we only ever see either location in a post-collapse state it's difficult to tell for sure, but I'll give it my best shot.

Let's start with what we know of the government of Leyndell. Morgott is the current sovereign. He goes to the trouble of disguising his omen status, suggesting that he is not an absolute ruler -- there are other players who might try to depose him if his true identity were known.

The Roundtable hold had a place of prominence at some point. Given the fact that the Hold's architecture is much simpler, more defensively oriented, and stylistically distinct from the rest of Leyndell, it's possible that it was built in the period of upheaval following the Night of the Black Knives.

While the Confessors were likely either founded or greatly expanded during the opening years of the Shattering (as their primary objective seems to be hunting heretical Tarnished), I believe that Gideon functioned as Marika's spymaster long before her punishment within the Erdtree. Going off of the opening cinematic, he was long dead by the time Marika called the Tarnished, and he was an old man (despite the Guidance of Grace) when he died. The man is ancient.

He attempts to stop the Tarnished from becoming Elden Lord and continuing the cycle as the Elden Beast wishes, instead claiming that "Queen Marika has high hopes for us. That we continue to struggle, unto eternity." His loyalty to Marika was so great that he was willing to defy even the Greater Will. This (or his association with the Tarnished) is likely what led to his falling out with Morgott and the Hold in Leyndell being left abandoned.

We also know that Leyndell had (had) a sizeable aristocratic class. The wandering nobles, one of the game's most common low-level enemies, drop clothing bearing this description.

"Gown of soft cloth adorned with fine gold embroidery. Travel attire worn by nobles in the capital. Garb favored by the aged. Abandoning their birthplace after the Shattering, these undead wanderers are the pitiful product of unending life."

We also know that under Marika's rule, the Lands were broken into a series of small territories ruled by minor lords, such as the Maraises and the Haights. From the Ruler's Mask description:

Mask in the image of a wizened sage. Customary dress among lords in a smaller nation. Such a mask illustrates the qualities of an ideal lord: chiefly, wise and possessing a certain defanged geniality. One at the center of society often finds these qualities most expedient.

I think "defanged geniality" is the key phrase here. Early on, Marika seems to have run her newly acquired empire with something similar to the Satrap system.

We never (at least that I'm aware) encounter any mention of Marika actively campaigning in Altus, and we know that both Placidusax and his god suffered such a disastrous defeat that they both separately fled the Lands Between. My best guess would be that with their leaders gone, their former subjects surrendered to Marika without much of a fight (with a few notable exceptions, such as Gransax, the Storm Lord, and the Hero of Morne). Rather than being leveled and rebuilt from the ground up, these territories that surrendered peacefully would have been placed under the control of a regional governor and, at least initially, left more or less to their own devices.

There seems to have been a crackdown at some point, where Marika kneecapped the power of her old underlings and consolidated authority in the hands of her own personal religion. It seems to have happened at some point between Godfrey's banishment, her marriage to Radagon, the first burning of the Erdtree, and possibly the Gloam Eyed Queen's rebellion.

Long story short, we don't have a lot of hard info to go off of. But my best guess is that at the time immediately before the Shattering, Marika ruled over an empire managed (on paper) by largely impotent regional lords, with real power residing in the hands of the militant branches of the religion in which she was god and the pope was her husband.

As for the government of Liurnia, I posted a theory awhile back speculating on the subject.

In short, I think Rennala came to power riding the momentum of her victory over the Golden Order. She seems to have attracted a cadre of highly loyal followers (primarily the Carian Knights and the Lazuli Conspectus). There seems to have been an attempt to co-rule with the Glintstone scholars, but I've seen no evidence of the minor lords of Liurnia having much sway.

According to the descriptions of Greatblade Phalanx and the Troll Knight's Sword, Rennala was responsible for the favorable treatment of trolls within Liurnia (basically the only place we see them treated better than beasts of burden). We can also assume that albinaurirs were treated relatively well during her reign -- Loretta likely would not have followed her otherwise. It is also noteworthy that all albinaurics encountered in Caria Manor are mages, rather than the Caged or Insane variants.

This, along with her elevating the moon above the stars, would have put her out of step with the Glintstone scholars. The further I dig into their lore, the shadier they get. Potential crimes include genetically engineering a crippled slave race, making human sacrifices to the Primeval Current (link below), and contracting with the Cuckoo Mercenaries. According to the Raya Lucaria Soldier ash description, the Glintstone scholar's personal army was "were "given free rein by the academy to wage war as they pleased, and they were infamous for their rapacious ways."

So, once again going on 10% isolated data points and 90% plausible headcanon, Rennala seems to have been a reformer who couldn't get her new policies to stick with the population at large. Once A) the political capital gained by her victory over the Golden Order ran out, and B) the Glintstone scholars perceived weakness in her grief after Radagon's departure, she was cut off from her own government and de facto deposed rather quickly. I'm led to believe that Rennala didn't put down very deep roots in the Liurnian political landscape.

[labellefleur-sauvage]

The Highland Fox and The English Rose

Elain Archeron, the middle daughter of an enterprising English merchant, has been raised with one goal in mind: become the wife of a respectable Englishman. Everything else—her interests, her desires—didn’t matter. But when her father convinces her to enter into an arranged marriage with a brutal Scottish Laird to save their family from ruin, Elain is suddenly forced to reevaluate everything she thought she wanted in life.

As the newly appointed Laird of a derelict clan with a crumbling castle, marriage was the last thing on Lucien’s mind. His entire life is thrown into disarray when he is forced into a marriage contract he didn’t sign, to an Englshwoman he’d never met. 

But Lucien harbors a dark, ruinous secret that affects more than just himself, and he is determined to resolve the issue at hand. Together, the Highland Fox and the English Rose will go on a journey that will force Elain and Lucien together—or drive them apart.

For @elucienweekofficial 2023 Day 7! This is my first ever long fic and I've been working on this since February. This is my ode to historical romances, my favorite romance genre, and I hope to do it justice over the course of however many chapters this ends up being.

Huge thank you to @kingofsummer93 for beta-ing this first chapter and providing some great feedback.

One last thank you to the Elucien Week 2023 organizers-you all made this such an exciting and successful event, with so much great content made by so many talented people, all while being so positive and fun. I can't wait to catch up on all the amazing fics and drawings that's been shared this past week!

Read on AO3. Lots of chapter notes and research are included in the AO3 chapter notes!

