#hound's tongue fern

[thiswillnotdo]

2022_11_19

[vandaliatraveler]

Part 1: After the Rain - Life in an Appalachian Temperate Forest.

From top: Dryad’s saddle (Cerioporus squamosus), a magnificent and edible shelf fungus of Appalachia’s spring forests; wild comfrey (Cynoglossum virginianum), a native borage sometimes also referred to as blue hounds tongue; violet wood sorrel (Oxalis violacea); American cancer-root (Conopholis americana), a parasitic plant that attaches to oak tree roots; northern maidenhair fern (Adiantum pedatum); and wild stonecrop (Sedum ternatum), also known as three-leaved stonecrop.

[tormentum-ab-intra]

29 for injury prompts! (leander mayhaps? owo)

how fun! 29 is perfect for him :>

From this prompt list

29. "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific."

---

"You're bleeding, Arilan." 

The observation is an off-handed one. The Éa tassra Kithralla does not look concerned, nor sound concerned, nor even glance up from the paw he’s washing with his tongue. 

Arilan trusts, then, that at least he isn’t dying. 

“I...suppose that’s so,” he says, if only because he doesn’t see any reason for the Éa tassra Kithralla to lie about it.

“You suppose?” Eyes like algae roll up to look at Arilan from beneath a soft, black brow and finely arching whiskers. Algae...not the easiest color to read. 

Arilan stills to consider his answer. He does not want to give offense by speaking hastily. He hadn’t thought he was bleeding anywhere, but to imply that the Éa tassra Kithralla might be wrong would be...

“Arilan.”  

Arilan looks up, and the green looks down, raising its chin to regard him over the length of a sleek, narrow muzzle. Not algae, now, but moss. Moss is good; it looks like warmth and endearment. He watches as the great black cat on the Sunning Hill swipes a lazy paw across its cheek, smoothing down glossy fur that was never ruffled to begin with. 

The morning air swirls with motes of gold. Arilan could swear the cat’s eyes swirl with the same, alstroemerias on cushion moss, just before they close in a slow, sightless smile.

Arilan smiles back. He can’t help it. Smiling hurts for some reason, but the burn is a low one, a distant one. It matters not a bit.

There’s the moss again, blinking, deepening, like ferns on the mirror-smooth surface of a lake. Ferns are good, too. Light. Approachable.

“You know,” the wind whispers in his ear, wonderfully cool, curling with amusement, “You could at least try to act like you’re still listening.”

Arilan jumps, blinks, drags himself out of the ferns to see the whole of the lake. It ripples as if under a breeze, the great cat rolling to its side and reaching for the Sunning Hill’s edge. Dagger claws tap the stone, but withdraw without scratching furrows into its revered and ancient surface. The lake stills, and the ferns stare. 

“Well, now you’re just ignoring me.”

Kithralla, help me, Arilan thinks, shaking himself. As he watches, the ferns sink beneath the water and drift back up. Another blinking smile. There’s something wrong with me today.

“There is,” the cat agrees, catching beams of sun on the white of its fangs as it yawns. As if Arilan had voiced the thought aloud, even though he never did. Well; he did invoke the name of Kithralla. That’s more than close enough. “I told you. You’re bleeding.”

Arilan shrugs his aching shoulders. “Aren’t I often?”

“Yes, but hardly ever quite so much. Don’t you feel like sitting down?”

And wouldn’t you know it, he does. The cat is on its back, now, and Arilan can’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t eat him if he tried to lie down on the soft mound of its belly. A bed and a warm embrace and a soft fur blanket all in one...

Reluctant, Arilan shakes his head. “No need, Éa tassra. I’m alright to stand guard a while longer.”

“You think so,” drawls the cat. Not a question. Not an agreement.

Arilan frowns. “You do not?”

Long neck craning, the Éa tassra Kithralla looks at him again, upside-down. 

Is its face longer than it was a second ago?

It blinks, sighs, twists about to right itself, and as the mass of dark fur stills, Arilan finds himself gazing up at a wiry hound where the cat had been, grin peeling all the way back to the hinge of its jaw. “Do something for me.”

“Anything.” The ferns have turned into maple leaves. Still green, but with veins of orange fanning in from the edges. “You know you have only to ask.” It’s true; he could not have said it otherwise.

For their honored creature lord, Arilan would do anything, give anything. That’s why he stands guard at the foot of its perch now, in case the threats he took care of earlier were not the only ones of their kind afoot.

“Tell me where it hurts,” says the hound with the maple leaf eyes; a command, not a request. “Do be specific." Tall ears prick forward, black at the edges, red and all but glowing where the sun shines on the backs and through to the other side.

Arilan frowns. “Everywhere,” he realizes. He can’t remember being injured.

The hound does not answer, but there’s a Thought so, written in the lack of surprise on its face. “Come here,” murmurs the wind, nudging Arilan forward with a strong gust at his back. 

So, Arilan goes.

The climb up the Sunning Hill is a short one, made all the shorter by the sickle claws that curl around his waist to lift him up. The world continues to turn and sway even after he’s deposited on the sun- and fur-warmed stone. Arilan thinks he feels feathers brushing against his skin.

He fears to stain those feathers, realizing finally just how much blood he’s lost and is losing, but the Éa tassra does not seem to mind.

Arilan gazes up into the deep dark of pine needles, and the pine needles gaze back. The longer he looks, the more the world stills, and stays still.

Gentle hands cup his face. Arilan starts. Hands; not paws, not talons. He hadn’t even noticed them changing.

The nymph before him is beautiful, just like the hound was, just like the cat was. Long limbs and graceful lines and eyes like pines on a winter night.

But then, the Éa tassra Kithralla is beautiful in any form. Leander is beautiful in any form.

“You fought well, Arilan,” Leander soothes, voice as cool as his hands aren’t, guiding Arilan to lie down. “But let us not forget which of us is the Guardian here, hm?” Soft, slender fingers brush hair back from Arilan’s forehead. 

Arilan can’t argue with that.

“Sleep now, my darling. I will be here when you wake.”

Leander may not be one of the Unlying any longer, but all the same, Arilan believes him.

[seoness]

More Than Our Servitude - Part IV

NSFW | Fluff | (TV) Sandor Clegane x Fem!Reader | Multi-part | Requested

Trigger warning: Bartering sex with a non-romantic interest.

Summary: The greatest defender is not always the strongest and sometimes all it takes for fate to be rewritten is the presence of another.

Author's note: While this part does not have smut, please remember that other parts do. We are deviating from the TV show, weaving it together with the books. So if you're thinking, "Hold on, did it happen like this?" Nah. But it's whatcha ma call it? Creative liberty! This fic is written to be compatible with the browser add-on InteractiveFics. Please use it or a similar browser add-on/extension for the greatest amount of immersion.

Test: y/n and y/n.(if that is your chosen name, it means it's working).

The imprint of hooves was barely visible in the mud. Your heart hadn't stopped hammering and the heat that pressed at your face wouldn't go.

This wasn't what he needed.

"Shit."

You rubbed away the tears only for them to return, clouding your view. Why fool yourself?

You weren't what he needed.

Even if you caught up with them, what could you even do? That thought, that hopelessness, was nothing to the cold that came whenever the vision snuck up. A body, mangled by cuts and half-a-hundred blows, the blood swallowed up by the mud. The dark eyes turned pale as milk.

If that is what met you... No, Sandor was strong, too stubborn for death. You pulled the cloak snug, but the embrace of damp wool offered little comfort. He couldn't die. He couldn't!

"Shit, shit, shit!"

The birch trees gave way to a sea of ferns, the narrow path the party had kept on joined up with a brook, slithering its way through moss and stone alike, the mud littered with tracks — Stranger had lost his temper.

At least the hellhorse hadn't paid with his life. Peering out on the path ahead, the setting sun made each tree cast long shadows that danced with the wind, and somewhere out there, a howl rang. Beyond the leaves, plumes of smoke rose up to meet the sky. Had they taken up camp?

Hope flickered. You could sneak, and wait for dark if time allowed. There was hope. You took a step forward when the sound came. A branch broke. The world went black. A heaviness slammed against your back, forcing you to hunch forward. Arms, you felt them now, the balled-up fist that had dragged the sack on your head. You screamed. Nails catching flesh, cloth, anything as you tore.

"Quit you struggling," a stranger's voice cursed, but it only made the nails drive deeper.

The stranger shook, hard, roaring, "I said quit it!"

Another voice came, brighter, "You're not calming her."

"You want to try? No? Then shut your mouth."

Your feet hit against something soft and the bright voice groaned out, making laughter bellow behind you, "A true calming presence. Try again, won't ya?."

"Sod off. Just carry her to the others, will you?"

Your scream cut short as the world moved once more and a shoulder hit your stomach. Arms clenching around your legs.

"Why are you doing this, there's nothing for you to steal?!"

The plead made the stranger beneath you laugh again, "Aye, a true innocent maiden you is sniffing about our trail."

The blows at his back bounced back against the boiled leather. "She's kinder to me, how'd she know I had a sore back."

When the body beneath you finally stopped moving, your fists were throbbing with pain.

"Caught this dove spying." The next, your feet hit the ground, the sack yanked off your head and all you could do was try not to fall over.

Another spoke, a thick accent on his tongue, "You know this one, Dog?"

And there the Hound was, surrounded by men and women alike, but the hatred in their faces was nothing to what burned in his. Stripped to nothing more than his breeches and undertunic, bound with rope, the men closest to Sandor still never let their eyes off him. There was danger in him yet.

And above all, he was alive. You weren't too late.

The Hound looked at you like they had dragged the village dimwit before him, turning to the man closest. He was nothing more than bones draped in a red robe matted by layer upon layer of dust.

"Never seen her."

But the man in the red robe, you had seen him before. Yes, at the Red Keep. A friend of Robert Baratheon. Thoros of Myr. A cursed name amongst the washerwomen of the Red Keep, none made more wine stains than the drunkard that paraded himself a Red Priest.

Your captor shook you again.

"Tell 'em your name." What good would that do? Pressing your lips shut, you looked up at the one who had swung you about like some rag doll.

Gods, he made the paupers of Flea Bottom look like nobility. A few strands of blond hair had avoided the mat that clumped around his head. Your stomach turned as he lowered, sniffing your hair, while your nose filled with the stench of urine and sweat. "Smells nice. The lions sending their ladies out to spy for 'em now?"

"You know that one, alright," Thoros chuckled, patting Sandor's shoulder. "Careful, Otho, I think the Hound wants you dead."

Sandor's eyes were black with rage and three more men knocked their bows. This wasn't an army. Bandits? Yet in the mass, there were women and children. The surroundings... this was a village. Farms, shops, and a tavern. You had been carried to a village square. At your right, chains creaked and a whimper left your lips. Crowcages. Already occupied. Each prisoner's chest was feathered with an arrow.

But before fear could take hold, Thoros of Myr spoke again, "We have stayed too long. Take the woman."

And the sack returned over your head.

The smell of smoke and wet hay clung to the roughspun sack. At times the darkness it kept was broken, torches passing, voices muddled. A swarm of hands caught you as Otho threw you off his shoulder, the floor hard and slippery beneath your feet. A yelp left your lips, and in an instant, the hands were gone.

"Otho, take off the sack." It was a stranger's voice, whispering out in the dark.

But the body beside you, that had carried you on his shoulder for what felt like an eternity, did not move. "Pardon his rudeness," the voice said.

The world outside wasn't much brighter but a long face with kind eyes met you.

"Anguy," the stranger said.

Otho huffed, "Don't bother. We're not good enough for the lady's name."

You stopped listening to their bickering, looking past Anguy's shoulder. The fire crackled within the large brazier, and flames soared high as the men fed it with timber, its light reaching the roof of dirt, roots, and rock. A cavern? The brazier burned bright enough for you to make out the faces around you. More men, more hate in their eyes, but none was for you.

The Hound had been dragged into the middle of it all. Thoros of Myr pulled the sack off his head to the hooting and curses of the crowd.

Strands of Sandor's hair had slicked to his forehead with sweat, and there was a wildness to his eyes you'd never seen before and an edge to his voice, "You look like a bunch of swine herds."

"Some of us were swine herds, and some was tanners and masons," Anguy answered him. "That was before."

The Hound let out a snort, "You are still swine herds and tanners and masons. You think carrying a crooked spear makes you a soldier?"

Shut up! Mocking them wouldn't make them merciful. Why did he need to be so stubborn? But you knew... Sandor Clegane would never plead for his life.

"Fighting in a war makes you a soldier," a voice from the crowd answered.

The bodies around you moved, but Anguy's body kept you from getting a clear view of the man that stepped forth from the crowd.

"Beric Dondarrion, you've seen better days."

"And I won't see them again." The voice that answered him, something with that man made the amusement in the Hound's face falter.

Sandor didn't stay on him, looking back out over the crowd. "Stark deserters... Baratheon deserters... you're not fighting in a war, you're running from it."

"Last I heard, you were King Joffrey's guard, but here you are a thousand miles from home. Which of us are running?" Beric countered.

"Untie these ropes, and we'll find out," Sandor answered, his mouth twisting. "What are you doing? Leading a mob of peasants?"

"Ned Stark ordered me to execute your brother in King Robert's name."

"Ned Stark is dead, King Robert is dead, my brother is alive." Sandor spat at the ground. "You are fighting for ghosts."

