#layer three: bargaining

[a-static-grief]

H-huh!? What!? Doot..???

... Ohohoho..!! An Apocalypse, you say? ■]

[The interactorrrrrrr (I'm sorry)]

[fan-goddess]

‘His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man’

A/N: Surprise! I'm making this a strange sort of drabble like series with Aemond and dragonseed! This title is long af but the quote so fits I love/hate it! It ain’t entirely fully proofread so errors may pop up I may correct later fyi

Warnings: Smut, dragonseed is back and unnamed as ever, brothel working, sex working, not dark!Aemond but clingy at nonetheless! (If I miss any let me know!)

Taglist: @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee

Series Thing Masterlist

The men you were hired to please in the nicest of terms were always much older and sweaty than you, as if they had competed in two tourniments before arriving. Though the likelihood that they had even competed in one throughout their lifetimes was slimmer than they had even been.

The young men were always given to the more older, experienced ladies for their teachings, or so the brothel madam would sometimes laugh as the young lads were dragged by their hands to a room beyond the main hall. It was a rare time whenever a younger looking man would specifically request a more younger lady, as the older the men were the younger the ladies sent to their assigned room became.

That day, you had already been paid for by three men whose skin dripped in exhausted sweat and stained the covers of the bed with a mixture of their bodily fluids. By the time night came around though, the brothel bellow became heaving with men of all ages, a familiar head of short silver locks came bounding through them with a practised ease.

His voice rang through the crowd staring at the breasts of the ladies he was offered by the Madame. Yet when he looked up to the balcony ledge where you were perched watching the sights bellow, he stopped where he had stood, and pointed with a fierce look in his eye that you knew all too well in a man.

The look of a predator who has caught sight of fresh game, and is ready to begin the hunt of the night.

The eldest son of the king, the boy whispered by all to become the future king of the seven kingdoms of course choosing to ignore with hated stares his elder sister, points a finger to you and by the way his lips move you know he has demanded a reduced price.

He may have more money than all the men in the room combined but even he knows like any poor man how to strike the right sort of bargain for a better price.

That night, you were bought and fucked by a Targaryen for the first time in your life. A service that used to be an honour to the highest of all for whores, or at least it was before the Targaryen men became too indifferent to their flesh of the night.

It appeared the once well known hunger of purpled eyed silver haired flesh has trickled down to its last generation, as the man who’d left his spent to trickle down your thighs gave no indication that he desired you particularly for your hair or for your eyes.

He barely even looked at you as he forcibly took you from behind and pushed your face into the thin sheets that had yellowed in age.

He even left as soon as he came, quite literally, as by the time you looked around the door was swung open and the overwhelming stench of alcohol remained pungent. It appeared this young Prince had a thin layer of wine on his skin instead of the usual stench of overwhelming sweat.

You did not see the recognisable sight of silver locks for quite some time after that. Many a nights were you forced to look away to the window as men of all hair but silver took you on the bed you fucked to keep. Yet they were no different from the eldest prince at all. They all had only the idea of completion in mind.

Which you suppose was why it was so shocking when the infamous one-eyed Prince came to the brothel in search of a women to warm his cock, and laid a single eye on you as you stood oblivious on the same balcony you had stood on when you were chosen by his brother.

It was like a strange sick dream when you saw the younger Prince refuse to take his eye off you as he bargained a price with the Madame. Again, he too knew how to strike a deal similarly to his eldest acknowledged sibling.

When the Prince finally entered your chambers and met eyes with your naked form sitting on the bed awaiting to be told the orders, it was made quite quickly to you that the One-Eyed Prince was not like a regular laying customer.

Yet he still had his regular moments it seems, as while he managed to humanise your body, he still found a way to objectify your soul.

The Prince uses you like any other man would, and yet he still somehow manages to find a way to make you feel mortal.

While he takes you, he has you on your back and his eye looking deeply into your own. A single hand of his stroking the left side of your face while a thumb catches on the edge of your lips.

Even after spilling his spent of the skin of your stomach, he explains he cannot dare father a bastard and bring the shame to his already soiled family legacy. Going as far as to grab a lone stained cloth from somewhere in the room to mop up his cooled down spent away and throws someplace random.

The one-eyed Prince stays with you the whole of that night and morning, something you could easily say was a first in your working career.

His head lays on your overworked thighs that twitch randomly in patterns even he with his highly educated mind cannot comprehend. But he does not complain at all, instead only burrowing further into your overwhelming warmth you subconsciously provide him with.

You dare not to say anything as you place a hand on his head and thread your fingers through his hair, waiting with baited breath as his lets out a tired sigh and wraps his arms around your body tighter.

When your fingertips catch on the rough leather of his patch you do not dare take it off in fear of being caught in the familiar feeling of a dragons rage. So you merely ghost your hand over it and he does not make a disapproving sound.

He reminds you heavily of a child craving a mother’s affection, even though you know he has one waiting no doubt anxiously for him in his own chambers back up at the castle. Yet it appears the prince lives in a strange limbo of ignorant bliss, as you can feel his eyelashes brush lightly against the skin of your thigh as he closes his eye, and not a minute later you can feel his bodies breath even out as he begins drifting away.

The One-Eyed Prince falls asleep against your naked spent body, and you can only force your body to relax as your eyes shut tightly and sleep to not come at an easy price. For that night as the Prince rests by the base of your stomach, dreams fill your head of overwhelming fire and blood comes storming down around you.

At the end of your dream mere seconds before you are awoken by the grumbling child, a two eyed man with features mimicking yours holds a sword angled to the base of your throat and sneers at you, before allowing the blade to swing you with heavy cost.

[webslingingslasher]

I miss peter and trouble :( what are they up to??

'if you don't get your hands off me right now, i'll scream.' peter unpeels his hands from your shoulders, you take a step away from him. he's radiating too much heat.

'sorry.' even his voice is sending you up a wall, you turn to give him a glare and sputter at his choice of clothing. 'we're in the middle of a heatwave, our ac is busted and you're wearing a jacket? what the hell is wrong with you? i'm over here sweating my tits off and you're just gonna walk in here wearing a jacket?'

looking at him makes you sick. 'oh my god, you just pissed me off. leave me alone.' peter doesn't leave you alone, he kisses your temple and makes sure not to touch you anywhere else. 'come to the bedroom.'

'i absolutely do not want to have sex with you right now!' peter takes your mood in stride, it's not him, it's the heat. 'i don't want you to have sex with me.'

'then what do you want?'

'you to listen to me.' your eyes narrowed into slits and you cross your arms over your chest. 'i'm not going anywhere until you take that stupid fucking jacket off.'

'that's a weird bargain but i'll take it.' he unzips it in a second, the knowledge of a shirt underneath it makes you unleash a layer of rage and disbelief. 'it's ninety degrees out there and you're wearing layers? our ac is broken, peter! broken and no hope of repair for at least three days and you're wearing layers. wow.'

you're not being dramatic in the slightest either. it's boiling outside, the complex pool is "closed for cleaning," and the stagnant air swarming around your apartment is making you go a little crazy.

'i know, trouble. c'mon, i have something to show you.'

'if it's another jacket, i'm gonna be pissed.' you follow behind peter and hold a sour look while you notice his back isn't soaked with sweat.

'it's not another jacket.'

peter gives you an extremely wide grin at the door, he's proud of what he has behind it. 'ready to love me forever and ever?' there's nothing that could boost your mood, you're currently hanging out in satan's lair.

'yup.' your whole body feels clammy. peter doesn't mind the attitude, he was right with you an hour ago. 'give me a countdown.' you hold no enthusiasm in your voice.

'i'm not going that.'

peter just blinks, you roll your eyes and rush through it. 'three, two one, go.'

your shared room is opened, nothing looks different from the outside but peter ushers you in and you feel... cold. the sheen of sweat that covered every bit of you was frozen in it's tracks, you bask in the temperature change while peter shuts the door behind you.

you look up at the vent, there's no running air but you can hear the faint buzz of it. as you turn to peter, you clock it. your jaw drops, sweet relief was blessed over you.

'oh my god, i love you so much.' you rush to stand in front of the window unit, the air hits your chest and you lift your tanktop up to soak it all in. 'holy shit, this feels so good.' you spin and let out a moan when the air washes over your back.

'uh huh, you're welcome.' peter's cocky and it's deserved. 'you're the best boyfriend ever, i love you so much, please marry me.' you don't care if peter's watching, you're about to get naked and dance in front of the mini ac unit.

'i'm borrowing it from chris, so don't get too attached.' it was an emergency patch for the time being, chris was in jamaica and had no use for the unit. peter was in a one bedroom apartment with a grumpy lover.

he only had to get halfway through his explanation before his friend gave him permission as long as he reinstalled it when his ac was fixed. 'tell chris i love him.'

'i'll tell him you said thanks.'

'close enough.' you bask in the blast of air for another minute before it gets icy, you've been so damn hot that you almost cry at how good it feels to shiver.

flopping to your bed, you welcome the air stream on your legs. 'give me ten minutes and i'll suck your dick.'

'oh, c'mon now. i don't deserve that.'

you sit up to point at him. 'you chose my window so it would be on me at all times. that's selfless love and you deserve to have your dick sucked, don't you dare fight me on it.'

peter sticks his hands up, 'i wouldn't dare.'

'smart boy, now come give me kisses.' 

[glassrowboat]

🎲 I am always one for enabling

4. A kiss atop the head.

One Kiss, Blue Fish. Furina.

Word count: 900+

One kiss for her, one kiss for the little gold colored statuette. A habit now so ingrained into your routine as keys pressed into your palm on your way out the door that it was simply instinct to lean down for both of them. Even after the first layer of golden plating started to wear down and revealed a greenish hue beneath.