XXX

Chapter 1: Scenes of Woe

Lucien was finding it increasingly difficult to plan a daring rescue when he was being interrupted every five minutes.

“Come in,” he grumbled, shoving papers and maps off his desk as the familiar three-rap knock landed on the other side of the large wooden door.

“Sir,” Dougal’s wizened voice croaked around the door before the wrinkled face of the castle’s steward popped around the corner. “Mr. Archeron is here for his appointment.”

“Shit,” Lucien grunted, shoveling even more papers into desk drawers. He had been dreading this particular meeting for months. The money he’d have to pay that poor girl’s father was bound to be hefty. He flapped the heavy curtains, a wave of dust exploding around him, then snapped his eyepatch over his face and smoothed his long, red hair back. “Can ye delay him for a few more—“

“Laird Macpherson,” an oily voice boomed over the threshold of his office. Dougal scurried out of the way as an old man, his face and body soft with age but his eyes still hard, hobbled into the room. His cane tapped a steady beat that drowned out the hammering of Lucien’s heart. “A pleasure.”

“Mr. Archeron,” Lucien said, standing politely as his guest made his way towards his large oaken desk. “Please, take a seat.”

“Did you forget about our appointment?” Mr. Archeron’s beady eyes darted around the room, taking in his cluttered desk, the threadbare rug under his feet, and Lucien’s flustered appearance. He sat down heavily in the creaky chair in front of Lucien’s desk, wrapping his cloak around his body as if to protect himself from the small layer of dust coating the chair. The old man dropped a sleek black case next to him on the ground. “Perhaps you couldn’t see it jotted down in your calendar, if you even use one.”

“Of course no’,” Lucien lied smoothly, sitting down and ignoring the clear jab to his missing eye, even as Mr. Archeron’s comment rankled him. He wanted to smooth the wrinkles out of his white shirt and plaid kilt, but thought the action would make it more obvious that Lucien hadn’t dressed that morning with the thought of meeting with anyone in mind. “As Laird, many issues pop up at a moment’s notice that need swift and immediate attention.”

“And my beloved daughter’s hand in marriage is not one of those concerns?” Straight to the issue at hand, then. Mr. Archeron’s eyes no longer tracked the room like a hawk—they settled on Lucien’s face with an intensity that reminded him of a wolf waiting to pounce on its prey. 

Lucien gave the man across from him a tight lipped smile. “Quite the opposite,” he gritted out. “It is simply quite unfortunate that there have been several… personal issues I’ve been dealing with since assuming the title as Laird.”

Mr. Archeron’s eyes narrowed. “Personal, hm? Wouldn’t have anything to do with your banishment, would it? I heard about that nasty business, the rumors I heard all the way up here... How are you liking your new surname?” One side of his lips curled in distaste, making it clear what the older gentleman thought.

Lucien ground his teeth and tempered his breathing; he was still getting used to the Macpherson name, not to mention his new title and the responsibilities that came with it, but he would never admit that to the man sitting across from him.

“I expect ye want to break the bethroyal?” Lucien deflected, his voice tight. Better to get this over with, rather than be insulted by this pompous Englishman the entire afternoon.

“Oh, that was my initial thought, to be sure,” the man said, reclining in his chair. “How could I possibly give my precious daughter’s hand away in marriage to a newly appointed, banished, potentially nameless, disfigured Laird? I simply couldn’t—the shame it would bring upon the family.”

Mr. Archeron was gloating, taking clear delight in insulting Lucien while he had the chance. Lucien gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white as he felt the growing rage inside him. This selfish, self-serving Englishman knew nothing of humiliation. How dare he come into Lucien’s home, his office, and talk of shame, of being pulled down so low that it felt like one was falling down into a pit, farther and farther from the sun— 

“But then,” Mr. Archeron continued, like Lucien wasn’t moments away from leaping over the desk and strangling him, “I heard some very interesting stories about you. Apparently you’re a bit of a shrewd businessman yourself—you’ve made connections with different lords and lairds across Scotland over the years, and as soon as you were made laird of this ramshackled estate, all your high and mighty acquaintances entered into formal trade routes with you. Trade routes that greatly benefit you.” The man sneered at him, like he was upset at being outdone. “The ‘Highland Fox,’ they call you. As much as I detest it, you’re a very well connected man with these trade contracts. Trade contracts that I want a part of.”

Lucien was silent, his brows furrowed. He expected—hoped, really—that this meeting would end in the broken bethroyal thrust on him courtesy of his dead relative, not a confirmation of it. He cleared his throat, stunned. “Ye—what?”

“I want you to marry my daughter, and I want full access to your new trade routes in order to establish stores for the various goods and sundries I sell.” Mr. Archeron steepled his fingers underneath his chin, looking smug like he just beat the King himself in a game of chess. 

Lucien was flabbergasted, staring at him open mouthed. “Those are no’ the terms of the original marriage contract.”

“This contract?” Mr. Archeron said, reaching down into his case and extracting an impeccably preserved sheath of hand written papers. “The marriage contract that gives me the sole discretion to alter it? Your great uncle or cousin or whoever he was must have been exceedingly desperate to accept these terms to try to save his clan from financial ruin by agreeing to marry one of my daughters in exchange for her dowry. But he did manage to tie the marriage contract to whoever the Laird was, rather than specifically to him, so maybe cleverness runs in your family.”

Lucien pursed his lips, no longer worrying about keeping himself calm. “While ye have the sole ability to alter the terms of the marriage contract,” he pushed out, “that doesnae mean it is automatically accepted. I can still back out or cancel the contract all together.”

“Yes, and then you’d have to repay that portion of the dowry already sent months and months ago, plus pay a contractually obligated twenty-five percent interest on that amount. For any hardship towards my wonderful daughter. Now,” Mr. Archeron said, looking around the office with false interest, “where do you suppose you’ll get that money from?”

Lucien felt murderous. It was true the estate was hard strapped for money at the moment—the curtains were looking a bit worn, and the roof leaked in a few places—but in a few months, when trade started up, he expected a steady and plentiful cash flow to start repairs and upkeep. 

And so, apparently, did Mr. Archeron. 

“Ye don’t care that yer favorite daughter is to marry someone like me? That she’ll be in a loveless marriage in a foreign land, rarely able to see her family after this?” Lucien couldn’t keep the contempt out of his voice. He cared nothing for his betrothed—the less he had to do with England and its people, the better—but still, Lucien didn’t want this poor woman to be miserable, which she would undoubtedly be if her father forced them to marry. 

