#hollow regalia

[swasdoodles]

And then it all made sense. In a way. Dreams rarely do.

[its-not-a-pen]

—Terracotta—

Ok so I visited xi'an during my trip back to china (3 months ago?), and this idea popped into my head during the 9h train ride back to shangdong. I am of course 100% projecting my own love of the terracotta army onto Qin Shi Huang, in reality he did not care for this pit of mud statues depicting lowly commoners. In fact, no one ever bothered to write about it and they were lost to history until 1974 when some farmers digging a well stumbled upon them. But it's exactly the reason I'm so fascinated by them. QSH's tomb has not been excavated, and although I have a running joke about cracking it open--mercury vapors be damned--none of the riches inside will ever enchant me as much as the chance to see the face of a person who lived during this time.

Notes under the cut:

#1

the title Qin Shi Huangdi means "First Emperor of Qin" and was given to QSH by later historians. He actually called himself the Shi Huangdi, "First Emperor", and that is the title I've gone with here.

in English the other kingdoms are translated as "states" (i guess to avoid confusion?) but in chinese they are very much kingdoms.

The terracotta warriors used thousands of craftsmen, many of whom were slaves from conquered kingdoms. From a storytelling perspective I thought it would be more streamlined if there were two main artisans who reported directly to QSH.

QSH's clothes are based on the overly complicated courtly regalia. which has 12 symbols that only the emperor is allowed to wear

Notice how this hat is ROUND at the front??? Well I CERTAINLY DIDN'T. HAD TO REDRAW IT!!!!!

the stripped shirt is based on this Chu woman figurine. Clothes were fairly unisex during this time and I thought it was a nice fit.

#2

Paperwork: writing was done on books made of bamboo slips. Anecdotally, QSH had an impressive work ethic and would read 100 bills every night.

Bronze Goose lamp: ok this is actually a Han dynasty lamp pls forgive me. I saw this bad boy at the xi'an history museum and it's bewitched me body and soul. The goose neck is hollow and connects to a reservoir of water in the belly, which minimizes smoke and cools the lamp.

QSH is remembered as a brutal tyrant and brilliant statesman, but I wanted to present a more human version of him here. Bored, tired and drowning in work he refuses to delegate. His new empire is balanced as precariously as everything else on his desk.

#3

The attendants standing behind him are holding little wood tablets called hu for taking notes. Their brushes are tucked into their hats/hair, inspired by Han dynasty custom. (You'll see me using Han stuff a lot. Their cultures were very similar to Qin, since it was only a few hundred years apart).

So I had a slight breakdown trying to find the correct hats for the eunuchs, and ended up redrawing everything the night I was due to publish. Closest thing I could come up with was a reference to a round-style Han Dynasty hat which evolved into this square Jin hat. Yes, this is a cry for help .

#4

the wheeled platform is 100% made up, I tried to come up with a plausible way of getting a bunch of figurines into the palace.

#5 & #6

Painted terracotta soldier

How were the terracotta warriors made

The General: Fun fact, I got to see this guy in person!

#7

The Epic Wide Shot was inspired by some Tang Dynasty terracotta figures I saw at the xi'an museum!

#8

THIS KNEELING ARCHER. ARGGGGG. He use to be my favourite guy. I even went into the pit and drew him IN PERSON. the archers inexplicably have their hair buns on the OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE HEAD. So because of him, I DREW ALL THE HAIR BUNS WRONG!!!! REDRAW!!!! PAIN AND SUFFERING!!!!

#10

Qin was famous for it's very long, thin swords. They were more useful as status symbols than actual weapons, as QSH knows from personal experience…

#11

QSH'S Tomb hasn't been excavated yet, but high levels of mercury have been detected in the soil, making the historical accounts of quite plausible.

[sergeantsporks]

Writing Request: A fic set pre hollow mind about Luz and Hunter in a situation where they need to work together to accomplish something.

Luz swatted aside a massive thorny vine that kept trying to curl lovingly around her neck. “Suddenly,” she panted, “I appreciate Morton a lot more.” It was hard to believe that the scrawny, meek potions witch regularly made climbs like this to retrieve ingredients for Eda’s elixirs. Dead center of the Twisted Thorn Jungle, he’d told her. And, for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that she should bring Willow.

Between Eda’s elixir consumption going up and Lilith making her own demands, Morton was running out of stock fast. He’d cut a deal with Luz—he needed to watch the batch he was currently brewing, but at the rate they were disappearing, he wouldn’t have enough supplies to meet the next demand. If she went out and retrieved the ingredients he needed, he’d only charge for labor—fifty percent off, he’d told her.

“For Eda,” she muttered through gritted teeth when she tripped over another vine, “For—”

A blast of red magic cut through the vines, barely missing Luz.

“Stupid—vines,” a familiar voice grumbled, “You won’t get in my way.”

“Hey,” Luz yelled before she could stop herself, “Watch where you’re blasting!” Too late, she thought maybe she shouldn’t give up her position, but by the time the thought crossed her mind, a red blur shot right next to her, and Hunter, clothed in full golden-guard regalia, appeared next to her.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, “Why are you always showing up in my way?”

“I’m not in your way,” Luz shot back, “You’re the one who nearly blasted me when I was minding my own business. And I could ask the same question. Not a bunch of palisman for you to kidnap or wild witches to arrest out here, now are there?”

“For your information, I’m not here to kidnap palisman or make any arrests. I’m here to—” he cut off abruptly. “Well—never mind.”

“You’re here to what?”

“None of your business! And I asked first, anyway.”

“Well, I’m up to—to important wild witch business. Which is none of your business. And has nothing to do with you.”

“Well—good. Because my mission has nothing to do with you either.”

Luz crossed her arms. “Then I guess we should just go our separate ways.”

“I guess we should!”

He stalked off, only to let out a half-groan, half shriek of anger. “Stupid—plants—”

Luz snickered. He hadn’t gotten far before his long white cloak had gotten snagged in the thorns. The vines snarled through the whole hem, and were making their way up towards his face.

“You should take it off,” she called, “Or else they’re going to worm their way through and gouge out your eyes.” She swatted another vine as it reached for her. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You think I don’t know how eye-splitters work?” he demanded, “I’m not leaving the cloak behind—why is it that every time I run into you, my cloak gets eaten by something?”

Luz sighed. She needed to get a move on—the Eye-Splitter root flower Morton needed only bloomed every other Tuesday, and it wasn’t the only ingredient she needed. But she couldn’t just leave him to get torn apart.

“Hang on,” she grumbled. She gently smacked one of the vines in-between its spines, the way the plant track teacher had shown her. It cringed away, slithering out of Hunter’s cloak.

“I don’t need your help!”

“Stop wriggling,” she told him, “And you’re welcome.” She smacked another vine. Only a few remained.

Through the slits in his mask, she saw Hunter’s eyes widen, and he lunged towards her. “Get down!”

He half-tackled her down into the vines with him, and Luz yelped as the thorns scratched her arms and pricked her face. “Hey—”

Wind whooshed overhead, and Hunter put his hand over her mouth, grabbing a vine and dragging it on top of them to use as cover. His cloak might have been a dumb accessory to wear in this jungle, but right now, Luz envied his long sleeves and heavy gloves.

The eye-splitters pulled the two of them further into their grasp, and it was all Luz could do to keep them out of her face while the whatever-it-was made another pass overhead. Hunter kept a tight grip on Luz’s arm even as the vines tried to force them apart. His other hand dragged his staff towards them, and pointed it down. Red magic washed over the green vines, and the ground beneath them gave way. Gravity proved stronger than the eye-splitters, and the two of them fell. Luz screeched as the thorns made one last desperate attempt to stick in her skin before she pulled free from their grip and crashed into the ground.

“Oof,” she grunted, sitting up. A warren of earthen tunnels stretched out around them as far as she could see, braced by twining roots. “Where are we?”

Hunter pulled a stray thorn out of his cloak. “Eye-splitter tomb? They tend to drop the corpses of their victims down here to rot and fertilize the soil for their seeds.” He kicked at the dirt. “Watch your step around here.”

“We’re in their meat pantry?” Luz yelped. She shook herself, trying to dislodge the feeling that she was surrounded by bodies.

“Better than getting ripped apart by a splitter vulture. They don’t always wait for the vines to finish the job.” Hunter flinched, fidgeting with his mask. “Ow—”

“Oh, take that thing off. It’s not like I haven’t seen your face before. What, are you trying to hide your identity from the killer plants?”

Hunter grumbled, but pulled his mask away, taking down his hood. Luz winced. Red welts traipsed across his cheekbones where the splitter vines must have gotten under the mask searching for his eyes. “You look awful.”

He gestured at the matching welts dotting her arms and ankles. “You don’t exactly look fresh-faced yourself.” He fumbled for the thorns still stuck in his face, succeeding only in pushing one further in with his clumsy leather gloves. “Ow—”

“You just have to ask,” Luz said serenely, yanking thorns out of her own arms with ease, “I didn’t save you from the vines just to let you stab yourself worse. Oh—” she lost grip on one of the thorns. “Wow, that one’s really stuck in there. Almost tempted to let the little guy have the win.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hunter scoffed. He rummaged around in his belt pockets and pulled out a pair of tweezers. “Here. That should get them out. And then, uh.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind. I didn’t bring a mirror.”

Luz finally pulled out the stubborn thorn with the help of the tweezers. “But you brought tweezers?”

“Incredible, it’s almost as though I prepared for a trip to a place called the “twisted thorn jungle,” he said flatly.

“Got me there.” Luz pulled a thorn out of his face, discarding it on the ground. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Trying to get a root flower off one of these things. They only bloom every other Tuesday, you know.”

“No way, that’s why I’m here, too!”

He gave her a quizzical look. “But you… didn’t know about the tunnels? How were you going to find them?”

“I—well, I thought I’d find them blooming aboveground to be honest. I’m not usually the one who gets these, but Morton’s keeping an eye on Eda’s elixir brew right now, and he’ll need them soon, so—wait, why am I telling you this? What nefarious reason do you have for getting one of these?”

“It’s not nefarious,” Hunter scoffed, “The potion head Vitimir just needs some.”

Luz could feel the skeptical look creeping onto her face. “And you just decided to leave the palace on an errand mission? Belos doesn’t have you counting all the doors or standing somewhere menacingly or hunting down some innocent wild creature? We didn’t actually kill that selkidomus, you know.”

“About what I figured.” Hunter looked away. “And if you must know, there’s a coven head meeting coming up, and I’d like at least one coven head to be on my side.”

“So you’re getting him to owe you a favor,” Luz put together, “Are you sure he didn’t send you out here because he was hoping the eye-splitters would get you, and he’d have one less person to compete with?”

“What? No! Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Luz muttered, pulling the last thorn out of his face, “Why did Kikimora send a dragon to eat you?”

“That was different,” he snapped, snatching the tweezers back, “They wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t they? Did Kikimora even get a slap on the wrist for what she tried to do to you?”

The answer was no, based on the way his jaw muscles twitched, but he didn’t say another word. Instead, he spun around, stalking off into the tunnels.

“You’re welcome,” she called after him. She stretched, eying the roots. “Flowers, please. Uh, shoot, did Morton give me more instructions? Probably not,” she answered herself, “He didn’t even tell me about the grave tunnel.” She jogged after Hunter. “I am going to ask for way more than fifty percent off.”

“Stop following me,” Hunter grumbled, fussing with his belt pouch, “Go find your own flower.”

“Where?” Luz waved a hand out at the tunnels. “It’s the second Tuesday, and there’s not a flower in sight!" Now she almost wished she’d taken a second plant magic class, or at least had asked Willow about the eye-splitters before going.

Hunter chuckled, but when he looked her up and down, his face fell. “Oh, you weren’t joking. Human, they grow inward.”

“What does that mean?!”

“They’re root flowers. They don’t need pollinators, or sunlight. There’s no reason for them to be on the outside of the root. They grow on the inside to protect them from burrowing creatures, like ratworms.”

Luz resisted the urge to shake him, but only just barely. “So, what, we chop the roots open?”

Hunter snorted. “Yeah, and get the eye-splitter vines burrowing down immediately to protect their seeds. I don’t think so. No, you just need a touch of plant magic. Easy enough to simulate with the right potion. Which I… prepared…” he patted his pouch, digging around. “…beforehand… oh no. No, no, no, no—it must have gotten lost in the vines, it must have…”

“Hunter. Hunter!” Luz grabbed his arm. “Relax. I can just use a glyph.”

“Well, that’s well and good for you,” he snarled, “But what about me? I can’t go back with nothing!”

Luz doodled a glyph directly onto the roots and tapped it gently. The root burst into bloom, turning inside out and revealing dozens of flowers. “I think I can share.”

He eyed her skeptically. “Why?”