Oxidation. Something you have had the chance to grow familiar with as the old statues of dogs in the park tucked away between the building of the capital, all beared proof of their noses being scratched and petted. The sight of it alone had you shaking your head, a smile always fighting to turn your lips up ever so slightly.

This habit had all started from a single joke. One comment, that's all it took after Furina had brought home the mini version of her (err- or the Hydro Archon that she was) that now turned to being part of your daily life.

Your fingers had been gliding over the reward as you heard her debating over what to do with it after coming home. Her gloved fingers clutched onto it in a way that failed to hide how they shook just from the sight of the thing alone.

To place it proud and center on the mantle, she pondered. Maybe even bury it away in the guestroom that you only ever used once. Long forgotten after Furina had grown accustomed to sharing a bed with you. Or, simply, toss it out like it was trash?

To that, a startled and over dramatized gasp left you. Hand to your chest to truly sell that bit of how hurt you were at such an appalling suggestion. “You would dare toss the image of my lover in the garbage?”

So, after your ploy of pretending it mattered more to you that it truly did and a spat that was more playful than anything, you placed the mini Furina on the mantle. Tall and proud. Placing a kiss to its little head, you had turned back to her, a cheeky smile on your lips.

A habit set in stone from there on.

One a certain someone clearly wasn't a fan of as her cheeks were puffed out, and a pout graced her features just like that day.

“If you're just going to give out two kisses, you might as well give the second one to me too.” She insisted, head turned away from you as she held up her nose.

It spoke levels about how comfortable she was with you. Willing to give attitude and sass she would normally be afraid anyone else would look at and think of the Hydro Archon she once represented. But there was no need for that here. Not with you.

“That so?”

Taking a strand of hair, that same one that stuck up in the air no matter how much she tried to tame it in the mornings, you twirled it around your finger. The shades of blue and white were almost hypnotizing to watch even when her head bounced up and down to nod.

“Yes! It only makes sense you would give me, your lover, your affection instead of that thing.”

“Now, now, my little mermaid.” You teased as her gaze fell on the golden trophy, eyes surely puncturing the cheap plating covering it. “I can give you two kisses from here on out if you really want.”

Her small little giggle filled the air, seeming appeased with this outcome. For now.

“And I'll give the little replica two on the way out, too.”

She called your name, a high-pitched whine that accompanied her tugging ever so slightly on your sleeve. The way she always said that truly did capture your attention, more so than anyone else who's ever used it before as you bent down to her height.

Eye to eye as you asked “yes?”

“If that's what you're so intent on doing, then you'll have to give me three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Wrapping your arms around her waist, the frills of her outfit tickled your arms as she moved in a little closer. The shuffle of her heels heard on the hardwood floor as Furina moved into your hold. “But of course, three kisses.”

If it makes her happy, then it's more than worth it.

“Then take this from the top."

Furina grabbed your keys off the mantle, pulling them away from the statuette you placed them next to when she had first called for your attention. Rattling in her hand as she placed them in yours.

“All the way from the top? Next thing you know, there will be a clapperboard telling me when I can and can't start helping you bathe.”

“T-that’s not important right now.”

Before she could pull away, to hide her blushing cheeks behind a false attitude and layers of hair she hoped would block her face away, you pressed your lips to her hairline. The perfume Neuvillette gifted her after her departure from the Palais Mermonia, only welcoming your touch even more.

Drawing your in closer as you muttered “one kiss, two kiss, three kiss,” with every peck to her forehead. Only a small part of you is resisting the urge to continue teasing her and say ‘red fish, blue fish’ to finish your little poem.

Alas, that can wait another day.

Just like how tomorrow you plan to give three kisses to the statuette just to see Furina pitch another fit.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

rich girl 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as bullying, manipulation, cheating, noncon/dubcon, Lloyd being Lloyd, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your long awaited ascension to the Home Owners Association proves more than you bargained for. (Silverfox AU)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, side of Cole Turner

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

Marge plays with the perfect slip of her bleach blond hair. Her lips glisten a shade of pink that reminds you of watermelon and her long lashes perfectly frame her crystal blue eyes. She is the perfect suburban housewife, the leader of the pack. 

The other women look to her as a beacon; they dress like her, speak like her, even try to walk like her. As you look around the tables, the cookie cutter women are almost interchangeable. You don't quite fit the mould but you've contorted yourself as best you can. 

It's your first meeting as part of the Home Owners Association. In your three long years in the suburb, it's been your ultimate goal. Well, it was Cole's. Your husband says you need to keep busy and what better opportunity to make friends. Maybe a great opportunity but not an easy one. 

Your husband just wants the best for you. You know that. Otherwise you wouldn't be living in this gorgeous suburb and your dream house. How could you want anything more? 

Now, you can't. You've done it. You've achieved it all. An HOA member among the privileged and the pretty.  

Caroline clears her throat and you look up. She stares at your french tips tapping on the table. You give a sheepish smile and stop yourself. You can't help it, you're nervous. 

As exciting as it all it, you almost want it to just be over. You want to run home and tell Cole all about it. About how you're one of them.  

You fan yourself with your hand, the sun beating down on the green lawn set with at least half a dozen tables. You're sweating through your foundation and the highlighter and the layers you felt were redundant. Your mascara is starting to stick. You glance over at Mitzy, there is even a trickle of sweat along her dark hairline. How? 

You cross your leg over the other and focus on Marge as she calls attention to the front table. There, her closest allies break bread; Callie who you often mistake for Marge, Olivia and her strawberry blond locks, Eleanor, and older member who kept her hair highlighted and draws her brows on, and Shanice, the youngest of any member, even yourself. 

"Alright, ladies, let's get to business," Marge calls out. You reach for your glass and find the mimosa drained. Right, you drank it all. You set it back and press together your wet fingertips. "Today, we have a new member!" 

Applause rolls through the crowd and you sit up straight, unhooking your leg as you look around meekly. You smile, cheeks tight and your lips tremble. You're so happy but so terrified. 

"And we know how we welcome new members. Honey, please come down," Marge says. 

You take a breath and stand. You gulp and tense your calves as you make a slow progress across the yard, fighting to keep your heels from sinking into the grass. As you reach the front table, your fearless leader welcomes you with a outstretched arm. 

"Our new members get to take on their very own HOA mission," Marge explains as Callie stands, a clipboard in her hands. She comes around beside her longlost twin, "so, Calliope, what do we have?" 

Marge leans over and the two review the clipboard. They hem and haw, muttering. 

"No, Mary is handling that already," Callie says, "these are the new ones." 

They confer then peek back at their table mates, "ladies, please, 14.1b. Do we agree?" 

The women look down at the pink folders and open them, fingertips brushing over paper to find the point in question. The look at each other but something in their expressions is uneasy. Marge clears her throat. 

"Well?" 

"Mm," Eleanor taps her nail on the folder, "yes, I think it will do." 

The others nod, though Shanice does so hesitantly.  

"Marvelous," Marge declares and flips the pages of the clipboard, wiggling free a pristine white envelope with the stamp of the HOA on the sealed flap. She holds it up, presenting it to the audience. 

"By our next meeting, you will report back," Marge declares, "deliver this to the house on the label. Callie," she pushes the clipboard away, "give her the briefing of the issue before she goes. Now we will check in on action items." Marge struts away as Callie pulls loose a sheet of paper and hands it over, "good luck." 

You take it and fold it around the envelope as Marge calls up Erin to present her progress in getting Suzette on Oakfront to remove her Venus statue. You return to your own table, near the back, and sit. Caroline sighs and you glance over at her. 

"What house?" She whispers. 

You let the paper unfold and show her the envelope label. She sniffs and squeezes your elbow, "oh, honey." 

You frown and look down. You stare at the address, you're not sure you're familiar with it. 17 Willow Drive. That's not too far from Elmwood where you live. Should be easy enough. 

💄

You review the directive on the slip of paper. Instead of going straight home, you head a few streets past your house to 17 Willow. You stand across the road in front of 16 and chew your lip. ‘Warning to be delivered to front door. Have occupant sign to acknowledge receipt.’ 

You sigh. You don’t like being the bearer of bad news. You wonder what exactly the homeowner did wrong. Their lawn is tidy and trimmed, the hedges meet the standards of the HOA guidelines, and nothing else sticks out from the row of suburban mansions.  

You cross the street and flick the envelope with your thumb. You hover just outside the gate in your kitten heels. You feel bad already. 

You reach over the white pickets and unclasp the gate. You stroll up the walk, admiring the landscaping. Huh. Paint colour falls within the standard and no unseemly ornaments. You can’t figure out why you’re here. 

You climb the steps and approach the front door. You tap the doorbell and wait, looking around aimlessly. You clutch the paper and envelope tight as your heart races. Maybe all this isn’t for you. You thought the HOA was more a women’s club; they had a book club and social nights and all that stuff, you didn’t really think about the nitty gritty of it all. 

You lean on your left foot, letting your ankle bend.  

“What do you want, toots?” A voice asks from the speaker of the doorbell cam. 

You smile. You didn’t reapply your lipstick. You bend slightly and wave at the lens. 

“Um, hello,” you give your name before you continue, “I’m part of the HOA. I have um, I have something for you.” 

You hear a click. You wait. You check your apple watch as the time stretches on. You peek behind you again then turn back to the front door. You hit the bell again. 

“Leave it in the slot,” the voice growls, “busy.” 

“Oh, right, erm, I do need you to sign--” 

“Christ fuckin’ sakes.” 

The speaker dies out again and you wince at the profanity. Oh, great, he’s already upset. You bounce on your heels and sway. You don’t do well with anger. 

You hear the lock on the inner door twist and you take a breath. You steel yourself and plaster your smile in place. You see a shadow inside then the screen door opens to a naked man with only a hand towel to cover his most intimate spot. He drapes it just in front of his pelvis but you keep your eyes above board. 