Mr. Archeron shrugged. “She’ll be married to a laird, running an estate. It’s all she’s been taught to do. At the very least, I’ll make sure she’s the best dressed lady north of the border.” He tutted. “It is a shame she’ll he wed to a worthless, one-eyed laird—“

“Good thing my cock wasn’t taken from me then,” Lucien said savagely, standing up so quickly his chair tipped over. “While yer peddling yer little trinkets, I’ll have yer daughter’s legs spread around me. Yer grandchildren will be mine, and they’ll be Scottish,” he ended viciously, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Any self respecting Englishman wouldn’t have even imagined marrying a family member off to a Scotsman in the first place. If they did, they would have thrown fists at Lucien at the first utterance of what would happen to his daughter in the marital bed, if not shoot him point blank in the chest. 

Mr. Archeron clearly was not made of the same cloth as his countrymen. 

He stared up at Lucien, unimpressed by his outburst. “As is the fate of all women. I have three daughters—I accepted their futures long ago. Besides, the other two I’ll marry off to good Englishmen. One of them will give me an acceptable grandson to inherit the family business.”

Lucien sneered at the worthless man in front of him. “Yer despicable.”

Mr. Archeron cocked an eyebrow. “That’s business. How about this? We don’t have to add permanent stores to the terms of the marriage contract. We’ll just add that as part of the negotiations, you will provide me with beneficial contacts and introductions that will assist me and my business, that l be allowed to tour your trade routes at my leisure, making small business as I go, to ensure my investment is paying off, and appoint agents to sell my goods directly.”

“How is that any different than having full access to my trade routes?”

“I won’t set up any permanent stores or stops but I’ll still be able to compete for business with you… Highlanders.” Mr. Archeron said the last part like he had sucked on a lemon. “It’s not a bad deal. Besides,” he gave Lucien a wry grin, “you’re too proud—I think a bit of groveling will be good for you.” 

After all the injustices and insults he had suffered over the past months, this conversation was easily the worst of them. He snatched Mr. Archeron’s copy of the contract out of his hands and made a show of reading it, all the while his brain worked on a way out of this. 

Option one: he could rip up the contract right here and now and suffer the financial consequences. Lucien wracked his mind for things he could sell for some extra money: he had already sold most of the keep’s paintings and tapestries and silver pieces to pay off all the debt his cousin or second uncle or whoever he was had saddled him with when he had the poor sense to die suddenly and leave this place to him. There wasn’t much more he could do—a skeleton crew worked the castle and grounds, and to raise rents and prices on his tenants would be inhumane, not to mention would probably lead to a revolt that would end with his head on a spike.

Option two: Lucien could agree to the new terms and wed this lecherous man’s poor, probably ugly, and spoiled daughter. He would gain some immediate money, which would be nice, but they would make each other miserable. He’d grow old with a cold bed, a frigid wife and a domineering father in law in Mr. Archeron who would squeeze Lucien for any use he had, all while reminding Lucien what he truly thought of all Scotsmen and his one eyed son-in-law with a permanent sneer on his bloated face.

Mr. Archeron had one thing right: some people did call him The Highland Fox, and it wasn’t for his red hair alone. There must be another solution.

He stood up and turned away from the man in question, looking out the window behind his desk. Despite the abysmal mood in his office, the weather outside displayed an uncharacteristically warm Scottish summer day. The bright sun glinted off the waters of the small loch near the castle, and Lucien could see all manners of birds flying above and around the forest that lay right outside the castle walls.

For all the beauty that surrounded him, Lucien would give it all back if it meant he’d never arrived in this castle to begin with. When the official letter addressed to him arrived at Vassa’s castle six months ago, Lucien thought it was a joke at best, or another plot at worst. He knew of the Macphersons and his own tenuous relationship with the clan, but assumed there were a number of able-bodied men in line for the title. 

Apparently not. If he couldn’t assume the title as Laird, then no one could, and the land would break out into war. Only Lucien, born with noble blood but without any claims to any other title, could be named Laird of Clan Macpherson. 

He reluctantly accepted and arrived at a derelict castle and a ledger with so much red in it,  it reminded him of a giant herd of Scottish red deer. From that day on, he was bound to the clan and land he now claimed.

And here he was, about to be tied down in yet another way.

Were there more options? There had to be. Lucien darted a glance behind him to find Mr. Archeron leaning forward on his cane, staring at him like he could see the gears turning in Lucien’s head and coming to the same conclusion he had: he would have to marry. 

But perhaps he didn’t have to marry now, Lucien realized, his heart racing. If he could further delay the marriage until a time he had the funds to pay back the money and interest owed, then he could break the contract with no further consequence.

“Perhaps ye’d agree to a compromise, Mr. Archeron,” Lucien began, using the most pleasant tone he could muster under the circumstances, righting his desk chair. “I’m sure ye’d agree that yer daughter could do better than to marry someone like me with such a… precarious background. I’m sure she doesnae want this either. If ye give me six months to acquire the funds, I’m sure I can pay back any money owed for the contract and we can all be on our way.”

Mr. Archeron smiled, and Lucien knew he had fallen into a trap. He tutted. “Oh, if only,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “But you see, all three of my daughters are already on the way here—I rode up a few days ahead of them, to work out the finer details of the marriage contract. They’re expecting to be greeted by the new laird and Elain married soon after. In fact, we’ve already formally announced the marriage, and sent runners ahead to notify Lairds across Scotland of the wedding. How it would break their hearts to be so rudely turned away. Not to mention, the shock it would cause to my poor, poor Elain. This would ruin her; she’d never be able to marry, never have a family of her own. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“What do I care about some ruined Englishwoman?” Lucien snapped. “One less Englishwoman around to make more of you miserable bastards, the better.”

“You may be a brutal Scotsman,” Mr. Archeron snarled, “but you’re still a Laird and a gentleman, and bound to honor the codes of your birth.”

Lucien laughed dryly. As a born and bred Scotsman, Lucien was obligated to hate the English. The emotions coursing throughout his body now at the man in front of him made those general feelings tame in comparison. 

Evil. This man was pure evil. In the back of his mind, Lucien wondered how Mr. Archeron would stand being in the small chapel tucked away in the castle where the wedding would occur, as he didn’t think the man would be able to step foot in a consecrated church without bursting into flames. 