“I wouldn’t have known how to find them if it weren’t for you. Hey, we’ve been going back and forth on saving and helping each other all day, haven’t we? Call it an even exchange.” Luz shrugged. “And… maybe I think it isn’t fair for you to have no one in your corner. What are you trying to get done this meeting, anyway?”

Hunter wrung his hands. “Get more work put into the palistrom program,” he muttered, “There’s a shortage. It’ll cause long-term issues if we don’t work on it now.”

Luz had been prepared to jokingly take the flowers away after he said something anti-wild magic. This, though, left her gasping for words. “Well, now I’ve got to help you,” she managed, “Here—I can do another root. You take these.”

She turned to go, but before she could leave, Hunter heaved a sigh. “Wait. Take this.” He held out a foldable pouch, keeping one for himself. “It’s a pouch woven with plant magic. It’ll keep the flowers fresh until use. I brought two, but to be perfectly transparent, Vitimir does not need that many flowers.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Luz took the bag, giving Hunter a lopsided grin. “Not a bad teamup, eh? We should do this again sometime.”

“Absolutely not.”

[kelzthalassunwhisper]

“Does the commander believe in doing something wrong for the greater good?”

Victory was a bittersweet song that played when the struggle of battle had ceased. It meant that there was a future and that peace could gradually make it's way into the hearts of those weary from the fight. And in most instances whether the ending was good or bad, the fight was the part most remembered. Potential outcomes were factored, fear stimuli was faced head on, and most importantly loss was something one had to endure.

Yet in this instance, victory couldn't be attained. There was too much at stake and now the Commander had only one recourse. She took each step forward - knowing that the light of the morrow was only going to come from this path.

The ground was like ash, dull, and muted from the taint that stretched throughout the Ghostlands. Trees stood as hollowed shells as life had since vacated this region - only allowing the memories of the past to take refuge in its silence. The Dead Scar was decorated with skulls throughout it as she moved from the path into the upturned earth. Still donned in the regalia of Silvermoon's colors, she carried herself to the gates of Deathholme.

What stood as a testament to time itself was the former scourge citadel and its outposts. No reanimated corpses sought to impede her ascent to the altar just outside the citadel. And while her expression was filled with determination, it did not hide her valor as she took a stance before it.

With a deliberate motion of her hands, she pulled the gauntlet free and threw it against the altar's surface in a display of challenge.

"I know you are here," her voice stated without a look to her surroundings.

"You don't fool me! Whispers, despite how soft they are, still send a message! You live in the shadows and gaze at the warmth of the living - resent us for everything we take for granted. You find the moments we are the most vulnerable and slip out of your place in hiding to remind us that... mistakes cost us. Perhaps this is some sick and twisted mindset that sets you and I apart, Malakortana. But we are two sides of the same coin. I just happen to endure the light of the Eternal Sun."

At this the Commander reached towards her belt and brandished a knife which was drawn and poised along the bare side of her hand. The cut was quick and deep as she pulled the knife away and overturned her hand so that the blood may fall over the gauntlet she had discarded earlier.

"You know sacrifice and I come baring myself in offering to you. This is the language you yearn to speak, but the conversation you can never have with the likes of me alive. I know you to be the monster you are and seek to sate that gluttonous appetite that you flaunt as power. It festers without abandon and behind that charade of your ashen smile, you hunger just like the withered. You crave it."

The blood had already stained the surface of her armor and began to pool beneath it.

"So show yourself! I have come to understand you, now it's time you do the same for me."

(( @allasticus thanks for the ask :3 Mentions @sanguinesorceress ))

[amaramizuki666]

Shared sensation part.4

Where was he? Who was he? Why did everything hurt?. Those where the constant questions going through 27's head. He didn't know what was happening. He was in some sort of tube filled with green liquid.

Every once in a while someone in a white coat will walk over to the tube and press some buttons then insert some blue liquid into the tube, causing these weird dreams.

"Red Robin focuse we need to be careful about this" a gruff voice orders and tim nodded "yeah b I know" tim says his voice hollow. He felt so numb as if he was drowning in a sea of ice.

Why should he care if he gets hurt he isnt going to feel it. Tim tries to stay focused during the fight but his mind keeps wandering, wandering to the beautiful black haired boy, and how his face flashed with horror when tim rejected him.

By the time the fight ended tim was bruised and bloody. "Red robin I told you to stay focused" bruce criticized once they got back to the cave. "I'm sorry ok, I just cant think properly" tim sighs, he can feel a headache comeing on.

Bruce put a hand on Tim's shoulder. "I think it's best for you to take a break" bruce said "bruce I'm fine" tim growls. He wasnt fine he was numb, nothing mattered anymore.

He lost his other half. He shouldn't have let him go. he shouldn't have pushed away. HE FAILED, IT WAS ALL HIS FAULT, HE SHOULD HAVE PROTECTED HIM!

27's eyes opened again he felt pressure behind his eyes almost as if something wanted to escape them. 27 felt so confined. He didnt like it in here. He felt like something was pulling him, that something was missing. He dosnt understand what was going on.

D.A.N.N.Y the name at the top of the file bright in red. It contained so much and so little. "Danny" tim says while running his fingers down the photo of the boy a year younger than himself. "My sweet danny" tim mumbles reading over the suspicious death records.

They say he died a few months ago but tim knows that he died 2 years ago. Things arnt adding up. He has to find out what happened, what happened to danny. HOW DID DANNY DIE!? WHO IS COVERING IT UP?!

27 studied his surroundings. He wanted out of here, he wanted to go where his chest wanted to lead him.

"AHHHHHH!" Danny's screams rang loud even through the muzzle that was shoved onto his face as people in white coats cut him open. even if it was only over video tim could clearly see how they looked at his soulmate. like he was less than human. How dare they, I will kill them the thought rolled into Tim's mind, the yeah the GIW will pay.

27 didn't want to be in here anymore he wanted out. 27 moved his arm placing his palm against the glass. None of the white coats paired him attention so he reeled his arm back and punched. And punched, and punched, until the glass cracked.

Part 3

Part 5

[paracosmicparadox]

So, I'm falling back into the FFXV kick, and I have decided that I disapprove of how little complex character development Square Enix has given the guys?? Like where is the emotional depth beyond surface-level cutscene angst?? So I took matters into my own hands and have compiled a handy little list of headcanons / expanded canons that I think make sense.

Noctis: Has clinical insomnia and frequent lucid dreams (sorta a given, but bear w me bear w me)

Feels the weight of having to take so much on from such a young age much, much more than he lets on

Loves to argue

Would've been happier if he and Luna stayed as childhood best-buds rather than betrothed fiancés (controversial, ik, but it just didn't seem like he cared that much for her romantically to me?? Like he obviously cared about her, but it seemed like a really strong penpal vibe rather than a "We're-gonna-get-married-and-be-the-next-hotshot-couple" vibe. If you disagree, coolio, I'm not gonna debate w you on this one)

Has a natural sadness to his eyes regardless of what he's feeling

Went through an anime phase (possibly still in his anime phase, idk)

Social anxiety for the win

Severe RBF

Prefers tea over coffee (black tea is best---particularly lavender earl grey)

Can play the cello (practicing tho?? Don't know her)

Writes the most beautiful poetry when The Motivation™ strikes him (usually when he's home sick and half-delirious)

Prompto: Has ADHD and clinical anxiety, but is undiagnosed and doesn't take any meds for either of them.

Is legit like SO SMART, but can never focus, so not many people take any notice

Wears contact lenses (he had glasses as a child and I refuse to believe he had some high-tech corrective surgery to eliminate the need for them when lenses are cheaper and less risky)

Doesn't drink caffeine because it makes him jittery

Doesn't drive the Regalia when the guys are around because having other people in the car distracts him from the road. Also he tends to drive like a speed demon, which worries Ignis to no end.

Sunburns insanely easily

Could legit become a hitman if he wanted to with the amount of gun-knowledge he has. It doesn't matter what firearm you put in this boy's hand---pistol, SMG, sniper, rocket launcher, you name it. He can and will hit the target every single time.

Addicted to adrenaline

Pansexual

Has a lot of self-loathing (we see a bit of this in Ep. Prompto) and talks with an online therapist about it via text whenever his lows hit him. He's making great progress in learning how to heal and how to accept himself for who he is beyond the mask he wears for others

Ignis: More than a little bit of a control freak, and works very hard not to be too overbearing or critical about his friends' misgivings

Hypochondriac

Wants to protect everyone all the time and mentally kicks himself when he doesn't get there fast enough

Is SO PROUD of Noctis's journey and felt a stronger hatred towards Ardyn than anyone else in the group for what he forced Noct to go through (he stayed up at night sick to his stomach with hollow rage and baked nonstop to take his mind off of it)

Can verbally obliterate a man, but only rarely chooses to do so bc he's classy like that

After losing his eyes, he notices so much more beauty in the world than he used to (the sound of rain on the Regalia's roof, the specific gait of each of his friends, the smell of salt on the wind in Galdin Quay, the flawless feel of one specific silk tie he has in his repertoire, etc)

His internal compass is never wrong

Regularly takes antacids for his stomach

Has the straightest teeth you've ever seen

Demiromantic

Gladio: Hates being wrong: it's his way or the highway

Actually so much smarter than the musclehead jock front he puts up

A little vain and easily jealous (this man has a Jealous Face like no other)

Thunderstorms are his favorite; his ideal place to be is at a campsite, during a storm, with a well-worn book and a mug of Irish coffee in hand

Would throw himself in front of a bus for any one of his friends

Would beat up kids for the folks he cared about in middle school and spent the time he wasn't training to be a Crownsguard sitting in detention with the most unrepentant, smug, and-I'd-do-it-again look scrawled across his face

Can make a better smoothie than anyone (except maybe Iggy)

Spotify junkie

Had a dinosaur phase as a kid and can still name random facts about them whenever the opportunity presents itself

Avid technology-hater and only has a phone to make calls and join the others in playing King's Knight since they begged him so profoundly (he's sure the thing's going to be his downfall)

Gets most of Prompto's pop culture references

[mmorpg-escapism]

guest - for the single-word fic prompt!

(this has been in my inbox for so long... well, time to bring it in from the cold.)

"...I believe the two of you met briefly in Ala Mhigo?" Fandaniel's voice sounded even creepier than normal, laced with barely suppressed glee. "His was a rather sticky end, wasn't it?"

Besany looked around, dazed. The helmet on her head was heavy, and-

Wait. Helmet? She shook the cobwebs from her mind and scanned her body. It... was not. Some poor Garlean lieutenant had been cast aside for her to take up residence in against both of their wills. The thought nearly made her hurl the contents of her stomach into the helmet's face-plate.

"Thankfully, he was thoughtful enough to leave behind his mindjack technology. I took the liberty of making some improvements─and selecting you as my esteemed test subject." The tone in Fandaniel's voice was like a knife beneath her skin.

"Give me back my body!" Her words sounded hollow and wrong coming out, but they were all she had. The room she'd been placed in was devoid of anything that could be even remotely considered a weapon. A wise precaution.

"And let you, my lord's esteemed guest, go on a righteous rampage in order to ruin our plans? After all the work we put in to prepare a wonderful meal for you? I think not."

She could only seethe as Fandaniel magicked her away from the cell and directly into a seat at a banquet table, all the while keeping the maniacal grin plastered to his face. At the head of it was Zenos, clad in full battle regalia and looking as bored as ever.

Fandaniel assumed the role of butler, serving meat and wine and salad to both ends before disappearing. In a fit of defiance, Besany refused to even lift a hand to consume any of it. Zenos ate silently for a moment, staring at the blank helmet across the table intently.

"Does the pursuit of prey you have bested before excite you?" The silence broke with a monotone drone once the Garlean prince had finished his first course. "Of course not. Absent the challenge, the thrill, your prize is a hollow victory. Butchery." He nodded slowly at his Ascian, who refilled the goblet with some kind of red wine. "Perhaps you think that to be the extent of my promise. I have no doubt fallen in your estimation since Ala Mhigo."

"No matter. As you will learn, I have only just begun..." He shot a bored glare at Fandaniel, who had wandered over to Besany in his jester-like fashion and was attempting to force her to eat. At the glance, he backed off with an exaggerated bow.

"While my lifeless body was in the possession of the Ascian, I too claimed another's as my own. It was an enlightening experience, to fight in an unfamiliar form. Flaws and failings in my technique were plain to see." Besany's eyes widened in fear as she started to understand what Zenos was implying.

"Whence rises one's true strength? The flesh? The soul? Perhaps you should like to discover the answer for yourself."

no no No No NO NO NO!

"Or... together."

And then he was gone.

[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Four

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Next Chapter

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3.3k

Chapter-specific CW: excessive drinking, vomiting

A/N: "oh he's kinda cute... HE'S A MURDERER! but he's kinda cute..." -y/n

───────── ❅ 🦇 ❅ ─────────

“You’ve barely touched your food, dear.” Commander Ren’s low voice pulled you from your trance as you poked at the lamb shank on your plate. A fitting entrée for tonight.