“Sorry, I--” 

“I told you, I’m busy,” he snarls, his mustache bristling on his curled lip. 

You swallow and your smile threatens to break. Maybe you should’ve listened and just come back later. You’re speechless as all your mental preparation flutters away. 

“Sir, I, er, I--” 

“Enjoying the view, sweet cheeks?” He scoffs and sends you a wink, “should I lift the towel or what?” 

“Uh, no, please, don’t,” you put your hands up, the envelope nearly slipping from your grasp. “I...” You blink at him. His grey hair droops crookedly, the top longer than the trimmed sides. “Here, er, I just need you to read this and sign--” 

He snatches the letter with one hand and turns it over to look at the HOA stamp. He rolls his eyes. He brings his other hand up, the towel clamped between two fingers and you block out his lower half with your palm and look up. He rips the envelope in two and drops it. 

“You can tell the bimbos to fuck off,” He kicks the remnants towards you, “now if you’ll excuse me, lube’s drying up.” 

He lets the door fall shut and spins around, giving a view of his ass before he slams the inner door. You gasp and bend to gather up the destroyed letter. You quickly retreat, cheeks burning in horror. 

Now you know why Caroline seemed so concerned. 

[alltheboysandgirlsiloved]

Theory from Chaos Theory season 1: the 5 of them represent the stages of grief

Darius: Depression. He isolated himself entirely from friends and family, quit his job, went to live in a cabin in the woods alone.

Kenji: Anger. He's an angry guy, he's always been like this, and it's apparent in this, especially towards Darius.

Sammy: Bargaining. Between Brooklyn's death, her parents breaking contact, and Yaz drifting away, Sammy's coping mechanism is to keep herself busy. At all times. If she's working on something, she's not thinking about it all.

Yasmina: Denial. She might not be denying Brooklyn's death per se, but she's staying at a safespace that basically denies the whole dino issue.

Ben: Acceptance. Okay, he is the one who finds out her death wasn't an accident and starts getting everyone back together, but clearly he's the one dealing with her loss the best. Hes accepting that she's dead and is now trying to avenge her while keeping everyone else safe.

This is honestly such a cool interpretation! I love it!! It totally clicks. To me, Yaz and Sammy are honestly the most interesting ones in this puzzle because obviously in both of their cases, a lot of things layer up, not to mention the fact that they happen to be more "connected" with each other than the rest of the ground.

As you pointed out - Sammy's situation is complicated because on at least three different levels she's dealing with a new and completely alienating situation. This is so interesting to me because while Darius is distancing himself on purpose, Sammy is being distanced by others (family, Yaz). She's a very people-oriented person so for her losing Brooklynn, and then emotionally losing her family and (partially) Yaz must have been a hit. So yeah, as you pointed out - she's filling her time with other things, she's constantly on the move, and she tries to fill the gaping hole in her heart.

Yaz is interesting because in her case the denial focuses on believing that there's another way to live this cruel reality. Yes, on the island she is placing herself away from dinosaurs but... not only dinosaurs. She's also putting distance between herself and Sammy, but also (that we can only assume based on Yaz's reaction to seeing e.g Ben) notice how she's also distancing herself from the rest of the group - though in a completely different way than Darius. She is distancing herself as in: in a way, maybe, she is subconsciously thinking that she wants to be close to them when she's at her best, and she tries to achieve that (remember that in s2 she was always there, always ready to help, ready to give her best). She is in denial as in: she has PTSD and its cause is currently unleashing (not really) hell on the Main Land, moreover, its cause killed her friend. I think, in some way, denying that there's a world outside of this island, helps her forget that the world outside is... ruthless and cruel. I don't think she's naively denying that either. More like... she tries to put these emotions (this fear, this realization) into the closet even though she knows they won't fit there.

Thanks for sending me this ask! <3

[meepetteoneonly]

Raphael and Tiamant (the DND dragon goddess and archdevil) theory

So I will once again refer to all the pieces of the puzzle already discovered and shared by @certifieddilfenjoyer and another layer of theories and questions about Raphael...

(Sorry for spam, I just wanted to add it to my theory collection but I also want to make a separate post, because I am so excited!)

We already know, that Vlaakith made a deal with some devil in order to carry out the coup against Mother Gith, i.e. mother of Orpheus. However, the important information is also what Lae’Zael tells us after we are attacked by Githyanki at Wyrm’s Lookout the night before we reach Baldur’s Gate.

Once we successfuly defeated Orpheus’s protectors and Emperor uncovered himself, Lae’Zael tells us, that what we know about Orpheus is only half of a story and that Gith managed to defeat Illithids because she made a deal with Archdevil Tiamant. Also, she explains that it was Tiamant who gifted Githyankis their red dragons.

Furthermore, she tells us that Mother Gith stayed in Hells and that Tiamant’s envoy helped Vlaakith with her mission to become the queen.

Tiamant’s enovy. A devil with wry charm who did a deal with Vlaakith (according to the disk we find in Astral Prism near Orpheus). I wonder, who that may be… 

Now - who is this Archdevil Tiamant? I didn’t know either, but Forgotten Realms wiki had my back again:

Tiamant was the lawful evil dragon goddess of greed, queen of evil dragons and, for a time, reluctant servant of the greater gods Bane and later Asmodeus.

Do we know how Gortash become chosen of Bane, btw?

Tiamat was a unique chromatic dragon, who had one head for each primary color of the most common species of chromatics (black, blue, green, red, white). Each head was able to operate entirely independently of each other and had the powers of a member of the respective race of dragonkind.

Primary colours are subtle theme that is common to Orpheus’s bubble, the bubble we can see inside Astral Prism for the first or so time we get inside.

Also, „Astral Prism… or Prison“, as Gortash put it in his notes… Prism is triangular piece of glass that disperse the light into primary colours.

Tiamat had three manifestations in Avernus as well, one of which never left the gate to Dis. She also had a lair in Avernus, on the Nine Hells, known as Tiamat's Lair.

Tiamat's Lair was the divine realm and prison of Tiamat in Avernus, the first layer of the Nine Hells, according to the Great Wheel cosmology. The realm was a large cave system within a tall mountain, hidden in the hills of Avernus. It held the only known portal that led to the second layer, Dis. 

Avernus. Here we are. Interesting, isn’t it?

The lair was also inhabited by Tiamat's mates and their descendants. The realm was generally avoided by demons, who were aware of Tiamat's lack of interest in the Blood War.It was, however, occasionally visited by devils offering gifts, hoping to seal bargains with Tiamat.

Do we know anyone who is always up to a bargain?

Tiamat wanted to take control of the Realms, and even as she was thwarted again and again by her enemies, she didn't give up. As of 1491 DR, however, her primary goal was to break free from the Nine Hells.

Having once been an archfiend living on Avernus, Tiamat was loosely allied with Bel and lent him many Abishai to fight in the Blood War. She resented Mammon for converting some evil dragons away from her. She helped Asmodeus forge his Ruby Rod.  She developed an enmity with Asmodeus and the archdevil Bel after they betrayed her.

The crafting of the rod required the shard of evil and a huge ruby to be soaked in the blood of a thousand sacrificed mortals, quenched in Tiamat's acidic saliva, and polished with 777 angel tears.

That’s a little weird but I guess it is better to have a ruby quenched in super-powerful dragon goddess’s saliva than to have no ruby at all.

Also, Orphic hammer is decorated with red gems as well. And infernal chains binding Orpheus and Hope are attached to some red rocks. Rubys, prehaps?

Finally, Raphael doesn’t seem to be someone into crafting and forging, so there has to be someone who forged the shackles and muzzle for Orpheus and Astral Prism. Given that Astral Prism was probably created at the same time Tiamant was doing business with Gith, maybe it was her… Or maybe she helped Raphael? 

As regards the blood of secrificed mortals, I wonder, was Mephistopheles up to something similar with the Rite of Profane Ascension? 

Ok, let’s continue… 

The church of Tiamat was regimented by a strict hierarchy of ranks and titles. Her clerics were occupied by the twin tasks of acquiring an ever-increasing hoard of wealth for the faith and sabotaging the faiths of other deities. As a result, they occupied most of their time with an unending series of thefts, assassinations, acts of vandalism, and arson. In Unther and Chessenta they were primarily concerned with seizing as much power as possible, while in western Faerun, the cult's agents were focused on subverting the Cult of the Dragon.

Which is interesting. The Cult of Dragon attacked Baldur’s Gate and when Wyll came to the rescue, he end up being tied to Mizora. If you speak with Wyll about the event, he tells you that Mizora didn’t care for the city, but Zariel sent her for some reason.

The Forgotten Realms wiki provides: … However, to avoid disappointing Asmodeus again and to prevent a conflict with Bel, Tiamat refused, instead offering to be Asmodeus' champion and devouring all who opposed him (and offering covert aid to Zariel to prevent Bel from becoming too powerful). So, did Zariel sent Mizora to help Wyll with Cult of the Dragon to do Tiamant some favour? 

This was everything I managed to put together after I rushed to research this Tiamant lady right after Lae’Zael spoke about her in the game. 

So my theory is that Raphael somehow serve Tiamant (or served) or that he has some kind of bargain with her. But the only weak proof is that Tiamant’s envoy helped Vlaakith and that this envoy had wry charm… That’s not much.

I also found this super cool fanart of Tiamant by an artist Jexion and in my opinion, I could see Raphael on his knees for someone like that...