"That's what we are. Ghosts," Beric's voice grew tense. "Waiting for you in the dark, you can't see us, but we see you. No matter whose cloak you were. Lannister, Stark, Baratheon? You pray on the weak the Brotherhood without Banners will hunt you down."

All around you, eyes lit up like cats reading to pounce. You opened your mouth to speak, to call out to Sandor, but your throat had dried up to nothing.

The Hound looked even less impressed after the lord's speech. "You found the gods, is that it?"

Shut up.

"Aye, I've been reborn in the light of the one true god, as have we all. As would any man that have seen what we've seen," Beric answered him.

Disgust spread on the Hound's face. "If you mean to murder me bloody well get on with it."

No.

"You'll die soon enough, Dog, but it won't be murder only justice."

"N-!" Your scream was muffled against Otho's hand.

But the sound was enough for their attention to turn to you, Sandor's mouth pressing to a thin line. "This one was found sniffing our trail. It seems the Hound has found himself a woman," Otho said.

Laughter spread throughout the cave while Thoros of Myr stepped closer to you. It was pointless to fight against the Red Priest as he took hold of your hands. Otho's grip was like a vice.

Thoros didn't need to study your hands for long before his face softened. "You're no lady, are you? These are a worker's hands," he said. "No need to be wounded, sweetling. They are far softer than mine ever will be."

The Hound tugged at the binds that held him. "Just a whore. Found her some leagues past, not paid her yet."

"A Lannister always pays their debt," Thoros muttered to himself.

"He's not a Lannister," you said.

What rested in the Red Priest's eyes was no secret. Who he thought you to be. A fool. Pitiful. Pat you on the head and be kind to you for a day, and you'll never mention the Hound again. It was they that were no different from the Lannisters. Who did as they pleased, who thought themself better.

Anguy raised his voice, "Lions you call yourselves. At the Mummer's Ford, girls of seven years were raped, and babes still on the breast were cut in two while their mothers watched."

"I wasn't at the Mummer's Ford. Dump your dead children at some other door," Sandor growled back, his patience long since withered away.

Thoros released your hand and faced the Hound once more. "House Clegane was built upon dead children. I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne."

"Do you take me for my brother? Is being born Clegane a crime?"

"Murder is a crime," Beric answered.

"I never touched the Targaryen babes. I never saw them, never smelled them, never heard them bawling. You want to cut my throat, get on with it! But don't call me murderer and pretend that you're not."

Finally. A solid argument. They couldn't deny it. You could see it on their faces. The Mother Above had smiled down on you both, captured by the only righteous group of bandits in the Seven Kingdoms.

A child's voice rose above the murmur of men. "You murdered Mycah. The butcher's boy. My friend. He was twelve years old. He was unarmed. And you rode him down. You slung him over your horse like he was some deer."

"Aye, he was a bleeder."

"You don't deny killing this boy?" Beric asked.

"I was Joffrey's sworn shield. The boy attacked the prince."

A girl stepped forward, dressed in boy's clothes and her hair cut short. "That's a lie! I hit Joffrey. Mycah just ran away."

Sandor let out a snort, "Then I should have killed you. Not my place to question princes."

More hoots and curses filled the cave. That... that was his defense? No, he'd die. Mycah? He was no servant you knew, but he attacked the prince. That rang a bell... Starks. When the court left the Red Keep for Winterfell.

Your hand slipped back, in between your body and that of Otho's.

"You stand accused of murder. But no one here knows the truth of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light—"

The pained howl silenced the Lord. The grip on your arm became iron, and in turn, your grip on Otho's manhood grew just as strong.

"YOU RABID BITCH!"

You would have hit the ground face first if not for Thoros catching you, and a wave of men came at your back, grabbing their brother. You couldn't focus on the set of hands that clawed after you, ready to turn you into pulp. Pushing away from the Red Priest, you caught the eye of Lord Beric Dondarrion.

"By what right do you act judge on that boy's death?" you asked, loud enough for your voice to be heard above that of Otho's curses. "Do you see yourself as greater than your King, Lord Beric?"

But it wasn't he who opened his mouth to speak. The Hound did. "Not a word!" you roared out.

Sandor had tried to defend himself and failed. He couldn't die. You wouldn't let him, and by the gods, he wasn't helping. If he wanted to punish you, he could very well do it when he was alive and well.

Looking back to Beric Dondarrion, you continued, "The death occurred when the King returned to King's Landing from Winterfell, did it not? Then King Robert would have known of the boy's death and did not charge Sandor Clegane as a murderer, so by what right do any of you?"

You tried not to tremble, to not feel the gazes of at least fifty men burning your back.

"The lion's fury is a fierce one," Beric said, "and much happens within a camp."

"So you say King Robert was a craven to his wife? The Hand of the King must have known, and there was no charge made then," you countered. "The will of our King might not please you, but it is not for any of us to question."

The girl's voice brimmed with anger, "He murdered Mycah! He's a murderer!"

Thoros stepped closer to Beric, whispering, but the lord shook his head. "There is little reason to be rash, Thoros. The Hound is our captive. If justice commands us to end his life, so be it, but it shall be justice, not murder."

And the lord's gaze fell on you. "Come, there are questions that I seek answers for."

The cave ran deep. Beric guided you through the crowd and over the sleeping mats and past crates. Arming himself with a torch before the cavern walls started to close in, not stopping until a dead end forced it.

The lord held out his hand. "May I?" And you did not dare do anything else, placing your hand in his palm. "Thoros spoke true, but you speak like one born a lady."

Maybe a lie? Claim yourself some lady and threaten with bloody vengeance if they dared harm Sandor. But what good would that do? They were outlaws. That threat already hung over their heads.

"I served as a washerwoman at the Red Keep... servants that walk the halls are supposed to speak properly."

"Your name?"

"y/n."

y/n of nothing. No lady. No house. No power. You had lived a long enough life to know the truth of the world. Lords seldom listened, not to your kind. How many of your friends had not groveled to Ser Ilyn Payne? It made no difference. But there was one thing that was different this time, this wasn't your life.

Pain shot from your knees as they hit the floor, and your forehead met the cool stone. "Please," your voice thick," please, don't kill him."

It was a lord's voice that answered. Steady. Calm. Unyielding. "The man killed a child and admitted to the act, yet you defend him."

"He admitted to killing the boy. It was his duty..." you leaned back and met the lord's gaze. "Not all have the fortune of serving those that are good of heart. I know him, the man you and your men insist on calling a dog, and he is not the evil you think."

Your throat grew snug. "He killed a boy that was accused of attacking the prince. Why do your men, why do you, my lord, act like anything else is needed? Servants do not get trials. A charge, the word of a Queen, of a Prince is more than enough."

"And you defend such a world? The Brotherhood without Banners does not turn a blind eye to cruelty."

Without thought, your hand shot out, gripping his leg. "Then kill the one who ordered such cruelty. Do not pretend to make an example of him when his death would be the exception."

Some lords would have kicked you in the face for daring to touch them but Beric just shook his head.

"To think the Hound of all men would have a woman pleading for his life." His gaze wandered to the scar by your throat. "And that?"

"Bandits attacked us. Sandor could have abandoned me there, but he risked his life to save me. No one ordered him to. Left to his own, he does good. He is good. I'll swear it before any and all gods, both the Old and the New. To your Red God. Please, my lord."

You searched his face. The right eye had been claimed and covered by a patch, the cheeks gaunt. Clothes torn and patched, but the man stood tall, regal in his rags. The Stranger made flesh. The still face of a lord grew warm, and the man beneath peaked through.

"I do not mean to stare. It has been too long since I have had the company of a woman." He barely finished speaking before the man's eye became as wide as yours. "Forgive me, do not take that as... it has been a long time since I've spoken to someone who wasn't out for blood, be it mine or that of other men."

Looking down at his boots, your heartbeat grew. The implication remained. Men had given much for such comfort, especially those starved. "But if I... will you spare him if I allow it?"

Silence hung heavy over your shoulders. Was he too proper to openly accept? His boot, his left, had a deep scuff on its toe. You couldn't look away from it. Listening to the blood flowing in your ears. Now, if anything, you expected to tremble as you reached for the lacing of your dress, but your hands were steady and nimble. The scuff of his boot disappeared from view.

"I am not my enemy," the lord's voice returned as Beric caught you by the wrists. "It would be a lie to say that I have never paid for a woman's kindness, but you have no want for me, my lady "

"I want Sandor to live."

"Saving your life earned him this loyalty?"

You frowned. "I love him."

The lord looked to have preferred a slap to the face than that admittance.

"I wish to pray, and there is little love out there for one of your sentiments, so I urge you to wait here while I do."

No prayer left the man's lips. Beric only stared at the fire of his torch. After some time, the lord straightened and turned towards the tunnel. He wasn't the only one who had made up his mind.

"Anything you do to him shall be done to me." Your words stopped the man in his tracks. "If you cannot fathom sentencing me the same as him, then your judgment is wrong."

"Do not make threats you cannot uphold."

"One way or the other it will be upheld," you said.

The warmth of your breath built up inside the sack. In that darkness, a pair of steel-clad arms rested at your sides, steading you on the stallion's back. Beric's speech was a blur. Not that much could be heard above the thumping of your heart. You had stood there like a statue, watching as the armor returned on the Hound, aided by Beric Dondarrion's squire. The girl's scream, her roar, followed you along the forest path. There hadn't only been hatred for the Hound in those eyes. One got used to being looked upon like vermin when serving in the halls of the Red Keep, but that wasn't the hatred in that girl's eyes. To her, you were pure evil.

"This should be far enough," the voice stirred you from thought.

The Hound moved, and you heard the swat of cloth and fumbling steps before he lifted the sack of your head and flung it to the one they called Greenbeard.

The outlaw unhooked Sandor's sword from his belt, holding it out. "Go on your way now. Do anything foolish and Anguy will feather you dead."

By the treeline, the bowman stood, barely visible in the night, the light of his brethren's torches caught on the tip of the arrow already knocked on its string. You knew the flow of insults was building inside Sandor and tapped on his chestplate.

"We should go," you said and nodded to his sword. "Please?"

The Hound ripped it out of Greenbeard's hand, making the four men that had been tasked to escort you away from their hideout perk up. Their hands all resting at the hilt of their swords.

Lem, the tallest and strongest amongst them, stepped forward. "Go on, Dog, scurry off!"

Sandor's grip around the scabbard grew. He couldn't! Your fingers latched onto his bevor, pulling up, making Sandor turn back to you and your lips locked. His mouth tense against yours. Your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening your kiss. Caring less to nothing of the world and men that surrounded you.

Pulling away, breathless. "You have better things to do than deal with that man."

The Hound huffed a laugh before pressing his heels into Stranger, letting the stallion charge ahead.

Not until the sky glowed in hues of orange and pale purple, welcoming the morning sun, did the horse slow. He lived. Unharmed. Leaning back against his chest, you sighed. Beneath that armor was a beating heart. A smile spread across your lips. Out of danger, your body bore the toll everything had taken and made Sandor's embrace as comfortable as the softest of featherbeds.

"What did Dondarrion want from you?" the rasp pulled you back from sleep.

The Hound hated liars.

"He had questions for me. I answered them," you said.

"Some answers," he snorted.

And a truth that could make him hate you. You peered up, meeting those dark eyes. "It helped to not insult him or his men. I got lucky, I suppose."

Sandor pressed into Stranger's sides to keep the horse from stopping. It wasn't a lie. There was much you knew. You knew such a defense would not be enough, knew it would anger him, knew it would hurt him. It was what you didn't know that kept you from saying the rest. Would he ride back? Was his pride too great?

A heaviness. A weight landed on you, yet it wasn't startling. Since Lord Beric's verdict of innocence, you had awaited it but if carrying this guilt was the price of keeping him alive, so be it.

"Are you feeling well?" you asked. "I... I don't know what the right question to ask is... They wanted you dead."

"Aye, not the first."

"You sound too calm for someone just escaping being lynched by a mob," you muttered.

You had been awake too long and walked too far. With sleep and something to fill your belly, this new weight of yours would be easier to shoulder. It wasn't like Lord Beric had taken up your offer. Sandor's face lowered, the tip of his nose brushing against your forehead before his lips followed.

"Think people go out of their way helping dogs? Never had that," there was a distance to his voice before a huff made strength return, tickling your face. "Some fierce defender you make."

"Can your defender request a camp where she can bathe? I stink of Otho."

Sandor lowered further, taking a sniff of the air around you. His face twisting. Stifling a cough.

"Many thanks," you said. "That is what all women want their men to do."

"You'll have your thanks later," he answered, coughing again.

Thank you for reading!

Quick question: Is there something you, as readers, want to see in future parts/don't want to see? A trope you absolutely want me to avoid. I might not be able to take everyone's wishes into account, but it would give me a better understanding of the wants of those following the fic. All thoughts and opinions are welcomed. 🤗

[ananglishliker]

A further step with Anglish

Folk like Anglish for it doesn't brook the borrowed words, for it is a lutterer English. But there's something that unformithely comes along when swaping out ellandish words with those from the same tongue kinfolk: foroldness.

And this seems to be something Anglish-followers like, for I found an almost fulwrought foroldening of English staffcraft. And I'm not going to hide that I'm one of those who like foroldening, and that I liked to know about this deeper back-to-the-roots.

I'll be talking about was changed in this forolder Anglish here. I'll be reckoning the links to a more throughgone writ in the end of this writing.

Staffrow (Alphabet)

Only two bookstaffs are eked: Ƿ�� (/w/) and Þ�� (/θ/, /ð/). Yes, it's not that gripping, but things truly get started with the switches!