How cold-hearted of the man in front of him to use his daughter as a bargaining chip for his own gain. To turn the woman away at what was practically her wedding ceremony—especially to an outsider like Lucien—would cause a scandal and she would be ruined from society. Lucien shouldn’t care about that - shouldn’t care about this woman he still had yet to meet—but he knew from experience what fate befell women who had lost society’s grace and couldn’t have that guilt on his conscience. 

He was trapped and he knew it. 

Elain. A pretty name for the woman who would undoubtedly be his ruin. 

“Yer a right bastard,” Lucien gritted out, shaking his head in disgust at Mr. Archeron’s lecherous grin. “Make your damn changes to the contract and I’ll review them.”

Triumph blazed in his eyes. “And the Fox is cornered,” Mr. Archeron whispered to himself. “Very good, Laird. Very good. I’ll just take that back and make the necessary changes…”

Lucien numbly let the man dictate his entire future away. He could do nothing but quietly stare as his life withered before his own eyes, everything suddenly looking a bit grayer. He didn’t even notice he was initialing the new terms of the contract until he dipped his quill in ink to sign his name at the end of the paper. 

Just like in his old life, he was shackled by forces and people outside of his control. Instead of an iron collar around his throat, this time it was to be an iron ring around his finger. 

X

The carriage wheel dipped into another hole in the dirt road and Elain grimaced.

“God, my ass is already sore—I can’t take much more of this.”

“Feyre!” Nesta snapped. “Don’t use that language!”

“Who cares? We’re the only ones here and no one can hear us.”

Elain let the familiar bickering between her two sisters wash over her as she let her mind soften and relax. It would be odd to not hear their daily fights anymore. 

She smothered a sigh. This is what she had been born and bred by her mother to do: ignore any confrontation and noise, mind her manners, never speak unless spoken to, and be a gracious host and wife, all for her future husband. 

What a shame that a wild, uncultured Scotsman would benefit from her gentle upbringing. 

“Elain?”

She turned to see Nesta staring worriedly at her. 

“How are you doing?” she asked gently. 

There it was, that pitying tone of voice Nesta used whenever she spoke to Elain anymore. Out of the three Archeron sisters Elain was undoubtedly the most fragile and delicate but she was no longer the sensitive child she’d once been. She was a grown woman, truthfully past marrying age, and yet Nesta still clucked after her like a mother hen.

It was exhausting.

“I’m fine,” Elain said pleasantly. “Just… imagining all the tasks I’ll have, managing a whole household to myself.” 

Feyre rolled her eyes but Nesta nodded appreciatively—whether she approved of Elain’s train of thought or just because that way she didn’t have to console her nerve wrecked sister, Elain wasn’t sure. “You’ll have to arrange feasts, hire staff, plan visits to other castles—“

Feyre sighed. “That sounds dreadful. Deciding what to serve at feasts and managing maids, is that what you really want Elain? You’re far more interesting than that.”

Elain paused. Was she truly more interesting than that? She knew how to make polite conversation, appear demure in front of guests, could passably sew as a hobby and play enough piano to pass the time and entertain others. What more did she have to offer?

“I could get us out.” Feyre stared intently at Elain, taking her hesitant silence for agreement. “I brought my bow and arrows. We could leap out of the carriage and make our way through the woods, scavenging as we go. I’ll get us rabbits—“

Nesta scoffed. “You got lucky three times over eight years and managed to shoot some mangy rabbits. Father wouldn’t even let you take them to the kitchen so they could be prepared. How did you manage to pack your bow and arrow?”

“And we can leave this stupid Scottish Laird business behind us,” Feyre finished, ignoring Nesta completely. 

Ah, Feyre. If it wasn’t Nesta downright coddling her, it was Feyre protecting her in the only way she knew how: doing her best to provide for the family by hunting in the forests surrounding their country estate, even if she truly didn’t need to. Perhaps Feyre just wanted to get out of the house and away from her more domestic sisters.

Between two headstrong sisters, maybe it was no surprise that Elain often fell to the wayside, too quiet to branch out herself and develop her own sense of self.

“That’s very kind of you Feyre,” Elain said placatingly. “Don’t worry yourself over me. I did agree to the marriage, after all.”

“Only because Father guilted you into it,” Feyre snapped.

“Feyre!” Nesta snapped. “Stop it! This marriage is an… excellent… opportunity for Elain.”

Elain stifled a snort. Excellent opportunity, her ass. She knew for as long as she could remember that her one purpose in life was to be someone’s wife—she just figured it would be to an Englishman. When Father summoned her to his disorderly office late one afternoon nearly a year ago, Elain assumed it was to give his blessing to her suitor at the time, Graysen Nolan.

Imagine her surprise when Father told her that the family was teetering on financial ruin and needed Elain to make a strategic alliance for the long-term good of the family. The son of an unknown general wouldn’t do, Father tutted sadly. And as there were no other local families that he claimed were good enough for his precious daughter, the only solution was to look up.

And by ‘up,’ he meant North: north of the wall that separated England from Scotland, from civilization from utter barbarity. 

Elain clenched her hands. Ultimately, she agreed—she knew how difficult it would be for Father to marry off one daughter from an upstart merchant family, but three—but she couldn’t help but be disappointed in the decision. For a brief, shining few weeks, she thought she’d be able to marry Graysen for love, respect and familiarity. He was her choice.

And now, she was being trundled in the family’s rickety second carriage to her unknown husband in Scotland. This Laird was not her choice.

“Excellent opportunity, my ass,” Feyre grumbled. “He’s Scottish! I hear they eat people! And that they drink the blood of their enemies like wine!”

“Feyre!”

“Their men wear skirts with nothing underneath so their pricks are exposed—“

“Where did you hear all this?!”

“And they live in dirt huts and wear rags, and eat sheep stomachs, and worship faeries! They’re heathens!”

“Feyre, I am going to throw you from this carriage if you don’t shut your mouth right now! You’re upsetting Elain!” Nesta was breathing hard and glaring at her youngest sister. Feyre must have seen the truth of her statement on Elain’s face, as she didn’t say anything back.

“Sorry Elain,” her younger sister winced, seeing how wan her sister had gotten. “I heard Isaac saying he read a new publication about Scotland and it said those things. He’s dumber than his pigs though, so he probably made it all up.”