[every-kuzu]

Please I beg you to do a character analysis on Kakuzu <3 from whichever part of him you'd like

okay. i’ve got a two hour car ride and a playlist to listen to - lets take a crack at this.

i’ve talked about this a little in response to another ask, so i’ll be bringing up stuff that i have touched on before, but first and foremost - kakuzu is a very guarded character. a lot of the time, you need to pause and really observe him, peel back the layers, which is something a lot of naruto fans don’t really do - probably because kishimoto didn’t spend a lot of time on him and hidan. hell, there are some things that even i didn’t notice until i started this blog and had to pause and observe him.

so. when you ask the average naruto fan about kakuzu, what’s the first thing they would think of? money, most likely. and his love for money is a big part of his character - but is it really the biggest? he says that the only thing you can have faith in is money, which i have no doubt is his actual philosophy, but he still backs away from asuma and his bounty (which it’s clearly been shown that he wants) when pain calls them back to ame. hidan complains and tries to bargain for more time, but kakuzu shuts him up and falls back immediately. this could’ve easily been a moment where he too tells pain that they need more time, but no.

because kakuzu is loyal. one could even be so bold as to call him loyal to a fault, especially in the past and even more especially given his past. that loyalty is what allowed takigakure to betray him in the past, yet he still shows pain that very same loyalty. he even tells hidan that the mission they were given by pain is absolute - another thing that is very unexpected, given his backstory.

so what does this tell us? that kakuzu believes in akatsuki's plans, or at the very least has a lot of respect for pain. (this plan being nagato's original, not any of the three-or-four-different-plans-in-a-trenchcoat-bullshit that showed up in the war arc.) now, kakuzu is also very obviously jaded from a long life in a world like naruto's, so i'd say it's up to interpretation how much faith he actually had in akatsuki, but do you really think he'd stay if he didn't see himself getting anything out of it in the end?

and that brings me very-much-not-seamlessly to my next point: he's not as uncaring as he acts, and this is best illustrated through his relationship with hidan.

now, when you look at their relationship, the general consensus would be that they hate each other. and once you look a little deeper, it seems like hidan cares more then kakuzu. according to some sources, he only joined the akatsuki because of kakuzu, and he openly shows concern for him in the fight versus team 10 + kakashi. but what's often overlooked here is that kakuzu does the same, and that's likely because you have to look even deeper to see it.

on the surface, kakuzu seems to be at the very least annoyed with hidan at all times. he berated him and talks down to him most of the time, and hidan retaliates. they seem to be at each other’s throats most of the time. but kakuzu has a lot of faith in hidan’s abilities. the minute hidan gets his curse on asuma, kakuzu’s thoughts are about how he’s 35 million ryo richer, which shows that he truly believed that hidan had it in the bag. the same goes for the fight with team 10 + kakashi - when they get separated, kakuzu openly expresses that he believes that hidan will kill shikamaru. he also shows concern for hidan, which is best shown, again, in the fight with team 10 + kakashi. kakuzu might not show it as openly as hidan does, but he does care about him. unfortunately, since we get to see so little of them, this is the best example i’ve got and we can only speculate how this care extended to the other members of the akatsuki.

which brings me to the next thing i want to touch upon - his anger and how it’s presented to us. or rather, not presented, because it’s an informed flaw.

the kakuzu we’re told about through other characters is apparently famous for entering a murderous rage every time something annoys him, but the kakuzu we’re shown doesn’t match this. the kakuzu we see is jaded, stoic, and grumpy, but he’s never mad. the most we get is him taking a single swipe at hidan after he griped about a bounty, but that was just in the anime. we know that he’s killed four former partners in this murderous rage of his, but he never shows a sign of being even close to snapping in the manga. and yet this “anger” is what most of the fandom chooses to cling to when it comes to him, which i think is because it’s something that can be observed from how other characters talk about him and not something that you need to observe from him. still, kakuzu’s murderous rage is an informed flaw, which i think is disconnected from how he’s presented to us, especially when we dig a little deeper.

in the end, i don’t really have a conclusion to all of this. it was mostly a way for me to point things out that most people might’ve not noticed. but in the end, this is just my personal interpretation of all these little things, and i’m not trying to claim that it’s the only correct one, but i’m just saying - i believe that there is more to him under the surface.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

The most powerful moment of the coronation of King Charles III was not the gold glittering off carriages or epaulettes — not the pomp and show and signifiers of power.

It was precisely their opposite: when Charles shed his gold robes and stood in a thin white shirt, his frail humanity implied.

Then a screen was erected around him and, shielded, he had a private consultation with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who dabbed anointing oil with his hands on Charles’s bare breast.

"This was the most solemn and personal of moments,” Buckingham Palace said.

Charles was bare before God, in privacy, God being one of the last beings with no need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

The Princess of Wales looked on as the screen shielded her father-in-law.

By contrast, she was at that point the most magnificent she had ever been, swathed in layer upon layer of regality, the dress, the robes, the hanging chains, headpiece and ribbons all serving to move the viewing gaze — subjects in every sense — from our awareness of Catherine Middleton with her everyday human DNA and towards the shared fiction of her transcendent queenliness.

Less than a year later, this moment is remembered with new and terrible power.

It is spring again, but it’s a time of hard Lenten moral reflection for us as a nation, in relationship to our royals, as well as an ever more voraciously unprivate modern celebrity culture.

Both the King and the princess have cancer, the latter’s disclosed by Catherine in an unprecedented video address on Friday, March 22.

Catherine’s speech was something of a plea bargain in which she traded not only her customary silence but her most personal of health ordeals in order to put an end to toxic rumours swirling online that had become in tone like an unruly mob rattling at the palace gates.

Or rattling at the figurative locks on her medical notes, with three workers at the London Clinic, where she and the King were treated, suspended and under investigation for allegedly trying to access her records (hers, it is important to note, the King’s were unmolested).

📷: Getty Images

What was so powerful about the anointing of the King was the sacredness of that space in which he could be fully human away from observation and judgment.

There should be another one-on-one consultation that is sacred, where anyone, from King to princess to pauper, can expect to be shriven in total privacy, and that is the sanctity of the medical room.

It used to be that priests were our only bound confidants, we could trust them to be privy to all our spiritual ills.

Now doctors are our secular priests: bound by law and ethics to enshrine confidentiality at the heart of the patient relationship.

As a result, our medical privacy in an age of oversharing and online surveillance feels both stranger and more necessary.

If we knew our every GP-inspected rash was to be posted on TikTok for the nation, many of us would quite literally die of embarrassment.

The King’s appointment behind the three-sided screen can now be viewed through the lens of royal illness.

The lavishly embroidered panels and expensive white shirt now replaced by the flimsy three-sided ward screen on wheels and thin hospital gown that can humble us all.

But it also enacts a principle at the very heart of becoming the monarch.

The medical-like screen is erected in the coronation to tell us there are some places the public cannot go; to tell us that there are sacredly personal moments in which a person, any person, however swathed in our projections of power, needs to be nakedly human.

Otherwise, they will go mad. We need to make sure the screens are erected around Catherine now.

Much is said, quite a lot of it by Prince Harry himself, of the dangers of the wives of the princes repeating the tragic history of their mother, Princess Diana, hunted by photographers.

He remains phobic to any hint of tabloid persecution or paparazzi chase. But this is a sideshow, even an anachronism in 2024.

He and others have not recognised how the “chase” has changed. Who needs paparazzi when there are a billion citizen hacks ready to take pictures with their phones, in case a convalescing woman nips to a Windsor farm shop with her husband?

Instead, the appetite now is not to see but to know.

The royals used to have a contract with the public: we pay for them, and in return, they give us their presence.

Nearly all of their official job is to do with surface: to show up, to put in appearances at a set number of functions, whether at the opening of parliament or the opening of a leisure centre.

But now parts of the online mob seem to be staging a coup. We want more than the surface, we want to puncture the skin barrier of the royal family and occupy from the inside.

The “fans” have become an invasive virus. The royal analogy is often that they are trapped in a gilded zoo. This new model, instead, casts the royals more as lab rats.

When Catherine disappeared from view in January after announcing a “planned abdominal operation,” the response from internet truthers was one of irate entitlement.

They are now the 1980s tabloids: ravening for intimacies and making stuff up when thwarted.

This wasn’t the boomer generation, who are both more respectful of the royals and more private about their own health.

It was the fortysomething mothers frustrated when they can’t track the phone location of everyone in their life; or the twentysomethings on Snap Map.

Both desperate for their personalised new Netflix season of “The Royals” to drop.

Catherine presents with such stoicism and dignity, it is easy to forget where this new invasiveness started: when she was pregnant with Prince George in December 2012 and hospitalised for extreme morning sickness.

While she was sleeping on the ward, a radio station in Australia rang the hospital switchboard pretending to be the Queen.

They broadcast the nurse’s comments about Catherine’s “retching.”

One could only find this prank funny if Catherine had already — a young, wretchedly ill, pregnant woman — been dehumanised.

George is now ten and his mother hospitalised again, and in that decade, the physical security of ill royals may have tightened but their claim to bodily autonomy seems to have weakened.

Some say Kensington Palace “brought it on themselves” by their wish for discretion; this claim is duplicitous.

The late Queen Elizabeth II became increasingly debilitated in her final years with not much detail ever given; just as her father, King George VI, died without disclosing his lung cancer.

I’m glad that the British do not subject their heads of state to the same publicised medical reports as the president of the United States; one shouldn’t have to present a stool swab to sit on the throne.

No, instead the apparent justification of all those clicking and posting conspiracy theories “worried for Catherine’s welfare” was this sinful truth.

As a beautiful, 42-year-old mother of three, her drama was more box office than the ailments of those older, a pound of her flesh was worth more.

Pity, Susan Sontag said in her 1978 book Illness as Metaphor, is close to contempt.

Back then cancer was still taboo. Those around the patient, Sontag says, “express pity but also convey contempt.”

Ask any cancer patient and they will say they don’t want pity: it is too isolating, it sets them apart, an unwanted privilege.

This is why the video plea of Catherine was one of affinity, rather than pity or privilege.