⟨c⟩ as /s/ > s (cinder > sinder)

⟨ch⟩ & ⟨tch⟩ as /tʃ/ > c/ce (chin > cin/choke > ceoke)

⟨dge⟩ as /dʒ/ > dg (bridge >A curious mind is a terrible curse bridg)

⟨gh⟩ as yoreloreish [x~ɣ] > g (high > hig/night > nigt)

⟨ie⟩ as /i/ > ee (field > feeld)

⟨le⟩ as /əl/ > el (neetle > neetel)

⟨o⟩ as /ʌ/ > u (son > sun/some > sum)

⟨ou⟩ & ⟨ow⟩ as /aʊ/ > u/ue/uCe (hound > hund/sow > sue/loud > lude)

⟨ough⟩ as /aʊ/ & /ʌf/ > uge (plough > pluge/tough > tuge)

⟨qu⟩ as /kw/ > cƿ (queen > cƿeen)

⟨sc⟩ as /sk/ > sk (score > skore)

⟨sh⟩ as /ʃ/ > sc (ship > scip)

⟨th⟩ as /θ/ or /ð/ > þ (the > þe)

⟨u⟩ as yoreloreish /ju/ > eƿ (hue > heƿ)

⟨u⟩ as /ɜ/ > e/i (bury > berry/burden > berden)

v as /v/ > f (leave > leaf/over > ofer)

w > ƿ (water > ƿater)

⟨wh⟩ as yoreloreish /hw/ > hƿ (whelp hƿelp)

y as /j/ > g/ge (yes > ges/yore > geore)

⟨z⟩ as /z/ > s (graze > grase/fizzy > fisy)

Retchings for why it was switched to that in the link reckoning below.

Can you already see the forolderlooking from this? Here's a wordset I'll be brooking as forebisen:

Unforolded: The tough errand to dodge through the crowded boughs of a fern oak tree thared skill and lastingness. Forolded: Þe tuge errand to dodg þruge þe crueded buges of an fern oak tree þared skill and lastingness.

That truly pleases me and is aslaking seeing English truly looking like a Germanish tongue. I thought about writing in a more and more forolded way as I reckon the changes, but, for the sake of a flowsome reading for the reader, I'll leave this list aside, but, if you'd like to read wordsets looking as such, there are sere in the from leaf at the end of this upload.

This switching might be enough for some, but there are those, like me, who would like to go even further and see, too, a forolded speechcraft.

Theedness and some throughnesses (Conjugations and some details)

Before we get started with theedness, we understandendly will be brooking the forename "thou". A forolded theedness may be known for all, since it can be outlined through the twoth and the third atell:

Twoth: anward > -est; forthwitten > -edst

Third: anward > -eth

And that's all, hence you can make any wordset:

"The man giveth the boy a book"

"A woman walketh through the woods"

Underyet: there are some sunderly shapes: doth (does, spoke /dʌθ/), hath (has), saith (says, spoke /sɛθ/).

Asking

To make asks, we will leave out the ask markers "do" and "does". Instead, we'll put the tideword in the beginning of the wordset, as one does in Deutsch:

Does he know the answer? > Knoweth he the answer?

Where do you live? > Where livest thou?

Ofolder and chirten.

Naying

Also in naying wordsets "do" and "does" swind. Instead, we use "not" after the main tideword:

I know not.

He came not.

With wrayingly, the ea is putting "not" after a wrayingly forename, but before a meanname:

I love him not.

I have not the book.

If the wordset has a underwordset, "not" will be right before the latter:

The king thought not that he was in any danger.

Byings and kins (Declinations and genders)

Here is the knottiest thing to learn, though not the hardest - you'll only need some time. Byings and kins are a widegale ken, which, for me at least, is the most gripping thing in speechcraft, for it's where the tongue shapechanges the most.

The first thing we need to know is that English wonted to have kins: werely, wifely and neither. And byings: nemmeningly, wrayingly, streeningly and forgivendly. And it turns out not only the meannames, but also the beckoningly forenames, lithwords and ekends had their own kin and bying bendings. Although Anglish doesn't brook the forgivendly bying.

Unheeding the thoughts of how these bendings would have grew and going right to the retching way English would look like today, we have:

Markoff lithword

Unmarkoff lithword

Ekends

But ekends are not that ofold though. It's said the strong-weak shed would have likely been kept. So ekends can be either strong or weak, and their bending changes for it. Although we can overlook the weak one and brook the strong one only, I'll be brooking both for the sake of a rawer forolding.

On the other hand, the ea to bend it is easy: weak ekends are those whose meanname is with a lithword, kithing forename or it's in streeningly; strong ekends are those that are unmarkoff. Here is the bending:

With these changes, let us take a look at what our bisen wordset looks like now:

Unforolded: The tough errand to dodge through the crowded boughs of a fern oak tree thared skill and lastingness.

Forolded: Þe tuge errand to dodg þruge þe cruededen bugen annes fernes oakes trees þared skill and lastingness.

Dealnimmends (Participles)

Dealnimmends are like the ekends, and as such they would be bended with the same endings, if there were not an unbiseniness in them:

Kithings (Demonstratives)

The kithings, since they are also ekendish, also are bent:

Rimes (Numbers)

Believe it or not, rimes wonted to be bent in the past. The rimes "one, for some ground, were the only ones that are bent. Rimes are either mainly or endbirdly. And, since they can be brooked with lithword, they can also be either strong or weak. The mainly's benting is:

The endbirdly's benting is:

Ownerly forenames (Personal pronouns)

And going even further, we forolden the ownerly forenames:

The shapes "mine" is now brooked before words beginning with a clepend as "a(n)". The same for "thou", which becomes "thine".

Askinglies

And, alongside with it, the askinglies are also bent!

Kinshiply (Relatives)

Forget we not the kinshiplies:

And since "that" and "which" have now a streeningly bying, there's no more anyet in brooking "whose" for unmanly words, so:

Þe dog hƿose oƿner is far aƿay > Þe dog þas oƿner is far aƿay In þe ƿoods þere ƿas a birdling, hƿose huse was red > In þe ƿoods þere ƿas a birdling, hƿices huse was red.

---

There are still other changes that make it even more forolded, reliving raw shafts of the tongue, but I think this is enough for now. It's not like you would be wrong brooking only a stitch of the forolding anyway, since it's clearly underfangendly to not fully forolden. I shall likely make another upload on these foroldenings in the toward.

---

Froms:

Staffrow: https://anglisc.miraheze.org/wiki/Anglish_Alphabet

Theedness: https://anglisc.miraheze.org/wiki/Archaic_grammar

Byings and kins: https://anglisc.miraheze.org/wiki/Archaic_case_%26_gender

[drhoz]

#1903 - Microsorum pustulatum ssp. pustulatum - Kangaroo Fern

If you had to describe New Zealand’s climate in one word, that word might be ‘moist’, given the Islands are mountainous roadblocks in the way of every weather front coming across the Pacific, or howling up out of the Antarctic. There’s a reason the Māori-language name of the country is Aotearoa - "land of the long white cloud". @purrdence​’s been over there for a month and has only seen the top of a mountain, unobscured by cloud, once, and that was from a plane flying overhead. Admittedly that might also have something to do with the cyclone that’s closed half the railways and major roads. 

But even if I’m exaggerating about the climate, New Zealand enjoys a wide variety of large and handsome ferns, so I’m going to be discussing a few. 

These ferns, which can grow up to 50cm long, were growing near Huka Falls, where 220,000 liters of water a second roars through a canyon 15m across.  AKA hound's tongue, and in Māori: kōwaowao, or pāraharaha, Kangaroo Fern is also known from the moister parts of Eastern Australia, where is presumably where it got that  common name.  M. pustulatum subsp. howense is endemic to Lord Howe Island. Zealandia has also been suggested as the generic name.

They’re adept epiphytes, common on tree ferns but also branches and trunks of trees, on rocks, logs and occasionally along the ground in wet forests and rainforests. If conditions are suitable, a good garden or terrarium fern.

[life-around-me-yura15cbx]

Zealandia pustulata, synonym Microsorum pustulatum, (kangaroo fern or hound's tongue, in Māori: kōwaowao, pāraharaha) is a species of fern within the family Polypodiaceae.

25 Rimutaka Place, Titirangi, Auckland 0604

-36.9440830, 174.6352920

[leanstooneside]

BEFORE & AFTER

- TONGUE: IN

- ISLANDS

- SADDLE

- CAR BORNE

- SPAKE

- MASTERS

- COMPANION

- CHRISTIAN VARIANT

- LIMB OF MINE

- DIM WITH

- SLEEP; WHILE

- DE DANAAN SHRINE; THEN

- YEARS 'GAN

- SLEEP'S FOREBEAR

- SHEEP WHOSE

- SHIELD

- ARMS

- OUTCRY OF BATS

- MISTY WAY: TYING THE HORSE

- HUSBAND

- DEAD

- FINN

- SHELL; BUT NOW HEARTS

- RACHLIN

- CLOSER

- LOGIS

- CRIMSON FLOWER

- ROMANCES

- TO SHORES BY THE WASH

- DRUM

- MAN OF CROZIERS

- DANAAN POETS

- HANDS

- O PATRIC

- SILENCIEUX ET DISCRETS

- DREAD THOSE

- QUIVER OF LIPS

- INWROUGHT

- HOUND

- LABOURS OF

- GRASSHOPPER

- BRAZEN BATTLEAXE

- BARROW

- MEN

- DRIPPING TREES

- TERRES

- SOUL

- INFANT FERNS UNWRAP

- FIGURED EMBROIDERY; AND

- WAVES OF THE SUMMER SEAS

- NEIGHING

- CAVES; BUT HERE

- STREAMS SOFTER

- STEPT THAN

- DANS L'HôTELLERIE

- MEASURE HAVE

- TEAR; BUT

- WHISPER

- OVER THE BARE

- HEAVEN'S

- SI

- BLOSSOM OF THE MOON

- DANCE

- BOOK

- HALF

- MIGHTY OF LIMB

- STRENGTH

- BLOW FROM MACE

- FACES

- STAFF OF WOOD FROM

- LINE

- LATER

- WEIGHT

- MAN OF

- SEA FOAM

- SHADOWY FACE

- NOT

- REVELRY; AND

- EACH

- QUESTION

- BOSOM

- KING ARTHUR

- WIRES

- UNGUENTS

- SPADE

- CHAUNT THE WARSONGS

- RHYTHMS

- FOAMDROP

- HAYCOCK

- UNBID

- FEAST

[woozyintyria]

I have 2 mordrem characters!

The first one is Yarrow, who entered the jungle as a medic for the pact with his dearheart. Though he initially resisted the call, once he finally succumbed and turned against her and his team, he found a deep comfort and power in the dragon's control and that kind of hivemind feeling of having purpose. He didn't need to think or worry when Mordremoth was there to tell him what to do, encouraging him and giving him strength he never knew he wanted.

While a Mordrem he primarily worked as a podtender, keeping off the front lines in favor of helping convert bodies into fresh soldiers for the fight. Like an interesting twist on his original profession as a doctor. He similarly used his skills to help patch up damaged mordrem soldiers and beasties to get them back into the fight.

Once Mordy finally died that commanding presence dissipated, leaving him with an absolutely wretched empty feeling. While the veneer of service no longer colored his actions, he sat in an uncomfortable place of recognizing that Mordremoth was both very bad for the world (and in theory, it's good that he was killed) while also being willing to trade it all for a taste of that overwhelming control and power again.

Instead of going to therapy, he decided to drown his thoughts in alcohol and lash out at the world around him, inviting them to take potshots at him for being an insufferable rude asshole to be around. While he looks like a normal sylvari now, he can shift into a more monstrous form at moments of high emotion.

Also, he kept one of the blighting pods, bringing it to his home and planting and continuing to nurture it. He named it Russer (as he names everything.) Nowadays he primarily uses it to rehabilitate or revive suffering fern hounds, though he's used it to grow back his tongue once after it was bitten off.

On the other hand, I have my character Styriac. Styriac was a sapling that, according to his own words, ignored whatever the Dream was telling him in favor of chasing a butterfly. When he awoke confused and scared in the Grove, he decked the poor mender helping him out of his pod and fled into Caledon Forest to eke out a half-feral life. Through the patience and support of some friends a couple years later, he was able to handle civilization to a degree and cautiously began thriving with loud excitement.

Despite this, his personality and nature left him relatively empty-headed and instinctual over applying critical thought. Though he liked people and cities he found them frustrating and Othered. During the course of season 1 where tensions with sylvari started rising, that feeling of Otherness only grew. When Mordremoth finally called and said he could give him purpose, there was no thought that went into his acceptance, only a soft sort of ah, okay.

His time as a Mordrem was short lived, as his friends were able to take him down before he could do any major physical damage. (other than the burden that comes from such a task)

Some time later, he awoke as a clone from a blighting pod, and with a similar simpleminded acceptance got to work doing Mordremoth's bidding. He continued on this way until Mordy's death, which brought back a single moment of clarity for the first time in a long while in that he remembered he'd done something bad but couldn't remember what it was or why he'd done it.

Styriac 2.0 was a calmer, more thoughtful version of the sapling he once was, this time taking that nugget of clarity to focus his thoughts and learn about the world around him anew. Though the specifics of who he was escape him for the most part, he was easily able to pick up the nature of the war as well as whose side he'd ended up on.