“Of course,” Elain said quietly, looking out the window again. But Feyre had brought up one of her most profound disappointments with her marriage: that it would be to a savage Scot. The fact that he was titled according to Scottish customs was no comfort. She doubted they were as evil as Feyre believed, but it was true that the Scottish were a bloodthirsty, violent sort, even if they claimed to no longer uphold those traditions.

But Father wouldn’t send her into the wild Scottish Highlands to be married to some man who would neglect her, Elain reasoned, calming down. Father wouldn’t abandon her like that. She wasn’t an item to be sold, like the many goods he sold and bought from all over the world.

Would he?

“Do you know anything about your future husband?” Nesta asked in mock cheer. “Er, the new one, I mean. Father has been rather tight-lipped about him.”

Technically, the current Laird was not the same man who had agreed to marry Elain. He had passed unexpectedly and his relation—a second cousin or grandnephew or something—inherited the marriage contract, which was tied not to the man, but to whoever was named Laird of Clan Macpherson, ensuring that Elain would have a Laird for a husband, no matter what.

“I don’t know much,” Elain admitted. “Just that he’s younger than the old Laird, and his name is Lucien.”

“Laird Lucien Macpherson,” Feyre hummed, tapping her chin. “Lucien doesn’t sound very Scottish, does it?”

“Maybe he’s French!” Nesta said excitedly, holding Elain’s hand and smiling at her with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. Elain felt a stab of appreciation for Nesta—she knew this was difficult for Elain, and was trying her best to lighten the load her sister bore. “Maybe he has family on the continent, and we can all go on vacation together someday!”

“I’ve heard rumors about him. I’ve heard,” Feyre interrupted, her voice lowering to a whisper, “that he’s a bastard.”

It was silent for a moment. “Oh come now, dear,” Elain yawned, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure he’s not any worse than the Englishmen we grew up around. Cousin Edmund was a right terror up until he married and he’s settled down a bit.” She resumed her vigil of the dramatic scenery outside the carriage. “Where would you even hear something like that anyways?”

There was a thump on the carriage floor. Feyre gasped and Elain whipped her head up to see Feyre rubbing her leg, glaring at Nesta.

“Silly me,” Nesta said primly, shooting a quick dagger-filled glance at Feyre. “My leg spasmed due to all this sitting and accidentally struck Feyre.”

“Are you alright?” Elain asked, looking between her sisters concernedly.

“Uh, oh yes!” Feyre smiled weakly at Elain, then frowned at Nesta. “Nesta has quite the strength to her. I’m sure it’ll be fine, just a bit sore.”

“Perhaps with a sore leg you’ll stop harassing the local wildlife with your feeble attempts at hunting them with your bow and arrow,” Nesta said slyly, curling her lip in Feyre’s direction.

Feyre gasped in outrage. “At least I go outside every once in a while! What have you ever done besides sit on your ass—“

“Feyre, language, for god’s sake!”

Content that all attention was no longer on her, Elain let her head hit the back of the seat. She sighed deeply. She tried to mimic Nesta’s optimism but couldn’t shake Feyre’s foreboding words and opinions. 

In a few days time, she would be married to a Scottish Highland laird. Who knew what he would be like? Maybe he’d be a brutal warrior who’d claw at her on their wedding night, demanding her maidenhead in the marriage bed without a second thought to her feelings. Or perhaps he’d be as old as her father, and she’d be more caretaker than wife. 

Elain took a deep breath to settle the knot in her stomach. There was no point in imagining something she had no control over, even though her lack of agency rankled her still. She was angry and disappointed at the situation, but what could she do?

Nesta and Feyre were still bickering, their voices a steady undercurrent to her turmoil. Their stupid argument unexpectedly angered her. Here she was, about to be hand delivered to a brutal Scotsman, and all her sisters could do was to snap at each other like they did every day. 

At least I’ll be away from them in Scotland.

The thought surprised Elain. She loved her sisters, strong willed and loud as they were. How could she be so uncharitable as to be excited at the idea of being away from them?

Perhaps because you’ll finally be able to determine what you want for yourself, and not what Nesta and Feyre want.

What did Elain want? She couldn’t say for certain. She had been raised with clear expectations of what her future would entail but beyond that… she was nothing. No interests or hobbies besides those chosen for her; even her playmates had been carefully picked, the only thought going towards what would help her future marriage prospects and not her happiness.

Feyre’s earlier statement came back to her: You’re far more interesting than that, Elain. That was very nice of her younger sister to say, as Elain didn’t even think that of herself. All of her life and upbringing had been built towards Elain being the wife of a well-to-do Englishman, perhaps a Lord or even an Earl. 

But now, no longer bound by those expectations of her life in England, something new awaited her.

It was a ludicrous idea—that upon her marriage to a Scottish devil, Elain could possibly experience the sort of freedom she didn’t know was even possible. She’d be shackled to her husband and his whims.

But surely he would be too busy to constantly keep an eye on her, Elain thought hopefully. He was a Laird, some type of bizarre Scottish ruler, so he probably didn’t spend too much time at the keep, or kept odd hours due to… whatever it is he did. She’d probably have plenty of time to herself: time to discover her own interests and things she wanted, rather than what others dictated to her.

No, she decided, this marriage, though not ideal, could provide Elain with something she’d never had until now: an opportunity to be away from her family and learn more about herself. It was an adventure, though certainly not as daring or dangerous as Feyre would have liked. 

As Elain gazed at the lush hills and wild, windswept cliffs and crags about her, she suddenly felt cautiously hopeful. And if it had to come at the cost of an arranged marriage with a Scottish laird, then that was a price she was willing to pay.

[ganymedesclock]

Curious what do you think of a Veteran Link ( in late 30s or early 40s) going up againast a Teenage/Young Ganondorf ( Late Teens or early 20s) ?

My knee-jerk answer, which may seem a little weird to you, is that you've successfully uncovered one of the central conceits of my original project, Chiaroscuro, which is in no small part inspired by Legend of Zelda itself, though certainly its own beast.

The longer answer which is more in the spirit of your direct question is, that would get... interesting. Because switching Link and Ganondorf's age brackets around does not merely suggest to me a 40-year-old Link, but a Link who has done this song and dance before- who has faced a previous Ganondorf- vs. a Ganondorf to whom this is all new.

And once you get there... it becomes very difficult to view Link's actions as those of an unambiguous hero.

Because in every game, Link's starting aspirations are more or less the same- he is worried about his loved ones. Be that his family, or friends, or community- he is basically always motivated by that someone else is in danger or has already been hurt and he wants to stop it from happening. Motives that are imminently understandable and that we have easy compassion for.