Last year, she sat in robes in Westminster Abbey at the coronation of her father-in-law, next to her future king son and future king husband.

In her video address last week, she sat on a classically English garden bench, pale, alone and in jeans, as bare of pomp as any royal can be.

No mention of kings or titles, just Diana’s ring on her hand.

Rather she gave an appeal, parent to parent, human to human, about her “huge shock” and her care for her “young family.”

And, finally, her kinship with anyone who lives in a vulnerable human body susceptible to a democratic illness like cancer, “you are not alone.”

Or, to paraphrase Richard Curtis:

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a public, asking for some time to endure gruelling chemotherapy."

NOTE: Additional photos have been included in this article.

[hallucinatinghalos]

I hated the idea of Lestat being married in season three when I first saw it circulating here. But it's become a brainworm and I'm starting to think it could work. First off, it's been mentioned and is probably the reason the idea first came about, he's older than in the books and so there are more years between Auvergne and Paris that need a backstory. He's 34 when turned in the adaptation. In that time period he'd more than likely be married before reaching that age. When you consider that his family has a title but are impoverished. It's likely they would bargain him for a potential wife's dowry. It would be socially acceptable and possibly expected. Also, they violently denied him an education and priesthood, they denied him the theatre troupe for cruel and selfish reasons. Why would they hesitate in binding him to an arranged marriage for their gain? His wants be damned, always. It feels very in the spirit of TVL. I think it would need to be arranged at a young age that would've been acceptable for the time, as young as seventeen even. With her probably dying in childbirth, how soon and before or after other children would be born/conceived who knows. I'm guessing within five years of the marriage she'd pass, with around five years of him struggling in the lost state Nicki finds him in in the books, then four+ happy years in Paris with Nicki pre-turning. If he had been a father, even for a short amount of time or just an expectant one, it would make his failure with Claudia all the more encompassing without taking anything away from their arc. It also feels like you could make a psychological connection to him always making fledglings as a vampire to his wife losing every pregnancy or them losing every child. But that would be a leap, and more a head cannon thing. Ultimately, I think their life together would be short and if there were children they would also be doomed by the times or the eventual revolution. Ever plagued by loss is Lestat.

I can imagine the scene after the wolf kill when Lestat is recuperating in his room and Nicki comes with his father to present the coat to him happening still, but this time Nicki comes alone. Love instantly blossoming within Lestat, already a widower, for this man who is seeing him at his lowest but gazes at him as if he is an incredible, impossible being.

All of the emotional turmoil Lestat goes through in Auvergne, the vulnerability he shares with Nicki, would still be there but given more life experience for this adaptation's Lestat. His paralyzing fear of death more layered by being rooted in grief and loss as well as his anxiety plagued disposition.

The tragedy of him then losing his life just as he's finally finding peace and happiness would remain.

I also admit there are many reasons it could not work, like why would he have never mentioned this other important person (or children!) to Louis? But would Louis have any reason to mention it to Daniel if he had? Would it change the dynamic with Nicki too much? Gabrielle? Can they throw in such a huge change like that, and it not feel too off even if it works within the adaptation? But him being turned at 34 instead of 20 is huge. That's fourteen years of experience to be created. They have to do something and him hunting and hating his dad and big brothers (for good reason) and his circumstances for an extra fourteen years sounds less entertaining than an arranged marriage. There would also be an interesting nod to the books if they have him married off at 20 instead of turned. An unwanted marriage as a little death? I'm not all in on the idea but, point is, it may not be so bad. They could still make this part of his life have all the same emotional reverb as the book with a married backstory and I know there is far more there that this team could flesh out. So, if they go that direction, I'm not worried anymore is my point.

This is otherwise all pointless rambling so if you've made it this far thanks for hanging in there.

How about a side note since you're here? Could the painting of the woman in the coffin room, the one he placed overlooking him as he rests, be said tragic wife or just another thing he picked up cleaning out the NOLA antique shops? Could it be a parallel to Louis with his painting of Paul and Claudia's dress?

Please feel free to add to this whole thing or spit venom at it. I'm always open to corrections and new ideas and different takes. This is all just what-ifs for fun anyway. I may not respond just because I suck at it, but it won't mean I don't appreciate and enjoy your thoughts.

[a-static-grief]

[ SCALE simply went through the portal on the informant's command, unminding of the noise the other two made. ]

-- ⚖️

[it lead to...]

*an elevator?*

( @the-inphinite-elevator )

[antebunny]

a cuckoo in the nest pt.2

[part one] aka the fae!Tim idea i said i wouldn't write any more of. oops my hand slipped.

~

Tim clenches the Cliff granola bar tightly in his fist, inhales deeply, and steps through the fairy circle. His footsteps leave deep indents in the soft grass before vanishing completely. 

If one of the Waynes were to wander into the woods behind Wayne Manor and stumble upon this particular clearing, they would quickly notice the small footprints leading into a patch of dirt and never emerging out the other side. Fairy circles are subtle things, easily moved and created, but just as easily spotted if you know what to look for. 

Sweet grass, spices, something wild and dewy and the sick smell of cruelty. The fae realm is just as Tim remembered it. The Unseelie Queen, too, is just as Tim remembers her. She’s eternally young, after all. Her crown of thorns tips toward Tim as she bends down, gnarled hand reaching for Tim’s granola bar. He quickly shoves it behind his back, and the Unseelie Queen’s hand freezes. She cannot take that which is not freely given.

Long ago, a lifetime ago when Tim was nine years old and stupid, the Unseelie Queen used his naivete to get everything she wanted from him. She asked for his name and he gave it. She offered him fae food and he took it. She told him that the deal his parents made was unbreakable and he believed it. For an eternity, though now he knows it was three years, he believed her. 

He knows better now. That’s what made the Unseelie Queen strike a bargain with him in the first place. Tim cannot believe that it took him three years to realize that his parents had no right to sell him away. That he could’ve left the moment he’d arrived, if only he’d known to run. But by the time he figured it out, he’d eaten their food and given his name. Become fey enough for the Unseelie Queen to control, if not own.

Now the only question is whether he can outsmart her. Whether he, the twelve year old who just got his very first iPhone, can beat the Unseelie Queen at her own game.

“How wonderful to see you back in my domain.” The Unseelie Queen still looms over Tim as she greets him. “Though you reek of human.”

Tim lifts his chin. “Because I am one.”

A blood red smile stretches across thin lips. White teeth shine like stars. “That will be changed in time.”

She’s just trying to scare him because she knows that he can see through her lies now. Tim is not bound to the fae realm, not yet, anyways. She has no power over him. (Not yet). Not ever. 

“I’m just here to tell you that I’m winning,” Tim says, faking a confidence he very much does not feel. “Dick and Jason both said I’m their little brother. Alfred cares about me. Even Barbara likes me and they care about what she thinks.”

An infinite number of somethings dances in the Unseelie Queen’s dark, shining eyes. Tim does not dare name any one of them. She is not one to be defined by physical appearances. Sometimes she has four wings like large leaves, humming on her back. Sometimes she is a young girl with the voice of a thousand nightmares, other times an old woman faking good intentions. All Tim has learned regarding appearances is to not look into her abyss-like eyes for too long.

We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits.

“And what of Bruce Wayne?”

“I’m working on it,” Tim says stubbornly. “I have a month left.”

“Be careful, little one. Wayne men do not love easily.” The Unseelie Queen’s smile widens into a grotesque length. “Even when they should.”

Tim squeezes his granola bar until it bends in two. “That’s my problem.”

The Unseelie Queen laughs, like a murder of crows taking flight. “What spirit. Will you not consider staying to entertain my court? We so miss your colorful antics.”

“No,” Tim says firmly. He whirls around and marches back to the fairy circle. The plastic wrapping of his granola bar grows slick with cold sweat. 

“Stay,” the Unseelie Queen commands. The single word thunders, layered with the thousands of humans before Tim that have fallen prey to her. “Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Tim’s steps falter. One foot hesitates in the air too long, and he stumbles. In the human world he sometimes is weightless, a touch lighter than humans. In the fae realm Tim is weighed down by his humanness. His knees sting as he resumes his march. Not so long ago, such defiance would have cost him far more than stinging knees. He’s grown strong on Alfred’s cooking, movie nights with Dick and Jason, and Barbara buying him a phone and a subscription to Crunchyroll because “every boy needs one.” On human food and love. 

She doesn’t have this power over Tim. Not anymore, not yet. Not even with his full name.

A screech rattles around Tim’s brain. A claw curls around his neck. Tim freezes, heart battering at his ribcage. She cannot hurt him. She doesn’t own him (Not yet). 

“If you will not stay,” the Unseelie Queen concedes, “then please, won’t you take a gift with you?” 

Her hand retreats from his neck, scraping skin gently as it goes. In her palm it appears: red and dripping, or bone white, green like fireflies, purple like the sunset. Fae fruit. It hums in her hand, singing a song just for Tim. Even though he knows the cost now, the fae fruit calls to him, promises pure ecstasy and eternal love if only he takes a bite.

Tim shakes his head quickly, eyes shut. “No, thank you,” he whispers. “I brought food from home.”

So saying, he twists the Cliff bar wrapper in trembling hands and attempts to rip the plastic open. The truth is that he hates Cliff bars. They’re his least favorite snack of the many that Alfred has gotten him to try thus far. He brought it to the fae realm for such an occasion, selected out of his many options because he would not mind associating Cliff bars with the fae realm. He already hates them as it is.

It is a novelty, having opinions about human food. Preferences and dislikes. Dick has a tier list of vegetables that he and Jason argue about every once in a while. Jason also has strong opinions about food, but somehow he knew just what to do when Tim said helplessly that he didn’t have any, that he’d eat whatever he was given.