Feeling almost beholden to the idea of who he could have been, those glimpses of happiness and good from a time unspoiled, he quietly uses his second chance at life to attempt to put some good back into the world, even as the voice of Mordremoth rages like an intrusive thought ever present in the back of his mind. Though everything he's learned about the war tells him it should feel like penance, because he doesn't know a life without it it's simply How Life Works to him.

It doesn't seem fair for him to beat himself up over it when he can see the tragedy in which he never had a fighting chance to resist. Why wallow in suffering when he can run and fight and make new friends and try again and try again and try again.

question for my fellow mordrem-havers:

what was it like for them under the dragon's influence? if they weren't 'born' mordrem, what was their corruption experience? how are they handling life without the dragon?

[interact-if]

goodday! I was curious if there are any IF that features a disabled mc? this might be odd but as a physically disabled person, its always nice to see some representation :)

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “Hello! Thank you all so much for taking time to run this page. Can I ask if you have any IF recommendations that has representation for people with disabilities? Can be ROs or customizable MCs. Thank you! :)” /end ID]

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “any if with a disabled mc?” /end ID]

Hi! since the definition of disability is rather broad, we decided to take this opportunity to turn this into a master post encompassing both physical, mental, and neurological disabilities. We will divide everything into subcategories so it’s easier to find what you’re looking for!

and remember, if you find that any work of interactive fiction is missing from this list, please, let us know :)

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “Hey, do you know any IF where you can romance a deaf character or where the MC can be deaf? I’m craving the representation but I can’t find any :/” /end ID]

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “Are there any IFs that you can think of that let you play as Deaf/HoH or have a Deaf/HoH RO? Thanks so much!” /end ID]

[ID: An ask by user p-e-a-r that reads: “Hello. Do you know if there’s any IFs where the MC is mute and/or deaf? Or just uses sign language?

If you know any if a mute of deaf IL that’s also good” /end ID]

Deaf/HoH

MCs:

180 Files: The Aegis Project (optional) by Karelia Hall

Remembered: The Past (optional) by Kristin Jahu

The Eight Years Revolution (option for hearing aids) by @eight-years-revolution

Varðir (option for hearing aids and option for communicating through sign language will be included in the next update) by @vardir (discontinued)

When It Hungers (upcoming option to be HoH in rewrite) by @roast-ifs

ROs:

Fields of Asphodel (Alekto) by @asphodelgame

Hollowed Minds (Alonzo - not specified in the demo yet) by @shai-manahan

Powered (Simon) by @powered-if (no demo)

Project Hadea (Ki-Ha) by @nyehilismwriting 

Twin Coves (Lir ) by @twincovesgame​

When It Hungers (Nico) by @roast-ifs

You Live And Fern (Char) by @beetlebethwrites

Other characters:

The Brighter the Dawn (MC’s father) by @dawning-games

The Northern Passage (Branwen) by @northern-passage​ 

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “Hi :) I was wondering if youse know of any stories where the MC can be non-verbal/silent? If not all then time then partially? If this is too niche of a request please don’t feel pressured to answer. Thank you for all the hard work youse do for the IF community, it’s so awesome <3” /end ID]

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “Hi! I know this is sort of a niche request, but do you know of any IFs with a mute (any kind) MC? Or IFs where there are options to make the MC respond non-verbally and it’s something the game keeps track of? I’m not sure if I’m describing the second option well, but basically, if we’re regularly choosing ‘silent’ options, it actually makes a difference” /end ID]

Non-verbal/silent

MCs:

Hollowmoon Valley (option available to be silent) by @hollowmoonvalley

Legend of a Savior (One of the planned routes is an MC without a tongue) by @legend-of-a-savior-if (no demo)

The King’s Hound by @the-kingshound (18+)

Varðir (option for communicating through sign language will be included in the next update) by @vardir (discontinued)

ROs:

The Twilight Order (Désiré) by @exn0bisstudios (18+, no demo)

Wolfwater (Lux) by @carrs-universe

Other characters:

All Paths Lead to the Underground (mute secondary character) by @pol-writes​

Crimson Rose & White Lily (mute secondary character) by @manonamora-if​

Lost Birds (Ghost) by @if-lostbirds

The Brighter the Dawn (Ranada is selectively mute) by @dawning-games​

Other physical disabilities

MCs:

Event Horizon (MC experiences psychosis) by @if-eventhorizon​

Greenwarden (Options of giving the MC albinism and astigmatism, and making them diabetic or celiac) by @fiddles-ifs

Hollowed Minds (MC will have more frequent migraines over time) by @shai-manahan​

Lost Birds (Prosthetic arm and leg) by @if-lostbirds

Remember, You Will Die (Prosthetic options for MC) by @vapolis 

The Ballad of Devil’s Creek (Option for MC to be missing an eye) by @devilscreekballad

The Brighter the Dawn (Malcolm is missing an arm) by @dawning-games​

The Eight Years Revolution (prosthetic option for MC) by @eight-years-revolution

The Floating City (MC has prosthetic legs) by Felicity Banks

The Twilight Order (MC can have prosthetics and/or be blind in 1 eye) by @exn0bisstudios (no demo)

Twin Coves (Lir deals with chronic pain, Eli is an amputee with a prosthetic, Azriel has very poor eyesight ) by @twincovesgame​

Until the Colors Bleed Gray (blind MC) by @until-the-colors-bleed-gray

Varðir (MC can chose to wear glasses, use a walking cane or have a prosthetic) by @vardir ​

WALL (MC can have a prosthetic hand or leg) by @notesfromwall

ROs:

All Paths Lead to the Underground (Balzac, blind in one eye) by @pol-writes

Body Count (Ellis has EDS) by @bodycountgame (+18)

Digital Drive (Isa has a prosthetic arm, Vic has an artificial eye) by @pol-writes (no demo)

Event Horizon (Eris has one arm) by @if-eventhorizon​ 

Herotome (Griffin uses a wheelchair) by @herotome

Magician’s Voyage (Luc has prosthetic limbs) by @magiciansvoyage

Nevermoore (Sterling is blind) by @asteristories  

Perfumare 2 (Alan has glaucoma) by @pdrrook​ (no demo)

Peripety: At Its Essence (Dominik is fully blind) by @gamingperipety​ (18+, no demo)

Sentinel (Amari has a prosthetic arm) by @nyehilismwriting

Serpentine (blind RO) by @serpentineif

Snakeroot (Mal has a prosthetic leg) by @cerberus-writes  

The Ballad of Devil’s Creek (Charlie is missing an eye) by @devilscreekballad​

The Everheart Thief (A is paraplegic, uses a wheelchair) by @everheart-if (discontinued)

The King’s Physician (Lisandro uses a cane, Tesias has chronic pain & nerve damage) by @fiddles-ifs

The Nameless (Magesmith has a prosthetic arm) by @parkerlyn

The Northern Passage (Merry is blind in one eye) by @northern-passage​ 

Tournament of Souls (D is blind in one eye) by @maxdes

Varðir (Vígríðr has a prosthetic arm) by @vardir​

Wayfarer (Calla has a prosthetic arm) by @idrellegames 

Witches of Ferngrove (W has a prosthetic arm) by @witchesofferngrove

Other characters:

All Paths Lead to the Underground (the bishop is blind) by @pol-writes

Attollo (Deadlock has migraines) by @attollogame​

[ID: Anonymous ask that reads: “Hey! I was wondering if you knew of any IFs with neurodivergent (preferably autistic or ADHD) MCs or characters, other than When Twilight Strikers. Thanks in advance!!” /end ID]

Mental disabilties and neurodivergencies

MCs:

Greenwarden (the MC has C-PTSD, and experiences panic attacks, paranoia, dissociative episodes, and suicidal ideation) by @fiddles-ifs

Our Life (option for MC to be on the spectrum) by @gb-patch​

Peripety: At Its Essence (MC has migraine) by @gamingperipety (18+, no demo)

The Twilight Order (MC can have dyslexia and/or dyscalculia) by @exn0bisstudios (18+, no demo)

Twin Coves (MC has PTSD) by @twincovesgame​

When it Hungers (MC has migraines, insomnia, and PTSD) by @roast-ifs

ROs:

Ace of Spades (A is on the spectrum) by @steph-writing

Advenio (Sifra has ADHD) by @adveniogame

An Angel’s Song (Saori is autistic) by @melkstudio

Diaspora (Sangarinus) by @diasporatheblog

Fields of asphodel (MC and other important characters) by @asphodelgame

Greater Than Gods (Evan has ADHD and Wyatt is autistic) by @technicangels​

Greenwarden (Bautista, Nazeri and Devin have C-PTSD, the later has also depression) by @fiddles-ifs

Hollowed Minds (Alonzo has PTSD) by @shai-manahan 

Our Life (Cove is autistic) by @gb-patch 

Perfumare 2 (Flavio has insomnia) by @pdrrook (no demo)

Powered (Daniel has ADD, Ilide is autistic and Jake has ADHD) by @powered-if (no demo)

The Brighter the Dawn (Lichtenberg and Twelve are autistic) by @dawning-games

The Golden Harp (Gray is autistic) by @thegoldenharp​

The Hunt: Demon Eyes ( Theo (Depressions) and Lupita (ADHD) by @thehunt-if

The King’s Physician (Sibir is autistic and Tesias has PTSD) by @fiddles-ifs​ (no demo)

The Northern Passage (Clem has ADHD) by @northern-passage

The Starless Throne (Quill is autistic) by @illonius-if (no demo)

Twin Coves (Cass has ADHD) by @twincovesgame

When it Hungers (Nico has ADHD, Isla has PTSD) by @roast-ifs

When Twilight Strikes (A has ADHD) by @evertidings

Witches of Ferngrove (Jules has PTSD, C is neurodivergent) by @witchesofferngrove

Other characters:

Hollowed Minds (Raine-ADHD; Vincent-OCD) by @shai-manahan

Fantasy/sci-fi disabilities

MCs:

Hollowed Minds (recurring hallucinations that may worsen over time depending on decisions—partly involves science) by @shai-manahan

ROs:

Project Hadea (Imxa has missing limbs) by @nyehilismwriting 

The Chosen One [Italian demo] (Rascia is completely colorblind) by @kal-writesif

When it Hungers (Danny) by @roast-ifs

[kiyblackmoon]

Witches Herbal Code

Heart- Bud or Seed

Beak, Bill or Nose- Seed, Bud or Bloom

Tongue or Teeth- Petal or Leaf

Head- Blossom

Tail- Stem

Hair- Dried Herbs or Stringy Parts Of Herbs

Privates, Genitals Or Semen- Seeds Or Sap

Blood- Sap

Guts- Roots or Stalk

Paw, Foot, Leg, Wing or Toe- Leaves

A

Adder’s Tongue: Dogstooth Violet; Plantain

Ass’s Foot: Coltsfoot

B

Bat’s Wing : Holly Leaf

Bat’s Wool : Moss

Bear’s Foot: Lady’s Mantle

Bird’s Eye: Germander, Speedwell

Blood: Elder sap or another tree sap

Blood from a Head: Lupine

Blood from a Shoulder: Bear’s Breeches

Blood of a Goose: Mulberry tree’s sap

Blood of a Hamadryas Baboon: Blood of a spotted gecko

Blood of a Snake: Hematite

Blood of an Eye: Tamarisk Gall

Blood of Ares: Purslane

Blood of Hephaistos: Wormwood

Blood of Hestia: Chamomile

Bloody Fingers: Foxglove

Blue Jay: Bay laurel

Bone of an Ibis: Buckthorn

Brains: Cherry tree gum [this phrase usually designates any fruit tree gum]

Bull’s Blood or Seed of Horus: Horehound

Bull’s Foot: Coltsfoot

Bull’s Semen: Eggs of the blister beetle

C

Calf’s Snout: Snapdragon

Capon’s Tail: Valerian.