But like... ok. Either we have sixteen year old Ganondorf burning villages down enough that a whole adult man who surfs hinoxes downriver for fun is clenching himself about the idea- which verges into the silly and absurd- or... Link starts to look like a bad guy here, if an understandable one. A tragic, sympathetic figure who was traumatized by a previous conflict but cannot avoid seeing this past conflict in a new, uninvolved person who never hurt him and may never have intended to be his enemy.

We've seen Ganondorf as a child all of once, in a spinoff game (Cadence of Hyrule) where he is surly and introverted but also does not appear to have any particular ill will towards anyone, just lurking inside tinkering with a homemade instrument. Every depiction of him being violent or aggressive towards others suggests this behavior started when he was at least a grown man, if a young one (he certainly doesn't seem particularly wizened in the young timeline segments of Ocarina of Time) so it's fair to say a young Ganondorf would be living a fairly ordinary life, albeit one presumably being groomed by his culture to eventually take the mantle of king.

At that point, it would imply Link himself would become the inciting incident, so to speak.

[sparklecryptid]

Moose, open permission to talk about any OC you want, go.

i dont talk enough about inna

so we are going to talk about inna

we're going to talk about dying because the alternative is worse. we're going to talk about dying because if you don't if you don't you'll be turned against all that you love but you realized you loved them too late. we're going to talk about how you die and think thats the end of it but divinity has dug a hole in your chest and you

live

you breath again. your heart beats slowly but it beats still. you look like someone who died in the dead of winter (and you did you did YOU DID) but you are alive-

and so is your lover. so is your bestfriend. so is the man you raised your adopted child thieves with. he had a vision of pyro and is in constant opposition to the dendro that you wield. and you thought you knew him. you thought you knew him-

(he was kind. is the thing. he was kind and lovely and made all of you laugh. he cared for humanity so much he taught you how to love them but you didn't realize it until just moments ago-)

but you have to wonder. did you know him if he accepted celestia's bargin? did he really love humanity or did he love what was his?

does he love the children you raised?

you never get an answer to that. you tell the children to run and something like a blessing covers them as they scatter-

you hold your lover off as long as you can. but he is bright as the sun and burning and you still have enough mortality in you to burn like kindling set aflame.

(You are in snezhnaya. you are in snezhnaya and the flames around him melt snow and frost to reveal fertile land beneath his feet. you are in snezhnaya and snow turns to water as it melts.

you are in snezhnaya and you drag the vestiges of divinity from where they've been locked away mere hours before and-

nature is a cycle of rebirth. death and rot. life and growth. you cannot have one without the other. it is a hard thing - to plant the seed of growth and decay into someones chest. it is a hard thing when it goes against the principles of the element you wield.

you do it anyway. mortality forced upon one who should have never tasted divinity. you forced his youthful face to grow old and wizened and you stand and fight for hours until the seed inside him - the seed that has been feeding on the element that he has become an avatar of - bursts from his chest into numerous red blossoms.)

(it is easy, after that to find your children and leave.

they know what you did.

you dont think they ever forgive you for it.)

[tumorhead]

The idea that when you get married you and your spouse "let your body go" and become less attractive to each other is, I can only conclude, some insane shit made up by losers who hate their spouse?? Not my experience at all, infact the opposite. I got married in 2017 and my husband and I were living together for years before then, since we were 20, so we have aged together. And he only has gotten hotter (even including putting on weight). I said this and he was like "well it's always better with some salt and pepper ;)", regarding some grey hairs he's growing in, but that wasn't it either (though that is also great).

It's because as we have grown and developed as adults we have become more confident and more ourselves and THAT is glorious and beautiful and hot af. We have also both gotten better at dressing ourselves. This mofo got a leather jacket and a motorcycle recently so sometimes he looks like a fuckin greaser. And he got that not even intentionally to look cool, but because he is autistic about machines and can finally express that lmao. And I came out as nonbinary since we've gotten together and I was scared, but he loves the addition of a masculine aesthetic on me. My man crushed on Annie Lennox at an early age and he is excited for me to get a suit lol. Supporting who each other wants to be is so hot and exciting. Why would that ever get boring. He talks about being in a relationship as "helping each other get away with being ourselves". That is the best, highly recommend it!! We are gonna get old and wizened and fucked up together and then pull a hardcore wizard/witch aesthetic.

[charlesmoffat]

For fun I recently decided to play with AI to determine what my sidekick character, Soljargon, will look like as he gets older in my book series: The Adventures of Wrathgar.

Soljargon is a balding necromancer who wishes he was a druid. So he tends to dress like a druid. Below is Soljargon as a young man.

Soljargon is a complex character. He chose to study necromancy because of his interest in life magic and soul magic. 'Soljargon' is technically his nickname. When faced with undead he destroys them because they upset the natural order.

As he gets older I see Soljargon growing out his hair, trying to delay the balding process.

By this point Soljargon's powers as a necromancer should have increased significantly, but he's still clinging to his habit of dressing like a druid, and still trying to stave off baldness.

As he progresses Soljargon loses more of his hair and his beard turns grey. By now he has abandoned his efforts to halt the balding process.

Now an old man, Soljargon has become a formidable foe, an archmage in his own right.

As he gets older Soljargon looks ever more like an old wizened druid. Still clinging to his beliefs in his final years, but he has become darker and more bitter.

Want to learn more about Wrathgar and Soljargon?

Read the Adventures of Wrathgar series available at amazon.com/author/moffat

[womanlives]

THE WHOLE-ASS SCOOP ON D&D/FAERUN MCMERCE.

Ever incite an all-out street war in Waterdeep between two of its premier criminal organizations and then get fuckin’ yoinked by a nautiloid into oblivion before they can flay you alive? No? Forget I asked.

What about Athkatla? Heard of the City of Coin? Biggest city in the wealthiest country of Faerûn. It’s old as balls, with an even richer history, to boot. Who gives a fuck. Here’s what you need to know: don’t cast arcane magic without a permit, remember to pay your protection fees to the Shadow Thieves, and money is all that matters. In Athkatla, anything goes. Slavery, lewdness — you name it. It’s only a crime if you can’t buy your way out of it. No, seriously. The people here pay to break the law.

Fuckin’ degenerates.