Before Tim can get the granola bar in his mouth, the Unseelie Queen pushes the fae fruit in his face. He retreats, and she pursues, arm outstretched, fruit still calling out to him. 

“Eat,” she insists. “Timothy Drake.”

The command takes root in Tim’s bones, peels him inside out until right is wrong and wrong is right. Against his will, Tim’s free hand reaches for the fruit that is magenta and lime green and coral pink and mushroom white. The texture is soft and a bit rubbery, the shape somewhat like a still-beating heart. Warm, wet, and just a little alive. Tim wishes he could throw it at her. Instead, he takes a bite. It tastes like–

Decay on the wind, petrichor and honeynut squash, spices and arrowroot, freshly overturned dirt still composting, dancing underneath moonlight-dappled branches around firelight, ancient tales told of stars, mirror-like water and water-like glass, lies and trickery and cruelty and brutal honesty–

It tastes like the fae. Seeping into the walls of his throat, leaving dark purple residue on his tongue, a sharp berry taste for him to remember it by. Making him just a little more fae, a little less human. His blue eyes a little brighter, his step a touch too light. It is not such a terrible thing, to be wild, to be fae. But Tim cannot bear the cost.

Tim squeezes the remaining fae fruit until the juice bursts from the skin, running down his fingers in wine red and shining green rivulets. The song dies. He licks his lips. Juice drips from his chin. The Unseelie Queen watches on in satisfaction.

“Thank you for the gift.” Even now, when Tim wishes for nothing more than the right to scream at her until he cries, it would not do to be impolite. One must respect the fae, to say nothing of the Unseelie Queen herself. 

Still, when Tim walks through the fairy circle, he thinks I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, until the words burn into the inside of his brain. 

We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soils they fed their hungry, thirsty roots?

[acim-ed-ortsac]

the Devil doesn’t bargain

Reader and Proud Immortal Demon Way

You were naive.

Died by the hands of a speeding car, you reincarnated into the world SVSSS…or PIDW you’re assuming since you found yourself becoming a slave with Shen Jiu and Yue  Qi, with your slave number being Ba for eight. The slavers found you when you were a toddler, bringing you to where the other slave children were. There, you were raised alongside Shen Jiu and Yue Qi. You were quite happy because Shen Jiu was your favorite character, despite not being there in the three books. 

He was human with many layers and sides. You didn’t see an evil scumbag or a bitter slave that became a Peak Lord, but rather a child that was molded by society’s cruelty. Having taken psychology, you knew the Nature vs Nurture theory and evidence of it. And it’s clear that Shen Jiu is the product of Nurture rather than Nature.

You three were inseparable, becoming the dusk of Qi-ge’s light and A-jiu’s night. You had no hesitation to steal if it meant that your friends would be fed. A-Jiu would scold you while Qi-he would fuss over you, checking for wounds. It was then you swore you would change their fates from the original plot.

Even when you three were sent to the Qiu Household and Qi-ge ran away with the promise of returning, you stayed with A-Jiu to share his suffering. You became a friend and kindred spirit. 

Even when you burned the Qiu’s house, except for Qiu Haitang, the women and the children. You held A-jiu’s hand all this time, smiling at him. Shen Jiu asked, “Will you not leave me?”

And you only graced him with a smile while saying, “I’ll be with you, A-Jiu. Whether fire, water, or air. Through light and darkness, I’ll be with you. And if you die, I’ll burn the world that has wronged you.”

You watched his eyes tear up as determination roared in your chest, prepared to change his fate.

30 years later…

A-jiu’s dead.

You stared emotionlessly at the corpse of Shen Jiu, now Shen Qingqiu, who’s now a bound corpse in the middle of the Huanhua palace room where his trial was. Cultivators, especially the ones from the great four sects were either celebrating his death and those angered that he got out too quickly before he could be replayed tenfold.

You walked towards the corpse, ignoring any voice that spoke your way, they were irrelevant. You took A-Jiu in your arms, his cold body against your warm and alive one as you embraced him. You nosed into the crook of his neck as anger began to bubble like a pot of water on a stove. Shaking, you hold him tightly as you grit your teeth.

“What are they doing!?”

“A friend?”

“As if that scum has any friends!”

The last line broke any restraint as you screamed into the ceiling with unbridled anger, letting out the demon that resided in you unleashed.

BENDY!

The ink demon was delighted to be out.

A shrilling screech followed by a guttural roar resounded throughout the room before black inky tentacles shot out of you and latched themselves onto everyone within the sect building. No one could escape, even as they resisted and struggled, it was fruitless as the tentacles latched onto their heads, rendering them still and vulnerable.

As you fed them the memories of Shen Jiu, letting them watch the nightmare you and he went through, you began singing. Call you mad in grief and sorrow, it’s the last piece of sanity you could entertain before actually going mad with anger, grief, and sorrow.

Before you destroyed Jianghu.

The lyrics left your lips before you even noticed, broken with incoming sobs.

 “ The moon will sing a song for me,

I loved you like the sun

Bore the shadows that you made

With no light of my own

I shine with only the light you gave me…

I shine with only the light you gave me…”

The voices from the puddles join in with your singing, comforting your loss. Tears fell like a waterfall from your eyes, only to be wiped by a grotesque and deformed hand. The hand itself was barely covered by a glove, which only protected the palm and not the three fingers it had. A deep and guttural voice spoke beside you, near your ear. “Angry, little human?”

You looked back at Bendy, whose human teeth were stretched into an inhumanely wide smile, his horns curved back, and his body disfigured and disproportionate. He looms over you, towers even, but you feel no fear.

“So much,” you replied as the tentacles slowly retreated back onto Bendy, you came out of your back. One by one, the cultivators in the room regain awareness of their surroundings, pale with horror and realization. You glanced at Luo Binghe, who at one point had sympathized with him and loved him, who looked at you with new realization, paleness, and something unreadable.

You moved on to the Cang Qiong sect, where the peak lords are white as a sheet as they realize what they had done to your misunderstood friend.

Qiu Haitang, whom you glared with disgust, trembled. “No…it can’t be..my brother—“

“Was a lecherous, greedy, scum bastard,” you spat out the words like acid. “Qiu Janlou,”’ you said the name like it was a bitter delicacy. “That’s what he was. And you were too blind to see it, stupid princess.”

“I thought you were lying!” She cried, so into her head at the revelation and revealed that she didn’t notice you walking towards her. It wasn’t only till you gripped her head with your fingers, squishing her cheeks painfully while digging your nails. “Do you also wanna know?” You said loudly for all of them to hear. “Your brother lusted after you! That man was not only a lecher but also an incestuous mutt! A pathetic human being so low to even live!”

Before the girl could say anything, you slapped her, nails scratching her cheek. “You spoiled,” another slap “coddled, “and another “weak mistress!” A final slap sent her to the ground, her pretty face marred with scars from your nails.

You flicked the blood of your nails, sneering in disgust. Her sobs didn’t deserve any sympathy from you.

You then looked at the Old Palace master, a smile so vile with anger that he would've melted on the spot. “And all you pathetic cultivators talk about scum, you  aren’t aware that a certain scum hides amongst you!”

They all turn to the Old Palace Master, who tries and fails to put up a kind facade. “What evidence do you have—“

“Oh, we’re really going that route?” You smiled with teeth, Bendy as the Ink Demon laughed behind you. “How about we ask Tianlang-Jun that!”

At your words, demonic qi filled the room as the said demon lord entered with casual swag, Zhuzhi-lang by his side. They gasped at his appearance, disbelief, and anger as they tried to make sense of this.

Tianlang-Jun, for his part, smiles casually yet his eyes hold malicious anger. “My, it has been quite a while since I’ve seen some familiar faces,” his eyes immediately went to the Old Palace Master. “Especially you.”

“How!?” The old man cried, speaking the question everyone had in mind.

With dramatic flair, you looked at Luo Binghe. “Luo Binghe, I would like to introduce to you Tianlang-Jun, your father. Who loved your mother, Su Xiyan, with all of his heart. Unfortunately, her Shizun was obsessed with her and out of jealousy, lied to the whole cultivation world to get rid of Tianlang-Jun. Who poisoned Su Xiyan to kill the baby who is now known as Luo Binghe.”

Meeting the said young man’s eyes, you then stated. “And the reason why you became an orphan.”

You ignored the hitched breath as you looked at the cultivators gathered, “Pathetic cultivators, young and old, I have come to announce the destruction of Jianghu!”

Expectedly, this outraged everyone excluding the two demons and you. Yue Qi looked at you pleadingly, trying to negotiate or settle this peacefully, but you snapped your head at him with fierce eyes. “Don’t talk to me so familiarly, Zhangmen-shixiong.” You said mockingly, outraging his shidis and disciples in his sect. “He was your brother, your friend! And yet you sided with the majority when it came to rumors and accusations! Didn’t I tell you to stay by his side, to give the benefit of the doubt to these rumors!? Are my visits a waste of time if this is the result!?” You groused, fingers elongating and scales fluttering on your cheek. “What a poor brother you have been to A-Jiu, you pathetic excuse of a brother!”

With a snap of your fingers, shards of glass hurriedly gathered into the air to form a single shard. The reflection then changed to the entirety of the Central Plains, whose faces were horrified and angry. You laughed, “People of the human realm, do you judge these cultivators as unworthy protectors of you all!?”

“Yes!” The people in the shard answer.

“What’s going on…” a cultivator asked, losing sense of reality.

“They know?!”

“The common people were watching the whole time!?”

“Stop them!” The Little Palace mistress shrieked, outraged that not only her father was slandered but soon their reputation would be destroyed.

“Silence!” You growled at her. “You have your answer from the people,”

Deciding enough was enough, you looked up at the sky with arms raised at your sides. “You celebrate his death, I’ll only celebrate…”

“When your ashes fall.”