“I haven’t much of an appetite,” you muttered, setting the silver fork down beside your dish. You were almost catatonic, and despite your contempt for him, you felt betrayed. It was for that reason that you hadn’t so much as looked in his direction since sitting down, instead choosing to study the other guests in the dining hall—including the stormtroopers stationed at every exit. It was an impossible task—you knew that—but you’d sooner die trying than comply with this farce of a treaty.

A low laugh rumbled in Ren’s chest. “I have no stomach for lamb either; it’s far too tender for my liking. Perhaps you would prefer venison? Or roasted vegetables?”

“No, thank you. Just wine will do,” you said as you tipped your cup back and gulped down the remaining liquid. You imagined you would need many more if you were going to endure this evening.

“If you insist.” He pushed his chair back and lifted his hand, summoning one of the servants. A boy with short, tawny hair rushed over, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes sir?” he asked meekly, his eyes darting between yours and the Commander’s. Although he stood with his shoulders back and chin high, his age was obvious from the fat in his face and the pitch of his voice. Anger boiled beneath your skin.

“Fetch more wine for my bride,” Ren instructed, nodding at you as he spoke. “And for me, as well.”

“Of course, sir.” The boy’s fear rolled off of him as he turned on his heels and disappeared into what you assumed was the kitchens.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why am I not surprised that the First Order uses children as servants?”

“Only those whose families owe us a debt. No different from the New Republic’s operations,” he said calmly, tapping the empty cup in his hand.

You shook your head slightly and turned back to your plate. “That’s hardly justification for continuing to do so.”

His eyes followed you as you watched the rest of the guests dine. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, either lost in conversation or filling their plates with the assortment of meats, cheeses, and fruits set out on the table—all but one. Across from you sat a red-haired man, with hollow cheeks and a scowl twisting his features. Given his proximity to the Supreme Leader, you assumed he was another commanding officer.

Beside him was a woman, but unlike the other ladies in the hall dressed in elaborate gowns, she was wearing the same regalia as the men. You furrowed your brows. Was she…? No, she couldn’t be.

Ren leaned in close to your ear, his cold lips brushing your skin. “Captain Phasma of Parnassos, to answer your question.”

His breath sent a shiver down your spine. “Get out of my head,” you snapped, your knuckles white around the body of the cup in your hand.

“How else am I to make conversation with you?”

You scoffed, redirecting your attention to the servant returning with a pitcher of wine in either hand. It was clear by his unsteady footing that the weight of both of them was nearly too much for his small arms.

As he approached the table, you reached for one of the decanters to save his shaking arms. "Thank you," you said, mustering up a smile. Gods knew the poor boy needed some kindness.

“No need, my lady,” he replied quietly, pouring the rich liquid into your cup before reaching for the other pitcher. “Commander…”

Ren presented his empty cup and nodded for the boy to fill it. He obeyed, pouring the dark wine with trembling hands. For such an ordinary exchange, the boy was tense, utterly frightened. Not that you could necessarily blame him. 

Once it was full, he set the pitcher down between your plates and quickly returned to his post along the wall. In the hopes of quickening the evening, you finished the cup in a few sips, reaching for the pitcher beside your plate.

A gloved hand seizing your wrist stopped you before you could. “Careful, dear. You might find that mine is a bit too strong for your taste.”

Part of you wanted to try his wine out of defiance, but the rational part of you heeded his warning. With an empty stomach, your wine would be more than enough as it was. You pulled your hand free and reached for the other pitcher. As you poured it, you allowed yourself to feel everything—the anger, the disappointment. How Leia had seemed to so easily forget you. But beneath it all, there was still the ember of hope, buried under the weight of your emotions. It needed to be protected, locked away in the recesses of your mind until you could ignite it once more—until you were free. Once the cup was full, you returned it to its locked box, stowing it away for another time.

“You can’t ignore me forever, you know,” Ren said, taking a sip from his cup.

“I can try,” you countered, doing the same.

He exhaled softly. “I’m sure you will.”

Over the rim of your cup, you could see the red-haired man looking at you, his green eyes locked onto you. You wondered how long he had been watching.

Covering your mouth with your napkin, you asked, “Who is that man next to the captain?”

“That would be General Armitage Hux of Arkanis.”

You hummed. It wasn’t difficult to imagine such a seemingly pompous general coming from a place like Arkanis. “Does he always look so sour?”

Ren scoffed. “Usually less so. He’s been openly displeased about our arrangement.”

“Perhaps he and I have more in common than I realized,” you murmured.

“I think you’d find yourself more outraged with his proposition—gods know the Supreme Leader was,” he said with a light laugh, running a hand through his dark hair.

You cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He mimicked you, raising his eyebrow in surprise. “Unless you would prefer to be wed to a bastard son.”

“I hardly see how that could be any worse.”

A hand resting on your shoulder immediately pulled you from the conversation. You recoiled, half-expecting it to be General Hux, slinking across the room while you were distracted. You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“My sweeting, it is so lovely to finally meet you,” Supreme Leader Snoke said with an unnerving smile. His touch was cold—even through the fabric of your dress. It felt unnatural, as if he had been trapped in a winter storm for a week.

“Supreme Leader,” you replied, forcing down the bitter taste in your mouth. “What a pleasure.”

It had been over six years since he had murdered Chancellor Villecham, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He was untouched by time—not that he was youthful by any means. Despite his age, there was no silver in his hair or deep creases in his face. Perhaps the wolf skin cloak over his shoulders served as his own personal fountain of youth.

Snoke let out a hoarse laugh, one seemingly loud enough to rattle the crystal chandeliers above. “The pleasure is mine. I take it you’ve found your new chambers more accommodating than your last?”

Rage streaked your vision. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he was trying to provoke you—as if you needed reminding that you were nothing more than a bargaining piece to the First Order.

“Yes, thank you for asking,” you replied, bowing your head slightly. “Though I must admit, I had grown rather fond of the rats.”

Snoke let out a short, unamused chuckle. “Such misunderstood creatures, they are.” His gray eyes narrowed as he spoke. He quickly shifted his attention to the man beside you, a wall of ice now standing between you. “My boy… I have faith that you will treat our guest well.” He squeezed Ren’s shoulder tightly, threateningly. 

“Of course, Supreme Leader,” he said, the usual color in his voice absent.

“Good. I would hate to have to marry her to Armitage, should you disappoint.”

Ren’s eyes flashed with something akin to envy. “That won’t be necessary.”

Snoke grinned. “I should hope not.”

The air felt thick, as if the room had filled with smoke. You shifted in your seat as the two men stared at each other, locked in silence. Snoke lingered for a moment longer before finally releasing his grip on Ren’s shoulder.

“Please, do enjoy the celebration. The wedding will be held in a fortnight. I had hoped for it to be sooner, but we must allow ample time for our guests to arrive.”

His words fell on you like stones. It wasn’t enough time. A fortnight was hardly enough time to finalize battle strategies—let alone to devise an escape. The flame in your heart waned.

With that, the Supreme Leader crossed to the other side of the table to greet the other guests, starting with Captain Phasma of Parnassos.

Silence stretched between you and Ren, your minds occupied with different concerns. Habitually, you finished your wine and pushed the empty chalice away. “How long should I expect this evening to last?”

“Eager to leave, are we?” Ren teased, taking the liberty of refilling your cup. “It might be wise to eat something. Celebrations like these have a tendency to be drawn out.”

The wine was beginning to take effect, making your skin warm and your mind hazy. Against your better judgment, you continued, draining each cup in a matter of minutes. Truthfully, it was a relief—allowing you to drift to a place far from here, to a place by the sea. A cobblestone home perched on the cliffside, surrounded by vines like veins around a heart. A place that always had a fire in its hearth and a stew simmering above it.

A warm tear hitting your hand pulled you from your reverie. You quickly blinked them away, not wanting anyone to see your emotion—least of all Commander Ren. Empathy wasn’t exactly his strongest virtue.

The night passed in a blur of drinks, hollow introductions, and avoiding your betrothed. It was nearly midnight when you finally staggered back to your chambers, barely lucid. Against your wishes, Ren had accompanied you, ensuring that his prized bride reached her chambers unscathed.

You fumbled with the doorknob for a moment, all too aware of his lingering presence. You continued to ignore him until a sobering realization fell over you.

“Does the Supreme Leader expect you to bed me?” you asked, frowning. The wine suddenly felt heavy in your stomach.

“No,” he said, a flash of humanity in his dark eyes. “Not yet, at least.”

“Oh.” Heat rose to your face. Of course he wouldn’t bed you tonight. If that were the case, the two of you would have been wed during the feast.

“Besides, I don’t intend to take you in this state,” he added, stepping closer. His fingers brushed your cheek as he pushed back a piece of hair that had fallen from your updo. You shivered at the sensation.

“This,” you hissed, stumbling backward until you collided with the doors, “is the only state that would make it tolerable.”

An amused smile played on his lips. “We’ll see.”

Dawn cracked the sky early the next morning, a fateful sign of the long winter ahead. As much as you longed to relish the fleeting sunlight, you were damned to spend the day with a pail in your arms and a cold rag on your neck.

“Are you feeling better at all, my lady?” Rey asked, wringing out a washcloth after soaking it in cool water.

“If only I were. I can’t imagine that there’s anything left to expel,” you said with a shudder, pulling your head from the basin.

Rey blotted your forehead with the cloth, her touch as light as the feather pillows beneath you. She had been silent for most of the morning, which you didn’t necessarily mind. There was an unspoken understanding as to why you were so ill this particular morning.

Hours had passed like this; with her encouraging you to take sips of water and you immediately spitting it up. At this point, it was difficult to tell if the culprit was the constant flow of wine or the extended time you had spent with Commander Ren. Perhaps a bit of both.

After what felt like an eternity, your stomach had settled enough to hold down the water Rey was offering. Once you were able to finish a roll of bread and a cup of broth, she returned to her quarters, allowing you to sleep away the rest of the aches.

When you finally woke, cool moonlight was spilling through the windows, casting shadows on the floor. The fire burning in your hearth had been reduced to a pile of embers and ash, but despite the cool air in the room, sweat coated your skin.

The night terrors that had plagued your sleep in the dungeons were relentless, managing to wake you even after a night of drinking and a day of illness. Every night was the same dream, the memory of the night in the forest. Without failure, the terror always ended with Commander Ren’s mask inches away from your face, close enough to show your reflection in the silver ridges around his eyes. The sight of you, bloodied and bruised, was always enough to wake you from the dream.

Tonight was no different, only this nightmare had a different ending. Instead of your armor, you wore the gown from the feast. Standing before the Commander, you looked at him not with horror, but with admiration. His hands were firm on your waist, holding you tight against him. You were unrecognizable in the reflection of his mask—with ruby lips and dark eyes. Piled around you were the bodies of Resistance soldiers—your soldiers—blood spilling from their ripped throats, staining the snow beneath.

Slowly, you pushed his visor up, but before you could see the man behind it, you jolted awake.

Immediately, you kicked the covers off and ran to the chamber pot, coughing and heaving in an attempt to settle your stomach. Nothing came from it, except possibly waking every occupant of the castle. Before returning to your bed, you used the washcloth and water basin that Rey had left behind to blot your face and neck, hoping to cool the heat under your skin.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed as you stared at the canopy above you, trying to erase the image of the dream from your memory—a task proving to be impossible. With each minute that passed, your breath felt more strained, as if the walls of your chambers were shrinking, suffocating you. It was beginning to feel like you had traded one cage for another.

The wedding was at the forefront of your mind, and you knew that every minute you spent laying awake was precious time slipping away. Despite Ren’s orders to stay in your chambers, you left the warmth of your bed, determined to familiarize yourself with the castle. Even if you couldn’t do it tonight, knowing the layout would benefit you when you did.

Hanging in the wardrobe was a long, dark cloak—perfect for concealing your ivory nightgown from the world. You pulled the hood over your head and carefully cracked the door open, scanning the hallway before stepping out into the unknown.

Flickering candles lined the corridor, but only a few were still burning. No one tends the candles past midnight, you noted, creeping towards the familiar spiraling staircase. As you reached the threshold, you peeked into the main chamber, expecting to find guards posted by every door. To your surprise, the room was empty—other than the portraits of the Supreme Leader gracing the walls. But you were no fool. The First Order was more concerned with outside threats; it only made sense that their guards would protect the exterior of the castle. Until you could be more certain of a safe exit, you would only roam the upper halls.

The corridor leading to your chambers seemed to stretch endlessly, leaving much to be explored. You followed the path, passing by quiet rooms and elegant artwork, committing every detail to memory. The cloak fluttered at your ankles as you crept around, feeling like a marauder trespassing on the grounds. If only you were.