And you? You’re just another mistake from one of dozens of River District brothels: a half-elf brat with far too many freckles and nothing and no one in your corner — not even a name. Life in the slums is, unsurprisingly, shit. See, street urchins in the River District have two career options: play it smart, or die. Or get trawled up by the slavers. But we try not to think about door number three.

Anyway, you go for the former. Your plan: accumulate as much value as quickly as possible. Money, skills, whatever it takes to stay out of the slavers’ sights. You watch your small, squalor-filled world with intense blue eyes. Eventually you decide your best bet is those people who collect protection money from the brothel every fortnight. The Shadow Thieves.

All things considered, they’re not so bad as far as criminal organizations go. Sure, they’ll slit you neck to navel if you fuck up, but at least they’ll wait for you to fuck up first. Not like the Zhentarim, who’ll cut you down because they like the look of your boots — but that’s a different story.

Turns out the Shadow Thieves love exploiting nurturing young talent. In exchange for bits and baubles, a man with wizened, wrinkled skin teaches little nobodies like yourself the basics. Stealth, sleight-of-hand. Second-story work for the gifted. A little bit of knife-fighting. And for those who have talent, he teaches the very barest-boned magic, too — the arcane kind. Forbidden, maybe, unless it’s used in the service of the Thieves. You call him Leatherbones. He calls you Dispensable.

I mean. He’s not wrong.

For years, you work for Leatherbones. He’s a harsh teacher, and he doesn’t come cheap. You team up with a couple other kids so you can meet his quotas and patch up the punishments. One in particular takes you under his wing: a human boy roughly four or so years your senior. Hard to tell; everyone’s so malnourished. He covers for your mistakes, protects you from the worst Athkatla can dish out, becomes your whole world, then disappears when you’re fourteen years old. When you ask Leatherbones about it, you get a half-assed excuse about Boy rising through the ranks. Good luck finding him. The Shadow Thieves are nothing if not secretive.

So you steal a scroll of Detect Thoughts from the Cowled Wizards — yeah, you can see where this is going — and read Leatherbones’ mind. Cheeky little pup, indeed.

You get caught, of course. Idiot. You don’t learn where Boy went, but you do learn Leatherbones has other gigs off to the side. Nasty ones. Guild protocol says he has every right to kill you. He opts to turn a profit instead, selling you off to a contact in Waterdeep. You know you’re bound for nowhere good, but the roads are nothing if not dangerous. And it’s a long-ass trip. You wait until you’re in Waterdeep’s streets before whispering your favorite magic words, changing your face, and slipping off into the night.

By luck or fate, you’re picked up off the street by a whore named Chastity. Turns out she runs an all-female gang called the Flaming Roses. Operating as a splinter group of the Xanathar Guild, the Roses specialize in a particular kind of thievery: secrets. There’s only eight of you in the gang, but your reputation as information-brokers is rock-solid. The Roses use every trick in the book to sell a mere whisper for hundreds of gold.

This, you excel at. The Roses tutor you, refine you. Name you. Spiteful creature that you are, Mercy is all too fitting. They promise never to abandon you, and you give them what remains of your nasty little heart. Life continues, and for the first time, it’s good.

Here’s the problem, though you don’t know it yet. Some secrets are not meant to be stolen. And some lines are not meant to be crossed.

See, years down the road, you fuck the wrong person. Not you specifically — your family. One night you’re all celebrating a heist in your hideout when the Zhentarim bust in with nastiest weapons you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life. By the time you realize what’s happening, they’ve set the place ablaze and they’re forcing you to your knees and breaking your legs. Each time they scream something: tell me what you know. Each time the only response your sisters can give is, Nothing, we don’t know anything, she doesn’t know anything, let her go.

They kill your sisters one by one. Then, fires roaring around you, the leader of the raid — a man with rot-eyes and a hook nose — bends down and gives you an order. Tell me what you know.

You beg him not to kill you, because you don’t want to die alone. That’s it. That’s all you know. He smiles. For the first time his eyes come alive. It’s the scariest thing you’ll ever see. Then he pats you on the cheek, stands up, and leaves you there with broken legs to burn in the ashes of your dying home.

Hurts. Hurts so much. This is the only time you will ever wish yourself dead.

No such luck. A little gnome sent by your boss’ boss’ boss comes running to your rescue and pulls your body from the fire. His name is Dinklegus — Dinks, for short — and he saves your worthless life, because the rest of the bodies are too damaged to speak to in death, or revive. He loads you up in a cart and hightails it out of Waterdeep, heading for Baldur’s gate. Halfway through, you succumb to infection and die on the road. He slaps a revivify your head, tells you to suck it up and that you owe the Guild upwards of one-thousand gold for that scroll, and keeps on going.

So you put yourself back together, bit by bit. But you think you put yourself back together wrong.

As soon as you get to Baldur’s Gate, you’re thrust into yet another den of schemes and sneaks. This one’s run by a tough lady called Nine-Fingers Keene, who’s surrounded by women that each contemplate how they would kill you. Not a strong opener. You’re whole now — mostly — but your wounds are still jagged, and fresh, and raw. So when Nine-Fingers tells you that all along your family was working for her, you lock your jaw and decide you’ll never trust anyone again.

Then she sits down next to you and gives you an order. Tell me what you know.

You realize it, then. You are only as useful as the secrets in your skull. And, tragically for you, everyone seems to believe you know far more than you think you do.

You have to get out of here. Dinks’ rescue, the revivify, all of it — it wasn’t for you. It was for whatever your family was plotting. These people aren’t your friends. It’s Athkatla all over again. Once they realize you have no value, they’ll toss you in the trash or sell you for a copper on the street.

Besides, you have other plans. Namely raining hellfire down on every goddamn person who was there the night you should have died. You make up some half-baked excuse about being tired from travel and promise to write down all you know. Then you ask when you can go back to Waterdeep.

There’s the slightest hesitation from Nine-Fingers Keene. She feeds you some bullshit line about how you need to rest and recover. How about we let the clerics take care of those nasty scars of yours, hmm?

Bitch.

The Guild gives you lodging — what a coincidence your room happens to be under constant surveillance — and leaves you be with some blank pages and several pots of ink. You doodle dickbutts and bide your time and just when you think it’s as hopeless as they come, the unlikeliest ally arrives. Good old Dinklegus. Who woulda thought.

 Here’s the deal. He’ll get you out. But he wants in on your plot to topple the motherfuckers who brought you so low. Easiest decision of your life. Is he playing you? Yeah, probably. You assume everyone is, now, but so long as he gets you out, you don’t give a fuck. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it.