From there, like a broken dam, demons poured into the building with glee.

Years later…

The story of the ruler of the Human realm spread for millennia. The story of how they overthrew the Emperor and his courts, how they exposed the truth of the cultivator world and brought it down to rebuild it back up. The story of how the Ruler of the Human realm soon merged and traded with the Demon Realm’s Emperor, Tianlang-Jun, who had been wronged by the cultivators.

In return for freeing him, Tianlang-Jun handed his only blood son to them as payment for their loss of a friend.

Some may pity the half-blood, but others would say that he got what he deserved for being blinded by hate and anger.

There were stories of the Qing Jing peak lord, Shen Qingqiu, who was abused at youth, and climbed to the top to have security, only to be gifted with accusations and a trial by the cultivators he adored. 

There were songs about the tragedy of the two friends, the death of Shen Jiu, and the loss of the Ruler.

Demons and humans soon assimilated into each other, and racism between them soon became little as they understood one another. Cultivators soon became not demon eradications but rather equal to demons when it comes to fighting. The ruler of the Human realm does not tolerate racism, nor do they tolerate slavery, leading to the abolishment of slavery and giving the homeless a place of food and shelter while giving children a chance to learn and adults a chance to earn.

Yet, despite the good they have achieved, the ruler of the human realm soon died afterward, leaving their head disciple as heir.

The son of Tianlang-Jun, Luo Binghe, soon returned to the Demon Realm and it was whispered that he had changed while under the human ruler. There are whispers from servants that he has mellowed down and soon became hard-working yet stoic, not taking any wives or husbands nor concubines.

There were whispers of the servants from his chambers that said that when he would think he was alone, he would clutch a fan and a stuffed toy in his hands, pulling them close to his chest.

No one knew of the Ink Demon that lurks in the Human Palace, following, and tailing the Ruler. No one knows of its inky abyss that had sent rats of pathetic beings down to become one of the monstrous creations or a Lost Soul. No one knows that once the Ruler has passed, it soon lingers in the shadows of their Head disciple who took on the mantle to rule.

———-

All was dark before voices invaded your ears, stirring you to the waking world. When you woke up to clear green eyes, you weren’t surprised to find yourself back in the past with Shen Jiu. And by the looks of it, the wretched Qiu shack they put the two of you in.

You snarled internally when you looked at A-Jiu’s broken legs, “No…”

You refused to repeat the past.

Manhandling Shen Jiu on your back, you broke down the wooden wall of the shack with your body before running with Shen Jiu.

You won’t let Shen Jiu die.

You won’t let him be wronged.

You will make sure he’s raised with love.

With knowledge.

You’ll make sure he’s living happily.

Away from Cang Qiong.

Away from other cultivators.

Away from Luo Binghe.

With your knowledge of the future and the teachings that you had learned before your death, you’re sure of things.

A year ago…

The sound of screams was music to your ears, watching in glee as everything was thrown into chaos. Bendy having his fun with tearing apart any foolish cultivator that tried to go up against you. You watched as those who had wronged your friend were thrown to the ground before being branded as property for the demons to claim.

That was your end of the deal, offering any cultivator in the designated place that catches the eyes of the demons helping you.

You clapped with manic joy as you watched the Little Palace Mistress wail at the hot brand being burned on her skin by a large demon, who looked at her with leering eyes. Was this wrong? Morally, yes. But then again, it was an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Hammurabi's code historically. You did say to A-Jiu that you will burn the world that wronged him to the ground, and you’re about to do that.

You in your madness of rage, glee, and vindictiveness, spun in the middle of the chaos. “Kings have honor,” your right hand flung to the side open-handed in the air “Soldiers have bravery,” your other hand reached to the other side, making you go in a wide arm stance with two of your hands up in the air as if praising the gods up above. You then brought your hands together before clasping at your chest, “And poets have heart.” You smiled even when you felt a threat going behind your back. “But all I have…” Even when they raised a sword upon you before bringing it down…

Swish! Clang!

Luo Binghe looked absolutely dashing in his demonic heritage when you stopped Xin Mo with a scythe you procured from your sleeve. You kept your smile even then, eyes wide with fury, ink dripping down your face as if you were melting.

"̵̧̛̻̦̲̮̱̻̰̱̰̰͊̊Ḭ̶̧̺̜̮͙̗̙͓̿́͊̓̏̑͐̔̍͒̉͂̈́Ṡ̶̞̣̹͓̻̣̝͚̾̎ ̵̨̨͚̤̗̓͗̐̌̉R̵̢̡̩̦̘̗̪͇̬̺̓͆̓́̀͜͠Ą̷̮͎͎͒Ğ̸̫͎̗̠͓̖͇Ę̵̧̺̹̣̫͚̹͔̞͋̂̈́̐̍̈́͐̋̚!̵̡̧̼̠͓̥͓̬̗͕̜̙̄̈́͋̈͑̒̉͆"̷̟͎͉́̒̚ ———————

Throughout the years, you’ve managed to avoid Cang Qiong and the other sects, even people that hurt you and Shen Jiu such as Wu Yanzi. (Although you killed him when you had the chance.) You taught A-Jiu everything you knew about being a cultivator, such as opening your spiritual sense and forming a golden core, and even stole some manuals that’ll help you.

You both lived out your days in a cave, which you redecorated to both of your liking. A-Jiu learned to sew robes for the two of you, the quality immaculate, as expected as the soon-to-be - now the former peak lord.

You taught him how to read and write, which garnered his suspicions. You told him the truth, how you knew the future, and how you retained your memories. At first, A-Jiu was in disbelief but soon believed you since you had knowledge that was above a slave.

You two lived happily…

Until people from the past came looking for Shen Jiu.

Ao3

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.8}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: got to the astral boat scene... cried a lil. got to the mystra meeting... punched my monitor a lil. /j anyways i made a new divider thing cause the other one was a placeholder and uhmm dont judge it pls i am nawwwt an artist i just slapped together some bits n pieces

Word count: 1.2k

He couldn’t have been more than sixty miles from Daggerford when he first felt it. Hardly subtle was the sensation that bordered on the edge of painful – a stinging pain, like a papercut or a pinch – as the orb was disturbed. He pulled his brown mare to a halt, who offered only an irritated whinny, and his palm pressed to his chest. Even when it was buried beneath three layers of fabric, he could feel the buried beat, thumping against his ribs in some attempt to escape. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or fear that rendered his throat so irrationally dry, and his eyes flicked to the saddlebag to his left, reminding himself that his dagger rested mere inches away, should he need to use it. 

Not that he felt it was truly an option he could make – not when they remained in Waterdeep, waiting for him. Not when his mother sent letter after letter requesting his presence, worrying about him spending all of his time in that damned tower. Not when he still had so much to do, to teach, hells – to learn.

But the weave didn’t care. Mortal worries, mortal fears, mortal disobedience. What the weave wanted from him, it would take, and no bargaining would score him any better. 

It beats again, but the reasoning is beyond him. He stumbles, awkwardly shifting off of his horse and staggering off of the road, the saddlebag now in his hand. The horse whinnies once more behind him, giving a stomp of disapproval, but it doesn’t yet flee. 

Another beat, and this one echoes in the very earth around him, the leaves of the woods – the Misty Forest, he concludes – trembling at the power that he holds? The ground shudders, and again, he stumbles, falling to his knees, dirtying the plush plum of his coat. One hand presses against the trunk of a tree, desperate for stability, and the other rustles through his bag, hissing as his fingers grace the silver blade of his dagger, staining it with fresh blood. Then they find the hilt, and the weapon is retracted. He meets its eyes – his own eyes – and he feels the judgment. The shame. 

What a mess he’s become. A terrible waste of talent. A miserable slum of what was once a wonderful wizard. How far he’s sunken, wallowing as a lowlife where he once had a seat at the very table of the Lord’s Helm. A short-lived seat, it was, but the stark difference of status is nauseating. 

He hasn’t said all that needs to be said. He hasn’t seen his mothers face in, what, years? Certainly not since this gods-forsaken blight has invaded his body. He hasn’t told her he loves her, not face-to-face, in perhaps even longer. He used to share tea with her every other week. He used to brag to her about his newest studies, read his journals to her as she praised her son as though he’d done something truly life-changing. He’d promised her – promised her that he would do something with them. That, one way or another, he’d change the world, for her, for his prodigious talent, for Mystra–

Gods, Mystra. 

They’d never understand. Perhaps nobody could – the mere idea of godhood isn’t something the average mortal fumbles with the concept of. To touch godhood, real godhood, to feel godhood’s embrace, to taste godhood, to love and argue and plead with godhood? 

No, nobody could understand. 

There was, once, a reason he wrecked his body to such unfathomable levels. A beautiful, divine, wonderfully perfect reason. A reason he’d hunted down the extent of her reaches, dared to tussle with some influence even larger than his goddess, a reason he threatened the very origin of the weave itself. 

There was a reason he’d gotten so far, and fallen even further. He liked to believe there was a reason he was chosen. A reason beyond his charm. A reason beyond her playfulness. How arrogant everyone else must have been – reminding him again, and again, and again, that he was not special. Not to her, not to them, hardly even to himself. How sweetly she spoke to him. How highly she praised him. How generous she’d been, to so fondly accept his kisses, his touch, his love, only to sever all ties the instant he strayed too far. 

His grip tightens on the dagger, and the earth trembles again – he wants to find a purpose. Beyond being the plaything everyone says he is. Beyond being just a muse in her long history of flings, of mortal manipulation, of abandoned chosen after abandoned chosen. His eyes close, and he tries to find a sense of belonging in his memories with her. Whether it be in her lectures, her fleeting warmth, her luring coos or her mystical prowess. 