The glow of candlelight dwindled the further you ventured, a sign that you had explored enough for one night. With no help from the drawn curtains, you were blind in the darkness. The threat of being caught outside of your chambers loomed over you as you turned to walk back the way you came, eager to return to the safety of your room. After a few steps, you discovered that the carpet beneath you was entirely different. You froze, searching along the walls for familiar fixtures, but found none. Panic began to swell in your chest at the realization that you were lost.

You tried to retrace your steps—understand how you had managed to get yourself to where you were now, but to no avail. Your breath became difficult—as if your ribs were tightening around your lungs. How could you have been so stupid? What had possessed you to step foot outside your room? Forfeiting the luxury of a proper bed for what—the possibility of finding an escape route?

Adrenaline burned your veins like magma as you swiveled on your heels, clutching your cloak tight around your chest to run. The solid frame of a man standing behind you quickly put an end to your efforts. An involuntary gasp escaped your lips as you collided with his chest.

“Lost, are we?”

Your heart plummeted through your chest. You didn’t need to look up to know exactly who had found you. In a moment of pure instinct, you answered with a half-lie. “I couldn’t sleep. I was only trying to find a bit of fresh air.”

Commander Ren chuckled as he gently pushed the hood of your cloak back. The material shifted on your shoulders, revealing your nightgown beneath. Even under the veil of darkness, you felt exposed.

“Were the windows in your chambers insufficient?” he asked, moving his hand to tip your chin up.

“Yes,” you said, reluctantly meeting his gaze. His eyes were an abyss, drinking you in as you stood there. He looked ethereal, with messy, black curls and a loose sleep shirt to match. As your eyes roamed his figure, you were reminded of the night terror that had incited this predicament.

At that, he released your chin and offered you his hand. “Perhaps you would prefer to go for a stroll outside, then?”

Outside? You couldn’t recall how long it had been since you had even been outside—since you had felt the crisp winter air kiss your skin or listened to the song of cicadas in the dead of night. As enticing as his offer was, you hesitated. Was this another trick? Was he luring you outside of the castle walls to lock you out as punishment for disobeying his orders?

Your fingers twitched at your side.

Noticing your apprehension, he sucked in a deep breath. “Do my intentions seem so insincere?”

Silence followed. You wished for a mountain of bricks, ones you could use to barricade your mind from his sorcery. 

Finally, you said, “Forgive me for being mistrusting, Commander.” Regardless of the frequency with which you said his title, it never failed to make your mouth bitter. Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, a chill running up through your body at his touch. “I would like that very much.”

Through the darkness, you watched as his gaze lowered to your joined hands, satisfaction burning in his eyes. “Allow me.”

[1up-girl]

Love Stayed With Me (2023)

Words: 9.2k Pairing: Zelink Rating: T (Heavy Angst, Suicidal Ideation, Eventual Happy Ending)

Or, read on Ao3 here:

[Spoilers for Tears of the Kingdom]

The obsidian of night begins to bleed through the silver veil of memory; ink through fine cloth. And when the world morphs back into shape around him, he finds that everything has grown colder—the sharp evening air rolling up against the seashore has very little to do with it.  

In the breathless hush, he watches as the last remnants of her humanity dissolve into nothing more than droplets at his boots. Dread stretches its wretched fingers up through his chest, dragging its mournful cloaks across him just as deliberately as the soft stretches of morning that shall soon come to unfurl across the Akkala shore, and though the sentiments are threading together in his mind, the unbelievable truth of things declaring itself, his heart doesn’t need to be told. It’s known for a while now:

Zelda is gone, and Link cannot follow. 

He gasps, and the blunted sea air that quickly fills his lungs feels a little like acid in his throat, and his breath catches so violently that he’s left suffocating on nothing but midnight. Gone. It’s only a moment more before everything is blurring again, his chest so tight he half believes that if he were to look down, he’d find a blade driven clean through it. 

Gone. She’s gone . Forever lost. Dead to anything that still walks the earth beside him. 

There is a dark and hollow place that Link has wandered once before—he walked its paths just over a century ago, when the blunted sting of loss and failure sank its fangs deep into his chest as he learned of his companions’ fates. That bleak day found him numb, left him piloted by nothing but adrenaline and a divine need to keep his charge safe. But this path Link walks is darker, and far more hollow—feels as though someone has taken a scalpel and carved him out, has left him with nothing more than a few aching bones and a half-beating heart. And when the feeling only threatens to subside, something more sinister sprouts up beneath it; he finds himself wishing for a blow to the head—something, anything —to make everything just stop.

There’s the faintest glimmer of hope as resilience tries to speak up past the sickening twist of his stomach, but its effort is in vain—it can’t hold its ground against the rumble that lifts Link’s frantic eyes to the heavens; the Light Dragon—no, his Zelda —serpents across the indigo of night with an electrifying roar. I’m here, Link , she seems to wail out across the eastern sky. I’m here. Come find me. 

I’m here, Zelda. I’m…I—

Her call spades its way down through his body, and Link is lost. Her cry sends him to his knees among the taunting altar of azure flora. He can’t bring himself to look down at them—he’s lost if he does, lost to the memories of them tucked beneath plaits of golden hair, lost to the bouquets he’d assembled with his own hands on their anniversary. Lost to the blissful days spent hand in hand as they rebuilt their kingdom. So instead, he fixes his gaze upon her foreign, begrudgingly magnificent form as it sails across the full moon, the spun gold of her mane glittering against a navy sea. Even torn from her humanity, her beauty is unmatched. 

Link has always carried her love proudly—quietly, yes, in the soft way that his soul calls out to her amongst the swell of life around them, but never without the deep honor it brings; he’s worn it as a badge of a courage, a piece of regalia far more precious than anything the monarchy placed upon him a lifetime ago. In this life, her love means more than any chain or tunic or sword. Her love. Nothing but an echo now—but even so, he crumbles beneath its might as grief and guilt coil up around him, their crushing grip so tight a vice against his chest that he thinks his ribs might shatter, the weight of her love so unbearable that a simple breath seems so far out of reach. Those three, familiar words crawl across the dry cavern of his mouth as he watches her go, and they slip from him, again and again, each iteration far more desperate than the last: I love you, I love you, I love you .  

He’d give his other arm to unsee it all. He hates knowing the truth. That he knows what her fear looks like, what it sounded like. Hates that the last thing she’ll ever know of him is his panicked face reaching for her, his singed fingers just a whisper’s distance away. He hates that he knows what her body looks like contorting in agony as the stone steals the last bit of humanity from her and he hates that he knows that her last moments were spent placing confidence in him— the kingdom’s cherished Hero, the favored swordsman. Her favorite swordsman, whose failure deep below Hyrule Castle sealed her to a fate worse than death.

For the first time, in a long, long time, Link sobs. 

His cries are almost as primal as her own lament some miles above the surface, and they burn their way down his throat with enough strength to knock him flat onto his back. He presses a hand to his head as he tries to stifle the growl that tears through him when it isn’t the leather of a glove that comes to meet his skin, but the intricate grooves of Rauru’s perfectly sculpted hand. 

Gods, he wishes he were dead. He wishes the Goddess would steal what little breath remains in his lungs—that she’d tear the spirit she’d so neatly set inside his corporeal form and leave him as nothing more than empty husk upon the sand and let the tides carry him away.

If there really is a Goddess, she’d let me take your place.

A lifetime ago, he’d spent many sullen hours tempering his frustrations; he’d swallowed every curse to the Goddess down as they both silently watched on while the Princess trembled in the frigid Spring waters. None of it matters now—he’ll blaspheme Hylia to hell and back as long as he has to watch Zelda glide further into the night through a net of fluorescent petals, his gloved hand stretched out to grasp at nothing but briny air. Her name forms in his mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever dared to whisper it, two syllables crackling like dying embers at trembling lips. It has slipped from him before as a sigh against her ear and a prayer against her thighs. It is nothing but a eulogy now. 

I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.

It had all once been so beautiful, so full of promise; how had it all gone so horribly wrong? 

Link doesn’t know how long he stays there, face turned up towards the grieving stars, but when sleep finally comes to claim him beneath the flowers’ vigil, he’s crying her name until the moment it all goes dark. 

*

He’s never thought it possible, but Link finds that Zora’s Domain is even more miserable than he remembers it to be. A beautiful architectural feat, yes, but far too cold and wet and slick and not particularly comfortable for one without gills and a buoyant epidermis. And if those things had already deemed it less than hospitable long ago, the sludge blanketing it has him reeling even half a mile from the town’s perimeter. 

If he hadn’t been so swept up in the shadow of his grief, the revelation that Prince Sidon has become engaged in their time apart might come as more of a shock. Link thinks he may have heard Yona’s name dropped before, but never in the languishing tones he’d expect in a lover’s voice. But who is he to judge? When his own love, a glorious love that’s imprinted across every hint of his being—threaded in each word, each touch, each look—once carried on as silently as the passing night? 

The future Zora queen is kind and outgoing, already fully acclimated to the clamor her new title brings. Yona’s chartreuse skin is a lovely pop of color against a sea of muted tones, and Link wonders if she carries a shade that’s more commonly found in her homeland, a land he’s hardly heard of that sits across the sea—a place he and Zelda had once spoken of seeing someday. She will never see it.

Yona greets Link with a warmth that he’s been starved of—she must notice it right away, because she’s soon sprucing him up while she tends to her ailing companions in the infirmary. She provides him with a fresh piece of Zora armor and a hearty meal that he finds himself struggling to finish (when was the last time he’d been properly nourished?) and asks him to visit her soon-to-be spouse at the recently established ‘Mipha’s Court’ on the mountainside.

The reunion with Sidon is, understandably, not the most amiable of interactions. Given the torrent of mud spilling out overhead and the sorrow weighing down Link’s heart like a most wretched anchor, it’s hard for either of them to show any normal levels of enthusiasm. If the matter of the sludge isn’t disheartening enough, Sidon inquires as to the rumors about the missing Princess, and Link finds himself biting down upon the truth. 

“Nothing yet,” Link says, vision blurring as he tries to lose focus on Sidon’s gentle, trying smile. 

Sidon’s face falls. “I see.” 

The rest of Link’s time spent in the domain passes in a hasty blur, the blues and greens of Upland Zorana and the luminous stone of the mountains and the damp purples of the subaqueous caves all smearing together. He moves through each motion as if wallowing in a dream, and somehow, after what feels like the hundredth expedition across Lanayru’s peaks, Link eventually finds himself scaling the great waterfall that opens up to usher him to the sky once more. He nearly fumbles from the billowing deluge when he catches sight of the length of a great beast migrating further south.

Wellspring Island is a most peculiar conglomerate of fractured stone. From the surface, he doesn’t give it too much thought—it’s a piece of an island chain, just like all the others he’s grown accustomed to—but when Link finds himself at the waterfall’s mouth to see Sidon already forging a path ahead, he’s overwhelmed at just how far up the archipelago extends. The sun is already bidding its farewell, its departure signaled by a swell of pink that cuts across the turquoise palette of the drifting ruins. Link follows, squinting up against its light, wet footsteps noisy as he comes up behind the Zoran prince. He notices, rather quickly, that his body has grown feather light once more, gravity nearly sapped at such an altitude, and he thinks that the experience might be something rather entertaining if not for the vile stench of muck slamming into him and the insistent grief that threatens to drown him entirely. 

Sidon is speaking again, something about the task at hand as he designates an approach to the matter, but Link misses it—he’s a little distracted, glancing about the atmosphere for a glimpse of a flaxen mane. He only nods when his companion turns his copper glance on him and flashes that charming smile, and they set to work. 

He’ll figure it out.

Link scales the ruins further, oxygen growing thinner with each new foot of altitude gained. He wonders for a moment, after he’s captured a bubble and ridden it up to a higher ledge, about what height he’d need to reach in order to slip from consciousness entirely. He wonders if he’d come to on the long way down to the surface—if he’d even notice the earth swallowing him whole. 

The ascent towards the temple drains Link of what little energy is still clinging to him as dusk makes itself known across the sky. It takes longer than he anticipates, irritation ruffling him each time he passes a column to find the mechanized eye of a soldier construct flaring up as it registers his presence. A heavy sigh falls from him when he comes across the temple’s entrance — now it can start. He notes the structure's five gargantuan faucets, like a colossal pipe organ floating in the atmosphere. There must be a fog swirling about his brain, because Link finds that the layout of the half demolished temple doesn’t register so easily in his mind. He’s thrown off by the uneven surfaces, poorly adjusted to the scope of everything. It’s hard to persevere when his body wants nothing more than to shut down. He’s grateful for Sidon’s nudging commentary to keep him on track. 