Cat: Catnip

Cat’s Foot: Canada Snake Root and/or Ground Ivy

Clot: Great Mullein

Corpse Candles: Mullein

Cuddy’s Lungs: Great Mullein

Crocodile Dung: Ethiopian Earth

Crow Foot: Cranesbill, wild geranium, buttercup

D

Devil’s Dung: Asafoetida

Dog: Couch grass

Dog’s Mouth: Snapdragon

Dog’s Tongue: Hounds Tongue

Dove’s Foot: Wild Geranium

Dragon’s Blood: Resin of Draco palm

Dragon’s Scales: Bistort leaves

E

Eagle: Wild Garlic of Fenugreek

Ear of an Ass: Comfrey

Ears of a Goat: St. John’s Wort

Englishman’s Foot: Common Plantain

Eye of Christ: Germander, speedwell

Eye of the Day: Common daisy

Eye of the Star: Horehound

Eyes: Inner part of a blossom; Aster, Daisy, Eyebright

F

Fat from a Head: Spurge

Fingers: Cinquefoil

Five Fingers: Cinquefoil

Foot: Leaf

Frog: Cinquefoil

Frog’s Foot: Bulbous buttercup

From the Belly: Earth-apple

From the Foot: Houseleek

From the Loins: Chamomile

G

Goat’s Foot: Ash Weed

God’s Hair: Hart’s Tongue Fern

Gosling Wing: Goosegrass

Graveyard Dust: Mullein

Great Ox-eye: Ox-eye daisy

Guts: The roots and stalk of a plant

H

Hair: Dried stringy herbs; ripe male fern

Hair of a Hamadryas Baboon: Dill Seed

Hair of Venus: Maidenhair fern

Hare’s Beard: Great mullein

Hawk: Hawkweed

Hawk’s Heart: Wormwood seed or wormwood crown

Head: Flower of a plant

Heart: Walnut; bud, seed, or nut

Hind’s Tongue: Hart’s Tongue Fern

Horse Hoof: Coltsfoot

Horse Tongue: Hart’s Tongue Fern

J

Jacob’s Staff: Great Mullein

Jupiter’s Staff: Great Mullein

K

King’s Crown: Black Haw

Kronos’ Blood: Cedar

L

Lamb: Lettuce

Lamb’s Ears: Betony

Leg: Leaf

Lion’s Hair: Tongue of a Turnip [i.e., the leaves of the taproot]

Lion’s Tooth: Dandelion aka Priest’s Crown

Lion Semen: Human Semen

M

Man’s Bile: Turnip sap

N

Nightingale: Hops

P

Paw: Leaf

Physician’s Bone: Sandstone

Pig’s Tail: Leopard’s Bane

Privates: Seed

R

Ram’s Head: American Valerian

Rat: Valerian

Red Cockscomb: Amaranth

S

Seed of Horus: Horehound

Semen of Ammon: Houseleek

Semen of Ares: Clover

Semen of Helios: White Hellebore

Semen of Hephaistos: Fleabane

Semen of Herakles: Mustard-rocket

Semen of Hermes: Dill

Shepherd’s Heart: Shepherd’s Purse

Skin of Man: Fern

Skull: Skullcap Mushroom

Snake: Bistort

Snake’s Ball of Thread: Soapstone

Snake’s Head: Leech

Sparrow’s Tongue: Knotweed

Swine’s Snout: Dandelion leaves

T

Tail: Stem

Tears of a Hamadryas Baboon: Dill Juice

Teeth: Pine Cones

Titan’s Blood: Wild Lettuce

Toad: Toadflax; Sage

Toe: Leaf

Tongue: Petal

U

Unicorn’s Horn: False Unicorn Root; True Unicorn Root

Urine: Dandelion

W

Weasel: Rue

Weasel Snout: Yellow Dead Nettles/Yellow Archangel

White Man’s Foot: Common Plantain

Wing: Leaf

Wolf Claw: Club Moss

Wolf Foot: Bugle Weed

Wolf’s Milk: Euphorbia

Woodpecker: Peony

Worms: Thin Roots

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

When the Sun Goes Down

This story is a heavily edited adaptation of “Gabriel-Ernest”, written by H.H. Munro in 1909. I owe this whole story to @tinyplaidninjas​ (thank you for helping me fix my werewolf story dilemma).

This is almost 3k words long, fair warning

tw: kinda horny, nudity

---

"There is a wild beast in your woods," said Lambert, as the two men were being driven to the station. It was the only remark he’d made during the drive, but since Geralt had talked incessantly about his latest publication in the Kaedwen Journal of Medicine, his half-brother’s silence had not been noticeable.

"A stray fox or two, or perhaps some wandering brownies. Nothing more formidable," said Geralt. His brother said nothing.

---

"What did you mean about a wild beast?" Geralt asked later, when they were on the train platform with their bags and tickets in hand. Geralt was bound for his private woodland estate while Lambert was making his way into town to visit with friends. 

"Nothing. Probably just my wild imagination running away with me again. Here comes the train," Lambert rushed. 

Geralt found it odd, but said nothing. Perhaps he should not have gone on at length about the Medical Journal in the carriage. Perhaps Lambert was tired or overanxious about his meeting with Aiden. It had been years since the two college friends had seen each other in person and Geralt knew that his brother held the other, equally brilliant artist in high esteem. Surely, that was the reason for Lambert’s odd dismissal of his questions.

---

Once he’d returned to his estate and unpacked his bags, Geralt decided to take a stroll through the woods. He often took a leisurely walk in the late afternoon; the trees were full of chittering animals and preening birds this time of day, after all. The natural scientist and medical doctor found the great outdoors to be brimming with new discoveries. He wanted to pick everything apart and reassemble it accurately and down to the last minute detail. He wanted to know why certain animals behaved the way they did and how they communicated with each other. He wanted to know why the little white flowering plants in his yard only bloomed every other day. He craved the answer to the universal question of why as it applied to everything.

The doctor would often spend long afternoons sitting absolutely still in the center of his garden, observing the wildlife as it moved around him. Last summer he’d even managed to get a wild rabbit to eat out of his hand. 

Now, though, the forest path seemed uncomfortably quiet. Had a larger predator taken to wandering his grounds? If so, he’d need to send word to a local hunter’s lodge and request assistance in ridding himself of the pest. As he was debating who to inquire after, he came across an unusual sight.

On a shelf of smooth stone overhanging a deep pool just to the side of the path, a boy of eighteen lay asprawl. He was drying his tan, dripping limbs luxuriously in the light of the late-summer sun and he had very few cares about doing so, according to his state of complete undress. His wet brown hair, (disheveled as it was by a recent mussing with his long, slender fingers) and bright blue eyes, so light that there was an almost cat-like gleam to them, were aimed in Geralt’s direction with a sense of lazy watchfulness. 

He was an unexpected although not unwelcome apparition, and Geralt found himself quite ignoring his eldest brother’s good advice of “thinking before one spoke”. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in what he hoped was a stance of great authority. 

"What are you doing on my property?" he demanded. “And have you no shame? Trespassing for a cool dip in the water I could forgive, but you don’t even have the proper clothing to do so.”

"Obviously I came here to have a swim and sun myself," replied the boy. “I rather like how it feels to be bare beneath the warmth of the open sky.”

"Where do you live?" Geralt inquired, stepping closer. Every instinct in his body was telling him to run. To flee this place and the presence of his estate’s mysterious visitor.

"Here and there within these woods."

"You can't live in the woods," Geralt frowned. “It’s not proper.”

"They are very nice woods," said the boy. To Geralt his tone sounded almost patronizing. Borderline condescending. The doctor bristled and stepped forward again. 

“You can’t possibly be surviving out here like this!”

“I am rather proficient at fending for myself.”

"Then where do you sleep at night?"

"I don't sleep at night,” the boy winked one of his cornflower eyes. The movement had Geralt’s head reeling and his heart thundering within the confines of his waistcoat. “That's my busiest time, dear heart."

"What do you eat?" the young professor and doctor finally asked. It felt as if that question had been on the tip of his tongue since he’d seen the strange creature come into view and only now did he have the adequate terror in his veins to ask it. 

"Flesh," said the boy. He said the word slowly and carefully, almost as if he was running his tongue along every later to catch their flavor.

“What a horrible thing to say.”

“Hmm, it is the truth,” the slender youth rolled onto his back and tilted his head over the stony ledge. His mop of chestnut hair dangled down towards the water and he gazed steadily at the doctor from upside down, “I am plenty good at catching hares and birds and mice and men. I am not picky, you see. I gobble them all up.”

Geralt nearly choked on his tongue. His face flushed and his cheeks grew hot with indignance (and perhaps something else, a stirring in his belly that he quietly ignored). The audacity of such a creature! Such open and frank fliration was unheard of, especially since he was so indecorously nude!

"I can’t imagine you’re eating well. The rabbits on my estate have never been easy to trap or catch or corner. Not even my father’s best games keeper could do it, and that man lived on the property for nearly sixty years.”

"It is easier for me to hunt them than it is for your game keeper to trap them, Dr. Bellegarde,” the boy winked again. The sound of his name in the stranger’s mouth had Geralt mildly panicked. Did he know this improper young villain? Had he forgotten the boy’s name? Had the lad followed him back from university? The strange young man added another cryptic statement, “At night I hunt on four feet. It’s faster that way.”

"I suppose you’re referring to a dog?" Geralt offered. “And wouldn’t that be considered poaching, you hunting on my lands at night with your hound?”

The boy laughed a weird, low laugh; it was pleasantly like a chuckle and disagreeably like a snarl. Both portions of the sound had Geralt’s heart racing even faster in his chest. It felt nearly as painful as he’d expected from cardiac distress and he breathed evenly like he’d been taught to do under such duress. Slowly, the panicked feeling faded away and he gazed back at his trespasser with narrowed eyes. “Why are you laughing, then?”

"I don't think any dog would be very anxious for my company, especially not at night. We wouldn’t get along with each other, me and a dog.”

Geralt began to suspect (with a deep and primal sense of ever growing dread) that there was something odd and uncanny about the strange-eyed, silver-tongued youth lounging above the pond. He uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips, “Well you can’t keep sleeping in the woods.”

“I fancy you’d rather not have me in your house.”

The prospect of this wild, naked animal loose in the professor’s neatly ordered and well-kept manor was certainly an alarming one. Geralt glared and shook his head, dislodging some of his long white hair from its ribbon. 

"If you don't go then I shall have to make you.”

The boy flipped onto his front in a flash and plunged into the pool. In the span of a moment he had crossed the short expanse of water and flung his glistening body half-way up the bank where Geralt was standing. For an otter the movement would not have been remarkable; for a boy it was sufficiently startling. Geralt’s leather-booted foot slipped as he jerked backwards involuntarily. After his arms windmilled for a moment and his balance failed him, the young doctor found himself almost prostrate on the slippery weed-grown shore of the pond with those cat-like blue eyes mere inches from his own. 

He raised a hand to his throat instinctively and the boy laughed again; a laugh in which the snarl had nearly driven out the chuckle entirely. Then, with another of his astonishing lightning movements, the naked youth plunged out of view into a yielding tangle of weed and fern.

"What an extraordinarily wild animal!" said Geralt as he picked himself up. Then he recalled Lambert’s remark on the train station’s waiting platform: "There is a wild beast in your woods."

As he meandered his way back towards the manor proper, Dr. Bellegarde began to turn over in his mind some of the various local occurrences which might be traceable to the existence of his astonishing young savage.

According to the local paper, gathered the day previous by his valet, something had been thinning the game in the woods lately. Poultry had gone missing from several neighboring farms and factories, hares and rabbits were growing unaccountably scarcer, and complaints had reached the local constabulary of lambs being carried out of their pastures in the hills. Could it be possible that this wild boy was really hunting the countryside with a pack of obedient hounds? 

The oddly pretty creature had spoken of hunting "four-footed" by night, but then, again, he had hinted strangely at no dog caring to come near him, "especially at night." It was certainly puzzling. 

And then, as Geralt was running his mind over the various odd occurrences he’d heard reported from the village in the past few months, he came suddenly to a dead stop. The young man that had gone missing from the milling town upriver two months ago--the accepted theory was that he had tumbled into the millwheel and been swept away; but the boy’s mother had insisted that merely run away with some village girl (who had also disappeared). 

He thought of the village youngster, who’d been applying to attend Oxenfurt at the time of his mysterious yet apparent death. Perhaps they were one in the same; but then, why in all the world, would a college hopeful by lying naked in the woods outside Dr. Bellegarde’s lonesome manor house? It was odd. Very odd.

"Where's your voice gone to, Doctor?" asked his housekeeper, Ms. Merrigold. "One would think you had seen a wolf on your walk."

At breakfast next morning, Geralt was overwhelmingly conscious that his feeling of uneasiness regarding yesterday's episode with the boy had not wholly disappeared. He had decided to go into the village and talk with Lambert about the “beast in his woods” and learn what his brother had really seen that had made him so twitchy. With his day planned and his mind slightly more settled, his usual cheerfulness partially returned. The doctor hummed a bright little melody as he sauntered to the morning-room for his customary cup of tea with Ms. Merrigold. 

As Geralt entered the morning-room and scanned the familiar space his humming made way abruptly for a quietly shouted curse. Gracefully laid out atop his red velvet settee, in an attitude of almost exaggerated repose, was the boy from the woods. He was drier than when the doctor had last seen him, but still he remained entirely naked. Every inch of his lovely, soft-looking skin was on display; Geralt averted his eyes as quickly as possible and tried to hide his blushing face from the grinning minx.

"How dare you come in here like this!” he huffed.

"You told me I was not allowed to stay in the woods," said the boy calmly. He propped his elbow up on the cushion and laid his cheek against his palm, languidly stretching his legs out at the same time. The doctor breathed deeply and kept his eyes firmly locked with the strange young man’s. 

"I did not invite you to come here!"

“Then I have misunderstood,” the boy sighed. The hand that had been supporting his head moved down and flattened against the settee. His arm straightened and his torso lengthened with the movement. Now sitting with one knee resting slightly bent atop the other, his hair messy and his shockingly blue eyes half-lidded, he looked like the painting of a young Cupid. 

“Triss!” Geralt called, desperate for another person to intervene on his behalf. To save him from this tempting little beast. “Triss, fetch one of the pantry boys. We have a guest and he’s...he’s quite out of sorts.”

“Yes, Dr. Bellegarde,” his housekeeper called back. “Right away, sir!”

The boy giggled from the couch and Geralt whirled back to look at him. His finger was playing gently with the plumpest part of his lip and the young professor found himself flushing yet again. “Yes, Dr. Bellegard. Hurry to cover me up right away.” 

---

Lambert was less than helpful when Geralt first asked about the beastly reference he’d made at the station.

"My dear father died of some brain trouble," he explained, "So you will understand why I am averse to dwelling on anything of an impossibly fantastic nature that I may see or think that I have seen. I don’t even know that I saw anything, you understand?”

"I am a medical doctor, Lambert, of course I understand. But what did you see?" Geralt inquired. “I must know.”