He tries to find a sense of belonging seated at her side. So many years of his life, wasted to entertain her for a mere fraction of her trite immortality. In decades, he’ll be nothing more than a few lines in even fewer books, a word of warning to young wizards everywhere. He’s read them before, the names thus far belonging to men all but unfamiliar to him. Karsus, Dornar Silverhand, Khelben. Even Elminster shared such similar encounters, only ever brought up in quickly-fading exhales, shame stringing the sentences along, unwilling and cold. 

Youth lent him such forgiveness. Disregarding the tales were easy – this Mystra would be different. This Mystra would love him the way he loved her. 

But he’s no longer the doe-eyed seventeen year old he was when he granted her the benefit of the doubt. Instead, he’s nearly forty, and tired, and weary, and finding himself at the receiving end of a ridged, steel-forged blade, the orb pulsing, twisting, battling to overrule the beating of his heart.

And the woods shake again, and he feels the apical tip press into his skin, earning a hiss of discomfort from his bared teeth. 

He pressures the blade further, but the earth shakes again, and he’s thrown off his balance, the blade lodging instead in his shoulder, and he groans in overwhelming discomfort, his irritation for the misplacement only overshadowed by the pain searing through his nerves. 

The orb doesn’t erupt, but the sky certainly does, splitting to cast a large darkness over the forest – over the entire world, for all that he knows. He rolls onto his back, fighting to remove the blade from his shoulder, but his grasps are awkward and far too hesitant. A large, snaking mass of flesh-like anatomy swipes over the forest, knocking trees around him, and his chase for suicide is halted by an intense horror, completely unaware of what in the hells is happening above him. He coughs, choking on his pain, and another curse of biology crashes into the forest. 

He’s able to follow the form to its root, finding a terrifically unfamiliar hard-encased body of flight soaring the sky above him. At last, he rips the dagger from his shoulder, crying out at the tearing of muscle, and he instinctually tosses it aside. He hears the horse, at last, galloping to a safety he can only yearn for, and he’s not even granted a chance to see which direction it ran before the appendage of likely certified doom separates into smaller tendrils, the trees knocked aside once more until one grazes his torso, perhaps only by a mere stroke of luck, or the lack thereof, and he’s whisked into a pitch-black loss of consciousness.

[loupy-mongoose]

I don't know how you shade things so perfectly! I'm excellent at blending colors but I can't shade even if my life depended on it!😅🤣

How do you do it so good? Could you lend me some tips?

First off, thank you very much, but I refuse to accept my shading as "perfect". I'm proud of how far I've come, but it ain't perfect!

Tips... Hmmmm...

I have a pretty good understanding of the characters' and objects three-dimensional shape in my mind, so when I shade I subconsciously keep in mind how the light will affect them and where shadows will form.

Don't be afraid to look at books, references, tutorials, and Youtube videos! Take advantage of the vast library of resources at your fingertips!

I've spent a lot of my teen years watching speedpaints--Twarda8's Pokemon paintings on Youtube are old favorites of mine. Ironically their playlist called "Junk'n'Old" played a MASSIVE part in my artistic upbringing. One man's trash is another man's treasure~ I've also looked at many many mannnyyyy tutorials over the years, some of them multiple times, taking in how different shapes affect the shadow outcome. For example, sharp cut-offs will result in solid lines of shadow, while rounder shapes will have softer transitions from dark to light.

Take, for instance, my latest masterpiece; The eyebrows are meant to somewhat sharply overhang the eyelid, so they cause a sharper shadow cut-off.

While rounder parts of the body have smoother shading.

Mix and match them depending on the shapes present! (Hopefully that's coherent enough. X3)

A few extra things;

-Different light sources and surroundings can influence shadows as well. For example, the sun will create sharp, defined shadows, but clouds will soften the shadows considerably.

-When shading colored artworks, try to avoid using pure black to shade. If possible with your tools, use a darker color set to the Multiply or another darkening blend mode. Experiment! (I have another post about my painting process here if you're interested, although the canvas size in that may be incorrect now.)

-Find brushes you're comfortable with! I don't want to advocate that an artist can't be good without certain brushes, but I do think it's important to love the tools you use. But also don't feel like you have to stick with them for eternity--Every once in a while I get dissatisfied with my brushes and tweak them a bit, or dump them for others.

-For doodle shading like the above, I scribble in rough chunks where I want the shadow to be, then smudge and erase them as I see fit. All on a separate layer from the line-art, of course.

That may be more than you bargained for, but you can pick and choose what you want to take from this, if anything at all. I just felt like dumping. Happy shading! ^w^

[princessofmerchants]

Nesta and the Cauldron 💫 - a list of questions and puzzle pieces post-HOFAS

"... Wrapped in black eternity, Nesta and the Cauldron twined, burning through the darkness like a newborn star."

—from "Beginning," the prologue of A Court of Silver Flames

(HOFAS spoilers after the break)

I began rereading ACOSF post-HOFAS and boy was I shocked and delighted by what I found in the very first scene of the book, which is also one of my favorite scenes in all of SJM canon...

Here's a screenshot of the last part of the prologue to ACOSF, called "Beginning".

After reading HOFAS, and learning what we did from the Starborn Princess Silene, along with the events of that book as well as those in ACOSF and going all the way back to ACOMAF,

I have new questions!

What could it mean that Nesta and Elain, both humans, were submerged in the Cauldron in the same way the magical objects of the Fae like Gwydion, Truthteller, and the Dread Trove items were? Does the fact that they were alive themselves first, and human at that, make a difference? (We know from the Blood Rite magic that Nesta is not recognized as a Made magical object in the Rite because her magic is suppressed like everyone else's...)

Was the Cauldron in Hybern different (more corrupt, perhaps from Fionn's death and his potential link to the health of the world in which Prythian resides), than it was when it Made Gwydion, Truthteller, and the Trove items? Or was its corruption (wrongness) the same kind that originates from the Daglan poisoning it before Gwydion and the Trove were Made?

When Nesta stole a large portion of the Cauldron's "raw power," was there more to the power besides its connection to Death, that somehow ties in to either the Starborn power that originates and thrives in the island of the Prison, or perhaps instead to the ancient Fae power that predates the seasonal and solar elemental power affinities that evolved after the time of High King Fionn? Is it similar or different to the way the Starsword/Gwydion and its imbued Made power has an affinity for the Staborn line of Fae?

We know at the end of ACOSF and from HOFAS that the Mother prevents all of Nesta's stolen power from leaving her when she bargains with the Cauldron and the Mother to save Feyre - and here in the ACOSF prologue Nesta and the Cauldron together are described as a newborn star. In being Made by the Cauldron, then first stealing its power but later being gifted back with some of it by the Mother - is there a connection or affinity here also to the power of the land on which the Prison sits that was forged through this process?

Regarding Nesta's bargain tattoo, which was an eight pointed star, the symbol of the Starborn power and its people - is the Mother (Urd in Midgardian parlance) the source of bargain magic in Prythian? As Bryce asks to Nesta - Why was Nesta's bargain tattoo with Cassian an eight pointed star? And also, why do the Illyrians (who were created by the Daglan but led by their ancester Enalius in alliance with the Fae in defeating those same Daglan) have a sword technique and sequence that takes this shape too? And what do any of these details have to do with 1) Gwydion and its Making in the Cauldron, and/or 2) Nesta and HER Making in the Cauldron?

And don't think I've forgotten about Elain - the longtime question of What happened when she went in the Cauldron? remains but with the added layer of how her own experience in the Cauldron and its gifting of Seer powers may or may not be similar or different to not only how the ancient Fae Made objects were imbued with power but also how her sister Nesta was imbued with (that same?) power?

Put differently, is this newborn star imagery (experience?) of Nesta and the Cauldron unique to Nesta because of the amount (and kind) of raw power she took, or is it shared among all humans who have been immersed in the Cauldron (of which we know of three - Nesta, Elain, and Briallyn, though Briallyn is now Unmade - and Jurian we can assume was brought back using the Cauldron with his eye but from what we can tell he has come back human and not Fae, and so we can presume while he was brought back from a terrible half existence, he wasn't Made, at least we have no evidence he has been...)

I'm just really, really interested in the following puzzle pieces:

-Gwydion, Truthteller, and the Trove were Made in the Cauldron

-Nesta and Elain were also Made in the Cauldron, but when Nesta was made she stole raw power from the essence of the Cauldron itself, enough to disable it for a time

-This transfer of power from the Cauldron to Nesta reminds me of how Silene talks about the power of the ancient Fae of Prythian including the Starborn power, and the material way Theia's Star power gets divided into three parts that are reunited by Bryce but that had actual physical locations for thousands of years (pointing out as well that the Cauldron has also always had a physical, material location throughout history)

-The Mother gifted Nesta with some of the power she had stolen then offered back in a bargain to save Feyre - we see that gifted power in action in HOFAS to great effect

-Nesta's bargain tattoo with Cassian was the symbol of the Staborn people and their power and also the symbol of an Illyrian sword technique

-Bryce, Starborn Heir, thinks these things connect Nesta to Gwydion, which was Made by the Cauldron just like Nesta was and which can be wielded by those who possess the Starborn power in some capacity

-Nesta can move through the wards in the Prison in a way no one else in Prythian seems to be able to, and in a way Bryce (Starborn line descendent) could too

I'm not going to actually predict any concrete theories from all of this. But we also know SJM committed to the existence of a multi-verse when KoA was published, after which HOEAB was published, followed by ACOSF....lots of time to think through how she was going to describe Nesta stealing power from the Cauldron in this scene.

I think there's meaning in this ACOSF prologue we are only just beginning to understand, about what the consequences of this tangling between Nesta and the Cauldron will in fact be. 💫

(And, it's the year of our Lord 2024 and there are new things to write and think about Nesta and the Cauldron - what a time to be alive 💃)