The engineer behind the Domain’s afflictions is a grotesque little creature, and Link finds himself enjoying his assault on it a little too much. It feels different now; each time he thrusts his weapon into the side of the anomaly it creates, a genesis of sludge and poison that Link is downright angry to be wasting his time with, the spearhead practically sparks with fury. They go on this way and that, the scourge catching its breath as Link navigates through the small, noxious waves that it splatters out against him, and when he watches its monstrous head scamper away across the temple’s atrium, he takes great pleasure in piercing its skin, over and over again, pinning it to the stone before its form shatters apart to leave a Secret Stone in its wake.

Link’s heard it three times already—the tale of the Imprisoning War. He hears Sidon’s ancestor speak, tries to distract himself with the way her voice rings vaguely with the darker tones of the prince’s elder sister long passed—it doesn’t work. All that he sees is Zelda, all that he hears is of her dedication to him. Link feels something tighten around his heart when he hears tell of how the Sage of Water bends the knee under Zelda’s acclaim just as all the others have. It comes as no surprise when Sidon vows to fight at his side, and Link is soon feeling that familiar surge of energy tingling through his fingers as their bond is forged. But this time, Link’s eyes are drawn to the back of his hand—to where time manipulation sits nestled right in the center of it. He’s suddenly lightheaded again, and it’s neither the sludge nor the elevation that makes it so: it’s her vow that’s been aiding him this whole time, protecting him. She’s everywhere, in everything. Her affection for him transcends time and space, her love like the stardust that’s painted the cosmos for an eternity. The thought smears his vision with fresh tears.

“Let’s head home!” Sidon’s excitement sounds distant—buzzy, as though Link’s head is submerged in the reservoir.

Link sniffles. “Nice work.” The swordsman quickly clears his throat and stretches cramping fingers, his grip still tightly clamped around his weapon and his jaw clenched. The compliment rings just hollow enough to wither Sidon’s enthusiasm down to a sliver of concern. 

“Is something troubling you, Link?” 

The swordsman finds his tongue thick with an unfamiliar venom, far too eager to dole it out to a Sidon who most certainly does not deserve it. Link may have a talent with swords and weapons and combat, but he’s learned that he’s powerless to one thing in particular—he can’t fight the way grief manipulates him, contorts every thought and ache until he no longer recognizes himself. Instead, he grits his teeth and shakes his head, glancing out across the horizon as dawn breaks against it. Sidon’s eyes soften, his usual optimism shining through the silence. 

“Don’t worry, my friend—you’ll find her! After all, is there anything you cannot achieve? And when all is said and done, we shall have a splendid dinner, the four of us. Won’t that be lovely?”

Link’s glance fixates on an antiquated slab of crushed stone, his eyes cloudy and distant as long-held dreams of their future together shatter apart. Gods, how he’d like to crumple apart up here, rest his elbows upon blue ashlar and sob into his fists—collapse just a few feet to the side, slip from the edge and let gravity finish the job.

Sidon only smiles sadly. 

*

Deep within the Tanagar Canyon, Link shares the truth with Impa. Carrying the burden all on his own has become far too difficult, and if anyone deserves to know the truth, it’s her. She might be the only one he can manage baring even a fraction of his soul to, guilt and all. When he spots the realization flickering in her dark eyes as he reveals the devastating truth, the muscles beside her eye twitching as her mind pieces everything together, it’s like there’s a knife twisting in his side. 

“Can you reach her?” Impa asks after a long moment, her voice gravelly with more than just age.

Link swallows hard, biting back tears beneath her watchful eye. At her side, Cado must notice the effort—he feigns interest on a spot of stone elsewhere.

“I...I think so,” Link finally manages. “I don’t know.” He doesn’t like the way Impa’s forehead creases in response.

“ Link !” she bursts out, breaking fully, her jaw trembling open in a silent sob. “Go be with her, boy.” She sounds wounded, as though he’s struck her. 

“I know, I…” he swipes at his face. “I have to. She…she has the sword. I have to go, but..I don’t know… I don’t know if I can do it.” 

For a moment, he thinks she might lean up to strike him. “And have you not managed difficult tasks before?” In spite of her age, the spitfire of her youth bleeds to the surface, and new tears sprout up at the corners of her eyes, hot and angry. “If this… if this is all there is for her…for you both…” she doesn’t finish the thought. Perhaps it isn’t even fully formed. Link gets the point.

In truth, part of him wishes the feelings would go—that maybe, when this is all over, he could convince Purah to restore the Shrine of Resurrection—to place him in that pool and wipe his fondest memories from him again. (Perhaps, he thinks, there's a way for her to keep them from ever coming creeping back.) The mere thought of Zelda—her golden head scintillating beneath a sun that’s wholly eclipsed by her smile, her reddened nose beneath watery Hebran sun, the gentle touch of her lips against his ear— 

Link crumbles, tears slipping from his downturned face to blot against the cold stone when they hit the rotunda’s floor, and it’s all the permission the Sheikah need to soon follow. Sobs and murmurs and soft prayers ricochet off the temple’s walls, splattering across Link’s ears to yet again remind of the cold, hard truth.

Impa, on the other hand, only allows herself a few moments of melancholy before sun-spotted hands are wiping away at her tears, and her intellect, as sharp as ever in her old age, is snapping back into shape. Determination flashes across garnet eyes, and in them Link sees hypotheticals and conjectures swirling about. He thinks his tears could start all over again; denial has claimed her much in the same way it had once done to him. He can’t be around to trace grief’s next steps again with her—he can’t be around to wither in her blind resilience. 

He takes the rest of the afternoon off at Impa’s request and seeks a moment of solace in a glade on the Salari Plain, in the small clearing where the Serenne Stable once stood. If he hadn’t known it once sat there, he would have never guessed—overgrowth has concealed all traces of its foundation, new grass shrouding the soft echoes of its base that once imprinted upon the ground.

Link lays himself supine atop the grass, and as he shoves his hands beneath his head and sighs to the heavens, he wishes he could get his mind to just stop. He’s so tired of thinking—wishes his brain would allow him a few moments of peace. Instead, thoughts wash over him in the same way the clouds roll across Hyrule skies. He finds himself drowning in the ifs and shoulds and coulds .

“What do you think about this flower—black and gold?”

“Purah can sure be a little intimidating, huh?”

“I think Paya and Tauro have feelings for one another.”

Gods, living without her is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Each time a new thought strikes him, it’s her bright face that pops into view. It happens with each bit of knowledge that he learns, each observation that he makes, no matter how insignificant. He knows how her brow would crease and the edges of her lips would tip up in joy or how she’d cock her head to the side in contemplation of such matters—it’s all a hopeless dream now. How long will it take for her voice to fade from his memory, he wonders? How many years will pass before he loses the tempo of her pulse against his skin, the waltz of her heart as they twine fingers in the candlelight?

Link shoots up from the ground to keep from choking on a thought: if there is a Spirit Realm in which departed souls reunite, she won’t be there to greet him. There’s nothing more for her, nothing but the darkest of sleeps as she wanders the skies for the rest of time. It’s all his fault.

He presses palms against his eyes and weeps until evening.

*

Zelda had loved Akkala in the fall. 

They’d spent the last two autumns tucked away in the northeastern crook of Hyrule. He’d surprised her with the trip both times, planned just early enough that they’d return to Necluda in time for the winter solstice. Both times were spent among the rich foliage, snuggled up beneath tentative storm clouds with cups of hot chocolate between their chilled hands. He’s carried fond memories of the region, but more tragic ones have replaced it in recent weeks. He decides, as he makes his way across the Ukuku Plains, that he will not dare to look at that wretched peninsula.

Link initially heads for Tarrey Town at Purah’s suggestion. He doesn’t even remember why she tells him to visit in the first place—but he soon wanders in, his step a little aimless, eyes glazing over a painted face upon the town’s entryway. (Something bitter has him wondering if this is a town or a cult.)

But the town is thriving, its population grown exponentially since the last time he’d passed through it. Hudson’s construction company has encroached upon the land just across the lake, a site fully built and ready for production. He’s recognized by several townsfolk including the Great Leader himself— Hudson and his wife, Rhondson, greet the traveler as an old friend, and he soon meets their daughter, the latest addition to the - son family, Mattison. He expects the child to be interested in a character such as himself with his array of weapons and shields, but what Link does not expect is becoming her keeper for the day—but he’s set to depart in just over twenty four hours, and there is not much else for him to do in the meantime, so a babysitter he becomes.

He learns that Mattison is preparing for a departure of her own—just as every Gerudo born beyond their borders, she’ll be making her pilgrimage to Gerudo Town any day now. She’s been keeping busy, threading her interest in her mother’s native tongue throughout the town; she tries to teach Link a few words, and though he already knows their meaning, he plays along. When they’re finished with her lesson, she asks him to color beside her on the balcony tucked against her bedroom. She takes her browns and her yellows and her reds and imagines the desert town—she’s not too far off, but Link won’t offer any advice on the matter; he doesn’t want to have to explain how he knows such things. She’s a bright child, with all the creativity and resilience that her parents carry between them, and when she’s finished with her art, he watches her curl up against a pillow and settle down for an afternoon nap. Link finds himself smiling when tiny snores fill the air. 

And then it feels like something inside of him is snapping in half.

He hadn’t ever said it—not explicitly, at least—that he’d hoped to someday watch his own child fall asleep in the noonday shade.  That he wanted to teach a child with wheat hair and jade eyes how to read and write, how to forage and cook and help around the house. That he wanted to see his Zelda lounging in their home, a book in one hand with the other settled atop her pregnant belly, wanted to see her eyes light up when he returned home from the market with another little one giggling upon his shoulders. Grief persists as it always does—as it always will, for as long as he breathes—but regret sidles up a little bit closer as he watches Mattison’s chest rise and fall. 

Time had slipped away much more quickly than he’d realized, but they had duties to attend to, and thoughts of marriage and children were something to be saved for a different life, one that would follow after. But he saw the way she spoke of her students, of the way she would come home in the evening and recount their silly tales and their unfiltered comments—they would ooh and ah and insist that the Princess and the Hero from her stories surely must have married at the end of the tale. He remembers the way she would blush and lower her eyes and that’s certainly an idea and—oh Gods above, how could he have never asked her?

Before the misery has a chance to swallow him whole, the sound of heels clicking against wood pokes at Link’s ears, and he turns to find Rhondson craning her head over the last few steps, a smile spreading across her lips when she finds her daughter fast asleep. She dampens her footsteps, tiptoeing across the balcony and crouching down to brush a stray lock of fiery red hair behind her daughter’s ears.

“Is she behaving?” Her whisper darts over to Link. 

“Yeah. She’s a great kid.” 

Rhondson smiles warmly.  “I think so, too.” She’s quiet for a moment while something plaintive fills her expression. “They grow so fast.” 

Link doesn’t say much, his eyes focused on the sight of Rhondson’s fingers as they work through her daughter’s hair. 

“It’s funny—we grow knowing our parents love us so very much. But it isn’t until you’ve had one of your own that you truly understand the depth of that love.” Rhondson pulls her hand away and begins to tidy up Mattison’s crafts. She huffs a whisper of a laugh and glances over at him. “You’ll know what I mean someday. Promise.”  

Rhondson means so well—but Link would give just about anything to get her to walk away.

“Can I bring you anything for lunch?” Her voice cuts through the static. 

Link shakes his head, any hint of an appetite fully extinguished by the familiar anguish of grief. 

“Alright, then. You let me know if you need anything.” She’s gone just as quickly as she’d appeared. And though she’s gone, her words continue to ring in his ears for the next half of an hour, every iteration just as trenchant as the first time she’d delivered it. 

You’ll know what I mean someday. No, he won’t know. He won’t ever know. He will never get to press a kiss to his daughter’s head, won’t ever get to comfort a small, teary boy. Zelda will never know the great, maternal love that Rhondson promises; the one she wears with such pride.

Existing, in its purest form, has never hurt so much.

When Mattison wakes from her nap, she wastes no time in zipping out to the square, missing the way Link hastily wipes at the wet corners of his eyes when she springs up from the ground. She sets out to test her neighbors’ knowledge of Gerudo vocabulary, though nobody seems to be truly as invested as she: he finds it sweet. But Link can’t think too hard about it, can’t think too hard about sweet children, smart children— of children who wish to explore the world. So he lets himself fade away a bit, in the same way he’s done over the last few weeks. 

Their day together culminates in a hot air balloon ride overlooking the eastern sea with her parents beside them. 

“Never forget that we are standing beneath the same sun.” Her mother's voice is as soft as cashmere, as delicate as lace. Link’s eyes are fixed out across the horizon, seeking out those impossible dreams that shall never come to pass. Wondering if the Light Dragon can appreciate the sun’s soft glow against its scales in the way he once did.  

“The only distance that matters is the distance between our hearts.”

His throat burns.  