"What I thought I saw was something so extraordinary that no really sane man could dignify it with the credit of having actually happened. I was standing at the end of the lane near your manor property, half-hidden in the hedge growth by the orchard gate. I’d been watching the dying glow of the sunset and committing to memory for use in a future painting. Nothing extraordinary, of course, but beautiful nonetheless. 

“It was then that I became aware of a naked boy. I assumed that he was a bather from some neighboring pool who was standing out on the bare hillside, also taking a moment to watch and appreciate the sunset. His pose was so suggestive of some wild faun of Pagan myth that I instantly wanted to engage him as a model, and in another moment I think I should have hailed him over to my hiding spot to discuss such a matter. Just then, however, the sun was lost over the edge of the horizon and the last of its warm orange glow slid away. The landscape was left a cold and gloomy grey.”

“And what of the boy? Your language is poetic, Lambert, but I’ve grown rather impatient!”

“The boy was gone, Geralt!”

"What? Did he simply vanish into nothing like some ghost or phantom?"

"No; that’s the most terrifying part, you see," answered the artist; "That’s the whole reason I didn’t want to tell you about this problem in the first place. Geralt, my dearest brother, on the open hillside where my momentary muse had been standing a second before, there was a wolf instead. It had shaggy brown-black fur and huge, gleaming fangs. Most terrifying of all were its huge, bright blue eyes.”

Geralt’s mind whirled with the new information. Lambert had indeed given him the details he’d so desperately needed to draw his final, strange conclusion: the boy was a werewolf! He thanked his younger half-sibling and made his departure, hurrying back to the manor as quickly as possible.

He had to make it home before dark.

---

“The moon isn’t full tonight,” the boy sighed. Triss had managed to wrestle him into a clean shirt and a pair of cropped blue breeches but despite the clothing he still seemed to ooze a sense of easy, naked confidence. The slim brunette was draped across the chaise lounge of Geralt’s personal study, his bare feet hanging over the arm. 

“So?”

“So I will not transform into the horrible monster you fear I shall become,” he sighed again. He rolled his eyes in Geralt’s direction and smirked. “You and your housekeeper are safe. As is your cook, your pageboy, your valet, and your terribly friendly mare. Roach, right?”

“Hmm. You’ve been through my things?”

“Triss allowed me to wander the house and the grounds but then she forced me to bathe again when I came back in,” he frowned. “Soap does not agree with me and neither do these prickly, constricting clothes.”

“And your name?” Geralt asked, finally. “Since you have proven to know me already.”

“You may call me Jaskier,” the boy said, popping up from the couch. He offered his hand, which Geralt shook rather nervously. “And I’ve already decided that I’m going to be staying for awhile.”

“Why should I allow you to stay?” the young doctor bristled. “What have you to offer me in return for room and board?”

“I have no money, but I’m a wonderful gardener and I’m sure that there are, Dr. Bellegarde, other ways we can pass the time together. I sense that we are kindred spirits in many ways.”

Geralt blushed and swallowed hard, blinking down at the boy, whose fingers were playing with the material of the doctor’s cravat. His blue eyes peeked up through their bordering black lashes and Geralt’s will crumbled to dust. “Alright. I suppose you can stay; if it keeps the village safe.”

“Very safe,” the werewolf, Jaskier, smiled. His delicate little paw with its long, lithe fingers spread over the material of Geralt’s silk waistcoat, right over his heart. “So very safe, indeed.”

[sylvari-bouquet]

35 or 40 on Hand Holding for the Touches Ask Game! whichever couple you want to talk about :)

Thank you! Caradoc belongs to @duskroots <3

Late into the noon, Papaver had been busy building up a sturdier fence for the kennel. The wooden planks should keep spiders and wasps away from the hounds a little better, especially when Papaver painted the fence with special solution that repelled the critters. The hounds had initially been curious about their work, but had soon resumed playing and running around. Only Bud had remained, laying in the sun and enjoying the warmth like a drunk skritt, his tongue sticking out.

Bud’s ears perked up when a set of footsteps approached the fence, and he barked excitedly. Papaver knew that only one person would cause such a reaction from Bud - that would be Caradoc, returning from his teacherly duties in Grove. He knelt next to Bud, giving him a good scratch and greeted them: “By the tree, how glad I am to see the two of you.”

“Had a rough day?” Papaver asked, inviting Caradoc to sit down.

“I had completely forgotten how...eager and curious saplings can be at times”, Caradoc sighed as he sat down next to Papaver, “even outside the Dream, they still wish to know everything and anything. Today it was about would the sea overflow if it started to rain non-stop.”

Immediately after Caradoc sat down, Bud took his designated place on Caradoc’s lap. Papaver chuckled, and asked: “Well, what did you tell them?”

“That the sea is so large that rain is like adding a drop of water to a cup”, Caradoc told, “they spent the next hour adding water drops to different cups, trying to calculate how many drops you would need to raise the surface. I don’t know how the mentors can do this day after day, and if I’m up to the task.”

Other hounds, both fern and nightmare, had noticed Caradoc’s arrival, and almost immediately surrounded the two. His presence worked like a charm on them, hounds gathered and piled around him like he was a fireplace during a winter storm. Papaver thought they could very well relate to that charm. “I think you’re doing more than fine, darling”, Papaver reassured him, placing a kiss on Caradoc’s cheek, “perhaps you could bring the saplings to visit the kennel? I’m sure both the sprouts and hounds would love that.”

“I do like the sound of that”, Caradoc agreed, leaning his head to Papaver’s, enjoying the presence of his spouse and a moment of peace after a long day.

[achilleid]

Laisrén Blackfern ed.

— oc questions

BASICS

What’s their full name? Laisrén Blackfern

What does their name mean? Why were they named that? Laisrén is a celtic name derived from “lassar” meaning flame/fire. Blackfern is a chosen last name. If you asked him, he’d try to say he picked it because of some profound reason, like because ferns are resilient and hardy plants or something, but he entirely picked it because he thought it sounded cool. 

Do they have any nicknames? Rén. Pronounced like “rain”. 

How old are they? Time functions really oddly in the Sidhe. When he last lived in the human realm, he was seventeen human years. That was nearly a century or more ago by human time. Physically he appears about 32-33.

When’s their birthday? December 29th (human) or 9th Day of Winter (Sidhe)

What’s their zodiac sign/element/birthstone/etc.? Do they believe that holds any significance? Capricorn/earth/tanzanite-- Laisrén believes in zodiac signs in a very nonchalant way. He is from a magical world where all kinds of weird stuff happen when someone is born, so being told some aspect of his personality is theoretically identifiable by his “sign” he’d probably just shrug like “Sounds legit.”.

What’s their species/subspecies? Do they have any special/magical abilities? He is a half Seelie/half-Unseelie Folk. Folk are presented in my world like a combination of elves and fae. Seelie are generally characterized by their more warm toned skin colors, affiliation with the light, spring and summer, Unseelie are associated with autumn and winter and tend to favor darker, cooler tones. Laisrén is a mix of both types. There are stereotypes associated with each kind of Folk, but ultimately it is entirely based on the individual.

What “class” do they belong to (for fantasy characters)? If none, what weapon do they favor? He would definitely be a Ranger class, duel-wielding swords and using a bow. 

APPEARANCE

What do they look like? Laisrén owes 90% of his appearance to Levi Ackerman from Attack on Titan I won’t even lie. So he is roughly 5′9″, has dark black undercut hair and dark green eyes. He has a warm beige skin tone that darkens in the summer. 

Do they have a face claim? Nope!

What’s their style like? Clothes, hair, makeup? His go to outfit is a black doublet with a silver jerkin over the top. During combat, he favors a set of dark leather armor and a dark cloak. Lots of dark colors. For a half Seelie, he dresses almost exclusively in the dark or jewel colors favored by Unseelie.

How do they carry themselves? What’s their default expression? Perpetual resting bitch face. And he carries himself with an air of self-assuredness and confidence that is entirely unforced. It is just how he is. Granted, he could look cool and collected and inside his thoughts are going a mile a minute. Very good at hiding how he feels.

Do they have any physical ailments or disabilities? Laisrén was saddled with a curse at a young age. His skin, starting at the fingertips of his right hand, is turning black and spreading upward. As of present day, his hand has blackened up to his palm. His nails grow much sharper and faster on that hand as well. Laisrén covers this with gloves.

PERSONALITY

What’s their alignment? Lawful Neutral

Which one of the 16 Personality Types do they fit into? ISTP

What are their hobbies and interests? Do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)? He is a big fan of games, especially strategy games. He would love Risk, History of the World and other games like that and probably plays Folk equivalents when he can. Chess too. He’d enjoy card games there were not luck based. He also does like to read and his favorite meal ever is high tea. The man will try any blend of tea ever created and he loves having a nice herb garden.

What are they bad at? He is not the best cook. Food is something to just be consumed as quickly as possible for energy, so getting him to sit down and have a meal and just ENJOY it is very hard. He also is a fitful sleeper and is very bad at picking up on subtext or subtleties when speaking with people. He does not take hints. He does not even know a hint is happening.

What kind of things do they dislike/hate? Disorganization, MESS in general. This is both literal and figurative. Messy emotions will have him cleaning the same room, polishing the same armor or sharpening the same blade in a wholly meditative process trying to either work through or ignore his feelings.

Do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses? His secret vice is his love of sweets. Food is mere fuel until it is chocolate and covered in strawberries or something and then he is like “.... okay maybe a few bites.”

What are their goals and motivations? Currently? Managing his curse, keeping an eye on his “niece” and her son. Caring for his mother secretly. His goals later become more aligned with the main character’s and becomes ensuring the safety of those he cares for. Full stop.

What are their manners like? Any habits? He is not impolite, but he can be brash. He knows how to behave in different situations though, so his “brash” on the field and his “brash” at say a gathering or a meeting is very different. He has a habit of clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth when he is annoyed and only ever breaks eye contact with someone if he is feeling wholly and deeply vulnerable. 

What are they most afraid of? Living for centuries upon centuries only to turn around and realize he has done so alone and always will.

BACKGROUND

Where were they born? What was their childhood like? He was born in the Sidhe, but within a week was abandoned in the human realm. His childhood was spent raised in an orphanage during the early 1900s on Earth. He lived in London and sometimes falls into a cockney sounding accent when he is tired. 

What’s their family like? Well. His mom is thought to be absolutely bonkers because she pulled a changeling thing. And she is, on some level, mentally not all there. In Folk culture, there are some events that can cause a Folk to become trapped in one emotion and unable to overcome the enormity of it and remain “stuck” there. His mother fell into a Despair upon the death of her partner, so he cares for her and the remaining family of her human adopted son from the shadows.

What factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold? He is a Hound of the Wild Hunt and Captain beneath the commander responsible for training new recruits. He trains the soldiers of their ranks.

How do they fit into their “story”? He is at one point in the story, love interest, secondary protagonist, secondary antagonist. 

Where do they currently live? What’s their place like? He resides in a home called Elden Keep, which is a an old fortress manor that once was used as a hunting lodge. It has a western tower with a turret. It is a house of rich brown woods and plush green carpets and a very lovingly tended to garden.

How do they eventually die? WELLLLLLLLL-- they eventually succumb to the curse, but it is temporary. More like an emotional and mental death and then a rebirth. 

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend? His commander Eimer and his fellow captains. Later, he becomes closer friends with Cyra’s group.

What’s their friend group like? What role do they play in it? He is definitely not even the oddest of his group, that belongs to Dillion, the resident mad scientist/mage (he’s nice! just eccentric). It is a nice blend of people and neurosis haha.

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids? Prior to his relationship with Cyra, Laisrén would have casual encounters, but nothing serious. His longest fling lasted probably off and on for a few months. He has no issues with accepting and reciprocating sexual advances, but has not had a lot of experience with feelings being mixed in until Cyra. With Cyra it starts physical, but ultimately he realizes it is satisfying in a way that past ones have not been because his emotional needs are being met.

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust? He looks up to and trusts Eimer above everyone. He is his best friend, his commander and his fellow Hound. They went through recruitment together, battles and all kinds of bad shit. 

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies? His enemies unfortunately, when revealed, are some powerful people. He grows to hate Queen Nevan and by extension, Druth, Cyra’s uncle and the Queen’s grand commander.

Do they have any pets? He has a few horses, but he’d never refer to them as “pets”.

Are they good with kids? Animals? Good with animals. Kids he is shockingly popular with, even if he doesn’t really make an effort. They appreciate his honesty and the fact he talks to them like they understand things.

[eury--dice]

history, huh?

chapter 2: prope

(check the rb for chapter 1 on tumblr + ao3 links!)

Blue’s gum popped loudly on the other line. Adam couldn’t remember the last time he saw her chew gum, but somehow it seemed fitting that she picked up the habit then, with him overseas. “Any weird paintings?”

“I’m legally obligated not to tell you,” Adam replied, flicking his eyes over a textbook. He scanned his eyes over a page, but the fonts and colors all blurred together, creating a grey and red mass of string in front of him instead of a helpful breakdown of France’s pre-revolution economy. His phone, propped up on a tiny potted fern, revealed Blue Sargent in all of her early-evening glory. He wondered what the tabloids might think of her like this: her thick and short black hair held back by clashing vibrant hair clips, dressed in one of Gansey’s old Aglionby sweaters she converted into a halter top, felt-tip pen ink somehow smudged on her cheek. There was something wonderfully grounding about her familiar chaos.