He slips you a sending stone to keep in contact, some salami for the road (what a sweetheart), and tells you he’ll make a distraction at dusk. The rest is up to you.

Weeks later and you’re back in Waterdeep: a familiar place with a brand-new face. It takes years to re-establish your footing, but the Roses taught you well. You carefully craft several identities from scratch, each affiliated with one of the gangs in the area. It’s about a 50/50 split between the Zhentarim and the Xanathar Guild, and gods do those motherfuckers hate each other almost as much as you hate them. The Zhentarim in particular are a bitch to infiltrate, but goddamn if it isn’t worth it.

If only you were half as clever as you think you are. Your fuckup is inevitable. You let slip the wrong secret to the wrong Zhent. When your pieces start to fall, they fall like dynamite and dominoes. One cover blown, then another — before you know it, there’s war in the streets of Waterdeep between the Xanathar and the Zhentarim. You would be delighted, if your three titular false-faces hadn’t been exposed and you weren’t suddenly on the run for your life. Boo fuckin’ hoo. When are you not?

They’ll kill you dead this time if they catch you. You don’t mind that so much, but you’ve got unfinished business, see. Heads to collect. The man with the rot-eyes is still out there. Smash cut to a desperate escape through back-alleys and dead-end streets. Smash cut to the sky opening and a nautiloid pouring through, tentacles lashing out from over rain-soaked roofs. Smash cut to the mind flayers, the parasite. The insertion. The crash.

Well, aren’t you just fucked.

[journeyofthemoonprophet]

When the tears finally slow down, your body and spirit feel like lead. Is it always this hard to catch your breath after a crying fit? It certainly hurts to do so against your already aching ribs. You’re definitely on your last remaining threads, your grief having drained you of what precious energy you had left to begin with.

Akemi busies herself with trying to keep you awake, doing her best to be comforting at her tiny size. At one point, she busies herself picking out the leaves and twigs caught in your hair, saying that she’s too small to tend to your wounds, “but at least this’ll make you feel a little better.” You can’t tell if it’s working or not, but at the very least, you appreciate the sentiment.

Maybe you should be a bit more embarrassed, wearing yourself out wailing like a child, but honestly you’re too exhausted to care. You’re already the lowest you think a man can go at the moment.

The minutes seem to stretch into hours (though that might be the fatigue kicking in full force), but you finally hear movement from much larger feet. “Ah! Ikken’s back!” Akemi climbs your shoulder to slap her little hands against your face, hoping to make you just a little bit more alert. “Waka, look, he’s brought the Oina with him!” She scales your head as you look up, but the moment your eyes focus, you freeze.

Three of the wolves from the village are once again staring you down, clearly just as shocked to see you as you are them.

“You!” the leader barks, and you can’t tell if he’s surprised, irritated, or both. He wants to react further, and probably would have if there wasn’t a poncle balanced on his nose. Everything aches again as you flinch, and as you grit your teeth it starts to sink in that, if things go south, you won’t be able to escape this time.

“If you you wish to kill me,” you manage, “at least grant me some last words...”

“Wait, what?” Akemi tries to lean over enough to look you in the face. “No, Waka, remember? Ikken went out to bring back help!” You can feel her bouncing on your head, maybe trying to get the other’s attention. “The Oina are here to help, right?”

You squint a bit more at the glowing spot on the wolf’s snout, and amid the warm yellow light, you can just pick out the shape of a poncle wizened with age. Unlike Akemi’s butterfly wings, he wears a beetle shell, a large pair of mandibles jutting from the forehead. This must be Ikken, and something tugs at the back of your mind, though you’re finding your sluggish thoughts struggling to catch up with the ‘what’.

Ikken hums as he takes in both the leader’s and your reactions, then turns around to look the wolf in the eye. “Explain.”

“We found this man near Lake Laochi’s gate, reeking of demons,” the bear masked wolf starts curtly. “When we questioned him, he fled instead of answering--”

“Hey, don’t be mean!” Akemi shouts, and you can nearly hear the steam whistling out of her ears. “He smells like demons because he was attacked by them, dummy!” She hops down from your shoulder--is she... really brandishing a twig from your hair? It’s nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t bother her as she waves it menacingly. “If you’re just gonna be bullies...!”

“Either way, this is a bad omen,” Ikken muses, turning back to study you once more. You must look like a fright: skin and clothes bloodied and torn, eyes red with tears and hair a wild mess. It must be easy to tell what kind of luck you’re now carrying with you. “With the demons now running loose, the gods will need their people’s faith more than ever.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m going to have to appoint the next Celestial Envoy soon... I fear I’m growing much too old for this duty.”

The tugging thoughts suddenly snap forward with a gasp. It’s as a if a final piece has clicked itself into place, the picture becoming sharp and clear. That feeling in the back of your skull fully flutters to life, dropping down into your throat. You finally know who it’s for.

“Ikken...” You force yourself to sit up a little further, gritting your teeth as a wave of dizziness washes over you. “I have a prophecy for you.”

The word brings everyone from arguments to stunned silence, and to your shock the wolves shift into... people. The masked visages of animals are now pulled down over their faces, and the bear-faced leader is now holding Ikken in his hands. You’re stunned silent yourself, wondering if maybe now is when your injuries are making you delirious, but you’re snapped out of your thoughts when Akemi’s bouncing light catches your eye.

“Right, right! Waka said he had a vision in the forest.” She bounces closer to Ikken, trying to get his attention. “That’s why the gods guided him here!”

“An oracle...?” Ikken hops down from the bear-faced man’s hands, approaching with all the authority of a man your size. His head tilts back, and while your vision’s swimming too much to see his face beyond the glow, you can feel his eyes fully focused upon you. “I am listening.”

You nod, shifting to steady yourself. With a deep breath, your senses flood over once again as you speak. “... I foresee a proud beetle’s horn,” you report, “inspired to paint a holy face in red ink.”

The vision’s weight slips off of your chest with a sigh, the voices around you blurring even further with the breath. Ikken hums as the masked figures murmur to each other, and you think he’s rubbing his chin in thought? It’s hard to tell at his size, especially with your vision dimming.

“A beelte’s horn,” his muffled voice repeats. “Do you possibly mean Ishaku...?”

You don’t answer. Your job is done, and your body knows it. Akemi calls your name, and the world goes dark before you even hit the ground.