They land upon the ground just as fate arrives at the town’s entrance donning glinting armor and a scimitar: Mattison’s time in Tarrey Town has come to an end. Hudson watches his daughter go, and even though she will be closer to woman than child the next time they reunite, he can take comfort in knowing that their paths will cross again someday—Link wants to share this with Hudson, wants him to see just how much fortune has smiled upon him in comparison. But he says no such things, only excuses himself and seeks out a patch of shade behind one of the houses to take several deep breaths.

Everything feels a little more muted once Mattison is carved out of the picturesque town. There is a longing that settles over it, one that carries a familiar ache—the one Link had felt when they had to leave the peaceful dream of their autumn excursions. Melancholy raining on him like blossoms off their vines, bidding him farewell with plaintive kisses as reality knocked them from their private corner of the world. He sees that same wistfulness in her parents, in her friends—he’s only a little comforted by their misery.

When Link crosses paths with Rhondson again, she greets him with a proposition: a fifty percent discount off of a new property, to be completed upon the hillside just south of the town. It isn’t until she’s tapping a finger against a roll of architectural plans than Link realizes he hasn’t returned to Hateno since discovering Zelda’s fate—he doesn’t anticipate returning to it anytime soon. He knows that he’s doomed if he goes back and rests his head upon the pillow and finds the scent of cherry blossoms still lingering there. 

He spends his hour twisted in either direction—to reject is to remain complacent in his grief. But building a new home might imply something far more worse: accepting. Progression. A new life without her, one that he doesn’t want. But when it comes down to it, Link has more rupees than he knows what to do with, so he hands them over to Rhondson and pays the property a visit. 

Grantéson waits for him on the patch of grass overlooking the sea, and even through the mist of grief, Link can tell that the purchase is a steal. They glance through a catalogue of units, Grantéson offering suggestions and pricing the solutions he comes up with. It all starts very small—a single room, a kitchen, a place to store his weapons. But as he glances through the catalogue, other units begin to catch his eye— a prayer room…a garden...a private study. 

“You big on reading?”

“Yeah.” Link lies. 

So it’s added to the plan, for no real reason other than it’s something she would want if she were still here. The plans grow and grow, and soon, Link finds himself agreeing to an outdoor dining room that seats four and a balcony across from the study that holds a small pond. Grantéson’s eyes twinkle as he looks the schematics over while Link studies the empty plot of land with a dim smile painted across his lips.

He wonders if he’ll ever return to see the final product.

*

Lookout Landing is in a state of panic when he returns to it. He catches sight of Rito warriors circling overhead as they retrieve information for the Zora emissaries contemplating matters between the settlement’s palisades. The Goron children have abandoned their sport in favor of the latest gossip that’s circulating: Princess Zelda has been spotted at the castle’s walls. 

Link’s stomach drops at the thought, and when he spots her through Purah’s telescope, he ridicules himself for the soft gasp that escapes him. Every part of him knows that it’s an imposter that’s beckoning to him, one the deserves to feel his holy blade piercing its chest, but even so, when he finally reaches her after a long and frustrating chase through Hyrule Castle’s iron limbs, he could fall to his knees when it turns those jade eyes on him. His Zelda’s voice was always so full of promise; this one holds a threat. It speaks of days past, suggestive inflections all too telling as it concocts a replenished sanctum before his very eyes. It’s an incredible facade— he has half the mind to wonder if its skin would feel just as velvet soft, if her breath would feel just as warm against his neck, if she would sigh if he touched her in certain spots. And though he knows of its deception, he can’t keep his stomach from twisting when the puppet disintegrates into tendrils of red and black, hardly even registering the venomous words that the phantom behind the ruse spits at him. 

Link’s fueled by pure rage as the spectral being divides itself, and in spite of all of the thoughts he’s had over the last few weeks he won’t allow Ganon to be the one to end him; he refuses to go by his damned hand. So Link fights as he always does, as though it’s all he’s good for. It isn’t an easy fight by any stretch of the imagination, gloom sickness working its way into his lungs and blotting his vision. 

He catches sight of the teal forms of his allies around him as they launch their own attacks, puppets in their own right. They work in a flurry, their colors swirling around the dark wine of Ganon’s creations. Gods, this would be so much easier if he had brought the Master Sword. It’s a dangerous thought to have in the middle of combat—it nearly freezes him up entirely. Not now, he thinks, narrowly avoiding a thrust from a gloom spear that surely would have decided the matter.

When it’s all over, Link and the sages (who have rather impeccable timing) reconvene atop the wooden balcony beside Purah’s quarters to assess the situation. They’re only slightly rattled, which provides Link a little more comfort than he expects it to, but they’re quickly shaking off the simmering ache of adrenaline to draw up new strategies. 

They speak of Zelda, deducing information that Link’s discovered long ago. He can feel the sharp sage of Riju’s knowing glance as it settles upon him, can’t help focusing hard on the splash of white paint underneath him, the royal crest of Hyrule lying flat beneath his boot. He clears his throat and draws his focus back as Sidon’s voice bursts with a revelation about a fifth sage. Purah assigns them each a bit of research, and though Link’s a little too numb to comment, autopilot mechanisms kick in to suggest that he’ll need to head south to Faron for his part. 

When they break formation, Link nearly jumps from his skin when he feels something wrap around his wrist; it’s Purah, her scarlet eyes determined and apprehensive.

“And you need to get that sword. Now.”

*

A deep breath out into the early morning air. Something simmers low in his body, like a firecracker preparing to burst up into the night sky, and quivering fingers tug mindlessly at the bottom of a tunic that’s been threaded together with a love of cosmic proportions.

Link has spent the last few hours on the steps of the Typhlo Ruins Skytower with his head tipped up towards the sky. As skilled as he is with his body, it’s as though he’s inhabiting it for the first time, his limbs too long and his torso screwed on a little too tightly and his stomach tucked in a perpetual somersault from the moment he’d opened his eyes. The small ache in his neck has him seeking comfort on his back, but it’s impossible for him to remain that way for long—dread quickly begins to fill him up, and he’s at risk of drowning in it completely if he doesn’t hop back up to his feet. He takes a long walk around the perimeter, eyes glancing up the clear blue of the sky every couple of steps. 

Deep breathes, in and out, in and out. 

It’s nearly an hour to midday when his pace slows and his legs deaden and his face pales. 

The Light Dragon is slowly winding across the eastern ridge, glowing as she emerges from the ivory peaks of Hebra. Link thinks he might choke on the heart lodged in his throat. 

I can’t do this , he thinks. And how can he? How can he rise to meet her as she is now, how can he come to land upon a coffin that lives and breathes? To touch her back and yearn for the architecture of her soft spine when he only comes across corrugated skin? He watches as she grows closer and closer, her speed achingly slow as she moves across the sky, as if she’s giving him a moment to gather the courage that has coursed through his veins since the moment he’d been brought into this cruel world. 

“For you.”

For him. Everything has been for him, for their people. If he does not go, it’s all been in vain. 

The spark in his step explodes beneath his feet, sending him into the tower, sending him up into the stratosphere once more as the cold air bites at his body. He doesn’t breathe at any point on the way up, and only when he’s dangling from the paraglider does he finally remember to do so. 

For Zelda. 

He’s trembling. If he’s not careful, he’ll lose his grip and land in the swamp below. Tighter. 

The first thing he takes care to notice is her eyes. Kaleidoscopic, haunting—wild and wide, hardly even registering his approach—so vastly different from the sleepy eyes that he would once press kisses against when she’d stir in the mornings. He doesn’t feel the sob bunching up behind his sternum, ready to burst as he grows closer and closer, and soon, he’s landing gently upon her nape—isn’t she always the softest of places for him? Trembling fingers move to touch her, and Link closes his eyes as he tightens his fist, buttercup fur slipping up between his fingers. 

He recognizes this.

Link lurches forward and collapses against her, burying his face into her mane. Her smile flashes against dark eyelids, and up in the skies, he sees it all so vividly: her head nuzzling up against him while he presses kisses to her neck as her gentle locks fall across his face.

A soft smile breaks through his tears. If the Light Dragon notices him, she doesn’t acknowledge his presence—there’s no mumble of approval, no shake of her head, nothing. His cries are soon bursting into hiccups, and he rubs at the back of her neck. He’s flooded with memories, everything crashing into him like waves against the great cliffs of Lanayru, image after image knocking about in his mind. Everything jumbles and blurs, and Link cannot tell where he begins and where she ends. Her smile, her laughter, her tears, her old fears long put to rest. Zelda: beside the sea, riding across the plains, at the edge of their bed with a twinkle in her eye. This aching hardness, this unbearable weight that’s pressed down so heavily on him for weeks, dislodges and parts through the cloudy thoughts

Who then, if he is set to rest in the ground, will carry that part of her legacy on? The history books will tell of her—of her good nature and her resilience and her undying devotion, but what scholar knows all of her? Her most secret desires, her gripes and her quips and her mischievous sense of humor and every other thing that cements his love for her? If he goes, that part of her follows—if he goes, how can he remember her?

No, he cannot forget her of his own accord. He refuses.

“I’m here, Zelda,” he whispers through tears, stroking her still, ashamed that he’d even once thought to try and push her love away. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.” Though he should know better, a small part of him expects her to respond. A growl, a purr. Anything. 

Atop her head, the Master Sword gleams, beckoning to him with wisps of gold and royal blue from beneath a layer of fur that’s twined around it. He hears its whispers in the same way he had a century prior, the way his soul has again and again throughout time and space. Its voice is airy and thin and soothing—familiar, threaded through his own soul. How wonderful to see you again , it sighs. Link moves towards it, and as his fingers coast along the hilt, the world goes silent. The sky looks on with bated breath.

Extracting the blade is no easy feat—Zelda buckles at the first hint of its removal, her body bending and crumpling as Link tries to tear it from her. His stomach lurches when he feels both feet lift off from beneath him, and when he anchors himself upon her, he tugs again, harder this time, guilt seeping into him when he draws blood from her. I’m sorry, I’m sorry . He grits his teeth and braces for a fall. A tremendous screech pounds against his eardrums as it fills the atmosphere, her jaw flung open and her body stiffening beneath him.

Everything goes stark white.

When Link opens his eyes again, he finds that the sky he’s spent months exploring is no longer here. Encapsulated by a celestial bronze, the air is still and silent. The fur around the blade quietly unwinds as easily as reeds bending beneath the gentle push of a stream, and Link feels something warm throbbing in his chest: she knows he’s there. She knows. Beneath the sweet glow of light, Link pulls the sword, as easily as he’s always done. He raises it to the sky, and colossally low tones vibrate up through his legs as the Light Dragon—as Zelda— hums in approval.

“And when you two next meet the Demon King…you will have my strength to help you, through her.”

Link opens his eyes, and it’s like being roused from a dream. He finds himself back in reality, in the sharp air of the South Hyrule skies. Sunlight has already faded; he’ll return to Purah in the morning. For now, he will rest. Link seeks refuge in the brilliant gold of Zelda’s mane and closes his eyes as her gentle, rolling breath trembles below him like a lullaby. He falls asleep, cheeks stained with old tears.

Beneath the dragon musk, her scent still lingers.

*

The world is safe again.

They save it, together. Link hasn’t yet come to terms with the fact that this is their last stand. He’s replaying the last few moments in his mind—Ganondorf’s draconic form disintegrating into a blaze of malice colored rays, the blood red sky yielding to the soft pink of late afternoon. And then, all goes quiet.

He knows what the legend dictates—Zelda is gone, and she won’t be coming back. And yet, Link can’t shake the image of the Light Dragon darting across the sky to reach him in his hour of need. Even as he stands in the wake of his victory, drenched in blood and dragon froth, Zelda is all he thinks about; she’s still in there, trapped, not completely erased as he’d feared. How might the Zonai have known the truth, anyhow? Perhaps they were not as all-knowing—not as godlike as they were claimed to be. And, even if they had been, who knows better of challenging the Gods than the Hero of Legend? 

He knows he ought to squash the small ribbon of hope that wraps around his heart. It only tightens. 

The Light Dragon glides along the wind unphased as though she hasn’t been snaking about the skies to aid her hero, unbeknownst to her as he may be. 

And then, just as he begins to accept that this really is the end, his hand begins to glow.

It must be a dream. A vast space of sea green. Rauru. His wife, Sonia, who Link recognizes only from the faint hues of someone else’s memory. The Light Dragon slumbering beneath them. Raised hands, a warmth that rises through his body and erupts from his fingertips. Her . One last, knowing look. Shifting clouds that are soon shattered by the sudden, violent rush of wind.

The dream is no more, and Link is falling. 

Panic slams into him when he realizes the endless sky is beneath his feet. And if that isn’t enough to stop his heart, the sight of someone familiar falling a distance below him might just be enough to. Her name rips through his throat, the air burning as it quickly fills his mouth. It only takes one sight of her before he’s crying, shifting his weight to try and match her speed. He closes the gap between him, tears flowing more evenly as he takes in the sight—her eyes gently closed, short hair billowing in the wind, arms gently outstretched as though she were napping beside the pond behind their home.