“Contracts are a suggestion and nothing more.”

“Don’t let your mother hear that. She’ll have us both thrown in jail.” Ronan’s words from earlier popped into his head, but he had the luxury of ignoring them with the prince out of sight, and so he did. 

“C’mon, Adam, you know she’s a softie. You’re in Kensington Palace. You have to tell me something exciting.”

Adam scrounged for something to tell her. He glanced around his room again, still caught off-guard by how much it felt like a castle. Admittedly, he didn’t have a great reference for what castles were supposed to feel like; the only other castle he had been in was the Bishop Palace on a tour with his mother at age eight. His hair raised on end at random moments here the same way it did then, the draftiness leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He couldn't quite shake the idea that someone was watching him, caught between air molecules and screaming for someone to hear them. The White House sometimes gave him the same feeling. Realistically, he knew people passed over every spot on the earth and nothing made the walls of the White House or Kensington Palace any different in that regard. But the history in them intimidated him. The presence of greats, from founding fathers to celebrity politicians to monarchs, was a guarantee rather than a possibility. He couldn’t help but feel watched by them, feel their expectations and disappointment thick in the air.

Living there all the time as Ronan did must be lonely, surrounded only by ghosts. 

He pushed his feet against the floor, leaning back in his chair so that it balanced on two legs. His leg swung back and forth to dully hit the wooden underside of the seat while the other braced him. Adam didn’t quite want to tell Blue any of that. He knew she would understand, both because she was Blue and because her family was a big believer in the supernatural and psychic. But he didn’t know how to say it without a long-winded rant. “There’s a coat of armor outside my room,” he admitted in a low tone. “I’ve been waiting for it to twitch its finger and beckon me closer.”

“I’m sure if you ask nicely it will let you pursue your weird metal fantasies.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adam said without heat, finally flipping the textbook shut. “No kink-shaming over the phone.”

“I watched the Wizard of Oz with you at age eight, Adam. You can’t hide your reaction to the Tin Man from me.”

Adam rubbed his eyes. “I need ice cream to deal with this bullying,” he announced, standing from the borrowed desk and snatching his phone up.

“Aw, at least I know that the English haven’t been able to suck all the life out of you if you’re complaining and want ice cream.”

“They haven’t managed it yet, but we’re only one photo op in.”

“Well, if the excess of British does manage to sideline you, let me know. I know Gansey will want the heads-up for the tabloids.”

“As long as you don’t feed them headlines again, I’d be happy to.” Adam rounded the corner into the spacious kitchen reserved for guests of the Crown. He’d roll his eyes at the needless expense if the White House didn’t provide the exact same accommodations. 

“I’m telling you again, I know nothing of the allegation.”

Adam gave her a flat look. “Who else would pen ‘First Son Denies Fur Son Residence in the Residence?’ Besides the obvious reason for it being bad, it was clearly you.”

Blue blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Sometimes I hate your intimate knowledge of my love of wordplay.”

“And I yours of the diplomatic taxidermy gifts I receive.”

“I’m sure the Minister of Foreign Affairs’ son meant well, he was just...creepy.”

Adam sighed, opening the freezer with one hand to reveal a box of pre-packaged ice cream cones. “They always mean well.”

He pulled the box from the freezer and shut the door, turning on his heel to face the counter. But he stopped short when he noticed it was no longer just him and Blue alone in the kitchen. 

Prince Ronan stood in the entryway to the kitchen, disarmed in the half-light with his flannel pajama pants and black t-shirt combination. Over-the-ear headphones sat on his head, but he pushed them down to loop around his neck. The music was so loud it bled into the air, carrying the harsh sound of drums until they reached Ronan across the kitchen. On his screen, Blue studied Adam and his sudden pause, and the voice of Gansey carried over from somewhere far away - “I’ve got a new article,” it sounded like, though Adam could barely hear anything. 

“Call you back,” he said quietly, disconnecting from the call. Ronan looked almost apologetic when Adam looked back up towards him.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he confessed. “Goody-two-shoes like you.”

Adam wanted to take offense to it, but something stopped him. “I could say the same for you.”

“Yes, well, insomnia calls.”

“Doesn’t it always?” The two shared a tight smile. 

“I was out,” Ronan explained, gesturing to the box in Adam’s hand. “Knew there’d be a stock here. I’m...sorry.” The word sounded bitter and foreign on his tongue.

“It’s fine,” Adam said. “Midnight snacks are to be taken seriously or not at all.” He slid the box across the counter, suddenly very aware of his threadbare, faded crimson coca-cola tee shirt and GU sweatpants. He couldn’t stop feeling the slide of them against his skin. 

Ronan clutched the box once it reached him, looking to Adam with something close to surprise. Still, he opened the box and selected an ice cream. 

While he was distracted, Adam snapped a picture, the flash bright in the dim kitchen. 

The stare leveled at him by Ronan should’ve been enough to pin any self-preserving person in place, but Adam rarely did what was best for him personally. “What the fuck is that for?”

“Two social media posts a day,” Adam replied, speeding through the filtering process and tapping to the captioning. “It’s part of the contract.”

“Of course it would be,” Ronan mutters with great disdain. “Fucking social media addicted hounds.”

“Not a fan of technology?”

“Oh, sure, other than the fact that it’s a blight consuming the world by slaughtering brain cells and slowly giving us radiation poisoning.”

“You could’ve just said ‘yes.’”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Adam smiled brightly. “Not giving me a headache from all of the pomposity?” 

“Exactly. No fun.” When Adam continued to stare blankly at his screen, Ronan rolled his eyes. “Does it take you this long to caption everything you do? If so, I understand why so little governing takes place.”

“Because the monarchy is oh-so-powerful,” Adam replied, but then decided to cut them off before it could turn into a full-blown fight. “It always takes me a minute to think of something good.”

Ronan grabbed the phone from his hands. “You’re overthinking it,” he dismissed, making a few decisive taps before handing the phone back to Adam, photo captioned but not yet posted. insomnia ice cream ft. @PrinceRonan. 

“Thought you hated technology?”

“Hate and lack of proficiency are two different things.” “...Of course,” Adam said, clicking post on the photo. Ronan turned and walked toward the door, the song on his headphones audibly changing. Not one for goodbyes, then. The feeling he had in his room was back then, the idea that ghosts clung to the air around him and stole oxygen with their demands. Although Ronan had not yet left, Adam already felt as though he were lonely. Lonely, but not alone, still technically with Ronan and all of the ghosts thickening the air.

Adam, in a fluid movement he didn’t really plan, dumped half of the ice creams on the counter and held out the box across the marble countertop as though bridging some wide ocean. The coolness of the marble inched closer to the skin of his forearm where it hovered a few inches in the air.

“You can take these if you’d like.”

Ronan froze, his back straightened and still before he turned ninety degrees back to look at Adam. “Pardon?”

“The ice cream cones. It’s probably better you do, honestly. I just eat them when I’m bored. Calories I don’t really need.”

Ronan’s startlingly blue eyes studied him for a moment, roaming every line of Adam’s face as though searching for some trickery and then jumping to the box in Adam’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he said at last in an undertone, accepting the offered box. And, leaving Adam with some hint of a smile, Prince Ronan was gone, Adam all by himself and the faint memory of intense guitar music leaking from expensive headphones still lingering in the air. 

  Once they landed firmly in PR territory, Adam felt a bit steadier on his feet.

PR he knew like the back of his hand, armed with years of experience from campaigns and political terms. It was not innate for him like for Gansey, but like everything else in his life, Adam was a star pupil and quick to pick it up thoroughly. He studied diligently, examining the facial expressions of everyone around him, examining each furrow of brow and twitch of lips and bellow of a laugh, practicing and perfecting on his own to ensure that he blended in seamlessly and, when necessary, stood out brilliantly. America’s First Son, valedictorian-intelligent and attractive enough to stop hearts for a moment upon seeing him. By the time he sat on ITV This Morning next to his enemy, he certainly knew all the tips and tricks and expertise ensuring a successful interview, and luckily Ronan seemed to know his way around a talk show as well. His thoroughly British host seemed appropriately charmed by their dynamic, a golden-child American and England’s simultaneously proper and wild Royal. 

Adam excelled at PR not because he was natural but because he was over-prepared, and so he was comfortable with the rhythm he and Ronan fell into - referencing each other’s favorites, cracking dry, sarcastic jokes about ice cream, fist-bumping and throwing arms around each other’s shoulders for effect when needed.

He counted it as a win that his resentment never made it into his words or his actions. Instead, he distracted himself with what they were doing, savoring the news alerts of their “clearly natural” friendship and the thumbs-up and “!!!” texts from Gansey and Blue whenever something exciting reached the press. He ignored Ronan for the most part, and Ronan mostly ignored him. He clenched his teeth and smiled at how rough-and-tumble Ronan looked under stage lighting, as wickedly handsome as a poisoned and sharpened dagger, unfairly attractive even with his head closely shaved. 

Then the time for their second photo op rolled around, sometime after Adam posted an empty-feeling snapshot of Ronan on a deserted London sidewalk with the caption love a nice mid-afternoon walk, and his mood plummeted sharply. 

As well as people and hospitals generally went together, Adam did not have a particularly terrible relationship with any hospitals, especially the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust. He did not enjoy them, sure, but who did? And his discomfort may have gone below the surface-level “death and sickness occur here” jitteriness most people felt, but the majority of the unease coiling in his stomach came from the utterly staged feeling to everything. The First Son and Prince came bearing gifts of books, but they probably did more harm than good for all of the children by displacing all the medical professionals and disrupting their steady routines with full camera crews.

It felt hypocritical, and Adam definitely didn’t want to be shoving cameras in the faces of cancer patient children, but the decisions weren’t up to him, and so he slipped back into PR mode. He shook the hands of nurses and posed faux-candidly for cameras. The only real things he did were with the kids - once they knew who he was, they asked for stories of celebrities and monuments, and although Adam was no fantastic storyteller, he did his best to answer every question and then some. He read to them, too, from the new and donated books, even when the cameras left in search of Ronan. Anger was hard to hold onto when he looked into their faces and resolved to cheer them up. 

He read until his voice began to grind at itself, tucked next to kids on narrow hospital cots. They were all ages, and all perfectly suited to throw Adam back into memories he didn’t want to relive. Looking at the books, with the gaudily-colored pictures and ridiculous rhymes, was easier than looking at the children. They all looked to him with similar looks painted across their faces and twinkling in their eyes, one that made Adam’s heart twist, because he knew that he’d worn that expression so often as a child when he thought someone could help him or save him. They looked at him like he was hope itself, some savior come to grant them a wish and a recovery. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

The visit of the First Son and Prince of England must have cut into naptime because at some point Adam looked up from the book to realize that the camera crews had retreated and all the patients in his ward had dozed off.  He slowly unfurled himself, gangly limbs and all, to stand without disturbing the child who rested so fitfully on the hospital cot. His steps were soft and random against the tile, mostly just a blind search to try and find Ronan. It wasn’t long before he heard Ronan’s voice stretching over space from the next room over. Adam slowed, hoping to stay just out of sight while still observing Ronan.

The Prince perched on the edge of a narrow hospital bed, reminding Adam ridiculously of a bird poised to take flight. Since there were no cameras near him, his posture was slightly relaxed like it had been in the kitchen the night previously. A little girl clung tightly to his hand while he gestured wildly with his other, her eyes wide and hanging onto his every word. Ronan’s voice was somehow hushed and grand at the same time, his posh accent dulled to something a little more rural.

“When three hundred years had come and gone, the four swans traveled South to the sea of Moyle, braving the turbulent tides that wanted to draw them under.” He leaned closer to her and tugged lightly on her free hand with his free hand, perhaps to echo the water he mentioned in the story, and she gripped it tightly, nearing laughter with every second. “They swam past the cold and stormy seas, their feathers ruffled but unharmed when they reached Inis Glora. The swans had grown tired over their long journey, the years of their lives catching up to slow them down.”

Adam, without thinking, felt a bit of a smile take over his face. He was taken aback by the change in Ronan. The boy sitting on the bed seemed lightyears away from any other version - he’d gone a little hazy at the edges, as though he were made of smoke, as though Adam was dreaming and viewing some kind of apparition. His tailored lines still stuck out jaggedly, cutting a harsh figure, but he seemed at ease and gentle for the first time Adam had ever seen. One hell of a storyteller, too. Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to know why, as the Prince of England, Ronan could let all of those Irish words roll off of his tongue as though they came naturally.

An Irish children’s tale. An Irish children’s tale. Why would he know any of those? The answer nagged at Adam’s brain, but he couldn’t find it in himself to dig.

The girl was quiet as Ronan’s voice trailed off until it became nothing. The swans had returned to elderly humans and lived with a priest who blessed them for the rest of their days, and Adam assumed that she was processing the anticlimactic ending. Finally, she said, “I like those endings best.”

“You do?” Ronan asked, patience yielding in his tone. “Why do you like them?”

“Sad endings are too sad, but happy endings aren’t real.”

Adam could only see the back of Ronan’s head, but he could hear him clear his throat and see him squeeze the girl’s hand in his much larger one. “Me, too.” He leaned away from her a little, letting go of one of her hands. When he spoke again, a smile was in his voice. “You’re much wiser than the adults I know. I might have to offer you a position advising me.”

The girl laughed again, a giddy and wild and hopeful thing. “You’re very silly,” she informed Ronan, likely too young to realize any breaches in etiquette. Luckily for her, Ronan didn’t care, either.