“Zelda…Zelda…” he’s whispering her name against the striking wind. A prayer. A blessing. And when he reaches her, and his skin comes to lay across her own, he begins to weep. He pulls her into his grasp, crying into her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”  

It is a shock of landing when they hit the water, but Link pushes past it and quickly opens his eyes to find her golden locks splaying out around her. Beneath the lapping waves, he presses his lips to hers—oh Gods, he isn’t imagining this after all—and pulls her to the surface. 

When he rises from the pool, it is more than just her limp form he carries with him. It is a renaissance of warmth and light that follows in his wake, the promise of a new life together draped across his arms. Link thinks he might explode if he dares to look away from her; he catches her soft inhalations, examines the tiniest hint of color splashed across her wind-bitten nose and admires the length of eyelashes fanning out across her cheeks. And when his feet have carried him away from the murmuring water, he kneels among the forget-me-nots and gently sets her down.

He watches her, his heart low and ready to burst, and when her eyes flutter open and he finds their illustrious color sliding across him, the soft lilt of the pond behind him crescendos into something symphonic, his heartbeat percussive and his breathe reedy and and the soft whine tying his tongue like the slightest shimmer of strings trembling to life.  

Link cannot move. And Zelda, it seems, is almost as starry eyed as he is: less so, he ventures from the fact that she’s able to find some semblance of voice.

“Link? How are you…?”

There’s hardly a hint of power behind her inquiry as it trails off, and yet it strikes him like lightning puncturing a muddy haze of rose, and in the haze, every thought grows heavy on his tongue, each one far too tentative to push their way free—apologies and declarations and details of his journey and every single ache that’s riled up in him since the moment she was torn from his side. But still, nothing comes.

“I’m not still dreaming, right?” 

How many lifetimes has she spent dreaming of him, waiting for him to bring her home? Link clamps his lips down around a new swell of emotion, his face crinkling up as he fights to suppress it all. Zelda speaks again, and as she presses on, Link finds that he can’t tear his eye away from the small sight of her pulse flickering as her voice flexes its long rested muscles. 

“Oh, Link— you really did it!”

In place where words should be, soft shudders sprout, and he lowers his head to hide fresh tears. Zelda turns to face him as a familiar color returns to her face. 

“Oh, Link…I’m home!” Her voice is like something tugged up from a dream. 

Home .

He steps forward and crumbles into her, open mouthed sobs huffing against her bare shoulder.

“Oh…oh, Link…” he hears her crackling voice against him.

He pulls away to study her once more—she’s real. She’s real . 

“I thought I lost you.” He finally manages. Zelda’s face is dressed with concern—he won’t realize until much later that it’s the first time she’s seen him swept up like this, broken and yet wholly complete. Before he can say anything else, she’s pulling him back to her, catching his lips between hers, their tears melting into one another’s. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers. Link runs fingers along her jaw as gently as though he were running them across porcelain. 

Zelda shakes her head. “Nothing—” she presses her lips to him again, kisses his tears away, places another one on each subtle freckle across the bridge of his nose. “You have nothing to apologize for. I prayed for a kinder day, every day. I prayed for you to find me. And here—here you are.” Her cheeks are flushed, her voice hitched and unsteady. 

Oh Goddess, how he loves this woman. 

“How are you… how—?”

“I don’t care.” She swallows hard. “I don’t care . I’m with you again. That’s enough for me. It will always be enough.” Zelda closes her eyes and leans into the glide of his fingers across her face. They wander across her jaw and across the delicate slope of her nose and up to the curve of her ear, fingers soon grasping at a gold; even knotted by pond water, it feels like bliss against his skin. He watches her hair poke up through his grip in the same way it had done over the skies of Hyrule.

“You’re real. It’s you…I can’t…” he murmurs, leaning forward to collapse his forehead against hers. Her hands come to rest around his neck as she leans back, and the burn of them against him is so familiar and so lovely and something he’d never thought he’d get to feel again that he cries, new tears staining both of their cheeks. “I thought I lost you. I thought you were gone… I thought…I…” 

Zelda’s lips part gently, and beneath wrenched brows she asks one, quiet question.

“Are you okay?”

He’s crying a little harder now, bare chest shuddering as he presses his cheek to hers. Link hears the way emotion swells up in her inquiry.

“I wasn’t, no.” Link doesn’t offer much more than that; but Zelda hears everything, verdant eyes soon glistening in the late day sunlight. She makes a soft, sympathetic sound. 

Zelda wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And now?” she whispers softly, tilting his face to hers to study in the misty eyes she’d once believed she’d never see again.

“I’m so happy.” His voice breaks so crisply on the last syllable it’s hard to believe he speaks the truth. But he’s smiling, mouth twitching slightly as he controls the surge of emotion. “I won’t be able to survive losing you like that again.”

Zelda threads her fingers through his and squeezes. “You won’t lose me again. I promise.”

A novel thought crashes into the disorder of  Link’s mind. Something that he suddenly can’t hold to himself, something that will tear him in two if he cannot voice it now. 

“Marry me, Zelda. Please.” It’s unpolished. A little harsher than he hopes for it to be. He doesn’t care anymore—Hylia will have to reach in and set regret inside of him with her own hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a ring…but it can’t wait. I can’t wait.”

Zelda takes his hand and places a kiss upon his knuckles before she sets her chin upon them, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’ll never need a ring to be yours.” Her smile breaks through the soft sob, a kind sun poking its head through the veil of clouds after a storm. “Yes—yes, of course I’ll marry you.” 

In her face, he sees a lifetime. The dreams he’d forced himself to pave over come flooding back. He will make his vows wherever she pleases, declare his love in front of whoever she pleases— make her his wife, bring her home to Akkala. Raise a child—two, or five or ten, if she wants— and follow her to the ends of the earth. Every shattered dream is suddenly recalled, the broken parts swiftly reattaching into something even more brilliant than they had ever been. He wonders how many wonderful things he’s done in his previous lifetimes to have received such a blessing.

They’re quickly wrapped up in one another again, sinking down to the earth below them, mouths entwined and heartbeats thrashing. There will be time to talk, to parse through all that has transpired, to worship the thread that ties them together and show their gratitude at its altar. But for now, they reacquaint themselves with one another as the afternoon calms to night, bodies tangled beside the pond until the stars are twinkling high overhead. Her skin is every bit as soft and enticing as he remembers it—her love even more palpable as she whispers his name into him again and again, as though her mouth is learning its taste again. 

For perhaps the hundredth time in months, Link is left breathless. 

And the first time, in a long, long time, he doesn’t mind.

[honourablejester]

Homebrew Magic Items (5e): Grave Knight’s Regalia

Despite the lofty titling, the ‘regalia’ of a grave knight is usually quite far from fine. Formed during and in the aftermath of the great necromantic plagues, the grave knights were something between a mendicant chivalrous order, a collective of mercenaries, and a series of local militias, all trained and more importantly equipped with the sole aim of laying or destroying unquiet dead. While many localised knights were simply local villagers or watchmen trained and outfitted for the purpose, for almost four centuries a core mendicant order of true knights have also existed, and it is this core of knights who train others and maintain the knowledge and manufacture of the ‘knightly regalia’, or the standard equipment of a grave knight.

(Or, have a set of gothic inspired magic items for equipping graveyard knights. Not necessarily paladins, just any poor sod who wound up having to deal with undead a lot, and asked the help of the local travelling knightly order to tool up for the task. Brought to you by my sister pointing out that a lot of the more elaborate wrought iron railing toppers you see in graveyards would make boss gothic weaponry).

GRAVE IRONS

Weapon (Mace), Rare

The signature weapon of the grave knights, grave irons were maces made from grave iron, the wrought iron surrounds of sanctified or hallowed graves. Typically the mace heads were formed either by wrapping bands of reshaped grave iron around a wooden or iron ball, or, more ornately, by strengthening the elaborate wrought iron railing tops to withstand impacts. The heads were then affixed to sturdy wooden or metal hafts for use.

The wielder of a grave iron gains a +1 bonus to attack and damage rolls with this magic weapon. Additionally, on a successful hit against an undead creature with a grave iron, the creature takes an additional 2d6 bludgeoning damage, and its movement speed is halved until the end of the wielder’s next turn, as the iron attempts to bind the undead creature back into its earthly grave.

GAUNTLETS OF GENTLING

Wonderous Item, Rare

These worn steel gauntlets also bear a thin band of grave iron at the wrist, and grant a +1 bonus to AC while worn. The gauntlets have six charges, and regain all spent charges every day at dawn. While wearing the gauntlets, the wearer can use an action to expend a charge and cast the Gentle Repose spell, without the need for material components.

EERIE OINTMENT

Potion, Rare

Grave knights carried small, sturdy earthenware jars containing a silvery ointment. A knight could use an action to smear the ointment beneath their eyes, granting them the ability to see 60ft into the ethereal plane while on the material plane, and vice versa, for 1 hour after application. The jars typically held enough ointment for 10 applications, after which a new batch of ointment would need to be made or purchased.

KNIGHT’S ASPERGILLUM

Wonderous Item, Rare

One of the finest tools in the grave knights’ armoury, the knight’s aspergillum is a small, hollow, perforated metal ball on a wooden handle. The ball contains an internal silvered reservoir which can be filled with water. Any water which is kept in the aspergillum for 24 hours becomes holy water. A knight can use a bonus action to flick holy water from the aspergillum towards a fiendish or undead creature within 10ft, making a ranged attack roll against that creature, which deals 2d6 radiant damage on a hit. The aspergillum’s reservoir holds enough water to make three such attacks before it must be refilled.

[happiestplacehq]

        “ YOU SAID IT YOURSELF...                      ONCE                                         UPON                              A DREAM... ”

                                     MYSTIC WOODS MASQUERADE EVENT

Founder’s Week and the Hollow Hootenanny is an annual event that has taken place in Redwood Hollow for as long as anyone could remember, and through adversity, it returns.

It seems in the past few years that unfortunate events have surrounded Founder’s Week, from break-ins, to theft of important town heirlooms, to suspected poisonings. Then again, weird things have been happening all throughout the past few years, leaving the people of Redwood Hollow more on edge than ever.

The circus’s visit in October was enough to have Mayor Burton question the need for events in town, after it ended so disastrously. For a time, he even considered shutting down the Community Events Committee for good. But advisors assured him that shutting down the committee would be terrible for the community in the long run. If disaster was going to strike, it would strike anyway; there was no point in leaving the town bored and miserable just in case.

And so, with a tentative dip back into a real community event, the Valentine’s Day Blind Date event went off without any real hitches. Food drives, song contests and an art contest here and there and things really seemed to be looking up again.

Queue Founder’s Week. Mayor Burton had been convinced to give the committee the go-ahead in order to boost town morale. The market prepared their stalls, guest artisans prepared their very best wares for the influx of tourists, and the Redwood Hollow Museum put together a special exhibition walking through significant events in the history of Redwood Hollow. Sadly, a space still remains where the infamous stolen book once lay. It now features an explanation of sorts, with the hopes that one day it will be returned to its rightful place in the heart of town.

As always, The Chest of Hope will be open during Founder’s Week, with hopes displayed at the entrance of the Hollow Hootenanny.

Now, Founder’s Week would not be the exciting time that it is, without the beloved Hollow Hootenanny to close the week. Perhaps due to the growing mystery surrounding Redwood Hollow in these past few years, it is fitting (or, perhaps, a little on the nose) that the Hootenanny theme reflects that. This year, all residents and visitors are invited to attend the Mystic Woods Masquerade. That’s right. A masked ball (just what we need when suspicions are already high). Look out your best regalia, revise your waltz step and get practising your fan signals. You will not be granted access if you are not wearing a mask.

Various prizes will be awarded throughout the night, including best dressed, most spectacular mask, and the most mysterious overall look. To add a little mystery, the events committee has suggested that all those invited attend alone, and do not reveal your masks before the party. The true test of your relationships will be in finding your friends and partners amongst the crowd.

When the clock strikes midnight, all faces will be revealed.

                                                ——————

An OOC information post will be made shortly with OOC details for players, and will be linked in the source once posted. This event will take place between Friday 12th and Sunday 28th of May OOC. In character, this event will have taken place at the beginning of April.

If you would like to volunteer your character for any plot drop related business at the event, reply with their name!

Please like this post once you have read it.

[francispprice]

all about francis

Intro Post—read more to learn about francis price!

Character Information

Francis Price enjoys vying for the hearts of beautiful women. This is his most fundamental quality. Though he would describe himself as an eager student and contented business leader (as he is being considered for a couple management positions for post-graduation), Francis is truthfully a romantic, and he behaves this way in person. His major at Redwood College is business, but he is strongly considering changing it to physics. He has taken classes in both and would rather graduate with the major he gains the most comfort from.

At nineteen years old, amiable Francis is a friend to whoever speaks with him. Whether he’s meeting with an economics professor or telling his fellow students what his most recent crush is, Francis enjoys connecting with fellow humans. This means that his assignments often take a back seat. Many a morning Francis has spent slapping words on paper in order to complete an essay or project. People are often jealous of both Francis’s privilege and Francis’s ability to succeed without trying. His privilege is one thing, but Francis is quick to explain that he genuinely loves his studies—he just doesn’t operate the same way as the average Redwood College student and can’t devote hours to something he would rather see lived out in his own world. He suspects he may have ADD. Though Francis may get along with most everyone, his rivals are the mysterious men in many of his female friends’ lives who hurt their feelings and leave Francis to pick up the pieces. He despises thoughtlessness.

Francis once fell in love with a lovely girl who sang enchantingly. This fellow thirteen-year-old, Sofia Bạch, was the love of Francis’s life…or so he thought at the time. Sofia moved away, and Francis has been searching for her via social media and fellow connections ever since. He’s fallen in love since that connection at thirteen, yet some part of him longs for the easy conversations with and inner beauty of the girl he once admired. He also likes people who are passionate about their friends, as well as people with the same romantic streak he has. Francis uses the pronouns he/him/they and wants his friends and new acquaintances to refer to him using the pronouns they like best, either he or they. Internally, he calls himself “he.”

Wanted Connections

a new spark—Francis desires a bond with every new woman he meets. If your character identifies as a woman, she may find herself in conversation with a band of students that Francis belongs to. Francis would love to get to know your character better in whatever situation she prefers.

an old spark—Francis has known quite a few wonderful women over the years. (Would you believe he’s never been in a relationship?) If your character knew Francis in high school or when he first entered Redwood College, he would want to reconnect sometime. Give Francis a text or call.

a good friend—Francis’s friends are worth more than gold to him. If your character evaluates Francis and finds a part of him that could use help or attention, he would value their views greatly and would love to spend time with your character.

Wanted Plots

school scuffle—Francis has ideas for the group project that was just assigned, but your character disagrees in a major way. Francis tries to explain his point of view, but your character sees that as immature when he already knows you’re not happy with the project. Francis and your character have a meeting one-on-one to figure the misunderstanding out.

business partner—Francis’s father, the powerful CEO of Regalia Bernard Price, is pressuring his son to open his own consulting firm in Redwood Hollow to gain experience for his future career. Francis may do this; but if your character is business-minded like the Price family is, Francis and your character could open something different.

animal lover—Francis has never had a pet, as much as he’s always wanted a chinchilla named Oracle. Your character is an experienced animal lover and tells Francis the insider secrets of owning an animal like theirs. Francis asks to come over to your place and get to know the animal in question. Your character can agree or just bring the animal to Francis.

Taken Connections

first love—Francis’s first crush and “the one that got away” is Sofia Bạch. He remembers how genuine and thoughtful Sofia always was with him, and he is always thinking of ways to reconnect with her.

doesn’t like me—Francis can think of one person who would never, ever want him near her: Guinevere Bạch, or his former friend Sofia’s stepmother. Guinevere acted cold when Francis was warm; that’s why Francis knows she would hate meeting him now that he’s grown. If she would willingly drive him away from Sofia’s house like that, she would despise the type of person he’s become: a man who always offers to come to you, not the other way around. Guinevere would tell Francis exactly what she thought of him if they met again, he’s positive.

Other

Wanted Character: Eric Parker—This dream-oriented young man would get on with Francis. I would love for Eric to encourage Francis in his own dreams, as far from the world of business as they might end up being.

Wanted Bio: Asha—Of all the Disney women, Asha stands out as a person who would change Francis for the greater good. Her strong ideals and dogged perseverance would greatly complement Francis’s willingness to support any woman’s beliefs however he can.

[a-ramblinrose]

“though I was hollowed out by pain, honeycombed with the emptiness of it, like the bird bones on the beach the salt of the bay water had worked on for a season― such surprising lightness in the hand― I don't think I could have told the pain of loss  from the pain of possibility, though I knew they weren't the same thing.”

― Robert Hass, from 'Regalia For A Black Hat Dancer'

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Portraitist

Corina circled the portrait, once, twice, admiring her own handiwork; a slender paintbrush poised in hand, ready to add the final touches once her vision was complete.

"You know, this will be my greatest piece to date," she declared, a last appraising glance tracing the way her subject's hair cascaded down her neck, the folds of her high collar, the satin of her gown. The model had been a common girl, but in art she was elevated to something approximating the divine; anointed with the most unlikely of oils. "Yes - I am sure of it. She will be quite perfect."

"Aah!" Lady Sibylla cried out from her chaise, as if grievously wounded by the thought. "Oh, but my dearest Corina, you must always strive to create works of great imperfection. You must endeavour to find flaws, to correct the natural course towards completeness!"

That took her somewhat aback. Corina had always known her patron to be an eccentric, but ever still a lover of the arts and all things beautiful. "With apologies, my lady, you have lost me on that point. Surely you cannot mean that I should commit flaws on purpose?"

"If you create a work of true genius, it will be ushered into a museum where just any one might glance at it," Lady Sibylla answered - or else continued as if she had not interrupted. "For just as a beauty of her age may find herself inevitably cajoled into the starlight, so too great works of art find themselves ogled by even the least desirable eyes - copied on pamphlets and tea-towels, diluted until they nothing but background scenery, familiar to all and miraculous to none!"

So, Corina thought, this was to be one of those lectures. She listened impatiently, placing the brush like a cheroot between her teeth. Lady Sibylla had first seen fit to patronise her work some eighteen months ago - and, after a spell, she had also begun to support her financially. The money still came with sermons attached, but at least she was now paid to listen to them.

"Yes, far better to create a piece which is merely good, to be sold to hang above the mantle of a good family, to be loved and cherished and handed down for generations. You must trust me on this."

"Of course." Corina's focus was back on the painting. Beautiful. Far more so than the real thing - in fact, she could not even remember that poor girl's name. Oh, but that gave her an idea: "Forgive me, my lady, but have you ever had your portrait painted?"

"In another time. When I was a younger woman, and artists still cared to, or sought to use it as an excuse to enter my good graces."

"Ah, but that cannot truly be the case! You are surely as beautiful as you ever were - I hope that is not too forward for me to say. In fact, if you would be obliging, you must sit for me yourself sometime!"

"Truly?"

"It would be my honour. Come, next Tuesday at first light - and please, do dress for the occasion. I want to capture you at your very best."

Lady Sibylla did not disappoint. She arrived with Tuesday in full regalia, looking her absolute loveliest in a rich satin sarong, its layers ranging from a pale, delicate rose-yellow to the deeper burnish of honeycomb and saffron tea, an effect of cloth-of-gold against her brassy skin. Her hair was coiffured with pinchbeck pins, and a heavy shard of topaz nestled at the hollow of her throat, as a drop of amber congeals in the whorls of a copal tree.

It was an effort usually spared only for the finest balls and occasions, and that was exactly as Corina had hoped. She wanted to capture the Platonic ideal of her patron: to create a portrait of her at her very best, and which was therefore better than she almost ever was. As a painter, she aspired towards such art that imitates and surpasses life - just as Pygmalion carved a form more perfect and pure, and thus deserving of his love, than any woman of flesh and blood could even hope to be.

"Do remember to reflect these lights in my eyes," her subject continued to instruct, despite having been told to hold still. "I cannot bear the thought of becoming one of these dead-eyed portraits one sees in other people's hallways - some distant ancestor, of course, with not a trace of life in our time or their own."

"Of course." Corina had lit her as a shrine, illuminated from all directions by flickering flames on slender candlesticks. Too long had she been an unwilling disciple of the church of St. Sibylla, Reverend Mother of Wisdom, Our Lady of Condescension. Tonight, her candles all carried the same prayer.

The portrait showed the curve of her jaw, unencumbered by the folds of flesh that had begun to gather underneath; the deep brown of her noble skin, untroubled by the frown-lines which had spread over the years; and those eyes, so alight with reflected fire, an effect so seldom seen in her recent life, now known to squint through burgeoning myopia. In short, this was Lady Sibylla as she saw herself. As the painting took its shape, she was undone, and remade in her own image.

Corina added the finishing sheen to her patron's painted skin, reflecting the gold of the morning light, and marvelled at another perfect piece. It had taken the finest of snares to capture this essence, and the most delicate brushstrokes to tease it from Lady Sibylla's canvas onto hers, but she had caught it in that horsehair noose and deftly drawn her soul across. Having achieved what she had set out to do, she couldn't be prouder of her creation - and now, with it complete, the real business of destruction could begin.

She hung the portrait in her parlour, in pride of place above the hearth, well-angled to greet her guests as they arrived. True to Lady Sibylla's wishes, the audience was small at first: her patron herself, come to nod approvingly at what she must see as a shrine to her image, a form of encouraged idolatry, but also other dinner-guests, visiting friends, and the unexpected callers that one must also suffer from time-to-time.

Those who also knew Lady Sibylla - for their circles did overlap to some extent, with her patron having introduced her to society - remarked on what a perfect likeness the portrait held, at first marvelling at her gilded glow, and fawning over her actual beauty, highlighted here more than ever before, as much as Corina's brushstrokes in imitating it.

But that was curious - for, when they next suppered with Lady Sibylla herself, their opinion would reverse. They were unable but to note how drab and tawdry she seemed in comparison - in fact, the more they visited with the reflection, the more they ceased to recognise the real thing. It was if Lady Sibylla's shadow had somehow usurped her place, grappling her in turn against the wall, such that now when people saw her they felt she looked unusually withered and frail - as if suddenly drained of the life they'd seen her radiate just two days hence.

She would age, whilst the picture did not; her moods would shift with the weather, whereas the colours held constant, not disfigured by the dark clouds of despair or the torrid winds of long-term stress. Her voice was no longer the equal to its echo, her footprints standing twice as tall as she could ever be. The portrait would always look her best, and so she could only ever be its worst.

Over time, those who might have sought an audience with her were seen to take their tea with the canvas instead; Corina's audience grew, finding a comfort in her depiction that was now missing in reality, as if she'd captured some aesthetic truth they found unsettling in its absence. She was less liked than her likeness, less personable in person. With every week that passed, the ranks of its devotees swelled, and her own standing diminished.

Unaware of the subtle magic being worked within their hearts, Corina's visitors continued to praise the quality of her art - a constant stream of compliments which served to feed her pride, together with her growing popularity, almost as much as this demonstration of her power. They clamoured to be next in line to sit for her; such that, as the wolf that stalks amongst the flock, she had her choice of victim.

"It really is remarkable," an unwitting gentleman was heard to say, before giving that silver a clouded edge: "I would never have expected such mastery from such a novice. Indeed, even now one would not think it to look at her."

Corina sidled closer, pretending not to have taken offence. "I am honoured that you think so, my lord. In fact, if you would be so obliging, you must sit for me yourself sometime."

[featherlouise]

speaking of the bad end - im thinkign abt their coronation, specifically the corona part (the word meaning crown, not the virus). is there like, a set of crown jewels/coronation regalia for them, or is it just a random bug (wl approved) saying "ok ur king now" - 👹

Oooh I hadn’t thought about that!!

My gut tells me that Lurien would be the one to do it since he’s a trusted confidant of the crown (despite his and PK’s personal differences)

There’d probably be some kinda symbolic regalia for the actual coronation, and idk if Hollow would end up with an actual crown bc in my head the gods always look inhuman enough to be IMMEDIATELY recognisable as such

I’ll have to have a think on the Crown Jewels type thing tho!! Now I wanna draw Holly all decked out in their coronation outfit

[bigfootmountain]

t's Sasquatch Indian day, and no place for skeptics. You either take the sasquatch or leave them alone. There is no middle course. Many Indians take them straight. To hear tell, the Sasquatch were great hairy legendary creatures that maintain their reputation with an occasional presentation day swoop down from the mountains to peek in windows or smack a lone tribesman. Others, Indian Agent J. W. Burns explained, take a milder view. “Despite their great size of seven feet in height the sasquatch are timid and harmless. Burns said the Indians believe. "They were believed to be covered with a growth of hair and to live in caves and hollow trees. The legend probably came from the actual existence of some primitive race. I believe in it myself.” Legend or not, the celebration today and tomorrow will see braves, squaws and their papooses living again as their ancestors did before white men came. Against a background of historic Harrison Lake and river, an Indian village of 20 lodges bright with traditional ochred drawings and totem symbols occupies a square mile of cleared brushland. Dressed in full tribal regalia, Indians prepared to start the day's celebration with a parade. Night events will include forbidden torchlight for which special permission has been granted by the dominion fisheries department, ceremonial dances and camp fire recitals of Indian folklore…

May, 1938, Reading Eagle