“I am very serious,” he said, his face no doubt translating that sentiment very well. He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be back with an offer in fifteen or so years, don’t you worry.”

“Is that a promise?”

Ronan stilled at once, the muscles in his back set just as they had been in the kitchen. Adam didn’t envy the situation she’d inadvertently put Ronan into. As childish and silly as her question was, there was a little too much weight to the response for him to casually offer a yes or a no.

“Do your best to get better,” he said at length, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

And, oh, that expression of hope was back shining on her face, and Adam had to shuffle to his other foot, looking away. The people were the reason he liked politics, liked the idea of trying to help build a world even a fraction better than the one he was raised in, and yet he couldn’t look. Couldn’t bear the thought of letting anyone down.

Ronan glanced behind him, clearly catching sight of Adam, just as a nurse bustled into the room and cheerfully announced that it was time for medicine.

“Thank you,” the little girl said before releasing his hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ella,” Ronan said with a stiff formality that made her giggle again. “And of course,” he added, a little more softly.

It was perhaps not a polite enough exit for a prince, but after Ronan clumsily thanked the nurse and stepped back into the ward to meet Adam, he knew it was the best they would get. Ronan continued moving past him in the direction Adam assumed the cameras must have gone.

“Ah, so you do have feelings other than anger,” Adam said, trailing Ronan into the hall. 

“Don’t act so fu... completely surprised,” Ronan replied, turning his head towards Adam. At first, he thought Ronan might have been uncomfortable with the idea of Adam seeing the interaction, but instead, his face started to squeeze into something close to a smile, his eyes crinkling and the corners of his mouth lifting. A pop from down the hallway shuttered the expression before it could become fully formed. A shout cut through the air just as Persephone appeared between Ronan and Adam as though materializing from thin air. Her impossibly long, white hair clung to the sleeves of their sweaters with static friction as she shoved them with surprising strength into a closet. 

Her voice was still serene and airy despite the sudden tension settling on everyone’s chests. “Wait for the all-clear.” And the door shut with a thunk behind her. 

Adam leaned his head against it with a sigh, before very rapidly remembering that they were two high-profile targets in a possible active shooter scenario and doors weren’t exactly safe. He scrambled backward, accidentally knocking into Ronan and sending them tumbling into the wall. Of all the closets to be unceremoniously shoved into, they had to be stuck in one barely large enough for the brooms stacked to his right. 

“Can you stop falling into me, please?” came Ronan’s voice, taut with something close to fury but probably closer to anxiety.

“But you love it so much,” Adam bit out, trying to backtrack. Ronan’s face had somehow ended up in Adam’s hair, and he could feel Ronan’s long lashes close, paired with a troubled exhale. Adam managed to extract himself from Ronan and slide against one of the walls, crouching beside something he suspected was a bucket. Ronan followed his example, leaning against the opposite wall until he slid to the ground. Adam couldn’t see Ronan very well, but judging from the faint rustling sounds of buzzed hair against cotton and quick, deep breaths, he wasn’t handling the situation very well.

“This is a new one,” Adam said. “Assassination attempts, I mean. Is this common for the royalty?”

“Shut up,” Ronan said, his voice faint from his position closer to the ground.

“I’m blaming you if we die, you know.” When he received no response, Adam continued. “I probably could have made it at least a couple more years. No one’s ever tried to shoot me before. Guess I’m not important enough on my own. Who knew our fake friendship could be so deadly?”

“Fuck off,” Ronan replied, his breaths still deep.

“I’d love to, mate,” Adam said, forcing faux-jolly British inflection into the last word, “But we’re stuck in this closet for the foreseeable future, or until we get shot.”

“I meant shut up before that happens.”

“What, you’re not keen on life-threatening scenarios?” Ronan didn’t respond, and Adam felt a bit of genuine concern leak into his other thoughts. “Are you doing alright? I thought you of all people would be used to this.”

“Not keen on tight spaces,” he grit out, his teeth likely bared in that dangerous way that made Adam’s hands curl into fists. “Now fucking stop for a minute.”

They sat in silence, nothing but their breaths filling the space between them. The silence must have started to grate on Ronan because he broke it first.

“It doesn’t happen all the time, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m telling you.” Ronan breathed something that sounded like dumbass. “Once, when I was small and out in public with my father. Declan was there, too. I can’t remember much of it. That’s the only other time.”

“Suppose it’s as good a story as any,” Adam said, his voice just a hint louder than Ronan’s whisper had been. “Glad I can hear it trapped in this minuscule closet with you.”

“You’re the one with the foot digging into my hip, not the other way around.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to put it, Your Highness?” He nudged his foot and Ronan surged forward, clamping a hand around Adam’s mouth and the other clenching in Adam’s collar, practically hovering above where Adam stretched out uncomfortably. Adam much preferred this almost-fighting to their pretending to be friends.

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to die today.” Adam tried shifting to free himself, but Ronan had a firm grip and he couldn’t gain any ground. Instead, he licked Ronan’s palm, and Ronan was quick to drop his hand in disgust with a quiet noise of discontent. He found himself pinned with one of Ronan’s glares, the intensity tangible even in the dark.

“I don’t want you to die either, you sodding idiot. I’m not the only one in here. You talking is ruining both of us.” “Clearly you’re not, this might actually be comfortable without you and your ridiculous, showy muscles. But I didn’t realize you cared, sugar,” he said, thinking fleetingly of his mother, “if I was breathing or not.”

“Right now, your life is tied very closely to mine, and so I do.”

“Sweet as honey,” Adam taunted, thickening his drawl. Most of the time he tried to school his words into something a little more Northern, but he enjoyed the way the southern accent bothered Ronan.

“No peace, none at all,” Ronan muttered. “Not even in the looming face of death.”

Adam could have said the same, really. The last thing he expected to see from Ronan while shoved into a dark closet with him was any genuine emotion. But the stories, the fear in the enclosed space, the story of his father-

His father. Of course. 

“Was that story from your father?” He asked, although he already was sure of the answer.

Ronan’s response clipped. “Yes.”

His conscience was still mostly intact, and so Adam began to feel a little bad for picking a fight while in a stressful situation and then bringing up Ronan’s grief. “You’re a good storyteller.” Ronan’s silence was judgemental and disbelieving, so he persisted. “What, I can’t give a compliment? You are.” 

“My siblings and I had stories read to us like everyone else, Parrish. We’re not programmed, bland colonialism robots.” A pause. “Well, Mathew and I aren’t.”

“Of course not, imperialism comes first.”

“You’re welcome for the country, then.”

A brief silence followed. It felt, inexplicably, like the two of them had been toeing a line ever since Adam stood outside of Ella’s door and heard Ronan speak to her. They were inching closer with every word spoken.

“My father was the real storyteller,” he admitted, and Adam internally marked another inch traveled. “Since he was an actor and all. He always told us those stories even though he wasn’t technically supposed to. I just...imitate.”

“Imitate?”

“Yes,” Ronan said, providing no other explanation. “Why do you give a damn, anyway? You don’t want childhood tales and neither do I. You hate me.”

“We’re stuck like this forever,” Adam admitted. He’d known it before, but speaking the words made them feel more real. “Neither of us likes it, but here we are, shoved in a closet together. We have to pull off this act for the rest of our lives, Ronan, and I need something more than a cheat sheet your PR team slapped together.”

Ronan was eerily still for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Then why do you hate me?”

The question caught Adam off guard. “What?”

“Why do you hate me?” Off of Adam’s wary look, he threw the words back in his face. “We’re stuck together just like you said. I need some kind of answer.”

Adam sighed, acquiescing. “Do you remember what you said in Rio?”

“The fuck are you talking about, Parrish?”

“The Olympics?”

“When you threatened to push me into the River Thames?”

“No. You being a condescending dick at diving finals.”

Ronan was still for a long moment before bringing a hand to his shoulder and easing himself back away and off of Adam. “Oh. Shit.”

“So. You remember?”

“Vaguely.” A pause, elongated in the dark. “You heard?”

“Yes.” 

“So that did it, then?”

“Yes.”

But Ronan must have known he had more to say because he stayed silent. 

“I probably would have hated you no matter what,” Adam finally admitted, some low part of his gut feeling heavier with the admission. “It’s just - I wasn’t even the First Son then, and everyone was already comparing us. And it didn’t matter if they thought I was better or you were better or whatever, it was just - the idea of you bothered me, a white boy born with the power to make such change and unquestioning support from millions who was throwing it all away instead. And I’ve been compared to a shit ton of people in my life, from my mother to Blue and Gansey to just - everyone, but somehow with you, it was always the worst. So yes, it was the diving finals.”

“But it was also you being self-conscious?”

“But it was also you being an asshole.” 

“Yeah, it was,” Ronan admitted lowly, and Adam blinked at the admission. “I was - I definitely was one. I think I was one all the fucking time back then. It doesn’t excuse anything, but my father passed on...not long before, if you can understand.”

Adam didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, but he nodded all the same. He felt something in his throat tighten. “Of course. I don’t think I’d realized.”

“It doesn’t excuse it,” Ronan repeated. “I’m sorry.”

This was something heavier, truer than his other apologies - something beyond deeply-ingrained politeness that allowed him to apologize for petty things. It was as though he genuinely asked for forgiveness, like Adam had any real choice in the matter, like Adam’s forgiveness was something Ronan actually wanted. Adam never expected to receive a genuine apology from the Prince of England.

“I appreciate it. And I’m sorry as well. For...not realizing.” Ronan’s figure visibly relaxed even though it was barely visible.

“So, depressing Irish stories. Is that your default?”

“I’m afraid the Irish don’t have a lot of serotonin-filled stories.”

“There’s the English in you,” Adam said to a breathy laugh from Ronan. “Do you remember any more?”

“Probably couldn’t forget them, if we’re being honest. And not speaking to the press.”

“They hate me at the moment, so you have nothing to worry about.” He paused before he continued. “Would you tell one?”

“...why?”

“I don’t know. We’re stuck in here, aren’t we?”

“Be careful what you wish for. I’ll write you in as a Celtic witch.”

“I always thought I’d make a very dashing villainous magician. If that’s the price to pay, I can live with it.”

Ronan was silent, and Adam thought that he had given up on any conversation. However, he spoke again, his voice oddly light. “Once, the fierce Fianna believed in many things, none as much as the beautiful Eden laying in the Western Sea. Tir na nÒg, it was called, and the name passed between them like a secret.” Suddenly breaking character, Ronan said in his normal whisper, “That means “land of the living” for any uneducated parties.”

“Dick. Go on.”

There was something captivating in this new way Ronan spoke paired with the near-darkness and tight space of their closet. “Fionn, the leader of the Fianna-”

“Great naming process, by the way.”

“Shut the hell up or no story.”

Adam shut up.

“The leader of the Fianna led them to hunt the deer along the shores in County Kerry, including his son, Oisín. But Oisín soon caught sight of a single, bright light in the distance, all the way through the thick green of tree foliage. As it drew closer, he saw that the light was, instead, a beautiful girl with hair of spun gold astride a snow-colored mare. When Fionn inquired as to who she was, she informed them that she was Niamh of the Golden Hair, daughter of the King of  Tir na nÒg, and she had come to take Oisín as her husband-”

Ronan cut off abruptly, and Adam almost asked why, but a moment later he heard the source of the silence - heavy footsteps outside the door. Suddenly, neither of them breathed, instead choosing to sit in total petrified silence.

And slowly, mercifully, the door crept open, spilling cold white light along the floor of the cupboard and across their splayed legs. Persephone stood in the doorway, her expression relaxed once again.

“False alarm,” she said breezily, reaching out her hands to haul them back to their feet. Adam shifted uncomfortably on pins and needles as his legs shot back to life. “Fireworks, not guns.”

“Fireworks in a hospital?”

Persephone shrugged. “It was some teenager.”

“Always is,” Ronan said, dangerously close to a joke. He blinked rapidly, setting his shoulders back to stand at his full height. He slanted a look towards Adam, his mouth curving into something wicked but not intimidating, all bark and no bite. “Bonding is over, then.”

“Thank God.”

[violetsandshrikes]

i'm writing Hell Papers and envy your lazy day immensely. here are my questions: 1) what is/are your favorite flower(s)? or favorite plants in general? 2) do you have an area of ecology(?) or conservation that you are particularly invested in? 3) not exactly a question but please tell me about native New Zealand plants :O

THIS IS SO LATE I’M SORRY LOVELY AHHHHHHH

1) My favourite flowers are definitely lilacs or violets, however I do have a special place in my heart for batflowers! In terms of plants overall, I really like philodendrons or sundews as house plants, and symbiotic ferns.

2) My main interests are endocrinology with a conservation focus, so basically hormones in wildlife and how that corresponds with what’s changing in the world around them! I’m also very invested in looking at human-wildlife conflict, and holistic approaches to reducing these as much as possible. As a side hobby, I’m actually really into parasites and parasitology, and I once sequenced a bunch of new lice found on albatross species in the Sub-Antarctic region.

3) New Zealand has some amazing flora! We’ve got amazing beech forest, wetlands, sub-alpine and alpine zones, mixed broad-leaved forests, and some very cool native trees.

In terms of some of my favourite plants of Aotearoa, here’s a list: Kākābeak/Ngutu kākā, Kōwhai, Lancewood/Horoeka, Hound’s Tongue/Kowaowao and Wire-netting Bush/Korokio.